Treasures
Never had I so longed to possess the power of precognition. Were it the case, then I would have foreseen upon waking that by eleven o’clock, destiny had appointed this day and time to have me staring at the flaking, corporation brown gloss paint of another’s closed front door. Not being blessed with supernatural abilities, I had to settle instead for offering a plea that the drab threshold guardian barring my way might soon be relieved of its sentinel duties—once the legal occupier of this tower block flat, John Taverner, had responded to the clarion call of his front doorbell.
A gust of wind buffeted the back of my neck, then whistled past my ears, a raised coat collar failing its protective duties. I didn’t want to be standing on this exposed central London council tenement landing on such a grey, miserable Monday morning; or any morning if it came to that, in what had become a record-breaking cold, wet February. I had little choice in the matter—if I wished to keep my job.
Employed in a junior Housing Services capacity at a central London city council, I felt my co-workers often used—no, abused—me as the go-to candidate for any job they did not want to dirty their hands with. On this latest occasion, my immediate supervisor, with undisguised disinterest and hallmark brevity, had stated, “this is for the experience, you understand? It will improve your promotion prospects… assuming, of course, you also continue to meet your key performance indicators.” A twentysomething science graduate, I contemplated my future career prospects with this employer and found them wanting. A return to science beckoned.
Some of society’s more dubious preoccupations had swollen my allotted workload of late, so having to investigate Taverner’s alleged antisocial exploits was an unwelcome addition. Suspicion held that John Taverner was a probable hoarder, among other things. My investigation today had been kick-started following repeated concerns—well, to be more accurate, complaints—expressed by his most immediate neighbours. Among the list of items awaiting my verification were reports of an increase in fetid, lingering smells stemming from Taverner’s flat; alarm over his more dishevelled state and increased sallow complexion of late; several descriptions suggestive of cognitive impairments which, if accurate, might indicate any number of possible mental health disorders and, of course, one neighbour’s report that Taverner was hoarding stacks of newspapers. The hoarding allegation arose from a chance discovery by the neighbour in question, who was walking past Taverner’s front door at the precise moment of its opening, allowing a cursory glance within. There were scant details, but the neighbour was adamant that—and to quote their exact words—“There was a small forest of newspaper trees spanning the length of his (Taverner’s) hallway.” An odd but colourful description that begged confirmation.
As no other agencies were yet involved in this case, which surprised me, my role was to establish any truth to the hoarding claim, and the nature and degree of any apparent mental decline. Should I suggest a need for intervention in my subsequent report, I suspected those least qualified for the task would then compile a multi-agency remedial action plan to untangle this perceived mess of a man—then rubber stamp and archive the case before they’d given the ink a chance to dry.
I couldn’t keep the ‘humph’ from rising in my throat as an image of that multi-agency task force descending on Taverner sprang to mind. Once let loose, there was little the target of that organisational behemoth could do to prevent its incursion. Yet, here was I in the vanguard, alone and with no formal training in, or experience of, hoarding disorders and, if it came to that, of mental illness.
Within the laptop bag tugging on my right shoulder nestled a beige council-issued foolscap case file, in which I’d placed a copy of the Hoarding Assessment Tool and Clutter Rating Index. With these, my employers believed they had given me the required tools and trappings of expertise and officialdom. This ‘preparation’ was pre-empted by an insistence that I read—while a date and time for my visit was being determined by others—all ten pages of a dated research paper titled The London Field Trial for Hoarding Disorder, published in a 2013 edition of Psychological Medicine. Unbelievable. I doubted my superiors had taken the time to read, let alone understand it themselves.
