The Claimant

An untrue true story. Be careful what you wish for.

Mar 20, 2026

Beer can. Plastic water bottle squashed in the road. Energy drink. Beer can. Fag packet. A small mountain of dog ends. Beer bottle. McDonald’s bag. Scattered chips called fries. Fizzy drink bottle. Another fizzy drink bottle. Plastic. Chicken bones. Dog ends. Dog shit. Trail of blood splashes leading from pub to pavement. Coca-Cola bottle. Pepsi-Cola bottle. Kebab wrapper. Mysterious trail of red cabbage. Child’s vomit by the bus stop after alphabetti spaghetti for tea, letters forming “bleurgh” by pasta floating in tomato sauce. Beer bottle. Polish beer can. Vape. Another Polish beer can. Vape wrapper. Plastic water bottles squashed. Knotted condom. Broken Biro. Half a loaf of Tesco white bread. Dog shit. Half-eaten doner kebab. Coke can, Pepsi can. Dog shit in a bag.

A dessicated Christmas orange hangs in the trees along Woodbridge Road. Ian stares out through the frame of the window at the still life watercolour which the cold days have petrified. No birds sing, foxes scream in the gloaming like women being murdered. He is halfway through a bottle of Ardbeg and it’s 12 noon on Christmas day as he lights another roll-up. It’s cold as a Gulag.

The huge orange struggled to spread its light; the watery gloom barely covered chilly earth. Perhaps one day we’ll be told how the sun manages to get out of bed every morning with a hangover after dancing with the moon all night. Ian had bought ham and pork pie and cheese. He sat munching without appetite as Sibelius’ Fourth Symphony oozed from the speakers. He rolled another fag and poured another glass of whisky. When he went for a piss he stepped back in fright then stared as an unknown face stared back in the mirror, mocking eyes, half a smile and half a downturn, lines on the brow, grey beard, unkempt eyebrows, hair almost gone, hunched back from a lifetime spent in offices. The gaze direct, unshifting. The Yorkie next door began a barking which shifted to a melancholy howl and settled into a whimper.

Hound alone for Christmas. Her humans were far away eating the seasonal dinner that nobody really liked with relatives who didn’t really like each other. Tradition.

Ian lit a Cohiba he’d saved for the day, smoke floating sluggish in the still air, a foggy disguise, an unsaid wish to dissolve into motes and disappear.

By six the Ardbeg was finished and he made his way down the lane beneath skeletal branches and holly hedges to Raja’s store where he bought bottled beer.

“21 quid, boss,” said Raja.

Squiffy from the peaty whisky. “I’m not your boss. You’re your own boss, son”, handing over the squids; a Turner and a Churchill.

“4 quid change, boss.”

Ian walked out into a light snowfall back to his room, cracked open the beer, put the Schoenberg string quartets on, opened The Lives of the Desert Fathers, lighted another fag, and continued reading. Brought up short, he listened intently to the fourth movement of the second quartet and the female voice singing ‘I feel the air from other planets’. That nervy itch of modernism which can’t be sorted out or resolved. The CD played on as he drifted off into deep dreamless sleep. He awakened to a monochrome glow; unsteady progress to the kitchen; coffee and a roll-up as snow flurries settled on the windowsill. Ham sandwich, cuppa. A gull laughed from the tiled roof opposite. Boxing Day. Back to work tomorrow.

Parking tickets crumpled by Romanian delivery drivers and others unconcerned. Scratch cards and lottery tickets. Crushed glass in the gutter. Cigarette packets with warnings in foreign languages. Beer cans. Soft drinks cans crushed by the wheels of lorries carrying containers from China. The railway viaduct rumbling. LED lights blinding. Near the abandoned Co-op building pigeons settling, wheeling, rising. Delivery van speakers shouting ‘vehicle reversing’. Pools of vomit suspended in ice after Christmas Eve revelries. Graffiti tags reading ‘Penis’ and ‘Dog End’ sprayed and displayed on walls like terriers marking lamppost territory. Always fast food cartons, pretend recyclable bags on the road, chips smothered in ketchup like a crime scene after a bloody root vegetable mafia feud. Increase in dog shit as he walked across the bridge, the sluggish water below displaying shopping trolleys and bicycles like ancient artefacts coated in limestone.

In 200 years digital archaeologists will find nothing of this century. Hard-drives and cloud storage inaccessible or self-erased, glass buildings replaced a dozen times. Stepping past the bags containing the deposits of greyhounds, French poodles, poodle-doodles. Digital key on the lock, up in the lift with Silent Ed smiling.

Miles, line manager, smiling as well. “Can I have a quick word with you, Ian, after you’ve set up the laptop?”

