Social Services

I had done well to reach the position of senior social worker.  Sure,  I had worked hard in the past working in a tough area.  I had put the time in working with disadvantaged youngsters.  I had dealt with the full arena of social issues from drugs, crime, neglect and violence.  The daily life of a social worker.  It was a tough job, but one that I relished and one that played to my strengths.  As a young, fit, good-looking guy I knew that I was a role model to some of these young kids, and that they both respected and liked me.

It was therefore a tough decision to take the promotion.  To move from an area that was an extreme example of social issues to the simpler issues of a middle-class market town.  A desk job primarily, and an easier daily routine focused more on prevention rather than cure.

I'd worked there for 10 years, since I was 17 as a raw new recruit.  When I told some of my regular clients of my move, I had expected a more positive response.  Looking back, maybe I was naive.  They only saw the fact that their trusted friend was leaving them: I was improving himself but leaving them behind.  And so I received no heartfelt thanks.  No gifts.

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My new job is indeed easier.  I miss getting my hands dirty to some extent, but I don't miss the long hours and the relentless difficulty of my work in trying to improve social conditions for my clients.  I now have a social life again, and friends to relax with at weekends in the warmth of my local pub.

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It was a drizzly Tuesday morning when Scott came to find me.  As I exited my office to get a sandwich, he tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned around and was confronted with Scott's gaunt features.

Looking him up and down, I took in the familiar dirty blue coat, the worn jeans and cheap black trainers.  Momentarily taken aback at the fact that he had found me, and that he had taken the trouble to do so, I mumbled an astonished greeting and implored him to follow me to the cafe with some reservations, as he begged me to offer him some advice.

Scott was a few years younger than me, 22 if I remembered correctly.  Somewhat of a troubled young man, Scott lived alone in an old stone cottage, isolated down a country lane outside of the town where I used to work.  He lived on benefits, shunning any possibility of working for a living.  His drug habits were fuelled by petty crimes, and he was a regular client of the local police.  He was also a bigot, with a Hitler tattoo on his right shoulder blade, and a Nazi emblem on his arm: a belief in his own superiority that I had believed he really held.  Being of mixed race, I had always been cautious of this belief, and been surprised that he had even acknowledged my existence.

Whilst believing that Scott was mixed up, he was not a pleasant character and my relationship with him had been based purely on necessity within my role rather than the genuine liking of other clients.

I listened to him in the cafe, telling me how he had been forced to take employment in a local factory, fitting and testing plumbing valves.  He hated the work, but he had managed to buy an old white van and this had brought him across the county to me today.  He had some business to do, but had heard where I was located.  He had seen me by chance he claimed.

When he told me that he had a business in selling Christmas cards and would I help him out by buying some, I was happy to oblige.  Anything to get rid of him.  We walked through the drizzle to a small car park off the high street.  Scott opened the rear doors of his white van and I stepped between them, peering with curiosity into the murky interior.

I was completely disarmed by Scott's hand over my face.  Although I struggled, it was more in confusion than alarm, and my legs began to wobble as the chloroform took effect.

When I awoke some time later, my eyes struggled to focus on the inside of the van.  I became conscious of the driver and the beats of heavy music and then remembered the lead up to this predicament.

Trying to rise, I realised quickly that my coat had been removed, and I was dressed in my shirt only.  My hands were cuffed behind my back and trying to move I discovered that my legs were chained to a ring in the floor of the van.  My shoes and socks had been removed, and my bare feet felt like cold blocks of ice.  My mouth was gagged, and no amount of effort could dislodge it.

I looked forward to the driver, and saw Scott adjust his mirror.  Looking into his dark eyes, I shivered. 

With a laugh, he shouted over the music "I'm just bringing you home that's all.  I've missed my bitch getting me out of trouble.  I think it's time to return to the work that you do best."

My mind raced.  What did he mean?  Surely he knew he would not - could not - get away with this kidnap.

"We just need to change our relationship now.  Make you work just for me from now on."

And as those words sank in, I noticed the familiar exit from the motorway as Scott's van lurched into the darkening lanes approaching his isolated cottage.