Quaranteam Hebridean Hame Ch 01

This is a spinoff of CorruptingPower's Quaranteam Universe.

Many thanks to CorruptingPower for allowing me to write my first-ever story using his setting. And a massive thanks to AgathonWrites and The_Licentious_Laureate for letting me kick some sand around in their corner of the sandbox. Their support and help have been invaluable.

Also, a big shout out to all the other QT authors, both for the stories you guys provide and the support I received for my first foray into writing... Special thanks to those who took the time to review and edit. Any errors are my own!

This is, comparatively, a slower burn story than some of the others. Set in (very) rural Scotland during the DuaHalo/Covid lockdown. I've written without much use of the Scots language for easy reading.

Veteran readers of the QT series might note that some quoted numbers in this story are 'wrong' as per the lore, but please trust me when I say there is an explanation! Just not in this chapter!

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Friday, 25th September 2020

Eilean Arthriagh, Inner Hebrides, Scotland

With a yawn and an upward stretch of his arms, Callum pushed his chair away from the desk - hastily remembering to remove the cheap plastic headset before the now stretched wire caused it to fly from his head.

Behind him, Skye and Piper reacted, rising from their beds and doing their stretches - tails already wagging at the expected walk. Months of isolation and weeks of mornings working for TrueCheck had led to a routine that even the dogs had become used to.

This morning's series of teleconferences had been just as frustrating and confusing as every other morning. Deadlines were being missed, the scope of work had changed yet again, and problems that he had identified over a month in advance around staffing and processes suddenly and somehow came as a massive surprise to the same senior managers he had repeatedly warned about these upcoming issues.

Anticipating his warnings would be ignored, he had spent some time in advance finding solutions to the problems or ways to mitigate their impact. He was bloody sure he would be invoicing them for the time he'd spent fixing issues that could have been avoided if anyone had listened.

He sighed, already trying to determine the various directors' overreactions to the issues while he unplugged the multiple peripherals.

Despite all the challenges of the pandemic, the staffing issues, and the complexity of the work, the organisation's most significant problem remained the people in charge. It was the same old problem - underqualified Londoners with posh accents and daddy's connections, promoted beyond their ability but intent on ignoring experienced staff with regional accents in favour of their former private school friends. All while milking poorly worded government contracts for all they could. These days, that meant running a shoestring service using the cheapest suppliers, the lowest-paid staff and the harshest employment conditions.

He'd known as soon as he'd signed the extensive and threatening NDA that he would regret taking the job. But the pay was -- frankly -- too good to resist. The income was needed to keep things going until whenever the lockdown might eventually end. If it ever did.

TrueCheck was one of the many previously unknown businesses that had sprung up to perfectly meet government contract requirements the very moment those requirements were made public. The name sounded like it had been randomly generated. Callum knew that if he scrutinised the most senior staff or directors, there would be family and friends of various cabinet ministers - yet another example of snouts in a trough.

Knowing this was the end of his 'office' workday, the dogs were already pacing the floor behind him. He collected the hardcopies of today's notable emails from the printer and placed them in his 'to be filed' folder, which was already full of similar emails. He'd become twitchy in his first week working for TrueCheck - his experience told him that at some point in the future, the decisions being made, and the paths being chosen for... whatever this was... would be questioned, officially questioned. And he wanted to keep what he could for when a finger pointed at him.

While he tidied up, Skye, the Golden Retriever and the older of the two dogs, pressed herself against his leg, nuzzling him with her nose, trying to hurry him along. Her tail wagged her whole rear end as she looked up at him with what could only be described as a grin.

"Okay, girl." He rubbed her head and scratched behind her ear, moving to scratch her flank. "Just let me put this all away."

He reached to close the laptop lid, only for the ring of an incoming video call to stop him. He muttered a low, "Oh for fuck's sake... what now." For a moment, he was tempted to ignore the call and shut down the laptop... but his conscience got the better of him. He clicked to answer while sitting back down and plugging the headset back in.