Powering up the sleek HP machine, two screens bouncing into life, starting up Word docs, the call software, the Excel spreadsheets, the bespoke interface, the Chat function, emails, the AI function, customised docs and alerts, the headphones.

“Ian, we’re starting to analyse year-end KPIs and I have to say your results are not quite what we would expect from a seasoned handler. We’re checking key-stroke metrics, time spent on calls, SLAs, escalations. Is there anything you want to tell me? You haven’t completed the DEI questionnaire and the DPA survey. I can’t actually see any fully completed training modules. Look, we know you’re a good handler but we need proofs for the underwriters to review and sign off. Ian, I know you’re a grafter, always on time and desk-ready by nine but the annual review is coming round again.”

“It’s been back-to-back calls for months, Miles, so how do you suggest we find the time for surveys and modules? We’re providing a front-line service here. Isn’t our role to help people?”

“With respect, Ian, we’re not a charity. The faster you deal with the calls, the more time you’ll have for personal development. That means completing modules and building your career path. Have you finished Onwards & Upwards yet? Where do you see yourself in two years time?”

“Retired. Living in a monastery.”

Miles cracked up. “I love you, man, but this is the here-and-now. C’mon Ian, sort it out, mate. I really don’t want to put you on report.”

“I’ll do what I can. When are those training modules due?”

“Last week, last month, last year.”

Habitual solitude is broken by the presence of others. The hermit can’t live in the towns and cities with judgement and the nagging finger, rules spoken and implied. Ian was a part-time hermit. A full-time hermit obeys only unwritten laws.

“You’re through to Minerva Mentira travel claim handlers. My name is Ian. How can I help you? Do you have a claim number to give me?”

A growly voice oozed through the mutter lines like Doc Martens stomping through gravel as it gave the claim reference.

“Right, you Muppet. Stan Richardson here. Where’s me money? I’ve been waiting a month and all I get is ‘next week’ for a review, ‘tomorra’ for me money. I’m coming round your gaff with me hammer ter break some fingers, right?”

The rasping voice droned on, threat upon threat. Handlers are trained not to interrupt. Ian put the call on mute to smother his laughter. Stan paused for a second and Ian jumped in.

“Well, Mr Richardson, if you break our fingers how can we type your settlement?

“Good point, son, good point. I’ll bring me shooter and some of the lads then.”

He checked the claim as the caller continued his diatribe. Aged 69, flat in Barking, curtailment of holiday in Tenerife due to sudden death of Mrs Richardson whose medical records he briefly scanned. Covid vaccination in 2021, 7 boosters, last booster shot 2 days before the holiday für ihre sicherheit, no previous medical history, myocardial infarction, found dead in bed by husband. Body repatriated to England by the emergency medical assistance team. Single trip insurance. Out of pocket expenses. Brief flash of Stan warming himself in front of an electric fire, surrounded by crushed beer cans and empty tins of beans, alone in a quiet damp room above the city noise.

“You’re through to Minerva Mentira travel claim handlers. My name is Ian. How can I help you? Do you have a claim number to give me?”

“I want an update on my claim. This has been going on and on.” The woman’s voice rose to a shout. “I had loads of stuff nicked in Tenerife and you’re doing nothing about it you’re dragging it out you don’t wanna pay and I’m phoning every day and you’re putting me off this is the worst company ever and…

Ian checked through the claim as Miss Sienna Salt continued her rant. Louis Vuitton bag, iPhone, iPad, gold Pandora jewellery, a Rolex, €900 cash.

“I can escalate your claim for review, Miss Salt, but only after 8 working days due to the service level agreement. A claim handler will phone you back next Tuesday.”

He sent the claim over to Investigations. Might as well be claiming for a kilo of gold and the original bible in Aramaic.

“You’re through to Minerva Mentira travel claim handlers. My name is Ian. How can I help you? Would you like to make a claim with us?”

“Yeah, I wanna make a claim. A monkey pissed in my face in Thailand and I went to the hospital and they didn’t speak English and I’m literally hallucinating on antibiotics and …”

Ian trudged home in the gathering gloaming. Car headlights dazzled as he crossed the bridge. Stopping off in Sainsbury’s he wandered through aisles of near-food, extruded potato snacks, forever cakes, blue drinks, irradiated vegetables which refused to rot. A group of youngs fighting outside the church as he passed the places he had passed in the morning. He stopped in The Dove and ordered a pint of Southwold Bitter then another; the first for thirst and the second for taste. Branches lay haphazard on the pavements back to the flat, an East wind punishing the pines; he put the chain on the door and the wind battered the windows in anger at exclusion. What if the wind never stopped but just grew in righteous anger? Would it blow the world of humans away as it scrubbed the earth clean? Inside the urban cabin he opened Leaves of Grass. “Your very flesh shall be a great poem…” Motes of dust speckled the air; to be a tittle of dust is at least to be something.