What irked me more was that my employer had already assigned Taverner’s case, among a stack of others, to a male colleague, who then failed to show up for work one day. Not that anyone would care for my opinion, but I think he (Neil) had maxed out on his employer-to-employee-abuse-crapometer and called quits on the whole charade. If he has any sense, he’ll be sunning himself on some sun-kissed beach in the Maldives right now. The lucky bastard. We’d always got on. He started in the department about six months before me, and it was he they’d assigned to show me the ropes. Neil had been quick to point out who and what to give a wide birth. I miss seeing his redhead mop and soppy freckled face every day. Not a whisper heard. Off into the void. Uncanny. Now I too had responsibility for a newbie—Colin, a recent history graduate. I was no longer the greenhorn.
The February winds renewed their attack, prompting me, with ambivalence, to push the grimy doorbell button a second time. In doing so, I made a mental note not to place my fingers anywhere near my mouth or eyes until I’d washed my hands with such copious quantities of soap and hot water that it would put a surgeon’s pre-surgery hand scrub routine to shame. I then recalled I had a pair of latex-free gloves in my overcoat pocket and cursed myself for not having thought of putting them on earlier. Little did I care about what Taverner might think of me for wearing examination gloves during my visit.
I wondered whether he was at home, despite the official letter sent days ago notifying him of this morning’s visit—or so my supervisor had told me when I’d entered my workplace at eight-fifty-five. I ducked down a little to lift the grubby outer flap of Taverner’s letterbox with a gloved hand, so I could peek inside. This proved a fruitless exercise. A bristled inner draught excluder affixed to the letterbox hampered any clear line of sight of the lobby and hallway. The internal gloom also confounded my vision, as though a wayward black hole singularity had appeared and consumed almost all the light. As a reward for my failed reconnaissance, I received instead a face full of rank, damp air, warm tendrils of which worked their way into my nostrils to lay siege to my olfactory nerves. The letterbox flap snapped shut with a muffled metallic clang as I released my grip. Once righted, I took a step back to cleaner air. I decided I’d wear a facemask to supplement my latex gloves.
With a rising sense of relief at the prospect of an early departure, it felt only natural at this point that I should contemplate heading off to lunch, but fate was quick to sabotage my plans by intruding upon it with the sudden strains of a disembodied voice coming from the other side of the door, causing me to start.
“Hello. Who’s there?” enquired the disembodied voice.
“Good morning, Mr Taverner,” I responded. “It’s James Haine from Housing Services—you were told to expect a visit?” I shifted my deflated expression to a smile I hoped would not appear affectatious upon our meeting face to face.
“Oh, right… yes, of course,” Taverner said. “Give me a moment.”
Taverner’s speech then gave way to an odd series of animalistic sounds—which appeared to coincide with what I supposed was the effort needed to shift one or more cumbersome items by the door—followed by the sound of a bolt slipped and a lock flipped… all of which took much longer than his ‘moment.’
He inched the door open, and there he stood in the gloom—a wiry, sallow-faced ghost of a man (almost as I’d pictured him), the centrepiece of a surreal tableau vivant, complete with a parade of newspaper stacks rising from floor to near ceiling height running back along both sides of the hallway. The effect of looking along this eerie, constricting paper tunnel was claustrophobia-inducing, making me a tad breathless. Because of their preternatural height and with no obvious signs of stabilising support, the sinuous stacks gave every appearance of being ready to topple and bury alive any hapless individual who might be foolish enough to brush against them. The neighbour’s description of a small forest of newspaper trees spanning the length of the hallway was pretty apt.
I marvelled at how Taverner had stacked the newspapers this way, considering he did not appear to be in the peak of health, as evidenced not by his appearance alone, but by the intermittent addition of a phlegmy cough—moist, bubbling, and interspersed with an unsettling rattle. To add to this whole otherworldly panoply, the hallway ceiling pendent was making a valiant effort to illuminate its surroundings—but managing only marginal headway.
I re-composed myself, and mumbled, “Ah, a late lunch for me today, then,” while holding up my council identity card for Taverner to inspect, who gave it a distracted, cursory glance.
I wasn’t aware that what I’d uttered had been so loud until Taverner coughed and said, “I’m sorry. What was that? I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying. Because, er… your facemask?”—pointing as he spoke to add visual emphasis to his comment.
