The Apology Queue

by Timothy Collyer

The pale blue envelope arrived on a Sunday. Common Seal of the National Reconciliation Service—the new emblem, not the old. Neat window. My mother’s name: JUNE FAIRBROTHER. Postmark: NORTHERN RECONCILIATION HUB.

She set it on the table as if it might scuttle away.
“I knew it would come,” she said. “I didn’t know it would be this week.”

I slit it with the butter knife. Three lines:

Your perpetrator, COLIN FAIRBROTHER (Case 9813-44B), is now at position 1 in the Apology Queue. Your mandatory reconciliation session is scheduled for Thursday 10:00, Manchester Civic Centre. Attendance required under the Social Healing Act. Failure to attend constitutes Disruption of Social Healing.

“Next week,” Mum said. “After all this time.”

Twenty-three years. Steps climbed while half-asleep.

I turned the letter over. QR stamp: date, routing path, clerk ID. All familiar. My own work peering back at me through the paper.

“I’ll make tea,” I said.
“Tea won’t fix it.”
“No,” I said. “But it helps with hands.”

I work in the Queue. Administration Officer, Grade EO, National Reconciliation Service, North West Region. If anyone asks, I say “Civil Service. Data.” Everyone knows the Queue the way they know the M6: hate it, still use it.

“You’ll be there with me?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“That’s not what the letter says.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, and meant it.

We didn’t say his name.

---

Monday. Level 7. The old insurance block by the canal now wore banners: TOGETHER WE HEAL; HEALING IS A TEAM SPORT. Reception offered “Be Kind” wristbands. Gates, disinfectant, and the Calm—birds and waves some consultancy sold us. People still cry in the lift.

I logged in. Blue home screen, Service seal, dashboard populating: green ticks for compliance, amber for queries, red for halts. This place runs on traffic lights.

“Morning, Ellie,” said Rose, two pods over, her coffee still steaming.

“Up early.” I opened Case 9813-44B.

Colin Fairbrother. 1963. Handyman. Domestic assault, coercive control, child harm (non-sexual). Reported 2002. Suspended sentence, anger management, community service. Reconciliation path 2010. Queue since 2011. Stalled, slipped, moved when the Promotion Scheme began: offenders who performed good apologies could become Peer Reconciliation Counsellors. Badge, stipend, “stake and responsibility.” Brochure line: SAY IT RIGHT. HELP OTHERS HEAL.

He’d applied two months ago. Provisionally passed.

Uploads: certificates, reflective essays, assessments full of “I understand that my behaviour…” and never naming the thing. Calendar: THU 10:00.

In five years I’ve quietly erased twelve perpetrators. Not gone—nothing goes—but nudged into loops, flagged for wording, mis-scanned into nowhere. You learn a machine’s soft parts by touch. Strangers only.

I hadn’t touched my father’s file. That would be stupid. Stupidity gets you labelled DISRUPTIVE, a step before HOMELESS.

But there was a blue envelope on our table.

Compliance Manual. Clause 4.3: Valid Apology is (a) direct, (b) unqualified, (c) specific, (d) absent mitigation, (e) paired with reparation agreed by the harmed party. (b) is the one abusers hate. No ifs, no buts, no “we were under pressure,” no “you made me angry.” The rule protects—when the system lets it.

I added a note: QUERY (b): conditionality in preparatory language. Linked this sentence from his training essay:

“I’m ready to apologise for the ways my household felt my frustration.”

“Felt.” “Frustration.” Airy words.

An alert slid in:

Kindly has observations regarding your recent actions.
Pattern detected: twelve cases diverted by AO FAIRBROTHER. Provide account.

I typed:

Reason: 4.3(b) breaches; risk of coerced forgiveness; missing conflict checks per 9.2. Evidence attached where possible.

Complete reason codes within 24 hours, Kindly chimed.

Rose peered over the divider. “You alright?”
“Grand.”
“You look like you’ve swallowed a regulator.”

I closed the file.

---

Tuesday evening the envelope sat between us. Telly murmuring. Mum’s knitting on the same row.

“There’ll be a minder,” I said. “Support Facilitator. I’ll be your named person. We’ll request direct wording. If he tries anything, we stop.”

“I know the script,” she said, smiling. “I used to believe in it.”

“You still can.”

“No,” she said. “But I can use it.”

She didn’t say: twenty-three years waiting for someone to name what happened in our kitchen. She stayed after he left because the house was cheap and the neighbours remembered. She learned forms, pathways, phone trees. We are good at paperwork in this country. It is our weather.

“Do you want him to be sorry?” I asked.
“I want him to have to be,” she said. “That’s not the same.”

