2007-10-19 - 3:34 p.m.

I was watching a film and drinking when the doorbell rang and like a fool I answered it. I tend not to answer the door because very little good can come of it, especially during the evening. It’s even worse than the phone because at least with that hectoring little device you can let the machine pick up, then call back when you feel like it. The doorbell, though, screams for attention no matter what you may be doing, ‘Put that down and attend to me at once! Get up and open the door because this is your only chance! Come on, step lively, you oaf!’ The only reason I didn’t ignore the horrible screech of the bell was because I thought it might be my scatterbrained sister, who, more than likely, had forgotten her key. It wasn’t. Instead, having raced up and down stairs to get my key, I opened the door to find nobody there. Well, at least for a few thankful moments. It was then that a worried looking young woman came walking back down the street to address me.

I recognised her as Nicole from school. She was a foxy little minx for a few years in the mid-nineties and she hadn’t changed a bit. If she recognised me, she wasn’t letting on. There was no smile or small talk, not that we ever spoke much anyway. At first I thought she was going to ask me for money or something because she looked rather wild-eyed and drugged. Instead, she babbled something about the woman who lives across from me crying outside her house because there were strange men in there. She said I should call the police because neither her nor her wasted-looking boyfriend had a phone. I couldn’t see across the road because there was a van in the way, so I mumbled something positive and bade them farewell. At this point my mind was blank. I’m not really a crisis kind of guy. I wasn’t even sure whether to phone 999 or just the local cop shop that happens to be just around the corner from me. I even considered just walking there and telling the desk cop what I’d heard. The thing was, I was still entertaining hopes of watching the rest of the film and I didn’t want to get bogged down with making a statement or whatever. I couldn’t find the number of the local station in the phone book and calling 999 seemed like an overly dramatic thing to do, so instead I thought ‘ah, fuck it,’ and went outside in my shorts and t-shirt to see for myself what was happening.

My ex-classmate and her man were still there, now milling around a confused-looking old woman in a maroon housecoat who I presumed was the victim in question. Seeing me arriving, the girl said something like, ‘There’s the man, there! Did you phone the police?’ I’m always pleasantly surprised to be referred to as a man. Now I’m 27 I’ve passed the ‘boy’ stage. I think I may have even gone past ‘young man’ status. The balding helps. Anyway, after a rudimentary introduction to my distressed neighbour, the four of us made our way gingerly into her house. This was all very odd. None of us really knew what to do and I think we were all trying to remember how it works on TV. I tried to ask the old woman what had happened but I didn’t get much sense out of her. She was apparently shocked, sleepwalking or senile, and I soon felt the urge to get away from her. So, while Nicole from school made some attempt to comfort her, I proceeded to look around the house, followed reluctantly by the junkie boyfriend – ‘You’d better go with him.’ We’re men, you see, and this is our duty. Leave the women behind and go off in search of action. It was pathetic, really, because both of us were desperate to get out of there and get back to normality – me to my film and gin, he to his bird and whatever mischief they had planned in the town. Charles Bronson wept.

I went upstairs and took a cursory glance into each of the dark rooms. Now I felt like a burglar. I shouted ‘Hello!’ a few times like an idiot before convincing myself there was nobody there. After all, it had been about 10 minutes between the doorbell ringing and this bizarre situation. Criminals wouldn’t hide under the bed in these circumstances. What would I do, anyway, if I were to pull back the shower curtain and find a burglar standing there with his crowbar and swag bag? I don’t know kung fu and I can’t even run very fast. So, after my half-hearted inspection, I headed back downstairs. Nicole told me she thought she smelled drink on the old woman, but I suspected senility was a more likely explanation for this strange tale. The only evidence of a break-in was the open back door, but it hadn’t been forced. I suspect now that she’d left the door open, forgotten about it and concocted some paranoid burglar fantasy to explain it. If there had actually been any intruders they would be long gone by now, surely? It’s not like there’s some swarthy rapist waiting in one of the rooms I didn’t check, biding his time until we left. It’s not as if I’m going to wake up to news reports the next day about the brutal rape and murder of an 80 year old woman, with police seeking the local man who didn’t phone the police. Nah.

So, gradually our pathetic little party broke up. The old woman (we didn’t exchange names) as far as I could tell, had become frightened by phantoms due to senility. Our duty was now finished. Case closed. The whole affair had been a sort of responsibility relay, with each of us trying to pass the baton; from victim to strangers, from strangers to neighbour, from neighbour to police. Nicole advised her to keep her doors locked and phone a family member. I think the old woman mumbled something about not having anyone to phone. She wasn’t making much sense, rambling about people (care attendants?) who came round once a week. By this stage, though, the three of us were just aching to get out of that cold, lonely old house with its fucked-up occupant, so we left her with an assurance that I – the friendly neighbour - would check in on her later. I didn’t. Look, I know I should have phoned the police in the first place, and I could’ve at least offered to make her a cup of tea, but at the time I was satisfied that nothing sinister was going to happen and there was no point dragging it out any longer. What would the police have done anyway? It’s not as if some Dale Cooper/Sherlock Holmes hybrid would have been hastily dispatched to thwart the miscreants. They’re really not all that good. Hell, I was saving them the paper work!

So, what is this? A confession, or just an excuse to write about one of the few times my inert existence has been interrupted by external forces? It was bound to happen sooner or later. I have a habit of peeking through the blinds at people in the street. Every time I hear sounds of drunkenness or disturbance I race across to the window to see what’s happening. One time I saw a drunken girl mooning her friend. She was callipygean. It’s like my own little peep show and I suppose voyeurism comes at a price. Every now and again the actors on my personal stage are going to want paid. The window rears and the roles are reversed. The passive watcher is thrown from his domestic cocoon into the maelstrom. Now they’re watching me, waiting for me to do something. I think it’s a sign that I may have to start leading a life one of these days.

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