“I was just remarking, Mr Taverner,” I said in quick response, “that I hope my visit doesn’t delay your preparations for lunch. My apologies also for the mask and gloves; it’s a council requirement that we wear them during a visit.” Which was tosh, of course—though I wouldn’t have had it any other way in that moment.
Taverner appeared to ignore my mention of personal protective equipment and latched instead onto the question of food. “Lunch? No, no,” he said, turning, “but I was about to make a mug of coffee. Come on through. I expect you’d like one?”
Not on your nelly, I thought. “That’s a kind offer, Mr Taverner, but I grabbed a takeout coffee just before I got here. I’m fine, thanks.” True. I had. But as an adjective, ‘fine’ didn’t make the grade in matching my mood. A sweeping scan of my surroundings as I followed Taverner confirmed the decision I’d made on first entering his flat… that acceptinganything from him to drink or eat during my visit held zero appeal; as did the prospect of needing to use his toilet, were I to take too long with my assessment.
“Let me know should you change your mind,” Taverner said, his phlegmy words trailing off as he wove his way with considered steps through to the kitchen at the rear, adding, “It’s all the same to me.”
I had passed through the jaws of the beast and was now traversing its meandering paper gullet on my way to its belly. Though, judging by the feculent smell that greeted me as I entered Taverner’s kitchen, I wondered if I might have taken a wrong turn, bypassed the stomach and plunged, instead, headlong into its bowels. A sickly, sweet odour intermingled with that of rotting waste matter and stale tobacco, which had the effect of increasing my light-headedness.
“Forgive me, Mr Heinz,” Taverner said, while dropping a teaspoon measure of freeze-dried coffee granules into an off-white, nondescript mug, “but the letter I received from the council was vague in explaining the reason for your visit this morning.”
I wish it hadn’t been. It would have saved me from tiresome explanation now—though that might have put you on the defensive before I even got here. “No, that’s right, Mr Taverner. We sent you the standard letter. It’s so much easier to explain things in person. Letters can be so impersonal, don’t you think, and there’s always a risk of the contents being… misinterpreted? Oh, and my name is Haine, not Heinz. Call me James.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” Taverner said, still wearing the remnants of a questioning expression on his sallow face. His wheezing had increased, causing him to rummage in his right trouser pocket, from which he produced a cloth handkerchief. Into this he at once heaved up and spat a gob of yellow-green phlegm, which I’d heard rattling about somewhere in his windpipe. He shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket. I couldn’t wait to leave, even though I’d only just arrived.
I glanced over at Taverner’s kitchen table in search of somewhere to sit. There was one semi-vacant chair I might have requested use of, but closer inspection revealed it would benefit from being hosed down and scrubbed. I elected to remain standing. Besides, the table was daring me to find a space to set down and open my laptop bag. To make matters worse, I spied a cat’s litter box, chock-full of turds and wet clumps—no doubt one of the primary sources of the feculent air—lurking just under the table, jockeying for space with random paraphernalia. The kitchen windows were shut tight, which didn’t help matters, and I had a sudden yearning for the chilled February air I had dismissed with a shiver earlier.
I cleared my throat. “Well, as you are no doubt aware, Mr Taverner, we are obliged to assess our tenants and their tenancies at set periods—regardless of whether the tenant lives in a house, or a flat, like this one.” Like other London councils, I knew mine didn’t have the finances or personnel to meet this obligation most of the time. However, they always made provision for investigating cases like Taverner’s.
“No, I wasn’t aware of that,” Taverner said. “But it makes sense.”