The video call was from Graham, one of the casework team leaders. Graham was one of the more level-headed team leaders, generally only coming to Callum when he had something genuinely noteworthy or complex. Callum wasn't his line manager but had a reputation for being a troubleshooter, and amongst the staff with more workplace experience, he had quickly been labelled 'competent'. Most staff who were in the know would approach him regarding a problem before speaking to their managers, as it was often the fastest way to get things done.

"Afternoon, Graham; what can I do for you?" Putting on a slightly tired 'it's the end-of-my-day' smile, he tried to keep his tone light. He knew the type of work Graham and his team were doing and the pressure they were under. He deliberately tried to be agreeable and approachable - anything to make their day slightly more manageable.

"Sorry, Callum. I know you'll be getting ready to take those lovely girls out, but I wanted to run something past you if you've a minute." Graham's Liverpudlian accent, which seemed to vary in strength depending on how far south the other managers he spoke to were, and how little respect was held for them, was toned down for this call.

Callum would do the same sometimes, with his Scottish accent.

"No worries; the girls can wait if it's quick." The dogs in the room behind him did their best to let him know otherwise. Piper, a younger chocolate brown Labrador slumped to the floor with an audible huff while Skye did her little tippy-tappy 'hurry up!' dance around his chair. Callum did his best to ignore them, and focused his attention on Graham's webcam image.

One of the things Callum found most interesting over the lockdown period was the brief insights that the frequent video calls gave into the homes of those he interacted with. Generally, the lower the staff member was on the totem pole, the less space they had. Some staff had nothing but a clean white wall behind them; some were sitting at a kitchen table or on a sofa. Others used a variety of tropical or unusual backgrounds. Senior managers had dedicated home offices with certificates on the walls and carefully selected books on show. Directors often had skyline views over London rooftops, idyllic countryside views, or sea views.

Behind Graham was an over-stacked bookshelf laden with sci-fi and fantasy novels. Various titles, including some of the newer Dungeons and Dragons books, could be made out. A small pride flag hung from one shelf. Rows of Pratchett, Asimov and Hobb's books stood in perfect order. Amusingly, the row of Conrad books had a deliberate and noticeable gap. Graham had once told him that the missing title 'The Trouble With Werebears' was used to stop his computer desk from wobbling. He said to Callum that while he liked the author's work, he considered stabilising furniture to be all that particular book was suitable for. He had been pleased that someone had noticed his carefully curated personal display -- one more aimed at showing Graham's life and personality than his business acumen.

"Well," Graham started, pausing as he gathered his thoughts and chuckling at the dogs' antics - he could see Skye's head bobbing around the bottom of Callum's webcam feed. "My team has been working through our first big batch of individuals flagged for manual criminal history risk check. I noticed our daily clearance numbers were up -- quite a bit up -- over what we had projected, and when I checked with the team, it's because... well... a good portion of the individuals had information stating they were deceased. Or were listed as 'suspected deceased' on the Police National Database."

There was a murmur of someone else talking in the room on Graham's end of the call, and Graham paused again with a brief "One sec." Nodding and smiling distractedly, he passed his mug to someone off-camera before returning his attention to Callum.

Callum used the opportunity to clarify his understanding. "So, these names were flagged up from the first large batch of checks done using the 2011 census? What percentage of the checks returned a deceased response?"

Graham took a moment to organise his desktop before screen-sharing a spreadsheet full of names, dates of birth, national insurance numbers and Police reference numbers. "That's right, individuals with criminal records identified from the census run. They finally got us the data, god knows why it took so long. Of the five hundred individuals my team was asked to risk assess, just under 22% were listed as suspected or confirmed deceased."

Callum drummed his fingers on the table, frowning as he began quickly checking the maths. Sure, Covid was supposed to be taking its toll -- hence the lockdown, but the death rate wasn't supposed to be that high. Was it? He brought up the browser on his laptop.

"Have you got any breakdown by age groups? Did you happen to get given a list of pensioners with past criminal records? This Census was nearly ten years ago," he asked as his fingers flew over the keys, and the first of several Google search results appeared. "Or is the mortality rate for individuals with convictions just that much higher than the average?"

