On the way past Coldharbour Road, I got off the bus. I walked up to the house. It was raining hard enough to make the umbrella shake in my hand.
Do you know the street? It’s got these huge old five-bedroom terraced houses, like the one Joan lives in. They’re all grey stone and red brick and slate, with carved pillars on the bay windows and archways over the doors. They’re the kinds of houses that probably belonged to slavers once upon a time.
I found Joan’s house, and tried to peer in through the ground floor window. There wasn’t much to see. There were old paper blinds hung up in the window, but they looked like they’d been torn to shreds over the years. Past that was a mantelpiece above a real fireplace. Otherwise, the room looked bare. There was heavy wood on the floor, and peeling wallpaper, the colour of old tobacco, through the dirty glass. Outside was a little garden, a line of trees and irregular streaks of gravel between weeds and long grass, that must once have been a path.
I don’t remember that night, really. I got home late and probably pissed Sean off as a result. The next morning I woke up ill. I couldn’t get out of bed, and I was late for work.
I had an email from another client of ours waiting for me when I got to the office, saying that she’d just been told how much her care was going to cost her and she didn’t think she could afford it, and what could I do to sort it out? I told her I’d try and talk to the finance department, to see if they’d make an exception for her, although I knew they wouldn’t. Then I closed down my emails, made myself a coffee, and got stuck in with my paperwork.
Can I… sorry. I need a drink. My throat is dry. Thanks.
It’s so hard to know, isn’t it, who is just having a bad day and who is really in… anyway, it doesn’t matter.
That afternoon we had a team training session about... I can’t remember what it was about now. I think it was assistive technology for blind people, or something like that. They have talking microwaves, and talking jar lids, things like that. I made up an excuse and left the training centre early. Like I said, I’m normally quite chilled out at work, but that day I just couldn’t be bothered.
The rain had stopped for the afternoon, although the sky was still the colour of an old bruise and I didn’t trust myself to even go for a cigarette without taking my umbrella with me. I walked back to the council building. Our office was empty. There’s nothing better than an empty office. I made myself coffee in the biggest cup and looked at rare vinyl on eBay for an hour before I even opened my emails.
I was just starting to get bored when the phone rang. I remember that it made me jump.
“I need to talk to your manager. Now, please. It’s an emergency.” It was Derek. He was shouting.
“She’s not actually in the office right now, I’m afraid. Are you calling about Joan Webster?” I said, in my ‘therapeutic’ voice.
“Yes. Is there… is Christine Bone in there, then?” he asked, sounding like he was reading my name off a piece of paper.
“Yeah, speaking. I’m actually the allocated social worker on Mrs. Webster’s case, so if it’s her you’re calling about then you need to speak to me, not the manager. We met at the meeting yesterday. Do you remember?”
“Well basically, what it is…” Derek carried on, ignoring my question. “I went to Nan’s earlier to see how she is. The door was locked from the inside. I could hear someone talking in the hallway, through the letterbox. Obviously Nan’s in a bad way at the moment. I’m worried that… you know. It could be someone going round there trying to get money off her or steal her medication or something. You know what some people will do…”
“Alright.” I started to write SOMEONE IN HOUSE- DOOR BLOCKED on a post-it note. “Do you have any idea who it might be?”
“No. Not the foggiest. I mean, it could be Elsie, couldn’t it? I tried to barge the door in and shouted through the letterbox, but it was like they couldn’t hear me. I could hear them chatting and laughing. They didn’t stop when I started banging on the door.”
“OK. Derek, it sounds like Joan just has a guest over. Why do you think they’re there to harm your grandmother? Could they just be a friend?”
“Yeah, but what if it’s not? What if someone’s round there trying to rob the place? What if Elsie’s wheedled her way back in there?” Derek began to shout again “I told social services. I said ‘She’s not in a good place. She’s vulnerable. She needs to be protected.’ I said I didn’t want anyone to see her until she was somewhere she could be looked after. Otherwise, she’ll let anyone in her house and give them whatever they ask for. You know what she’s like. She can’t say no.”
