Victims

At some time or another in our lives we are victims.

 

VICTIMS

 

The three blocks of flats formed a ‘U’ shape, and gave onto a large inner courtyard. There were a hundred and twenty flats spread out in the three blocks. The only pedestrian access to the courtyard was through a short passage from the street or a stairwell in each block of flats. There was also an underground entrance for cars. The courtyard was used for leaving bicycles, motorbikes, and wheelie bins. There had once been a lawn, but all that was left was a dusty area, which became mud when it rained. The underground car park was for the residents’ use only.

 

The dark door of the passage opened and a woman entered. She was no sooner inside the courtyard than a nasty old man, one of the neighbours who often hung around there, began accosting her. He tried to snatch her handbag, but she held on to it as hard as she could. Then the door opened for a second time and a middle-aged man entered, and the woman took advantage of the door being open and made her escape. The old man started beating the newly arrived victim with his fists wherever he could.

 

Mrs Woods, an elderly widow, from the vantage point at her living-room window, saw what she considered everything, and rang the police informing them of the incident. The problem for her was that the police were more concerned to know her name and address than actually getting into action. Mrs Woods sat down and stared through the fine curtains till the police arrived. Of course, they arrived at the scene when everything had calmed down.

Mr Watson, a retired gentleman, who lived in another of the blocks of flats overlooking the courtyard, heard a lot of shouting. He hadn’t been watching television at the very moment when the entire hullabaloo broke out, so he heard as well as he saw the passage door open and the fight between the two men. He also watched a brown-haired woman run out of the courtyard clutching an expensive looking handbag, and kept his eyes on her all the way up the road till she was out of sight. He then returned his eyes to the courtyard, when he saw a middle-aged man stagger out of the courtyard clutching his stomach. The ‘terror of the courtyard’, looking the worse for wear, came out behind the other man. The two went off down the road in opposite directions, without taking any notice of each other. Mr Watson thought it all rather strange, when only a few minutes before they had been beating each other up.

 

Debra Goffe, the woman who had run off down the road, arrived at the corner of the street, puffing and panting. She saw a coming taxi and she caught it, instead of waiting for the bus. At home she locked the front door behind her, and fell down heavily onto the sofa.

 

Mrs Woods heard the police car before actually seeing it. When the police opened the passage door to the courtyard, it was empty. In embarrassment, Mrs Woods closed her curtains, not wishing to be seen, and went into the kitchen and made herself a strong cup of tea.

 

Mr Watson was also a witness to the lateness of the arrival of the police car.

 

That evening several events took place.

Debra got up off the sofa and slowly went into the kitchen to prepare something to eat and drink. The shock of the old man attacking her when she entered the courtyard was still with her. She asked herself why she had gone into the passage and came to the conclusion, which was - to be free of the handbag. Debra was a thief. Not a normal one, as she stole only when she was down on her luck, a fact that she had assimilated a long time ago. It wasn’t all her fault, as she thought that if people appreciated their possessions as much as she prized them, then she wouldn’t be tempted to steal. The handbag was ridiculously near the door of the hairdressing establishment. It had taken no time at all to remove it from the hook it was hanging on, and walk away. Debra wore a long dark coat with enormous pockets inside it to hold the purloined goods. The handbag she had had to carry in her hands as it had been too big for one of the inside pockets.

When she had finished eating, she went into her bedroom and tipped out the contents onto her bed. She stared at them, and began sorting out the ones she would be able to sell and the others that were useless to her. There were credit cards, but she knew that their owner would have got in touch with the bank or the finance company by now. The purse was more interesting, but it held very little cash - only fifty pounds. She must pay everything by credit card, thought Debra. The mobile phone was the best thing in the bag, as it was the latest model and worth quite a bit. Debra rang up her contact who sold stolen goods. “Hello, it’s me, Debra. I’ve got a new mobile if you’re interested, but nothing more. The pickings are getting pretty lean.”

“Never mind, the phone should bring us in something. I’ll come round to fetch it. What’s the bag like?” the voice at the other end asked.

“It’s very good, and it’s a bargain, but difficult to sell here. If the owner has gone to the police about the theft then they’ll recognise it, and we’ll be in trouble. Tell you what, you have the bag and I’ll have the money from the phone. Have you got a customer in mind?”

“Yes, I have. See you later then,” the voice said.

 

Mrs Buckley, the owner of the handbag that Debra had stolen, was at the police station declaring that her handbag had been stolen. The sergeant at the desk asked her, “Where was the bag stolen from?”

“It was stolen when I was at the hairdresser’s. It was hanging on the coat hook, and as far as I know, no one in the shop took it.”