“You’re through to Minerva Mentira travel claim handlers. My name is Ian. How can I help you? Do you have a claim number, please?”

The caller was unable to speak through crying. Ian waited for her to compose herself. She gave a number and went through the DNPR. Amanda Carn, age 58, village of St Luke in Essex.

“Me and my sister went to Disneyland after my divorce, it was a sort of celebration, you know, but I got ill so we went to the hospital and I gave them my insurance details and I paid $1000 to see a doctor. It was kidney stones and they blasted them and said I was alright. Anyway, we came back and I thought that was that. I got the money back on the insurance with your company.”

Ian was speed-reading the claim while listening, the notes and supporting evidence. Settlement had been made last year.

“So last week I got three bills from the hospital in Orlando and a demand from a collection agency in Switzerland and they’re wanting money from me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I sent the bills to you when I got them.” She was crying again.

“Please don’t worry Mrs Carn.”

“Miss Carn. I’ve got rid of his title. Miss Carn.”

Ian scanned the invoices and totalled them up: $100,412. He went through the evidence and explained the procedures. She was speaking at length about how this was affecting her. She told him a lot, maybe too much, about her circumstances.

“I don’t know what to do. Please help me. How old are you, Ian?

“I’m 65, Miss Carn.”

“Why aren’t you retired, then?”

“The government has set the age at 67” he replied with a trace of bitterness hard to hide.

“Call me Amanda.”

“We’ll send the bills to the underwriters for evaluation, Amanda. This is not unusual for American hospitals. The $1000 seems to have been a deposit.”

She was unable to reply for crying. His Teams messageboard pinged from Miles. He’d been on the call for 38 minutes.

Ian walked back over the bridge and into town.

An email message from Minerva Mentira requesting a reply to the emergency signal verification.

“Just leave me alone”, he muttered into the stillness of the room. April Fool’s Day. New Year’s Day before it was changed.

Cycling past out-of-town retail parks, server farms, distribution hubs, huge warehouses without windows, wind farms, a week off work, a trip to the past. Lonely Georgian farm houses and ancient cottages, fields of yellow rape coming through, greenery pushing and putting out emerald heads to check Old Man Winter had gone again. Pig cabins in muddy fields, flint church towers, pubs with antique signboards, the smell of a new world rising again. Ian coasted through the village where he’d grown up, the village shop in Mrs Barker’s front room which smelt of kippers and cat piss, now a second home owned by a BBC producer. The brook was down Tye Lane, a ford plashing over the road, an empty field with dark woods beyond, the stream overhung with trees, small ailets in the water overlooked by grassy banks where he’d spent his childhood dreaming. Mum would chuck him out on warm days with a packet of cheese sandwiches and a banana, warning him not to come back until teatime. Years later the local strangler had dumped the bodies of his murderees downstream after a killing spree.

The bike carried him down the lane to a ‘Vehicle Unloading’ sign. Large flat rectangles on a lorry carried off by scowling Romanian men. Ian dropped the bike in the sprouting hedgerow, walked to the brook, approached a bloke with a hard hat.

“What’s going on here?”

“Setting up the panels, mate”

“The panels?”

“Yeah, come and see”, and the man led him under the canopy of trees and over the rivulet.

Once bursting green with barley for ale or grass for fodder the field hosted new seedlings; thousands of solar panels glinting in the spring sunshine with a small army at work assembling the assemblage. Ian puffed with the effort as the bike struggled up the incline then turned right to town at the end of the lane.

“Never go back.” A remembrance of some old saying.

Back in the flat Ian had a whole week of reading before him. By Monday he had finished Robinson Crusoe. In the evenings he searched for Hebridean Island bothys and whether villages around Pripyat were viable. Nights were filled with dreams of desert islands and weather stations in Siberia. On Thursday he closed Koestler‘s Scum of the Earth. The room was lined with books, perhaps as an apotropaic shield. He thought about Amanda Carn. A hermit’s flash; validation of solitude lacking by not being with the person who experiences the solitude. The evening before his return to work he watched The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant.

People need each other, they’re made that way. But they haven’t learnt how to live together.

Miles called him into the office.

“You’re a people person, Ian, and that’s why you’re front line. But 40 minutes on one call. Amanda Carn has been calling every day asking to speak to you.

