“No buts. I’m here for you. Tell me what you need.”
Mickey didn’t know what he needed. Just that the only way out of the hole he’d dug with Benito was to secure his mother’s account as quickly as possible. “I need the council to agree to a payment plan of three hundred pounds a month and to hold the arrears until the UC claim goes through.”
“That could take weeks.”
“I know.”
Isha let a pause draw out between them, but it was contemplative, not combative. “We can sponsor any missed rent payments while we wait for UC,” he said eventually. “It also sounds to me as if the mother could be entitled to a PIP allowance if her agoraphobia can be diagnosed.”
Personal Independence Payment.Damn. In his Benito-fuelled daze, Mickey had forgotten that. “I don’t know if she’s seen a GP. Not likely if she won’t leave the house.”
“Can you find out? Maybe a GP can visit her at home?”
Fresh anxiety blanketed Mickey. He nodded, then remembered Isha couldn’t see him. “I can talk to the son again. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Do you have his contact details? I can—”
“I have them. It’s okay. I’ll call him.”
“Sure? Because this case seems to be getting to you a bit. Is there anything else I should know?”
This was it—the window to break down and tell Isha everything. He was good and kind and understanding. He wasn’t the kind of boss who’d throw Mickey under the bus, but the harder Mickey tried to form the words, the more his throat closed up.
He took a breath. “It’s fine... it’s just hard to know I’m making the right decisions when I can’t get Mrs De Luca to talk to me.”
“But her daughter trusted you enough to track you down, and her son showed up and bailed her out. If you hadn’t persisted with her, none of that would’ve happened and her account would’ve gone back to the council months ago.”
“I know, but...” Mickey sighed. “I just feel like I should’ve known sooner that she had a mental health issue. This whole mess could’ve been avoided if we’d helped her claim UC earlier.”
“You can only know what tenants are prepared to share with you. We’re a charitable trust, but we’re not social workers. In fact, that’s another call we need to make if you’re worried about the daughter. How did she look to you?”
“Okay, actually,” Mickey said absently, mind half on the Universal Credit forms he’d passed Benito. “I think there’s a father out there somewhere who makes sporadic maintenance payments, and Benito—the son—gives them money too. I don’t know how much or how regularly. We didn’t get into it.”
“What’s he like? Does he work?”
“Uber driver.”
“Full-time?”
Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, talk to him again. See if he can help his mother get some assistance from her GP. If not, speaking to social servicesisan option—”
“No. I’m not doing that.”
Silence. Then it was Isha’s turn to sigh. “All right. I hear you. Talk to the son on Monday and get back to me when you can. In the meantime, I’ll hold the account while we wait for UC.But... all of this hinges on the repayment plan. The council won’t give us an inch if the arrears aren’t being repaid.”
“I think the son will pay the three hundred pounds a month if we can swing it.”
“They’re going to ask for more.”
“They can’t have more. She’s been out of work for months when she should’ve been claiming UC. If they won’t let it go, that’s on me.”
“Onus. Let me deal with the council. Something tells me you’ll get us in worse trouble if you speak to them right now.”
He was more right than he probably knew. Mickey said his goodbyes and ended the call. Then he collapsed on the couch again, spent but too wired to shut down.“Talk to the son on Monday...”
As if Mickey could wait that long.