A Peculiar Man
I mean: come on, man, let's take a reality check on this, shall we?
'Cos he was, you know, weird, like: he kept to himself, never went down the pub, or even left the house much.
Now you mention it, I can't think of the last time I saw him at all … but we can always come back to the facts, so to speak, 'cause they're not going to change, are they?
This is a quiet part of town. People come and go, they nod and say hello, but they don't usually go much beyond that. You might recognise your neighbour, but live here for years and still not know his or her name. Commuter-land at its best – or its worst, maybe.
I can remember seeing him, dead early of a morning, for a while when I was working a night shift: I'd see him from time to time getting a newspaper from the local newsagent just as he was opening up for the day, maybe five-thirty, six o'clock?
No, not since … I don't believe it … can it really be two years? I changed job, see: better pay, no shift work: I just stopped seeing him. Did anyone ask the newsagent? Oh, right! I didn't realise he sold up and retired. So the new guy had no reason to miss him …
Did he have any family? I've no idea, but I'd have thought they'd be the first to know if there was something wrong, if he hadn't been in touch for a while.
No, that's sad, though, isn't it? As they say: in life you choose your friends, but you can't choose your family. Have you found anyone? Or perhaps they didn't get on?
That's so sad … and they said what!? They refused to recognise the connection? So how can you be sure of the identity of the body? How can you identify anyone who's been lying dead for such a long time, when their only relatives refuse to cooperate?
How about the landlord? Ah: rent paid by Direct Debit. Utilities, gas, leckie … the same.
And, I suppose, with him not going out to draw spending money for other things, there was always going to be enough on the account for the Direct Debits to be paid. I suppose he was getting a pension of some sort? Mid-seventies, you say. Odd: I wouldn't have thought him that old – maybe he had a tough life, made him look older?
It must have been terrible when someone eventually went in … you know, even if it was no more than just the smell? No, I can't say I've ever gone into a room or a house that hasn't seen some comings and goings – I mean, coming back to a house or even a single room, or a flat, after a two week summer holiday: it doesn't even begin to compare …
but even that, I suppose, can smell a bit 'stale', if you know what I mean.
Well, I suppose you have to think of them as 'nature's binmen' – and that would explain why there were no complaints about an odd smell. In other words, what the maggots didn't, how to put it delicately, "dispose of" was either inorganic (like the clothes he wore) – or desiccated, literally mummified, and for that reason wouldn't become the source of an unpleasant smell …
There must have been documents, personal papers of some sort lying around? Yes, I realise they're no guarantee unless you can be sure. How much!? Two years' worth of post, and there was nothing personal??! That's incredible! Nobody wrote, in all that time? Not even on his birthday? Or a single Christmas card?
You'd have thought the bank where he was getting his money paid into an account would have noticed the lack of withdrawals … yes, I suppose you're right: the banks are so big nowadays they don't recognise people as individuals the way they used to. It's all so impersonal now, unless you draw attention to yourself by spending everything and running up bills, getting into debt, they really don't notice. They send out automatic statements every few months, and that's about as much contact as you can expect.
Some personal papers, then – no, a passport or even a driving licence would have made it too easy, I suppose! No police record, too young to have been conscripted for National Service – dental records? Oh, I realise that the convenience of a 'perfect match' such as you see on TV programmes doesn't always pan out in real life, but I thought they might help narrow the search?
Something with his National Insurance number on it! A letter from the DWP, the NHS or the Council? Not even amongst the junk mail piled behind the door? Well, he must have had one or more of these, at some time – other wise he couldn't have been treated any time he was ill. Okay, maybe he was in reasonable health, maybe he didn't 'need' a doctor, maybe he drifted a bit and never got around to registering with a local GP.
How about doors and windows? Were they all secure? Any signs of a break-in, or any violence The door was bolted: you're sure? And the windows, too … yes, okay, we already knew that nobody had reported a bad smell, so the windows had to be closed.
Pathetic, isn't it? We can put a man on the Moon, survive all sorts of extreme weather, even get through God alone knows how many wars and other disasters … and yet we still can't look after ourselves and those amongst us who need a bit of a helping hand.
It's enough to make you weep: but I tell you what, it reminds me of a Paul Simon song.
'And all the people said,
What a shame that he's dead,
But wasn't he a most peculiar man?'
(c) Paul McDermott 2008