by James Bowen
‘Sorry, mate, I’ll get out of your way,’ he said in a thick East End accent, taking his ‘works’ out of his leg and pulling up his trousers. I could tell that he’d finished injecting. His eyes had that tell-tale glazed look.
I decided to let him go first. I knew better than to completely trust an addict. I wanted to keep him ahead of me where I could see him.
He was pretty unsteady on his feet and stumbled up the short flight of stairs to the landing on the fifth floor, through the doors and into the hallway heading for the lift.
Bob had trotted up the final flight of stairs behind me on the end of his lead. I just wanted to get him inside to safety so headed for the door of our flat. I had just put the key in the door and let Bob in when I heard a loud groan. I turned round and saw the guy collapse. He just suddenly went down like a sack of potatoes, hitting the ground with a smack.
‘Mate, are you all right?’ I said, running over to him. He clearly wasn’t.
I could see immediately that he was in a really bad way. He didn’t seem to be breathing.
‘Oh God, he’s OD’d!’ I said to myself, recognising the symptoms of an overdose.
Fortunately, I had my cheap Nokia mobile on me. I called 999 and asked for an emergency ambulance. The lady on the other end of the line took my address but then told me it was going to take at least ten minutes.
‘Can you describe his condition to me?’ she asked, her voice calm and professional.
‘He’s unconscious and he’s not breathing,’ I said. ‘And his skin is changing colour.’
‘OK, sounds like his heart has stopped. I’m going to ask you to give him CPR. Do you know what that is?’ the lady said.
‘Yes, I do. But you will have to talk me through it really carefully.’
She got me to turn the guy on his side and to check that his airwaves were clear. I then had to turn him on to his back so that I could apply compression to his chest to try to jump start his heart. Then I had to breathe into his mouth to try to get him to respond.
Within moments I was pressing down on his chest with both hands, counting as I did so. When I got to thirty I stopped to see if there was any change in his condition.
The lady from the emergency services was still on the line.
‘Any response?’ she asked.
‘No. Nothing. He’s not breathing,’ I said. ‘I’ll try again.’
I carried on like this for what must have been several minutes, pressing his chest furiously in short bursts then breathing into his mouth. Looking back on it later, I was surprised at how calm I felt. I realise now that it was one of those situations where the brain goes into a different mode. The emotional reality of what was happening wasn’t registering in my mind at all. Instead, I was just focussing on the physical side of things, trying to get this guy to breathe again. Despite my best efforts, however, his condition remained the same.
At one point he started making a gurgling, snoring sound. I’d heard about the ‘death rattle’ a person makes as they draw their last breath. I didn’t want to think it, but I feared that’s what I was hearing here.
After what seemed like an age, I heard the buzzer of my door going so ran over to my flat.
‘Ambulance service,’ a voice said. I hit the buzzer and told them to come up. Thankfully our flaky lift was now working again, so they arrived on the fifth floor within seconds. They threw down their bags and immediately produced a CPR kit with paddles to conduct electric shocks. They then cut open his t-shirt.
‘Stand back, Sir,’ one of them said. ‘We can take it from here.’
For the next five or so minutes they kept working feverishly to get him moving. But his body was lying there, limp and lifeless. By now the shock was kicking in and I was standing by the doorway, shaking.
Eventually, one of the ambulance men slumped over and turned to the other one: ‘No. He’s gone,’ he said. Slowly and really reluctantly they draped a silver blanket over him and put away their gear.
It was as if I had been struck by a lightning bolt. I was absolutely pole-axed. The ambulance guys asked me if I was all right.
‘Just need to go inside and sit down for a second I think,’ I told them.
Bob had been inside the flat throughout the drama but had now appeared in the doorway, perhaps sensing that I was upset.
‘Come on, mate, let’s get you inside,’ I said, picking him up. For some reason I didn’t want him to see the body lying there. He’d seen similar scenes on the streets of central London, but I just felt protective of him.
A few minutes later I got a knock on the door. The police and some paramedics had arrived in the hallway and a young constable was standing in my doorway.
‘I gather you were the person who found him and called 999,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I said. I’d gathered myself together a little bit by now, but I was still feeling shaken.
‘You did the right thing. I don’t think there was much more you could have done for him,’ the PC said, reassuringly.
I described how I’d found him on the staircase and seen him go down.
‘It seemed to affect him really quickly,’ I said.
I told them that I was a recovering addict which, I think, allayed any suspicions they might have had about me somehow being involved with this guy. They knew what addicts were like, as indeed did I. At the end of the day all they care about is themselves. They are so selfish would literally sell their own grandmother or watch their girlfriend die. If an addict had discovered another addict who had overdosed in this way they would have done two things; empty the poor sod’s pockets of cash, relieve him of any jewellery and then run away – fast. They might call an ambulance but they wouldn’t have wanted to get involved.
The policemen also seemed to know about the flats and its dodgy past. They were pretty understanding.
‘OK, Mr Bowen, that’s all I need for now, it’s unlikely we will need a further statement for the inquest, but we will keep your details on file in case we need to speak to you again,’ the PC told me.
