‘Waiting for call.’ The Call Taker software flashes the familiar message.
For more than a year he has watched and waited until the message changes. ‘Call answered’.
He looks at the call sheet, his script, and then back to the screen. He is sitting among a row of callers in Phone Room 4 on the seventh floor of a 1970s office building. He can hear conversations begin, the tone and speaking style vary, but the words are the same. The girl behind him, Chloe, is sweet and mouse-like, while next to her is an effervescent, unmistakably gay New Zealander called Craig. Chloe is Number 13 on the pledge chart, Craig Number 1. He trills and flirts unfailingly. He is a great caller and his pledge rate reflects this. Chloe, too, seems to win the hearts of the supporters, perhaps because she sounds just like the nice niece that every aunt wishes she had.
They are callers. Mike used to be Number One in the Phone Room 4 pledge chart. Not anymore.
‘Hello.’ Someone answers. “Good morning,” Mike begins enthusiastically, “my name is Michael Teller. Can I speak to Mrs…’ a momentary pause as he looks at the supporter name on the screen – ‘Audrey Tutt?”
“Yes, that’s me.” A frail, Scottish accent.
Mike repeats his name then the script takes over: “I am calling on behalf of The Schizophrenia Society. This is a great opportunity for us to make contact with our supporters and tell them about our important work on behalf of sufferers of schizophrenia and psychosis. Is this a convenient time for me to speak to you?”
“It’s a wee bit early but I suppose so.”
“Thank you. I will be as brief as I can.” Mike scans the call sheet to the next section – the Thank You. “The reason I am calling you today Mrs Tutt is because we want to let supporters know how much we recognise the tremendous work you have done for The Schizophrenic Society. It is only because of the work of supporters like yourself that we are able to help as many people as we do. So a very big thank you – it is very much appreciated.”
“Oh, okay.”
Mike continues. A moment’s hesitation could be fatal to his mission. He has the strange sensation that he is listening to himself speaking to Audrey. His voice has taken on a life of its own. He can hear himself change his tone from warm and inviting to serious and sober, as he focuses in on the suffering and desperate need of the charity’s beneficiaries.
“Our Outreach Liaison Officers visit people who have recently been diagnosed with Schizophrenia and offer them support and practical help as they come to terms with the challenges of their condition. Without that support, up to 70% of sufferers will find themselves sectioned under the Mental Health Act.…”
“My son has schizophrenia so I understand very well what it means. He’s in protected accommodation.”
Mike flips the page to the Interruptions section. He knows he must now listen, be attentive and respond sensitively to the supporter. “Well, then you really do understand how important it is for sufferers and their families get the help they need. We really feel it is important that we reach everyone who needs our support but currently that is not happening. That is why I am calling today as it is the regular income from our supporters that enables us to…”
“Look, I’m sure what you’re doing is very important, but I’m a pensioner and I already support quite a number of charities. I am happy to continue with doing things locally but I really can’t afford to make a monthly payment…”
It’s over to the Negotiation page: “Of course Mrs Tutt, we completely understand that a large regular payment is not something that everyone feels comfortable about committing too and we want to be sure that all our supporters can give in the way that suits them.” He moves seamlessly to the warm section about the vital care provided by the society before striking again with the Ask. “And in order to continue providing these kind of services to as many sufferers from schizophrenia as possible, even a small gift of £5 a month would enable us to help many more people. Would this be something you would feel comfortable with, Mrs Tutt?”
As I said, I’m happy with the support I provide already. Good luck!”
“Well thank you…” She was gone already.
No pledge, but it could have been worse. He closes the call, and waits for the next one.
“Hello, who is this?”
“Good morning,” he begins. “My name is Mike Teller. Can I speak to Mr Frank Wilson?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
He begins his introduction, getting as far as the first mention of the Schizophrenia Society, when Frank interrupts him. “Ah!” The name of the charity sparks a reaction. “Now, listen, I’ve been wanting to speak to you people.”
“Oh good, well, as I was saying…”
“No, wait a minute, I have something to say to you, so you listen to me. I have been on to your website, and I’ve read your annual accounts. I see that six of your directors are on more than £50,000 a year and your chief executive is paid £140,000!”
“I’m sorry to hear that Mr Wilson…”
“It’s an absolute disgrace and I never want you to call me again. Goodbye!”
Supporters do sometimes react negatively to the charity’s remuneration policies. Never mind. The best course of action, when a supporter is upset, is to remain polite and as soon as possible get out of the call. Mike is not flustered. This is something he has had to deal with many times before. He laughs to himself, then move on to the next call.
‘Call answered.’
‘Good morning, can I speak to Mr … Warwick Bannerman.’ Strange, there can’t be that many Warwick Bannermans out there. Never mind, proceed as normal.
‘This is Warwick.’
‘Good morning, my name is Mike Teller. I am calling on behalf of The Schizo- ’
“Mike,” says Bannerman, interrupting, ‘tell me, isn’t this a bit early to be calling people at home?’
‘Well, actually, we find this is often a really good time to talk to people.’
‘But it’s 5.30 in the morning.’
