Sometimes things go to plan. After all the worry about what might go wrong and how to cope with what would happen to her if they did, Sarah had just walked through the door and started a new life. All that planning and all that worrying, and yet it had been as easy as walking through a door. Maybe without all of the planning and worrying she might have not felt capable of walking through that door. She didn’t know.

Sarah was not what you might call an attractive girl. She had been overweight for much of her life, not through any glandular disorder or other hocus pocus medically diagnosed malarkey. Sarah simply ate rubbish. She loved takeaway food. The unhealthier the better. Of course, this made you fat. It made your skin greasy. It gave you spots, chins, sweat patches and embarrassing smells. In short, the food wasn’t making her life any easier, yet she always felt better when she ate it, and couldn’t countenance eating anything else.

On the other side of the door, though, Sarah knew that everything she’d done in the past wasn’t going to matter anymore. She was on her first date – with a man. This man had, apparently, loved her for years, and she hadn’t realised. He had plucked up the courage to ask her out, and she had plucked up the courage to say yes. Now she was at a sea life centre, looking round the foyer for the figure that represented the start of something new.

She spotted him and he waved. In the distance, some children, celebrating a birthday party in the café, cheered.

It was the first time he’d ever picked up a screwdriver. He’d seen his dad using one all those years ago and it seemed really straightforward. You put the end into the screw and then you do some turning and then the thing which is broken becomes fixed. It was as simple as that. Of course his dad was the expert, but his dad wasn’t around anymore.

When you’ve seen something done so many times before, you feel like you know how it would feel if you did it yourself. When you’ve seen so many things fixed in the same way, you feel like anything could be fixed if you just apply the same technique. One two three, turn, twist, fixed. He was excited about making the problem go away and he was convinced that he could make the screwdriver work for him, once he’d got used to the feel of it. It felt strangely alien in his hand, not quite like he’d imagine at all.

His mother was going to be so pleased when he’d finished. She had missed his father, and his discovery of this old screwdriver, just when she needed something fixing was going to make it all better.

Slowly and carefully, he inserted the tip into the power socket.

You never know how it’s going to feel until it actually happens to you. It’s amazing what goes through your head too. Nobody can prepare you for someone slicing your ear off with a scalpel – it’s way off the syllabus at school, it’s just weird. I think that the thing which both amused me and freaked me out was the fleeting thought of “Ah, it’s just a bit of cartilage, I probably don’t need it”. How optimistic is that!? In the end, though, I did lose the hearing at that side – a combination of the damage inflicted by the knife and the weeks before I got proper medical attention.

Nobody knows why Van Gogh really cut his own ear off, but they assumed that they knew what motivated “The Van Gogh” killer. They believed the newspapers. They believed that he was a sick man who was lashing out against the world. They believed that he was a violent psychopath with blood lust. In short, they didn’t know him like I did. It’s because of how well that I got to know him that he let me survive.

He only did what he did because he was an artist. That was his way of expressing himself. He wasn’t a harsh, shallow man. He saw ugliness in many of those that people now call his victims, but that was because they were ugly people. It didn’t make him the ugly man. He was the artist, and those people were turned into his art. Things between us were different, though. When he’d done me, we talked about it. He realised that I hadn’t been changed by the removal of my ear. I’d been beautiful to him all along. I came to realise that it was about love all along.

I proved to be his weakness. Rather than let me bleed and starve to death, he came down and spent time with me. He gave me something for the pain. We talked. Because I made him stay in the same place for too long, they found him and it was because of his love for me that I survived and he was taken away.

If they ever let him out of jail, we will get married.

It had started out well enough. All the boys had woken up when he went around the camp ringing the morning bell. Some of the lads were already up, despite the fact that he’d heard a few semi-hushed voices and giggles at nearly midnight the night before. He would have stepped in if they had gotten too loud, not because he minded their youthful exuberance – far from it, he enjoyed the unbridled joy they could have for nothing – it was just to ensure that they felt that there were boundaries. Children respect boundaries and it’s the role of the leader to demonstrate the boundaries from time to time. They’d played close to the line last night and this morning, they were happy and complicit.

After breakfast, and after the pots had been washed up, they had set about on the day’s hike. It was around this point that the combination of poor weather, youthful exuberance, and his aching bones had conspired to bring the day crashing down into ruins. He knew that you should lead from the front, but he’d discovered that the lads would get distracted and hang behind, or wander off the path. He told them to walk ahead of him. He would call directions from the back to keep them all on track. It was a good plan. He could keep them in line and get them to wait for him if he was falling behind.