Callum quickly tried to track down the UK mortality rate numbers, immediately finding it should be around 1% per year - or 1,000 deaths per year for every 100,000 people. So, according to his quick maths, 10% of those listed on the 2011 census might be dead by 2020, not 22%.

Graham shook his head in response to the barrage of questions. "I've no idea. The numbers just took me by surprise. They don't make sense based on Google's results for the UK average. I can pull something together with the demographic info this afternoon if it would help."

Graham stopped the screen share, returning the image to his room. "Honestly, I can't see any logical reason why we would be seeing these sorts of numbers. My concern is whether there's an error in the system somewhere. I know it was all thrown together quickly. I'd have thought someone being dead would cause individuals to be sifted out at the same time any historic convictions were identified, which makes me think that it's maybe a bug or technical issue. Maybe an issue with the data that's being sent over."

Callum's search had turned up nothing immediately useful, no specific details about criminal mortality rates compared to the UK average. He closed his browser. "You're right; it's something we're going to have to get an understanding of moving forward. I suppose it's possible that the next batch your team works on could have a much lower mortality rate, and it all averages out over time."

Graham shrugged in response before giving the camera a lopsided, apologetic look. "Sorry to add something else to your plate, but could you raise it for us? It might be worth looking at what filters are applied to the data. Or maybe have a triage team sift the names before they get sent to caseworkers. That would at least keep the workload consistent and show a big bump in clearance for a little more effort."

Callum nodded. "That's some good thinking, Graham. I appreciate it when I'm simultaneously told of the problem and given a potential solution. I'll try to get hold of the technical team tomorrow morning." Callum belatedly realised he'd just committed himself to working on a Saturday. This far into lockdown, all the days blurred into one. "Is your team having to do this 'mandatory overtime' this weekend?"

Graham breathed out hard through gritted teeth and nodded. "Yep, my guys and I will be working tomorrow. I've tried to pass it up the chain that burning the staff out won't help in the long term, but I just got the usual 'national importance' speech in response. It'll all stop when they get the first month's wage bill and realise how much it's costing them in overtime, knowing this lot. Will you tell me what they say?" From off-screen, an unknown male hand placed a mug on Graham's desk. It bore the line, 'Babylon 5 is a big pile of shit'. Graham looked up in the hand's direction and smiled, nodding a thanks.

The whole exchange with whomever Graham shared a home with reminded Callum of how little value those NDAs had. It's not like whoever else was in the staff members' homes wasn't hearing bits of the conversations or didn't know what the work entailed. And what did anyone else have to talk about after months of being stuck in the house?

Callum chuckled at the obscure 'Spaced!' reference on the mug. Hearing him, Piper rose from her place on the floor and tried to climb onto his lap, apparently wanting in on the joke.

The old chair creaked ominously as Callum leaned around the dog to see the screen. "I tried to tell them the same thing. Sometimes, these two listen to me more than the management does. Between you and me, I don't think the short-term increase in productivity makes up for the likely long-term decrease from staff being exhausted. Anyway, I'll get back to you tomorrow, assuming these two don't smother me for being late for their walk..." the excitement shown by both dogs easily tripled at the mention of the word walk "... I'd better go. Otherwise, I'll risk one of these two leaving a puddle."

Graham waved and laughed as he disconnected.

A few seconds later, his laptop pinged to tell him another 'urgent' email had been received. He briefly caught a glimpse of a notification on the bottom right of his screen, which said, 'Urgent: Delphi registration'. "What the fuck is Delphi," he muttered aloud to the dogs. "One for Monday morning." He quickly logged out and shut down the laptop before anyone else could try to reach him. Rising from the chair, he moved through the house, trying not to step on either of the dogs as they crowded around his legs. He grabbed his outdoor coat from the hook in the utility room and his boots from the shelf.

