It started with a sniffle, and a couple of hours later he noticed he had an earache. By noon his throat was dry; tap-water wouldn’t ease it. The following day all his muscles ached, and he was sure he had a temperature. He went to sleep in the afternoon, feeling like a truck had knocked him down. Next morning, he couldn’t get up. He just lay in bed hot and sticky, feeling like he was buried. The days passed and got worse. He ought to ring 111, but he had no credit on his pay-as-you-go phone.
As he lay there, his small, bare flat seemed to be shrinking. He’d lived in it ten years, and hadn’t gone out in over twelve months. He knew his mind was bust, and now his body was too. Nothing to be done, he told himself. You’ve been ignored since you came to this country. Still are, man.
After a week of fever, coughing, and bad fatigue, he wondered should he stir himself, get off the bed, and try and walk to the hospital. It was a mile away. He had no money for the bus fare, no money for food. He had nothing at all. No, he wouldn’t walk. He was too weak. He thought of all them nurses and doctors working hard, twelve-hour shifts. Plenty of them were from the West Indies like him, or Africa, Asia, or other places abroad. They’re not ignored now, he thought. They count. Funny world, in’t it?
No, he wouldn’t go. Them medics got their hands full with the sick and dying. He picked up the notepad again. He’d been trying to write the letter for weeks. What he wanted to write was his story – that he’d come to England as a boy, so why was the Home Office still hassling him to prove he was legal? Why ask could he prove he’d been eleven years in school in Hackney. Don’t that school have no records? He’d paid national insurance for years at work too. You guys have the proof.
He’d given up in the end and just locked himself indoors. Then the welfare people had demanded he come in for a fitness for work assessment. Didn’t they understand? He couldn’t go outside. Them mental health people had assessed him as having extreme social anxiety. Twice he’d got to the front door to go for the interview, then the panic attacks came on. Next thing his benefits had stopped. He’d not seen family or friends in months. He couldn’t face the world.
He’d put it all down in the letter. Yes, he’d do that…
… The bailiffs had to use the pounder to break in. The guy hadn’t been dead long. His body was emaciated, like he’d starved to death.
One of them saw by the body a note addressed to ‘The Welfare’. It just said: ‘Be fair. Don’t judge me harshly’.
‘This one won’t be paying his backdated rent,’ he said. ‘Wasted visit.’