“I know what you do at work,” she added, eyes on the wool.
“What do you think I do?”
“You move people around. You don’t fold socks like that unless you tidy the world.”

“Is that an accusation?”

“No, love,” she said. “It’s a hope.”

“I can’t make it disappear.”
“I don’t want it to.”
“What do you want?”
“A way out that doesn’t ask me to lie.”

---

Wednesday. Mr Harris, ex-Probation, the look of a man who tries to help.

“You could have told me,” he said after the case number loaded. “I’d have moved it out of region.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“You can’t work it. I’ll reassign to Midlands. They owe me.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Keep it local. Manchester Civic is stricter on 4.3(b). And they don’t let ex-soldiers run the room.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Messy. Recuse.”

“I can’t recuse from my own life. Follow the book.”

“Kindly’s filed an observation,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I can’t shield you if it goes formal.”
“I’m not asking you to. Just don’t move the case.”

He sighed. “Fine. But don’t touch it.”
“I won’t,” I said, letting the word work hard.

Back at my desk I requested his Statement of Acknowledgement. Two pages of neat fog:

“I apologise for the pain my actions caused during a difficult period. I was not my best self. I take responsibility for the atmosphere in our home which did not always feel safe.”

During a difficult period. Not my best self. Atmosphere. Feel.

My annotation:

Validity query: Conditionality and mitigation. Name harms; remove context per 4.3(b). Explicit acknowledgement of coercive control and assaults (dates). Replace “not my best self” with “I chose”. Commit to reparation without conditions.

Then the line that matters if you know the plumbing:

Note: Candidate has applied for Peer Reconciliation Counsellor training. Per 9.2, trainees’ apologies are under ENHANCED scrutiny and cannot use template language. Template use invalidates apology.

9.2 arrived after a counsellor apologised on Tuesday and taught the same template on Wednesday. Minister panic, clause added. My favourite law.

Submit. The file jumped to ENHANCED: a path that forces direct speech. Fail to name it, fail the apology. Fail the apology, no forced forgiveness.

Kindly chimed:

You annotated Case 9813-44B. You are a related party. Recusal required.

No ENHANCED officer available in time. Annotation limited to rule citation.

Kindly checked the rota.

Recusal denied for operational reasons. Observation noted.

It sees me. So be it.

---

Thursday. Manchester Civic smelt of paint and hand gel. The Support Facilitator introduced herself as Helen. She slid the tissue box to a side table—off the reflex path. A minder sat by the door. On the wall a small light—Green = Valid, Amber = Query, Red = Halt—linked to a tablet in Helen’s lap. Kindly in the room, the temperate eye.

He arrived late. Older. Thinning hair. The jaw I recognised. Eyes that still checked the door. Smart jacket. Court tie. He sat and tugged his collar once—the old start-of-a-lie tic.

“Thank you for coming,” Helen said. “Mr Fairbrother, please read your Statement. We’ll allow responses after.”

He unfolded his paper. Red stamps marched the margins. He saw the stamp on the paper. Then he saw me. He traced the ink with a finger, then tried the smile that used to work on the vicar.

“I think we can agree the atmosphere was heavy,” he said lightly, angling for collusion. “It was a difficult period and—”

Amber. Query, not valid.

Helen raised a hand. “Clause 4.3(b). No mitigation. Remove context. Name the harm.”

He glanced at me. Not a glance—recognition. Ambition clocked the hand that tripped it.

“I want to make things right,” he said pleasantly. “I passed the modules. We all know tempers—”

“You may not rely on template language,” Helen said. “Per 9.2.”

He swallowed. Amber held.

He tried again. “I apologise for making our home an atmosphere—”

“Stop,” Helen said. “Name the acts.”

He tugged the collar. “I regret—”

“Regret isn’t an act,” Helen said. “Name what you did.”

He stared at the page as if it might whisper a hint. His voice shifted into the neighbour-voice he used at barbecues.

“Mistakes were made,” he offered.

Amber, patient, unblinking.

Mum’s hands were folded, knuckles white. I kept my counter face on—calm, absorbing, yes.

“Name the acts,” Helen repeated.

He tried the words that weren’t the words. He said “pressure” when the word was “chose.” He said “stress” when the word was “hit.” When Helen asked for a date, he said “summer.” When she asked for an act, he said “raised my voice.” The tablet stayed unsatisfied. The wall light did not turn green.

“Mr Fairbrother,” Helen said at last, “per 9.2, trainees are prohibited from template reliance. You have not named the acts. Your apology is invalid under 4.3(b). We cannot proceed.”