Silence. Mike is thrown. It can’t be. He came in for his normal morning shift starting at 10.
‘I am sorry Mr Bannerman, according to my clock here –‘ Mike glances at the computer clock ‘it’s…you are right, it’s 5.30am.’ Christ. What the hell…oh no, it’s happened again.
‘Mike, who do you work for?’
‘I am working on behalf of the Schizophrenia Society.’
‘Yes, yes of course. But are you a professional charity fundraiser? Who employs you?’
‘PFF.’
Another silence. Mike adds: ‘That’s People First Fundraising.’
‘I know who they are Mike, I’m a director of the company.’
‘Oh God, it’s you Warwick!’ Mike laughs nervously. ‘I can’t believe it. Are you a supporter of the society?’
‘What are you doing Mike?’
‘Making calls of course…’
‘Except PFF don’t call people at 5.30 in the morning. Are you in the phone room?’
‘Yes.’ Mike looks around but Chloe and Craig are no longer at their terminals.
‘How did you get on to the system?’
‘The usual way.’
‘You’ve been trained as a manager.’
‘Yes I have.’
‘So you switched it on yourself.’
Mike thinks for a minute. ‘Yes.’
‘Mike. This is very serious. You can’t just let yourself into the building and start calling supporters at 5 in the morning. If our charities find out about this, we’ll be finished.’
Mike was struggling now. He remembered that he had not slept last night. It was possible that he had become confused about the time.
‘I want you to stay there, Mike. I’m coming in.’ Bannerman was in his running gear, but he would take his vintage Citreon DS 21 Pallas. He had made the test call after seeing the remote security monitor flashing red, telling him someone was in the building out of hours. Mike Teller. His worst fucking nightmare. He could call the cops but it would be pointless. Elizabeth and the kids were asleep. He would deal with Mike himself.
‘Don’t worry Warwick, everything is fine here. Chloe and Craig are here too.’
‘What? Chloe and Craig? Look, just stay there will you. And please, please. Don’t make any more calls. Log out as soon as this call is over. Then wait for me.’
‘Of course, yes.’ Where were Chloe and Craig? It didn’t matter. May be he had imagined them. He could do that. Mike hated Warwick Bannerman. His phoney smile, skin drawn and pale, eyes always darting like a lizard’s. He was so thin and long, the thin white duke of charity fundraising. Warwick gave all the new callers a pep talk, about how much money they were raising for the charities, how they should never apologise to supporters about the work they were doing. But he never talked about how much money the callers were making for Warwick Bannerman. But Mike knew.
Bannerman drove at speed on the near empty roads. Now he remembers Mike Teller. Mike had been a great asset to PFF. He had made thousands for the charities since he began working for them. People like Mike Teller were what PFF was all about, and why it stood out from the rest of the fundraising sector. Warwick and his fellow directors knew how good the likes of Mike were at their jobs. But they also knew that most callers had a limited shelf life. They were like shooting stars, shining brightly, then just as quickly fading away.
Mike had been a top caller. Craig had even told Mike to slow down, to throw some pledges. They started calling him Slick Mick. He was getting three or four pledges an hour at one point. He was an actor, drama and English at Manchester. He was good, brilliant some said. He couldn’t help it if he didn’t suffer fools, and knew he was better than most of the talentless dullards who went into acting. Then came the breakdown at 26, the swirling tides of depression that crept up on him every time he thought he was cured. He was just recovering from the last bout of the black dog when he came to PFF. He started promisingly, using his actor’s voice, the ability to switch on the charm, to be engaged, even on a bad day bringing the script to life. You will like me and give me your money. He actually enjoyed it. Watching his pledges mount, rising up the pledge chart in Phone Room 4. The problem began when he reached Number One. There was only one way to go from there. Mike wasn’t good at losing. He began to feel moments of panic in the phone room. He would log off and go out on the stairwell to smoke a cigarette. The job had made him smoke again. It was the adrenaline, the need to keep up and outperform the other callers - the fear of losing. He began to resent People First Fundraisers. He even began to resent the charities. Frank had every right to be mad about the salaries of the charity directors. What about the patrons? The Duke of Westminster, the Prince of Wales, the people who owned the choicest real estate in the land. They could fund the charities themselves if they wanted to. Did they really care about the sufferers, the mentally ill and mad? Mike didn’t think so. In fact, Mike hated them and PFF. Warwick Bannerman and his six bedroom house, his beautiful Finnish wife and his vintage cars. When Mike was top of the caller table and a PFF star, Bannerman had come over and personally thanked him. But Mike could see through Bannerman. He knew. Bannerman was a salesman, a businessman. He didn’t give a fuck about the charities. He was the Devil.
Bannerman pulled into the basement car park. He buzzed himself in and headed for the lifts to take him to the seventh floor. He felt nervous. The place was empty. He had built this business up from scratch and he wasn’t going to let this failed actor psycho destroy it. But he would not show anger. That wasn’t his style. He would use his persuasive powers to get Mike to leave the building quietly. In fact he would act like everything was normal.