It was as he was congratulating himself on a clever scheme and gloating a little at his colleagues, who had scoffed at this ability to look after 6 boys on a trip alone at his age, that he felt the first pain. As he clutched at his chest, he trod clumsily on a patch of freshly-made mud with his walking boot, and fell almost gracefully to the ground. The wind was knocked out of him, both from the fall and from the turmoil that was going on inside of his aging body.

As his vision blurred, he could see the boys continuing on ahead, oblivious to the faint gasp that came out when he tried to call to them. He’d have to hope that one of them would be bright enough to check on him, and that they would be resourceful enough to work out what to do. There wasn’t a scouting badge specific to this particular activity.

He swaggered into the bar, looking her where he thought she’d be. The place was empty. He bought himself a drink and sat waiting for her. This was the night he’d planned and some girl turning up a few minutes late wasn’t going to stop him. He looked around the room – it was dingy and stained, the product of the days when smoking was allowed indoors and people did it with gusto. This wasn’t the sort of place you might expect to meet the person you were going to spend the rest of your life with, but this was where she came most often, and he reckoned that the faded décor would make him seem better looking in comparison.

The ban on smoking was hell on the committed smoker and, after he’d completed his second drink, he went outside to partake of his drug of choice. Typically, after he’d taken his first proper drag, the dark clouds, that had been looming, threateningly, since he set out from home, with nothing but a shirt and a healthy splash of aftershave for protection, reached the point of no return and let go of their payload, like an apologetic puppy might soil a carpet. As he took another deep drag, hoping to get a final quick hit before going back inside, a gust of wind blew a shirt-full of water at him and he stepped back in shock, the hand holding the cigarette flailing and hitting something. Someone. The girl. She didn’t know yet who he was, and he had rather been hoping to make a positive first impression on her. Burning the forearm of the girl you’ve been watching for weeks was not high up in his list of “things I aspire to, socially”.

He apologised profusely and she just shrugged it off. He offered her a drink in recompense, but she shrugged that off too. She just wanted to get away from the rain and the damp forearm burner. As he returned to his bar stool and she took up her position at the usual table, he noticed himself in the mirror. In his plan, his first offer of a drink to “that girl” would have come from a confident and smart guy, standing proudly before her. All he could see was a bedraggled, hunched-shouldered embarrassed idiot. What upset him most was that he wasn’t entirely sure that he had ever looked any different.

He loved sweet things. His mother used to say that he had a sweet disposition. As a baby, he would smile at people and gurgle, rather than cry, even if he was in pain. He took longer than most to grow out of teddy bears, and he loved sweets. He was his mother’s sweetie, though that was a long time ago.

Even now, as a grown man, a bearded hulk of a man, the wrong side of 35, he still felt a flutter in his heart at the thought of wolfing down something sweet. Approximately once a week, no more than that, he would go to the little supermarket in town and buy six of their mini jam tarts. He bought their own brand, so it was very cheap. He would also buy a little bottle of their cheapest cola. For just under one pound he would be the proud owner of a sugar high in waiting.

Sitting on the same bench in the park, watching the people go by, he would carefully open the tarts, and one by one, usually taking each one in his mouth whole, he would chew them into a sugary mulch which he’d swallow, washing it down primly with a dash of his scarce supply of cola. It was a guilty pleasure, but he’d spent the week looking forward to it, so he couldn’t deny it himself.

With the sweetness of the jam tarts still on his taste buds, and the generally good-nature he’d been blessed with, he found it easy to forgive the little girl who pointed to him and then asked her mother why the nasty tramp had crumbs in his beard.

It started innocently enough. He’d been bored at work and went looking through one of those online services that lets you hook up with people you lost touch with. These services pride themselves on how easy they make it to communicate with someone you used to know but, in their efforts to promote their own services, they don’t question whether there was a reason you lost touch in the first place. No online service is going to provide you counselling for the aftermath of getting in touch with, say, an ex-girlfriend.

“Hey there. You’re looking good. Hope you’re feeling good. It’s been a long time. x” That was all it took to re-establish contact with the first girl who broke his heart. It turned out that she wasn’t feeling so good, having just divorced the man who broke her heart, and the occasional rib. It didn’t surprise him. A spirit like hers would only be satisfied in a relationship where she either dominated some poor fool, or was so overruled and brow-beaten in everything that she could brew her dissatisfaction to a potent concentration – essence of pure hatred. In fact, he couldn’t remember why he ever went out with her.