“Where was the hook it was hanging on?” the desk sergeant asked her.

“It was near the door. That’s where we all hang up our coats and bags.”

“Can you describe the bag to me, please?”

“Yes, it’s quite new, I’ve only had it for a month, and it’s a good one. It’s the fashion this year, and all the best people have one.”

The sergeant was writing down all the details, and at the same time he was thinking, ‘What a stupid woman, taking an expensive handbag to the hairdresser’s and then leaving it on a hook near the door. She might as well say goodbye to the bag now, before she starts pestering me about what the police are going to do.’

“Mrs Buckley, I’ve made a note of the handbag and where it was stolen from, and we’ll keep an eye out for it. Good evening.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I do hope the bag isn’t lost for good. I was so happy with it. Good evening.”

 

Mrs Buckley left the police station feeling rather down in the dumps. She knew that she had taken the bag to the hairdresser’s in order to show to the other clients that she was able to afford a first-class one. She had bought it for herself as a Christmas present, and her husband hadn’t stopped berating her about it, telling her she was silly to have spent so much money on a handbag, and then take it out everywhere she went. She knew what he would say when she told him that it had been stolen, he would say that it would teach her a lesson not to show off ever again. Poor Mrs Buckley!

 

Poor Christopher Platt was the man who had gone to the flats to see a friend who had a flat there. Instead of going through the main door he had chosen to use the passage, and go through the courtyard. From there he could walk up a flight of stairs to the kitchen door.

After the altercation with the old man, his body felt as if he had been used as a punch bag, and he drove to the local hospital.

“Good evening, Sir. How can I help you?” the registrar asked him.

“I had an accident this afternoon. I fell down a flight of stairs at home.”

The registrar gave him a careful look and noted down his details and information about his accident. Christopher Platt never said where it had happened. When asked questions, he added to the fiction he had already created. He didn’t want his private business exposed to other eyes.

 

Herbie Long, the disagreeable old man, was well-known for causing affrays in and out of the courtyard. He lived only to create problems of the nastiest kind. Unafraid, he attacked whoever he felt like, just for fun. He had lived alone since his long-suffering wife had died. His children rarely paid him a visit and he considered himself a victim, whereas he was the victimiser. He lived in one of the flats overlooking the courtyard, which he had come to dominate with his horrendous presence. When he had heard the police car sirens, he had run off outside the building and down the road. He knew that he would be the first one they would have thought of as being related to the affray, as he had always been booked on previous occasions. He couldn’t be thrown out of his flat as he owned it, which gave him leverage for misbehaving. Herbie spent the evenings, watching sports programmes and violent films to which he shouted the odds at the television screen. It was to his delight when the neighbours began banging on the communicating wall, and him shouting back, “It’s not midnight yet.”

His next-door neighbours were desperate, and were hoping to get another flat as far away as possible from the irascible old man. They had to be up early in order not to be late for work, but that seemed to spur him on to misbehave; having the television switched on as loud as he could, and when it wasn’t the television it was the electric drill, or the washing machine, or the tumble dryer.

 

Mrs Woods rang her daughter that evening. When she heard her daughter say, ‘Hello’ at the other end of the line, she began telling her about the unpleasant scene she had witnessed that day, “The old so-and-so Herbie Long tried to grab a handbag off a woman who had entered the courtyard, but she escaped when another man appeared.”

“What were you doing? Being nosey I suppose,” her daughter replied.

“I heard a strange noise and ran and looked out of the window. I rang the police, who took their time in arriving. The trouble is that they have been here so often because of that horrible old man, they never get here very fast. They wanted my number but, of course, I’ve never told them, but they always ask.”

“Do you think they know who you are? It’s quite likely that other people ring the police too. Anyway, how do you feel?”

“I’d like to move from here. Herbie won’t move, he owns his flat. I’d prefer to sell up and move to another place. The council will buy them from us, even though they are really much better than council flats.”

“Listen, Mum, you do what you want to, but do something soon, I’m sick and tired of hearing the same old song every time you ring me. OK?”

Mrs Woods made a face at the receiver, and said, “All right. If you say so. I’ll go out and check out other flats this week. You’re right. I can’t keep on in this fashion. Good night.”

Later that night, Mrs Woods, recovered from the scene in the courtyard, was sitting on the sofa in her night clothes with her cat purring beside her. She was thinking of how many people had left the flats due to Herbie Long and his aggressive behaviour. How could she put up with it till he went or till she died? One way or another, the problem had to be solved.