We chatted for another moment or two. He told me that they had found some ID on the guy and also some medication which had his name and address on it. It turned out he was on day release from a psychiatric ward.
By the time I saw the officer back out into the hallway, the scene had been completely cleared. It was as if nothing had happened. It was as quiet as a grave in the flats. No one else seemed to be around at this time of the day.
In the quiet I suddenly felt myself being overwhelmed by what I’d just seen. I couldn’t hold back my emotions any longer. Back inside the flat, I just burst into floods of tears. I called Belle on my mobile and asked her to come over that night. I needed to talk to someone.
We sat up until well past midnight and drank a few too many beers. I couldn’t get the image of the guy collapsing out of my head.
I was in a state of mild shock for days. On one level, I was shaken by the fact that this poor guy had died in that way. He’d spent his final moments on the floor of an anonymous block of flats, in the company of a complete stranger. That wasn’t the way life should work. He was someone’s son, maybe someone’s brother or even someone’s father. He should have been with them or his friends. Where were they? Why weren’t they looking after him? I also wondered why on earth he had been allowed out of his psychiatric ward for the day if he was that vulnerable?
But, if I was honest, the thing that hit me hardest was the realisation that this could so easily have been me. It might sound silly now, but I remember thinking that it felt a little bit like Scrooge being visited by the ghost of his not-so-distant past.
For the best part of a decade, I had lived like that. I too had been a phantom figure, hiding away in stairwells and alleyways, lost in my heroin addiction. I had no real memory of the details, of course. Large chunks of my life back then were a complete blur. But it was safe to guess that there were probably dozens – maybe hundreds – of occasions when I could have died a
lone in some anonymous corner of London, far from the parents, relatives and friends from whom I’d cut myself off.
Thinking about it in the wake of this man’s death, part of me couldn’t actually believe that I’d lived that way. Had I really been reduced to that? Had I really done those things to myself? A part of me couldn’t imagine how on earth I’d been able to insert a needle into my flesh, sometimes four times a day. It seemed unreal, except I knew it was reality. I still bore the scars, literally. I only had to look at my arms and legs to see them.
They reminded me of how fragile my situation remained still. An addict is always living on a knife edge. I would always have an addictive personality and some mental health issues that I knew made me prone to destructive behaviour. All it needed was one moment of weakness and I could be on the way down again. It scared me. But it also stiffened my determination to continue that slow descent to earth that my counsellors had talked about. I didn’t want to be that anonymous man on the stairs again. I had to keep moving on.
Chapter 6
The Garbage Inspector
We all have our obsessions in life. For Bob, it’s packaging.
The assorted collection of boxes, cartons, wrapping papers and plastic bottles which we use during our day-to-day life around the flat, absolutely fascinate him. And some materials fixate him more than others.
Bubble wrap, naturally, is a source of endless entertainment. What child doesn’t love popping the bubbles? Bob goes absolutely crazy with excitement whenever I let him play with a sheet of it. I always keep a watchful eye on him. Each time he pops a cell with his paw or mouth, he turns and gives me a look as if to say ‘did you hear that?’
Wrapping paper is another fascination. Whenever I unwrap a present for him, he shows more interest in playing with the fancy paper than with the actual toy itself. He is also endlessly obsessed by the crispy, crunchy cellophane used inside cereal packets and by supermarkets to wrap bread. It never ceases to amaze me, but he can spend half an hour rustling a ball of cellophane. Balls of scrunched up aluminium kitchen foil have the same effect.
There is, however, no question about his absolute favourite type of packaging: cardboard boxes. He basically sees every box he comes across as a toy, an object designed to provide him with hours of fun. If I ever walk past Bob with a cardboard box in my hand he lunges at me as if to grab it. It doesn’t matter whether it is a cereal box, a milk carton or a bigger box, he bounds up, paddling his paws quickly as if to say ‘give me that, I want to play with it NOW’.
He also loves hiding away in the bigger boxes, a habit that has given me a case of the heebeegeebees on at least one occasion.
I don’t let Bob wander out of our flat on his own and the windows are always closed to avoid him climbing out. (I knew cats had the ability to ‘self-right’ themselves in the air and we were ‘only’ five floors up, but I didn’t want to test his flying abilities!) So when, one summer evening, I couldn’t find him in any of his usual spots I panicked slightly.
‘Bob, Bob, where are you mate?’ I said.
I looked high and low, a process that didn’t take too long given the smallness of my flat. But there was no sign of him in my bedroom or in the kitchen or bathroom. I was beginning to genuinely worry about his welfare when it suddenly struck me that I’d put a box containing some hand-me-down clothes I’d been given by a charity worker in the airing cupboard. Sure enough, I opened the cupboard to see a distinctive ginger shape submerged in the middle of the box.
He’d done the same thing again not long afterwards, with almost disastrous consequences.
Belle had come around to help me tidy the place up a bit. It wasn’t the most organised and orderly of homes, at the best of times. It didn’t help that, for years I had been a bit of a magpie. I don’t know whether I subconsciously harboured dreams of opening a junk shop or whether I was just fascinated by old stuff, but somehow I’d collected all sorts of bits and bobs, everything from old books and maps, to broken radios and toasters.