We all want to receive gifts. They’re too tempting to pass up, whatever they are. So, when she promised him a little present, he willingly gave her his address. He later mused on how naïve he’d been to be surprised when she turned up at his door a week later, mascara running down her face (with suspiciously dry eyes), a sob story three hours long and a suitcase in tow.

Finally, someone was clapping. It had felt like the room was staring at him icily for the last hour. It’s hard to get your point across when everyone’s just looking at you without any affection. He wasn’t certain that he’d bored them to the point that their eyes had glazed over and they’d stopped caring. In fact, he was fairly certain that this crowd did care, just not about him. At a few points he’d even lost his nerve a little, as he felt like every word wasn’t so much falling on deaf ears as fizzling out on the fire of their hatred.

You have to keep going. You have to bolster your confidence and try to win the hearts and minds. That’s the job and that’s the challenge. Sure, some audiences can be slow to crack. That’s where the satisfaction comes from. Some audiences, on the other hand, are won over from the start. Preaching to the converted is easy. With these audiences, you don’t work for it; you simply reach out and let them do the work. Then all you have to do is ride the waves of appreciation until your time is up. The easy crowds give you the confidence to tackle the harder ones.

After sweating hard for his allotted time, and trying every trick in his insidious little book, he’d finally heard the first clap. The building tension in the room had been palpable and now there was a change in the atmosphere. Perhaps this was the point where the audience would rise to their feet in spontaneous appreciation of everything he’d been trying to say. Perhaps this single clap would spark a wave of sudden understanding. Perhaps they would turn to his viewpoint in this instant.

The clap was followed by a pause. Then another clap. Then a pause. Then another clap again. This wasn’t an ovation. This was the slow-clap. He’d never had the slow-clap before. As the rest of the audience solemnly joined in, he pondered which was the quickest route off the stage and out of the building.

They were sitting side by side. They had been there for nearly an hour, the rain sluicing over the windows, putting the rest of the world into soft focus. There was no chance of leaving this place in the next hour; the rain would not let up and they were trapped in. As they were in separate cars in this particular traffic jam, they’d not yet managed to strike up a conversation.

It’s hard to determine if you’ve made eye contact with someone when the glass of your car window is covered in running water, which distorts and disguises what’s beyond. Neither of them was sure that the other was really glancing their way. Nothing in the book of dating etiquette seems to describe what to do when you may or may not be subject to a case of mutual admiration between vehicles in a traffic jam.

Eventually, out of sheer bloody-mindedness, Simon waved. At first he thought he’d misread the situation, that the girl he’d been smiling at and sneaking glances at for the last hour wouldn’t respond. Then, with a giggle, Lucy waved back. As soon as the tension was broken, they couldn’t act quickly enough. Simon opened the window of his car, allowing the rain to have its way and slowly, but effectively, drench the right hand side of his body. He motioned for Lucy to do the same. Lucy had other ideas. In the slight mist that had formed on her passenger-side window, she wrote her mobile phone number, backwards.

As they checked into the Travelodge, a couple of hours and a very long chat later, asking for separate rooms, Simon couldn’t help but marvel on how unlikely a meeting theirs had been, and how amazing it was to meet a woman so practical and so able to write neatly in reverse. Lucy, on the other hand, was wondering whether it would be possible to use the pretext of Simon’s soaked shirt as a way of getting it off him, and soon.

He’s not like that, you know. Some men, they just use you up and knock you down. Not my Davey. He’s a lovely man. He’s a strong man. He’s always seen me right. It’s not his fault if his work sometimes winds him up. He works hard for what little we have, and he needs to let off steam.

I don’t mind him going to the boozer a few nights a week. All his mates go and a man needs to be with his mates. Right? Anyway, if he didn’t go to the boozer, then he’d be around the house and I know how confining that can be for someone. No. I like it that he goes out, even if he does come home a bit worse for wear if you know what I mean. That’s Davey though. He’s a big man and he does things big.

The thing you don’t understand, though, is that he’s really gentle inside. He’s a big bear. He doesn’t know his own strength, that’s all. He sometimes gets frustrated and he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. It’s not his fault. I reckon if there’s anyone who should know how to handle him, it’s me, but I don’t always do the best of jobs. I wind him up, sometimes, you see. It’s being at home all day long, it gets me a bit lippy, and then I wind him up.