 

After the scandal in the courtyard, Mrs Woods put her flat up for sale. When the sale finally came through, she left the district very happily, and bought another flat nearer her daughter. With just the thought of living anywhere near another grumpy old man, Mrs Woods had made inquiries about the new district and any new neighbours, before signing the deeds to her new abode.

 

Debra left the handbag in the ladies’ toilets in a railway station, where it was taken by another desperate woman, who gave it to a friend as a birthday present. Debra was on the winning side, as the contact had paid her much more money than she had expected for the mobile phone. Debra was told that it was the latest model.

 

Mr Watson saw Mrs Woods from his window on the day she moved out of her flat. He had never spoken to her, although he wished he had. He was incapable of summoning up enough courage to do so. Now of course it was too late, still, never mind, perhaps he’d see another lady of similar age and be a little braver the next time.

 

Herbie Long’s new neighbours had been well informed of his carryings-on by the family that had lived next door and had put up with him for so long. The new tenants were students, who spent the time they were in the flat, which was usually at night and the whole weekends, playing music loud enough to be heard on the other side of the courtyard. Some of them had musical instruments, such as drums, trumpets, and an out-of-tune piano. Herbie behaved to them as he had done to others in the past. It had no effect on the young and heartless, they carried on oblivious to his protests. When he went to bed the noise emitting from his neighbours sounded louder than during the earlier part of the evening. Despite his protests to other residents in the flats, his complaints fell on deaf ears. Everyone thought that Herbie was receiving a dose of his own medicine, and weren’t interested in his complaints.

 

Of course the inevitable had to happen, and Herbie was viciously attacked one evening in the courtyard by unknown assailants. Herbie fell down and hit his head on the ground. He was found lying there unconscious, and someone rang for an ambulance that took him to hospital. Herbie’s family went to visit him while he was still unconscious. The doctors told them that he couldn’t live alone any longer, and that he would have to move to a residence or move in with one of them. His children found a nice flat near them.

Herbie’s flat was put up for sale. One evening a removals van was seen outside the flats, and men carrying Herbie’s belongings and putting them away inside.

The rowdy students had left the flat next door, as soon as Herbie’s flat was put on the market. Their mission had been accomplished.

 

Mrs Buckley never received her lovely expensive handbag, and many a time she thought she saw a woman with it and then told herself that it was a popular model and quite a few women might have one. When a better, and of course entirely different model, was brought out by the same fashion house, she hesitated whether to buy a new one or not. Mrs Buckley had learnt her lesson, and spent her money on a more practical and economical model.

 

Debra had the habit of having coffee and cake in a rather nice café every Thursday afternoon. One windy afternoon Mrs Buckley, who was out and about burning holes in her credit cards that had been renewed, fancied a drink and a treat. She took a seat at a table near Debra and asked her what the cakes were like. Debra didn’t recognise Mrs Buckley, as she had taken the handbag and hadn’t wasted time wondering who the owner was. Debra rarely spoke to strangers. and saw how Mrs Buckley hung her handbag across her body.

“I see you aren’t taking any risks,” Debra said to Mrs Buckley.

“No, I’m not. I had a lovely handbag about this time last year and it was stolen from the hairdresser’s while I was having my hair done.”

The other customers stopped talking, and paid attention to Mrs Buckley’s tale. There were murmurs of sympathy, and some even started talking about their own experiences.

Debra stood up and said she had to go. On her way out she paid for Mrs Buckley’s snack. “When she goes, you only need to say it’s been paid for. OK?”

“Yes, Madam. Thank you,” the cashier said.

 

Christopher Platt never returned to the blocks with the courtyard where he had come into violent contact with Herbie Long, his bad temper, and his fists. During his stay in hospital, Christopher had had time to think about that afternoon, and had come to the conclusion that it was providence in the shape of Herbie, in a rather backhanded manner, that had saved him from getting involved with another woman. Christopher’s marriage had been going through a rough spot when he had met a woman who lived in the flats. After going over his life in detail and analysing everything that had happened to him, he then understood that having an illicit affair was not going to solve his problems, but only create more. Christopher was the only person who felt grateful to Herbie, who unfortunately was to remain in ignorance.

 

Mr Watson left long after the previous tenants of the flats, which were then occupied by younger people with or without children The courtyard, the centre of controversy, had been done up by the new people and now had a slide, swings, and a roundabout. Flowerbeds had been laid out and tall trees planted, wooden benches for the parents to sit on had also been installed.

It was all too civilised. Mr Watson sold his flat and went to live in Brighton, where he hoped to experience a livelier society. He thought that everyone had been a victim of the flats, even Herbie in the end.

 

The last thing Mr Watson wanted, was to be the victim of boredom, so he packed up and left.