“Listen, Derek, who Joan sees or doesn’t see at home is pretty much her choice. Not yours, or social services, or the police’s decision. It might not be a good idea for someone vulnerable to let people into the house and to lock the door behind them, but, as an adult, legally we can’t stop her. If a crime has been committed then we can stop the perpetrator from contacting her, like with Elsie, but we can’t stop everyone and anyone from seeing Joan just in case. If you think it is Elsie in there, then she’s in breach of her bail and you need to call the police. Otherwise, you need to try and calm down, and let Joan make her own decisions.”
“That’s ridiculous. That’s just red tape, isn’t it? You’re telling me my Nan is shut in there with just about anyone under the sun, potentially an abuser, and you can’t do a thing about it? How do you know it isn’t Elsie? How do you know it’s not some junkie friend of hers gone round to rob the place?”
“Look” I said “I know you’re upset. If you’re really worried about it then I can go to the house and try and talk to her. I’ll have a sniff around while I’m there and see if anything has been stolen. Alright? And if Elsie is there, or if I think anything dangerous or illegal has happened, then I’ll call the police myself. Is that OK, Derek?
“Yeah, well…” he began to mumble, deflated. “If it’s all you can do then it’s all you can do, I guess.”
“Alright.” I looked at the time. “I’ll call you in the morning when I get into the office, and let you know how it worked out, OK?”
“Yeah, thanks a lot, love.”
Derek hung up.
I had to get a taxi up to Coldharbour Road. I think my manager was going to write me up for disciplinary action if I didn’t bring the car to work next week. We went a different route to the one I took last time, and I got to see the road in its entirety. There’s actually a few shops at one end, after that dour, endless stretch of slate and shedding trees. It’s the kind of place that has an art gallery and a luthier’s, but no fucking newsagents. You know what Clifton’s like, right?
I found the house and paid the driver. Outside the air-conditioned taxi the air was heavy and sticky. The sky was oily and streaked with red; the beginning of a summer storm. It looked like it’d been painted on. I looked around outside, but there were no parked cars, or litter on the driveway, or anything else that might have told me someone was there. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, to be honest. I mean, I’m not a detective. It’s not my job to do stuff like that. The door was hanging open, bleeding light.
I knocked three times and called out, and then let myself in. The hallway was honey-coloured wood and white walls, the paper peeling like rushes. The air looked cloudy—like smoke—in the weird light from outside. In front of me was a staircase that led up to a sort of gallery on the first floor landing. There were small tables of glass ornaments around the bottom of the stairs, and a few other knick-knacks and pieces of decorative furniture. On the floor was broken glass, and blister packs of medication. To either side of the front door were rooms, without doors in the doorway. I listened, but the house was silent.
Trying to tiptoe, I went into the room to my left. There was a dark-wood mantelpiece, a dark red rug, and a window seat, with its cushions scattered on the floor. Apart from that, the room was bare. The windows themselves were huge, and the light from outside made the whole room look gla
ssy. Do you know what I mean? Like being in a fish bowl. There was a layer of dust over everything, as thick as paint. When I turned round, I could see my own footprints.
I can’t… I’m not too sure if…
You’ve got to understand, at that point I thought I was alone in the house. I know it’s stupid. I mean, the only reason I was there is because Derek had told me there was supposed to be someone else in there. I should have been expecting it. But for some reason, something about the sleepy air in the house had tricked me into thinking I was on my own. There were photographs on the mantelpiece. I’d started to examine them, and when I heard footsteps upstairs I jumped and cried out.
It was a quick, sort of pattering sound on the floor directly above me, making the dust fall from the ceiling. It sounded like someone running. My first thought was that it was a child’s footsteps.
Why? I don’t know. I didn’t say it was a child, just that that was what it put me in mind of. It was fast, in a short burst, like it could have been a child running and then standing still as part of a game, or something. You know what I mean? Adults don’t usually run around in the house.