Some nights I think he won’t come back from the pub. I get frightened. After all, he must see this house, this life, as the thing I’ve locked him into providing for. But he comes back every time, and I don’t always handle him right. I sometimes have a go. I’m just relieved that he’s back, but I can’t tell him that, so I have a go. And sometimes, when he hits me, I know it’s the only way to stop the argument that I’ve started, and I’m sorry.

He looks after me, though. Don’t you see? If it wasn’t for him I’d have nothing. So it’s not his fault. He just doesn’t know his own strength. It’s not his fault.

If you’d asked him whether it was legal to use his phone while driving, he would have told you not to be so stupid. If you’d asked him whether he was a careful driver, he would have bristled, puffed up his chest, and explained why the speed limit was a limit, not a target, and how many times he had been provoked to despair over the foolishness of other road users. He remembered his grandfather, who taught him to drive all those years ago, telling him that the car was, first and foremost, a lethal machine that needed to be tamed. Accidents, however, do happen.

With hindsight, he could see how easily everything might have been averted. He shouldn’t have had the extra cup of coffee before leaving the office; his pulse was already racing from the dressing down he’d just been given, and he’d already had more than his usual quota of caffeine for the day. Thursdays were always tough, but this one came with extra pressure. He was due to meet his ex-wife at the theatre to “celebrate” their anniversary. She was as demanding in divorce as in marriage and would not appreciate being left waiting at the theatre entrance, especially since he had the tickets. He knew that he was at his best if he had a quick comfort break before leaving the office, and maybe a pre-drive wander around the car to do his safety checks. Tyres? – they were always there, hub-caps? – who needs alloys?, oil? – probably. It was his little ritual. His car was his friend and partner now. It never nagged him and it never demanded anything except a little petrol and a visit to the garage now and then. How he wished he’d taken the 5 minutes he usually spent getting into his driving mood after the stresses of a difficult day. He didn’t like driving angry.

He hit the roads hard. He hit the child hard. He knew it was his fault, he should not have taken that phone call from the ex, demanding to know whether he was going to be late again. It took all his concentration not to shout at her, and that split second was all it took to change his life forever, along with the lives of two decent parents and a host of other people who loved the boy on the zebra crossing.

Stress can give you tunnel vision. You don’t have the time to step back, assess and face up to what’s in front of you. The fight or flight instinct takes over. At the time, all he could think of was not getting into trouble. He had to get to the theatre on time, or face an angry ex. He couldn’t let a simple mistake, that was not even his fault, escalate into more grief. How could he have messed up? He was the best driver he knew.

His family only discovered what he’d done when his arrest was printed in the local papers. If his life had a rear-view mirror, he didn’t want to look in it at the moment.

She was shopping again. It might have been because they’d run out of instant coffee, even though she preferred fresh, or it might have been some primal hunter-gatherer instinct, she didn’t really know these days. With the kids old enough to look after themselves if she dropped out to the supermarket, and with her husband always occupied with some scheme or other, she had come to see her shopping trips as her special time for herself.

Everything in the display was neat and free from dust. It was like the whole of the world of the supermarket was a three dimensional catalogue of everything you could possibly want. Unlike a catalogue, though, you didn’t just admire the goods from afar, modelled by some strangers. You could reach out and touch anything. It was all here. Just put it in your basket or trolley, take it to the till, and after entering a few digits on the credit card machine, it could be yours right away. She always found something she wanted to take away with her.

Rounding the corner of aisle seven, she noticed that the special offer shelf was in a state of disarray. Checking over her shoulder to see that she wasn’t observed, she hurriedly set about putting it right. It wouldn’t do to leave it like that. The shelves of neatly stacked goods were the ideal, the ordered world she escaped to when everything at home was chaotic and stressful.

Getting back to the car, she found that she’d bought a number of things that she no longer wanted. She had a feeling that she was missing a few things she really needed. She’d be back again tomorrow to see if they were sitting neatly on a shelf somewhere.

They’d told him that they liked him. They’d said that he was one of their people. They encouraged him to talk about himself and to share his problems. When he’d said what was really bothering him, they’d said that they understood. Somebody had understood him. He hadn’t thought it possible, yet from the first moment he went to one of their meetings, everything started to fall into place.

It’s not easy for the perennial individual to suddenly become part of the group. He was suspicious at first that he’d somehow have to compromise himself. He was worried that they’d stand in judgement of him and require him to change in some way. When he realised that they took him for what he was and seem pleased to know him, he knew that he’d go to the ends of the earth to preserve this new important force in his life.

