‘Who shall I say?’
‘He doesn’t know me.’ I began to feel uncomfortable. If this good neighbour knew I was serving debt-collection papers on him she wouldn’t be so keen to help. ‘I’ve some important papers for him.’
She nodded. She pushed the letter box back and put her mouth to the gap then stepped sharply back and turned away as if she’d been bitten.
‘Are you all right?’
She shook her head emphatically, her eyes wild.
I shoved the papers in my pocket and dropped Digger’s lead. I moved towards the door and pushed the metal flap up. The stench made me recoil as quickly as she had. As a child I’d once kept a bucketful of dead crabs in the shed, unknown to my parents. After a week they smelt like this.
I pulled my sweatshirt up to cover my nose and mouth and opening the flap again, peered in. I couldn’t see anything but the dismal hallway. But when I turned my ear to the door and listened I heard the buzzing and humming of flies and, as I realised what they were doing there, my stomach finally rebelled and I turned to the road and threw up.
We rang the police from Mrs Grady’s. I waited with her. I’d no desire to see what was left of Mr Kearsal, though I was curious about the manner of his death. It was hours before I could finally go, after countless cups of tea and Hob-Nobs.
The police arrived with vans and fancy tape and ambulances and men in suits. One of the suits came and talked to us, establishing who we were and our relationship to the deceased before noting the facts of our gruesome discovery. Mrs Grady was out in the kitchen busy making fresh tea when I was asked my name and the nature of my business in the area. I was glad she didn’t have to learn that I was trying to serve papers on Mr Kearsal.
Outside, what neighbours there were had formed a little audience and Mrs Grady filled them in. The press arrived en masse from all the local free papers, plus the Manchester Evening News, the local television and radio. I explained quickly to Mrs Grady that I didn’t want to be interviewed or photographed. She looked at me as if I’d gone barmy but agreed and dutifully posed with another neighbour next to the police cordon.
One of the policemen made a brief statement to the effect that Mr Kearsal had been found hanging, and that at this stage there was no suspicion of foul play. A journalist asked if there’d been a note. Yes, a note had been recovered from the scene.
At long last I got Digger and myself into the car and home. I wondered on the way what the score was with Platt & Co. if I’d failed to serve the paper because the intended recipient was dead. Surely they’d pay me? Flipping heck, I deserved overtime and a bonus, given how long it had taken.