I stood still and tried not to breathe, listening, but the house had gone quiet again. I couldn’t even hear the traffic outside. I looked at the photograph in front of me again. It was a black and white picture of three women, outside, sitting on a swinging seat under a willow tree, looking summery and happy. The clothing looked dated. The younger two women were in their early twenties; the older one, sitting between them and smiling, was middle-aged. I guessed it must be Harriet, Catherine and Joan.
I put the picture down. There’d been no more noises from upstairs. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was trying to hide from me.
I called out again. “Hello? Joan? Elsie?” and then, slowly, I went upstairs.
I found Joan at the back of the house. She looked like she’d been living out of one room. There was a bed with a pressure mattress, and an electric rise/recliner chair. The room was small, and dark compared to the light, empty rooms on the ground floor of the house. There were thick, velvety green curtains blocking out the sunlight. There was a commode in one corner. In the heat, it stank.
The floor was more or less impassable from litter: empty packets of biscuits, rotten fruit, plates and dirty cutlery, bottles, and more blister packs of tablets. Joan seemed to have been given a whole year’s worth of prescriptions at once, or else she hadn’t taken any of them for a long time. I picked up one of the tablets; it was dated from nine months ago.
I read the names of the medications on the back. I think they were Oramorph, which is just a brand name for Morphine, and a tranquilizer called Lorazepam. The floor was so cluttered I could hardly see the carpet. I don’t know how Joan, blind, using a cane, managed to get around at all. It occurred to me that she might not have left the room in a long time.
Joan herself was sat in the chair in the far corner, slumping towards the floor. I called out to her, gently.
“Joan?” My name’s Christine. I’m a social worker. We’ve had a phone call from your grandson.”
She didn’t reply. I picked my way across the floor and knelt down next to the chair. Her head was tilted back and to one side. I leant over her and spoke into her ear.
“Joan? Sorry to bother you. My name is Christine. I’m a social worker. Joan, is there anyone else in the house with you?”
I could see Joan’s throat rising and falling as she breathed. She turned her head, gently, almost imperceptibly, away from me.
I stood up.
“OK, Joan? I’m just going to have a look around, if that’s alright?”
There was a bathroom across the hall. The bath itself was cracked and shedding ceramic rubble. A little puddle of water, china dust and mould had pooled in the bottom of the tub. I took the pan from the commode, trying not to look in it, and emptied it into the toilet. Then I looked through the house. Apart from Joan’s room, none of the rooms had doors. Most of them were completely bare, and, briefly, I wondered whether Elsie had been selling off the furniture. The upstairs room above where I’d been, where I thought the footsteps had come from, was empty. There was a mist of cobwebs over the doorway that I had to pick out of my jacket as I entered. Even the mantelpiece was bare. There was a house spider in the grate, the size of a plate.
I went back downstairs and carried on snooping, but I didn’t see anyone. The kitchen had been gutted of white goods. There was a cool box on the floor, and a camping stove and gas canister on the worktop, looking like they were stuck down. I could see the skeleton of pipes where the sink had been pulled out.
Before I left the house I went back upstairs to Joan’s room. She’d leant her head back to the other side and looked like she was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her up. I found Joan’s care records on the floor, under all the crap, and looked through. The notes were full of words like “uncooperative,” “stubborn,” and “difficult.” The MAR sheets had been signed ‘R’ for “refused medication” every day as far back as the records went. I felt a lump of pity in my throat then. I mean, opiates are strong painkillers. Joan must have been in agony.
I knelt down on the floor, and began moving some of the litter out of the way to clear a pathway to the door. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have done it without Joan’s permission, and anyway it’s the carer’s job, not mine. But by that point I was feeling pretty… I don’t know. Sad, I guess. Joan’s whole living situation seemed to me to be heartbreaking, sat there in the huge empty house in one tiny room, not knowing who was in the house with her and who wasn’t… I don’t know. I think I just wanted to do something kind for her.
I bent down. Just then, I felt something cold on my neck, like a drop of water.
I stood up, and spun around. There was a crashing sound, and a flurry of footsteps on the stairs. Then I heard the front door slam.