When, eventually, they demanded their quid pro quo, he wasn’t surprised that it would take some doing. It might even be the last thing he did, but as he climbed the telegraph pole, the tools bashing against his leg, he knew that he was at last doing something he believed in.

It was supposed to be today. He’d left the letter under her door three days ago, and he was certain she’d have read it by now. He thought she would have appreciated the self-deprecating manner in which he’d expressed his interest. He thought she might have melted when he told her how beautiful he thought she was. He even thought she might have understood how much effort it took for him to sneak out of the house at night, drive 40 miles to her University Halls, get himself let in, and slip the envelope under the very room in which she was sleeping.

She didn’t call the next day, but he wasn’t expecting her to. He had it all planned. First she’d spent a day reading the letter and trying to take in the enormity of his feelings. Then, she’d probably spend a day talking to all of her friends, maybe nervous of how to get in touch, even though he’d made it clear that all she had to do was ring his parents’ house during the afternoon when they were both at work. He knew there was a call box at the end of her corridor – he’d tested it on the way out of the halls. It was going to be easy to get in touch. But he knew she’d be nervous. Who wouldn’t be. This was a major decision.

Then he reckoned that, after her friends had told her how lovely he seemed, from the six hundred and twenty eight words he’d written to her (he’d counted them just to find out how much he’d had to say compared to, say the essay he was due to submit in school the following week that was still struggling at the three hundred mark), she’d spend a day composing her own thoughts.

So, three days had passed. The phone still hadn’t rung yet. But he could feel that it was about to.

As the silence of the empty house seemed to grow louder, as though the air pressure was getting higher and higher and squeezing his head to heighten his senses, the phone rang, the mechanical bell mechanism drawing him back down to earth with the sudden reality that contact had been made. There was someone there.

Gingerly, he picked up the receiver. Total silence. Who was on the other end? Nobody spoke. Then he heard the sound of an entire room full of girls letting loose their stifled giggles. He could hear a voice among the crowd, but whatever it was saying was lost in the ringing of his ears. As their laughter reached its crescendo, he replaced the handset. The roaring of their scorn stayed with him until that summer. He could joke about it, but it was never truly funny.

Panic.

Standing there waiting for his turn. Everyone would be watching. They always did when it was your first time.

He tried to remember the instructions he’d been given. They’d seemed to make sense at the time, but then he hadn’t really understood them. He’d just taken in the words and hoped that they’d form some sort of meaning when he got to the foot of the ladder. Now, they all seemed incredibly vague. Something about going up there, stepping forwards, getting your balance and, what? Jump? Lean into it?

Behind him, a line of kids, all in swimming costumes, some with arms folded to keep out the slight chill in the air. The pool was heated, and it shouldn’t be in the least bit cold in here, but either there was a draft, or it was an illusory chill, born of fear of the high dive.

Ahead, the next boy climbed the ladder. Everyone watched his ascent, which took a good 20 seconds. Reaching the top, he glided to the diving board and flew off it like a bird of prey seeking its prize.

This wasn’t going to be easy. Fear was making him shake, and he felt like everyone else knew how to master the high dive, except him. Just him.

The whistle blew. It was his turn.

He didn’t remember exactly when things had changed. At some point, all his doubts about his self-worth had been put aside and all of his worries about whether he’d die alone had stopped. It seemed almost like someone had flicked a switch and life had suddenly become the way he’d wished. He didn’t remember the moment of transformation, but he knew who to thank for it. He knew why he was walking home, feeling lighter, taller and more free than he ever remembered being. He knew why he was looking up at the tops of the buildings, rather than down at his feet.

The person to either blame or thank for this euphoria was Katie. She had fixed him. She saw in him what he wanted someone to see in him. The fact that a living breathing human being could do that, the very idea that he didn’t have to rely on his own hopes alone, was almost too much for his mind to take. The sense of happiness felt physical.

He stepped across the street, feeling like he was superman, taking it in a single bound. The cars that went past seemed to somehow melt around him. The drivers, in their stuffy little boxes, were oblivious of his joy and he was only vaguely aware of them.

It had been a good first date.

The phone rang. She turned it off, rather than answer it. They’d make her turn it off in a minute anyway. A moment later, a box appeared on her screen. “You there?” it read. It sat there, provocatively, next to the Outlook reminder box showing “Wedding anniversary, do something”.