“Miles, I love humanity but I have a problem with people.”

Miles laughed.

Amanda Carn was phoning every day asking to be transferred to Ian. They spent aggregate hours on the phone. The claim was with the underwriters for confirmation of cover and cost containment. There was no update. Every time that soft sobbing contralto voice seeped through the lines Ian listened and laughed. They spoke of many things; music, books, films, modern life.

“What would you give a woman as a gift?”

“Flowers are too yonic, the intention too obvious. I’d give stones, maybe hagstones gathered on Shingle Street”.

After a month with no response from the underwriters and much crying from Amanda Ian did something no handler should ever do. He wrote Amanda Carn’s number in his notebook and phoned her from home on a cheap Nokia burner one rainy night. At least he had the sense to cover his tracks.

They spoke until the battery ran low. They spoke as usual of books and music and films and the state of the world.

“Ian, I’m so scared. They want $100,000 and I don’t have that.” The battery dimmed and the call ended.

A dead pigeon on the road, fresh blood twirled across the Tarmac like a Pollock painting. A graffito reading “don’t think, let the river of thought flow free”. Turret Lane and empty beer bottles. Dodging e-bikes and scooters. Wondering why dog owners scoop up the shit, put it in bags, then drop it back on the pavement. A graffito on a red brick wall reading “work buy consume die.”

He emailed Authorisation with the claim number.

“Jackie, can you do me a really big favour and push the settlement through? I mean, the claimant is in despair; can we progress this? She’s marked as vulnerable and customer support. There’s a guarantee of payment on file from Assistance. I can see it’s been cost-contained by the underwriters.”

Ian raised the payment for Amanda Carn.

Back across the bridge, through town, a bottle of wine and Czech beer on special offer from B&M. Chain on the door. Brief rush of happiness at being alone. Short thought that for true happiness there would have be another present for him to explain the joy of solitude.

Fog from the river shrouding buildings, the same faces passing on the morning trudge to work, the same litter accruing. A sausage roll from Greggs for breakfast.

“Ian, a word in my office, please.”

He sat on an office chair in front of Miles’ desk.

“We have just paid close to £700,000 to a fucking scammer. This is money we will probably never get back and it was paid on your fucking recommendation. I’ve spoken to Simon and Julia. We have to let you go and as for your mate Jackie, she’s toast as well. You’ll get a severance payout but if it was up to me you’d be thrown in the fucking river tarred and feathered. You do realise you’ve put my job on the line, you cunt?”

“OK, OK, I’ll clear my desk. You’ve actually done me a favour, mate. All the happy talk about vulnerable customers and putting the claimant first; it’s a bag of shite. We all know it. This company is a joke.”

Over the bridge above the oily water one last time and back to the lodgings, kicking empty cans up the hill. Back in the flat feeling strangely free and light-headed. There are of plenty of other jobs out there. Other possibilities. He had skills.

Ian phoned Amanda that night.

“Come to the farm, have a break. Jones will collect you from Manningtree Station. Ian, I’m not bullshitting. The invoices are real. Come to the farm. Please don’t tell anyone. Lets talk about this.”

“Alright. I’m free now. Four tomorrow? Norwich to Liverpool Street train.”

“Jones’ll meet you.”

“Who’s Jones?”

“He sorts things out, works for us. It’s a working farm, Ian, I’ve told you.”

Stepping off the train at Manningtree and met by Jones, an enormous Welshman with a droopy mustache and a face like a Carmarthen Fan escarpment.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the van as Jones guided the vehicle through the lonely lanes of North Essex.

“Um, so what does the farm produce, then?” Trying to start a conversation.

“Meat. It’s a meat farm, see?”

What sort of meat?”

“Pork, pig meat.”

Jones had few words. They drove down unlighted roads with pig pens in fields on both sides. Jones pulled over into a passing place to allow a Range Rover to continue, a blonde man at the wheel.

“That fella looked like Jamie Oliver from the telly”, laughed Ian.

“Plenty people shop in the Farm Shop. Some of them famous so I’m told.”

Jones stopped again as a car with diplomatic number plates oozed past. The van turned into a dirt track even more narrow than the tarmac road.

“When did you come to Essex, Mr Jones?” as the van bumped over potholes large enough to swallow a dachshund.

“I’m Essex born and bred, boy. Hundreds of years have the Jones lived here,” Welsh extended vowels as the van passed down the muddy road and drew into a gravel driveway. Huge sheds loomed through the gloom to the flint-faced farmhouse where windows were lighted. Jones let him out and drove off. He walked to the porch and rang the old bell. Amanda opened the door.