It’s hard… obviously there must have been someone in the house. There’s no way there could not have been. It was definitely footsteps that I heard. But I looked everywhere and I didn’t see anyone. There wasn’t even anywhere to hide in that house. The house was so old and creaky that I would have heard if someone had been sneaking around and creeping up on me.
There was a tapping against the window glass. It had started to rain again. I left the house. I walked up to the art gallery on Coldharbour Road and got a taxi back to the office from there.
I called Derek back. He answered, his tone sounding like I was bothering him.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, Derek? This is Christine Bone, Joan’s social worker. I’ve just been up to the house and had a look around. There’s no-one there.”
“What? What are you… did you go in the house?”
“Yeah. Joan is upstairs. She didn’t want to talk to me. I looked around, and I couldn’t see anyone.”
Derek just repeated
“You actually went into the house? Inside?”
“I did, yeah. There’s no-one there except Joan.”
“Right. Look, you’ve got to try and set something up so that Elsie and her mates can’t go there again, OK? I know if Elsie’s on bail she can’t go to the house, but what’s to stop her sending all her junkie friends round to rob the place? Eh? As far as I can see it, you’re not doing your job unless…”
“Derek, listen.” I interrupted him. I was pissed off by that point, soaking wet and still shook up from what had happened in the house, and I couldn’t be bothered pandering to Derek. “I’m not a police officer. It’s not up to me to control Elsie, whatever you think she’s done. Do you understand? If you’re concerned Joan is being targeted by criminals then you need to phone the police. I can give you a contact number for the officer you spoke to at the meeting. She might be able to help you. Otherwise, there’s nothing I can do.” I’m not sure why, but something about Derek’s way of speaking to people made me automatically come down on the side of anyone he had a quarrel with in an argument. I would have defended Josef Stali
n if Derek had started criticising him.
“So that’s it, is it? All you can give me is bloody bureaucracy? What about Joan? Where’s she, in all of this?”
“Does Joan want to have visitors, or not? If she’s told you that she doesn’t want visitors round then it’s a separate matter. But unless she’s said that…”
“I don’t know.” Derek cut in, bluntly. “I tried to ask her about it but she doesn’t… she doesn’t get it. She just says she wants Elsie to come back.” I was silent. As far as I knew up until then, Joan despised Elsie as much as the rest of the family did. It had never occurred to me that Joan might actually have wanted Elsie’s company.
I let Derek talk. Once again, I was struck by the sheer, utter sadness of Joan’s life. “I told her about… you know, all the bad things Elsie’s done. She’s a drunk. She’s a drug addict. She hurts people. She ran away. She got pregnant and then she gave up the baby, or god knows what else. She took the house off us, off Joan, and now she takes all her money to make her pay to live in it. Joan just said ‘I don’t care. I don’t care She’s still my daughter.’”
After I got off the phone I wrote a report. I remember writing: “Possible neglect, house in poor state of repair, insufficient adaptations for Joan to move around, litter presents trip hazard on floor, large quantities of controlled drugs—dangerous as Joan is at potential risk of suicide. Missing furniture and belongings. Evidence that Joan is unable to leave bedroom. To investigate.”
As an afterthought, I wrote “No furniture—where does Elsie sleep?”
The next day was… Sorry. Do you mind if I go for a cigarette? I’m a bit...
Thanks. What happened the next day? That was it. There was a promotional event being held up at a school hall in Hanham, or Kingswood, or somewhere like that. It was supposed to be geared for deaf-blind people. The idea was that they find it hard to get information about health care services because of their sensory loss, they can’t read leaflets or hear announcements, and they find it hard to go outside a lot of the time so they can’t always get to, like, the doctor’s surgery, and things like that. So the social care department organized this big event, and we tried to get a lot of different health care providers in the local area to come and set up stalls. There were things like diabetic consultants and information from the NHS people about hospital passports and outpatient services, but also some more fun stuff like Reiki, massage therapy, music therapy with vibrating instruments for deaf people, things like that.
Onyx Neon Shorts Presents: Horror Collection - 2015 Page 17