He was acting on autopilot; his mind occupied by thoughts of pulling the other team's clearance figures tomorrow and checking if they had any similar results. He bent down and pulled his boots on while Piper tried to lick his face. He had to push her away repeatedly - their regular pre-walk game. Skye was doing her usual little dance by the back door, looking urgently between the door latch and him.

"All right, all right, I'm coming."

****

He was still deep in thought as he left the house, not bothering to lock the door - there was no need here on the island. The two dogs had wormed past his legs while he was still in the doorway, desperate to get into the garden. Both ran in opposite directions to do their business before letting off some of their excitement by zooming around each other and him.

Getting outside after a morning spent stuck at his laptop was always refreshing. Despite it being past noon, there was still a little nip of last night's frost in the air. Cold but sunny had always been his favourite weather. At this time of year, the sunlight falling on the West of Scotland was almost golden, taking on a particular softness - resulting from the sun hanging low in the sky and the shortening days.

Unfortunately, the island formed part of the 'Atlantic woodland and Celtic rainforest' and had high levels of rain no matter the time of year. So, while it being cold might be common, it being dry or sunny was not.

In years past, during a typical tourist season, his time visiting the island would have been spent helping guest artists and photographers find the best locations to use this light to capture impressive land or seascape views. Or leading guided hikes and excursions. He had always accepted this as the cost of visiting such a fantastic place as a guest and family friend of the Buchanans.

He shook his head as he walked down the garden to the outbuildings, fishing for the ATV key in his coat pocket. Not this year, however. This had not been a typical year.

Bookings for the various cottages had been cancelled way back in March, either by the paying guests or by Callum, as he became increasingly wary of the chance someone would bring Covid with them. That caution had been well founded, it seemed, after they later learnt that two different pandemics were happening simultaneously. He had to continue cancelling bookings as the lockdown stretched on and eventually had to close bookings for the rest of the year.

It was early May, only a few weeks after the lockdown, that he'd gotten the call that one of the island's owners, Mrs Buchanan, had died.

Agnes' cancer treatment had required her to stay at the Beatson Cancer Centre in Glasgow. She'd been spending time in a ward there on and off since February while receiving chemo and had gone in for intensive treatment just before the lockdown in March.

Mr Buchanan had been staying in Glasgow to be close to his wife. The six-hour round trip by car from the island, Eilean Arthriagh, to Glasgow, was too much for him to do regularly. A journey which could also take significantly longer if the tide was not low enough to make the single causeway to the island passable or if the weather was not good enough to cross the narrow channel between the island and the mainland in a rowboat. The weather would also impact the longer southern crossing over the sea loch via Rib.

Even after Rory had been prevented from entering the hospital due to infection protocols, he'd remained there. Just so that he was still near his beloved Agnes. During one of his calls to Callum, he shared how he would go to a particular spot outside the hospital each day so that he and his wife could wave at each other while they chatted via mobile phone call.

Agnes' prognosis had been good initially. The cancer, first spotted in December, wasn't a serious one. They had told Callum about it in the new year, and he'd immediately volunteered to help. Six months of treatment, and she would be sorted, they had told him. Callum, recently and forcibly made redundant from his Civil Service job and going through a messy divorce, had agreed to watch the dogs and house - and temporarily manage their holiday rental business during the treatment period. This would mean that Rory and Agnes wouldn't have to worry about what was happening back on the island.

The unspoken comment throughout these discussions had been that Sarah, the Buchanan's daughter, should have been the one to help. But they rarely spoke about her now. And they had no way of even letting her know that Agnes, her mother, was ill.

In late April, Agnes' health had rapidly declined. She was intubated, and the cancer treatment was paused. Covid, her husband Rory had said.

During that fateful call on a rainy day in early May, Callum knew why Rory was calling even before a word was said due to the protracted silence at the start of the call. A heavy weight had seemed to settle on his shoulders. When Rory could eventually find words, his voice had been choked by tears and interrupted by coughing. Rory hadn't been allowed to be with her at the end, he'd sobbed to Callum, which made the whole situation so much sadder.