Mike made himself a coffee. He decided to make one last call. The call maker found a supporter from the database. ‘Hello,’ said an RP accented woman from Chiswick.
“Good morning. My name is Mike Teller. Can I speak to Mrs Chakrabarty.”
“Call me Aneesha.”
“Thank you …Aneesha. I am Mike Teller and I am calling on behalf of the Schizophrenia Society. Actually, I am calling from the offices of People First Fundraising. I am a charity fundraiser and this is my last call for PFF before I kiss this hell hole goodbye.’
‘I’m sorry? Is this some sort of prank call?”
‘I promise you Aneesha, this is the honest truth. I have made thousands of fundraising calls over the last year and I am…very good at it. I have raised a lot of money for charities but lately I have not been feeling …look, um, I know this probably doesn’t make a lot of sense but please, bear with me. I came in this morning to do my final shift. I have felt that I am manipulating people into giving me – giving PFF – their money. I call people during their dinner, or when they are on the loo or just getting out of the shower. I… I charm them and listen to their problems and I take their money. Anyway, I am not prepared to do that anymore.”
‘Mike, really, I am so sorry to hear that. I’ve done raffles for the Schizophrenia Society myself. My sister is a sufferer. Look…”
“I’m a maddie too. Thing is, I haven’t been taking my meds lately, and I’ve been hearing voices. God, what a cliché! I thought if I came into work just like the old days, may be they would stop.”
“Mike, I’m sorry I really have to go.”
“Of course.” He suddenly went into fundraiser mode. “Would you consider making a small, regular donation to the work of the society, say, £12 a month?”
“Okay, yes.” Aneesha sounded a bit desperate. Brilliant, Mike, you’re doing it again. You’ve manipulated her into giving money.
Mike completes the transaction on the system and says thank you. “Take care Mike,” says Aneesha, hanging up.
‘That was a great call Mike,’ says Bannerman, standing next to Mike in the phone room. His mouth is smiling but his eyes are like bullets.
‘Warwick, you’re here.’
Bannerman leans over, takes the mouse and pulls down the menu to log Mike off the Call Maker. ‘Even if we are manipulating people like you just said to Aneesha, is that such a bad thing?’
Mike rolls back in his swivel chair and turns away from Bannerman. “I think I better be going.’
‘I think you’re right.’
Mike puts on his jacket, picks up his satchel and walks towards the door to leave the phone room.
‘You better give me your pass Mike.’
Mike stops, takes the swab key from his pocket and offers it to Bannerman, who manages to peek inside Mike’s satchel as he turns. ‘What have you got in your bag, Mike?’
‘Just some private stuff.’
‘I thought I saw some PFF scripts.’
‘No.’
‘You know you can’t take those out of the building.’
Mike presses the exit button to release the door. His heart is racing. ‘Mike, can I have a look inside your bag please.’ Bannerman is behind him and lunges for the satchel. There is a struggle and Mike wrenches himself free, violently throwing Bannerman back toward the lifts. He pushes through the glass doors to the stairwell and begins to run down the wide concrete steps. He hears Bannerman shouting ‘Stop you nutter!’
Mike has often fantasised about taking the plunge from the stairwell. The thought of suicide somehow made sense in the middle of an endless shift at PFF. It’s a long drop from the seventh floor on to the street below. The dawn casts a slick grey light across the city. Mike thinks about all the fundraising scripts and the caller league tables in his bag and how much damage he could do to Warwick Bannerman if they were published. The world would then know PFF’s trade secrets, how it had been operating like the nasty sales business it actually was. But then he sees Bannerman coming towards him, arms outstretched and eyes like murder. ‘Fuck you Bannerman!’ he shouts as his boss tries to seize his bag. Mike grabs Bannerman’s left arm and twists it behind his back in a move he has practised many times on the matt at his weekly judo class, using the Devil’s weight to throw him over the concrete barrier into the sharp morning air. Bannerman flails wildly as he tries to stop himself falling. Finding a moment’s balance, he begins what is the most important Ask of his life, “Please Mike, don’t – I have two kids” – his voice is full of the urgency and fear brought on by the presentiment of his own death. “Please, I won’t tell anyone. You can just walk away.” Mike has him in an iron grip from behind. “Shut up.”
“I’m not afraid of dying, but my kids, my wife need me.”
Mike leans in and whispers: “I understand completely. That’s why it’s so important to us that you are comfortable with the level of your commitment to the last fucking seconds of your vile, hypocritical existence.” Mike pushes Bannerman over the edge. My God, he has actually killed me, thinks Bannerman, as the faces of Becky, Josh and Elizabeth blaze across his retina. Mike watches his long, lizard-like body coil and crash on to the pavement. “I can assure you Mr Bannerman, your family will be fine. The insurance will cover all eventualities. Finally, I just want to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me and the all the other sorry bastards who’ve ever worked for PFF. Goodbye.”
Mike feels oddly calm. He takes each flight of stairs in a single bound as if he is now charged with superhuman energy. He pushes open the gate and takes the steps down to the high street where shop workers will soon be arriving for the new day. In the crisp, cool morning it belongs to him and him alone.
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