He looked at me properly then. Saw the annotator’s initials: AO FAIRBROTHER. Not shock—annoyance that the trick had failed.

Mum lifted a hand. “May I speak?”

“In a moment,” Helen said. “For validity we must—”

“It won’t be valid,” Mum said, and the dry pleasure in her voice could have sliced paper. “He can’t name it. That’s alright. We’ve named it enough for both of us.”

I breathed. Once. Twice. The counter face didn’t move.

Helen tapped the tablet. The wall light went Red with a soft click.

“Ms Fairbrother,” she said, “your obligation to forgive has not been triggered. Support is available if you wish.”

“I have support,” Mum said, standing. “Thank you.”

We stepped into the corridor. The Calm did its sea and birds. WE REPAIR TOGETHER on the wall. At the stairwell: DISRUPTION OF SOCIAL HEALING IS A CRIME, QR code beneath. I wanted to draw a moustache on it. I didn’t.

Outside: wet sky, buses, bakery queue. Mum lit a cigarette she keeps for “when the state is involved.” One drag, out again, satisfied.

“You fixed it,” she said.
“I didn’t,” I said. “He unfixed himself.”

She smiled with her mouth. “You’re good at paperwork.”
“It’s our national sport.”

---

Friday. Compliance emailed: Notice of System Interference Under Investigation. Screens greyed out. Case review scheduled.

Mr Harris checked the corridor twice before he sat—small, frightened ritual.
“They’ll want a statement,” he said. “Say you were over-cautious. Say the personal connection muddled you.”
“And then?”
“Probation, maybe a transfer.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Dismissal. Blacklist. If they’re cruel, Disruptor.”

“I won’t sign a lie,” I said.
“Don’t be noble for the building,” he said. “It won’t love you back.”
“It’s not for the building.”

He slid a paper over. A tea rota on the face of it. If you looked twice: first names with numbers. He kept his eyes on his mug.

“You didn’t get this here,” he said.

“Thank you.”
“Don’t. I like my job and I’d like to keep it. Also, I have a daughter.”
“I know,” I said. “You talk about her constantly.”

He almost smiled.

At my desk I opened a new document:

HOW TO FAIL AN APOLOGY (A CIVILIAN’S GUIDE)

• If he says “regret”, ask for “apologise.”

• If he says “atmosphere”, ask for “actions.”

• If he says “pressure”, ask for “choice.”

• Clause 4.3(b): no ifs, no buts.

• Clause 9.2: trainees can’t use templates.

• You do not have to make room for his comfort.

I printed fifty on the office machine because it was closest and loud. Pale blue sleeves for the top ones. Sunday’s pale blue envelope slid inside the first sleeve as a spine. The stack went under my coat.

Kindly chimed:

Case review: Thursday 09:30. Please attend. Failure to attend constitutes Disruption of Social Healing.

I closed the alert.

At lunch I walked the long way, distributing as I went. Internal post room: trays by hub. Three guides face-down where circulars pile up. One into “Public Enquiries—Outgoing,” to ride the bag to counters. One into “Training—Facilitator Packs,” under a laminated checklist. Two into waiting-room leaflets between “Debt Advice” and “Mindfulness for Staff.” One behind the “Be Kind” wristbands at Reception. One tucked inside a tea rota and slid under Mr Harris’s door. Another on the 192 bus, window seat, pale blue winking.

Back at my desk I opened twelve old cases and did what I should have done months ago: clean reason codes, concrete lines, dates, names. I wrote as if someone honest would one day read them aloud.

At five I took my coat, my mug, the little plant, and went home. Mum was watching a quiz and shouting answers. Steak in the fridge. Lemon candles made the kitchen smell like new paper.

“We’re celebrating,” she said. “A door that stayed shut when someone tried to push me through.”

We ate. We talked about nothing. After, she wiped her plate with bread.

“What now?” she asked.

“I’ll probably get sacked.”
“Yes,” she said. “And?”
“And I’ll keep doing what I can until they take the badge off me. After that, I’ll do what I can without a badge.”

“Good,” she said. “Tell me if you want me to knit you a disguise.”

We watched the end of the quiz. The winner got a holiday. Mum said beaches were too sandy and asked for a cottage and a kettle. I did the washing-up and dried the knives carefully.

Before bed I set the stack of guides on the hall table beside the post. The top copy had the blue sleeve and the old envelope for a spine. It looked like nothing—something you’d pick up, fold twice, and forget until it turned up in your coat pocket.

My phone buzzed.

Kindly: Remember—Healing is a collective process.

“Alright,” I said to the empty hallway. “Let’s make it collective.”

I put on my coat and went out with the first five copies.

Fifty paper cuts.