Julianne Newbury didn’t exist. Not officially, anyway. Some people would consider it an insurmountable obstacle, but at least she was paid each month. Somewhere a foot soldier in this great army of bureaucrats believed she was real. Try telling the rest of them.

‘You need another signature on it. We can’t accept it like that. Your manager has to sign it too.’ Trevor Bland saw it as straightforward, but was too polite to ask why she didn’t just take the form away to deal with it so he could take his scheduled break.

‘I don’t have a manager, I run an autonomous research project – I am my own manager, if you like. No staff either. Just me, understand?’ Julianne had explained this countless times, at desks just like this one, all over the three buildings that comprised the Quartermaine General Hospital. ‘And I have signed it – there, see?’

Trevor sighed, took another look at the paper which had been pushed back towards him and said, ‘Ah. There’s your problem.’ The clerk went on to explain that Julianne had, indeed, signed but her signature needed to be over the line that said “Manager of Department”, whereas she had signed as the person requisitioning the supplies. Simple mistake – anyone could make it. He could have his morning break on time, after all.

‘No problem then – I’ll just sign it here as well,’ said Julianne, as she turned the piece of paper around and picked up the pen that was chained to the desk.

‘You can’t do that!’ he said, and wrested the paper from her. How hard could it be to understand? ‘Look, this is a Form 9.’ Julianne raised an eyebrow but was otherwise unmoved, so he explained, in a way any idiot could grasp, ‘A Form 9 needs two different signatures. They check – I can’t accept it without that.’

‘That’s ludicrous – I work on my own.’ She thought it through for a moment. ‘You mean I can get anyone passing by in the street to sign it and all you care about is that it’s not me signing twice?’ Julianne grabbed the form and walked away saying, ‘No problem.’ 

Trevor froze. Before he reacted, a small part of him weighed up how many biscuits would be left in the tea room. ‘Wait!’ he called after her. This was going to be hard. He had hoped that Julianne would have seen reason by now, or at least have given up. She was obviously trouble.

Julianne returned to the counter to face her tormentor once more.

‘You can’t do that. They have to be valid signatures.’

‘How would they know?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They must get thousands of bits of paper. How can they possibly know it’s my signature? Or anyone else’s, for that matter.’

Trevor’s world was under siege. Why would anyone question the system? As long as he played his part in proceedings, somewhere further up the chain were people who checked these things. Otherwise, what would be the point?

He looked her in the eyes and said, ‘Well… they would. It just happens.’

‘Like magic, you mean? Alright, forget that. What if someone who works in the hospital signs it, someone who knows I need the equipment? They could requisition and I’ll approve.’

Trevor was unsure of the ethical standpoint, but was beginning to see a way out of his present dilemma. ‘That might work,’ he said quietly. Then, with more confidence, added, ‘Yeah, OK. I could accept that, I guess.’ He gave the paperwork back to her with a grin. Another satisfied customer. Put the kettle on, I’ll be having my cuppa in a minute. Why is she still here?

Julianne crossed out her own signature while Trevor watched, fascinated despite himself, like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. He almost leapt from his chair when she thrust the form at him again.

‘Sign there,’ she ordered, ‘where it says “Requisitioned by”.’

‘Me? I can’t sign it.’ He looked around furtively for security staff or hidden cameras. Was this some kind of test? ‘What are you trying to do?’