Belle had persuaded me to chuck out some of this old tat and we’d organised a few cardboard boxes full of them. We were going to throw some in the rubbish but take others to charity shops or the local recycling place. Belle was taking one box down to the rubbish area outside the flats and was waiting for the lift to arrive when she felt her box jiggling around. It freaked her out a bit and I heard her scream from inside my flat. By the time I opened the door to see what the trouble was she’d dropped the box to the floor and discovered Bob inside. He was extricating himself from a collection of old books and magazines where he’d curled up for a nap.
Soon after that I’d actually made him a bed out of a cardboard box. I’d figured that if he slept in one he might be less obsessed with them at other times. I’d taken one side off a box then lined it with a little blanket. He was as snug as a bug in there. He loved it.
It didn’t entirely get rid of his obsession, however. He remained deeply interested in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. Whenever I put something into the bin he would get up on his hind legs and stick his nose in. If I ever challenged him he would throw me a look as if to say ‘hey, what are you throwing in there? I haven’t decided if I want to play with that or not.’ For a while, I started jokingly calling him the garbage inspector. It wasn’t always a laughing matter, however.
I was just emerging from the bath one morning when I heard weird noises coming from the kitchen. I could make out a thin, metallic, scraping sound, as if something was being dragged around. It was accompanied by a kind of low moaning sound.
‘Bob, what are you up to now?’ I said, grabbing a towel to dry my hair as I went to investigate.
I couldn’t help giggling at the sight that greeted me.
Bob was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with an empty tin of cat food wedged on the top of his head. The tin was sitting at a jaunty angle on his head right over his eyeline. He looked like a cross between the Black Knight from the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail and a Welsh guard outside Buckingham Palace with his bearskin hat hanging over his eyes.
It was obvious that he couldn’t see much because he was walking backwards across the kitchen floor, dragging the tin with him in an attempt to reverse himself out of it. He was being very deliberate, padding backwards one careful step at a time, occasionally wiggling the tin or raising it a little before giving it a tap against the floor in the hope the impact would dislodge it. His plan wasn’t working. It was comical to watch.
It didn’t take Hercule Poirot or Columbo to work out what had happened. In the corner of the room I could see the black bin liner containing the rubbish I was going to put in the wheelie bins downstairs this morning. I normally emptied the bin and put the sack out at night, specifically to stop Bob playing with it. But for some reason today I’d forgotten and left it on the kitchen floor. Big mistake.
Bob had clearly taken advantage of my absence and ripped and chewed at the bottom of the bag so that he could try his luck rummaging in the waste. He’d drawn a blank on the cardboard front, but he had found the old tin. Unfortunately for him, in his enthusiasm to explore its contents, he’d got his head stuck in there. It was the kind of thing you saw on YouTube or video clip programmes like You’ve Been Framed all the time. He’d got himself in a terrible mess and was letting out this rather sad and pathetic little moaning sound. It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. One day I’d been sitting in the living room when I heard another odd sound coming from the kitchen, a kind of tapping sound. Pat . . . pat . . . pat followed by a faster pat, pat, pat, pat.
I’d found Bob walking around with a miniature container of butter attached to one of his paws. He loved butter so had obviously found this and been dipping his paw in so that he could lick it clean. He’d somehow wedged the paw inside the container and was now walking around with it attached. Every now and again, he’d raise his paw and tap it against a cupboard door in an effort to dislodge it. Eventually I’d had to help him remove it.
I could see I would have to do the same thing here.
He was clearly feeling a little bit sorry for himself and knew he’d done something stupid.
‘Bob, you silly boy. What have you done to yourself?’ I said, leaning down to help him. Thank goodness he hadn’t shoved his head all the way inside the tin, I thought. It had a serrated edge where it had been opened so I was careful in removing it from his head. I smelled inside the tin. It wasn’t the most pleasant odour I’d ever encountered, that was for sure.
The instant I extricated the top of his head from the tin, Bob scooted off into the corner. There were bits of food stuck to his ear and the back of his head so he began licking and washing himself frantically. As he did so he kept shooting me rather sheepish looks, as if to say: ‘yes, I know it was a dumb thing to do. Don’t tell me you’ve never done anything stupid yourself.’
As we headed off into work an hour or so later, he was still wearing the same, rather embarrassed expression and I was still smiling to myself about it.
The first sign that something was amiss came a few days later when he began eating more than usual. Bob’s daily diet had been a well-established routine for a long time now. Even though money was tight, I always tried to feed him decent ‘Scientific Formula’ food from the most popular cat food brands. I’d ration it carefully, following the recommended portions. So in the morning he had a flat tea cup full of high-nutrition biscuits and at the end of the day, about an hour before his bed time, he’d then have a further half a tea cup of biscuits along with half a pouch of meat as his evening meal.
These two meals would be supplemented by the little snacks he had while we were out working. It was always more than sufficient to keep him happy and healthy. In fact, he normally left a quarter or so of his morning biscuits because it was too much for him. Sometimes he’d leave it there, at other times he’d eat it just before we headed out to work, as a mid-morning snack.