She’d done something. This was why she was in the airport. She’d called in sick from work and said she’d try to get those reports done from home. Then she’d thrown a couple of days’ worth of clothes into her laptop bag and jumped on the airport express train. Modern technology being what it is, she’d managed to book herself a discounted last minute ticket from the train and pretend to be working at the same time. Her work colleagues would probably take until Monday to realise that she wasn’t coming back.

Her husband on the other hand, had a habit of checking up on her. It wasn’t concern, it was control. He couldn’t even give her the full question. “You there?” – it was like a caveman just mastering basic speech. “Where woman? She no working. She no home. You there?”.

She didn’t want a relationship with a Neanderthal anymore. She didn’t remember why she ever wanted a relationship with him. Escape was imminent, though. Cavemen don’t fly.

They called her flight and she turned off the laptop. It would be useful when she got to the other side.

The car raced around the corner, its occupants cheering. Behind them, a cyclist skidded to a halt, dismounted and threw his bike to the ground. A moment later, he was on his knees, head tilted back, arms raised as though in triumph, with a face that told the opposite story.

“The little bastards,” he cried to noone in particular. “The little, sodding, bastards.”

As the tail lights of the car became ever smaller, the road was lit by nothing other than the wimpish bicycle lights, muted by the grass they were nestling in. The cyclist’s rage turned to self-pity and he slumped back on his heels. The front wheel of his bicycle had been turning since the time when it left the road and was coming to a standstill, the result of poorly oiled bearings on a bike he couldn’t afford to maintain properly.

People were so cruel to him. This wasn’t the random behaviour of random people. In this village, everyone knew who he was. That made it all the more personal. That made it hurt all the more.

Reaching down, he turned off the bike lights. He couldn’t afford new batteries very often and he wasn’t going to be going any further tonight.

She had been the talk of the office since she started. With her pleasant smile and carefree wiggle, she walked like she was dancing and nobody was watching. They were watching. Every man’s eye was drawn to her almost by instinct. It was nobody’s fault. She didn’t dress provocatively, and my colleagues weren’t staring at her lustfully on purpose. It was just nature. A youthful, pretty woman like that can’t help but be attractive to men. When they watched her they felt good.

I tried to stop myself from constantly looking in her direction. I didn’t want to be another one of those guys, distracted and captivated, but basically a hopelessly infatuated fool. I tried, but I failed. The irresistible force met a fairly moveable object in me, and I was moved. It was starting to make me feel like my entire day was just one futile admiration after another, until I noticed her looking back at me. Eye contact. She seemed nearly as interested in me as I could imagine any girl being interested in someone like me, and I was amazed. She could do so much better.

She continued to look my way, smiling occasionally, confident, but not brash. After a few days, our paths crossed near the kettle. There was a moment of heat, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the steam. We had a chat and it turned out we were both due to go to the same gig, alone. She seemed so centred, but maybe she was lonely too. I suggested we get a drink beforehand.

The “date” is tomorrow. I’m excited. Though I guess it would be a bad thing if it went too well. I wouldn’t be one of the staring guys anymore. I’d be the guy jealously looking round at all his colleagues staring at his girlfriend.

“You go around the back, wait for me to get in and then do it.”
“Why do I have to go round, Dad?”
“Because you get spooked when they talk to you. Remember last time?”
“I don’t want to do this. It’s too hard.”
“We don’t have a choice. Now get round the back. Now. Go. Look, son, there’s no other way.”
“How will I know you’re in?”
“You’ll know. Scram.”

The older man waits a minute and then, straightening his jacket, approaches the front door of the ex-council house. He notices the front garden hasn’t been looked after properly - it’s often the case. As people get older, so they find it hard to make the effort of doing normal things, like getting dressed, brushing what remains of their teeth, and even making a cup of tea. Tending a garden is off the scale. Being old scares him, especially since he knows how easy it is to be taken advantage of at that time of life.

He rings the bell. He waits. No sound from within. Then he knocks on the door. Still nothing. About to give this one up as a bad job, he hears a sound from within, a faint call of pain and confusion. Peering through the letterbox he sees a floor covered in unopened mail and a pair of feet poking out of one of the doorways.

“Come on son, we’re leaving.”
“Why’s that dad?”
“She’s not going to let us in, and if I break in, there’s going to be a lot more than just explaining to do.”

About an hour later, a feeling like he’s lost something hits him and he calls the police anonymously.