“Ian, I knew you’d look just like the way you do.” She smiled, kissed him on both cheeks, and led him into the sitting room. She looked much younger that he’d imagined and he mentioned this.

“Oh Ian, you flatterer. A solid diet of good meat from the farm” and she laughed like a chandelier tinkling when the wind blows in.

“We’ll be eating in a minute when Daria brings in the food. I guarantee you’ve never tasted meat like this. Oh, this is my sister Hyacinth,” as a tall woman walked into the room.

“Pleased to meet you, Ian.” She sounded exactly like her sister.

The plates were heaving with meat and gravy. Glasses filled with scarlet wine. A small plate of braised leeks and peas stood alone.

“Are there any roasties?”

“We don’t eat carbs, Ian. The meat is enough.”

The meat was unbelievable, more than delicious. Used to his home-cooked dal and rice and damp supermarket sandwiches Ian wolfed it down and there was more and then more. The wine was also unbelievable. More plates and bottles were brought in as they talked until he hit the point of exhaustion.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

Up the squeaky steps and into a small neat room with crumpled sheets on a bed which looked like it had been slept in recently.

“Oh dear. I thought Daria had tidied the room. She’s Romanian, you know, she helps out in the house and on the farm.”

“It’s alright, really. I’m so tired I could sleep in a pig pen.”

Ian awakened in a small room not unlike the one in which he had fallen asleep except there were no windows and a steel door had replaced the oak panel. His head hurt. He tried the door which refused to yield. He craved a coffee and a smoke. He shouted for help until realising the room was soundproof. His new life had begun.

It is both a blessing and a curse that humans can adapt to almost any circumstance. A prisoner rails against fate on the first day in jail; within a month he has adapted. At first the mush pushed under the door flap was repulsive; next week, eagerly awaited; a month later, devoured. There was no one to explain his situation, no one with the soft rational voice of the politician with all the answers and none of the solutions. Three times a day and Ian gulped the grub down, went back to bed and dreamed awake. Within two months he looked like a Michelin man. Every week a small silent man with a cattle prod and a taser on his belt came to clean the room and scatter fresh straw on the floor. Ian always asked him if he had a cigarette. The silent man remained silent.

The days slipped away uncounted. “It must be early autumn.”

Whoever it was who pushed food under the door had forgotten to close the rectangular view hole set at eye level. Peering through this portal Ian could see a corridor with identical steel doors, at least six on each side of his vision on the other side of the walkway. A low metallic drone hummed in the air, the sound of refrigeration.

“… and there’s a good return in selling organs to the NHS although we retain the hearts and livers for our best customers. Just so you know, as a procurer of fine goods for your clients we can offer a serious discount on bulk orders. Our customers come from the highest ranks as I’m sure you know. We have prime ministers, MPs, the funniest celebrities. My favourite is Elton John, he’s so charming. Bono is serious, Harry Styles is hilarious. Anyways. This one, it’s young and the harvest will be buttery and sweet. Perfect for steaks and grills. Over here we have an older product. We can prepare it for stews and braises to your specifications and I guarantee the meat will fall off the bone. Oops” and she slammed shut Ian’s spy hole.

It seemed so easy. The small silent man opened the door as Ian hit him in the face again and again and grabbed the cattle prod, hit him once more to be sure and turned the taser on full as the silent man convulsed into further silence. Out the door, shut the door, into the corridor lined with cells, out into the chill night air and onto the fields, running, running. He had grown enormous and the stones underfoot cut his feet. The autumn breeze cooled his unclothed body as he stumbled and fell on flinty ground of ploughed earth and picked himself up, ran on again, fell over again. On and on through the sticky mud to the lights of the village across the road which he crossed in with the goal in sight. A glancing blow from the side of a car travelling back from the farm shop. A brief flash of the occupants; Noel Edmunds with Mr Blobby in the passenger seat? Dazed on the grassy verge until the police car arrived.

In North Nothingham police station a replica of Jones in the custody suite wearing the uniform of sergeant. Blue hospital clothes to cover his nakedness and an ambulance to take him to A&E where he was treated for bruising. Admitted for evaluation to a closed ward in a secure facility.

“Found him on roadside, mumbling about meat farms, stark bollock naked, covered in blood.”

Sedated and restrained in an iron cot he slept for what seemed like years.

Nurse hovered above in the dim light of autumn.

“It’s Ian, isn’t it? Sister will be here soon to help you.

“We have your release papers, Ian. Signed by a magistrate. As your legal guardians we are duty bound to care for you.”

Turning to the duty nurse.

“It’s for his safety. Thank you for your help in this matter.”

Hyacinth led him out to the van where Jones was waiting.