Quick to take psychological advantage of the affirmative ‘get in’ offered by Taverner’s last comment, I said, “An assessment, Mr Taverner, that will only require a brief inspection of your flat and completion of one or two standard forms, for internal record-keeping purposes.” For unabashed, selfish reasons to facilitate an earlier departure, I added, “In fact, a good part of these forms I can complete back at my office. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
Taverner turned to face me and, cradling his coffee mug, leaned back against the door of the large fridge-freezer combo beside his kitchen sink, the latter of which I noticed had not been spared its own assortment of heaped, dirty clutter—the unseemly state of Taverner’s stainless-steel sink and draining board now rendering them unworthy of their stain-resistant classification.
I questioned Taverner as minimally as I dared, moving with fingered dexterity through the Hoarding Assessment Tools, leaving out anything I could fabricate back in the office. We left the kitchen, and I hung my laptop bag by its strap on the end support post of the staircase banisters (which appeared to be the least filthy resting place available) before we then ascended to the second floor. I planned to check his ground floor living room last, on my way out.
With a brief foray into the airless and disorderly bedroom completed, I moved on to Taverner’s bathroom. I’d only just placed a foot inside before I withdrew it again—the room’s inhospitable appearance repulsing me. In retreating, I tripped over Taverner’s black moggy, which I hadn’t encountered until now, and would have taken off headfirst down the staircase had I not grabbed the handrail, which I latched onto with instinctive ferocity, cursing as I did so like a Samuel L. Jackson wannabe. I consoled myself that had I gone arse over tit, the stacks of newspapers pressed up against the skirting and wall down one side of each staircase tread may well have softened my tumbling descent.
“Satan, you little shit!” Taverner blurted—the distress caused by the incident conspiring to raise some colour in his cheeks and bringing on a barrage of bubbling coughs. “I’m so sorry… Mr Heinz… he’s not used… to visitors.”
“It’s Haine,” I said, recovering my breath and composure. “No… never mind. Let’s continue, shall we? You’ve named your cat Satan?” How fitting, I thought. An aptronym of the first order.
“Yes… he was a stray; I took him in on Devil’s Night—the thirtieth of October—two years ago. He’s mischievous, but he keeps me company.”
“Right,” I said, not having the energy or inclination to marshal anything more than that.
Despite being unqualified to make a psychiatric diagnosis, I didn’t consider Taverner to have any form of mental deficiency—though anyone with an ounce of sense could see that the cluttered and cruddy condition of the flat, combined with his poor personal hygiene, run-down appearance, and phlegmy cough did point to several things being amiss. Besides, he also gave you the heebie-jeebies whenever he looked you straight in the eye, which, although I ought not to have held against him, I did anyway. I ventured, at last, to ask about the stacks of newspapers in the hallway and on the staircase, hoping this might provide some useful piece of intelligence.
“Oh, the newspapers?” Taverner said. “They’re all my treasures.”
Not baring any resemblance to several explanations I’d postulated in my mind, my bemused response was the questioning echo, “Treasures?”
“Yes,” Taverner continued. “You see, I don’t venture out. Well, almost never these days. On rare occasions I encounter a neighbour on the landing, or in a stairwell, but don’t speak to them. I don’t care to socialise. In fact, I prefer to avoid live contact with people” he said, shooting me a sideways glance. He gave out a duo of bubbling coughs and reached for his pocketed handkerchief.
“But how do you eat… shop, that is?” I said.
“Shop? Oh, I order my shopping online and they drop it off outside the front door, then ring the doorbell to let me know they’ve been. I have my newspapers delivered most days—the broadsheets, of course, never the gutter tabloids, though it’s becoming more expensive to keep up. For the most part, I spend my hours reading them, or books. That’s how I stay connected with the outside world—the reason they’re my treasures. I couldn’t exist without them—or any of the other special things I collect.”
“But what about visitors,” I said. “You know, family. Friends?”
“Oh, I never have anyone in my flat,” Taverner said, as though I’d suggested something repugnant, “… not unless it’s the likes of your kind, of course” he added, with a whiff of hostility. He looked me straight in the eyes and, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth in what some might have taken as a genial smile, but I interpreted as a grimace, he said, “You know, official visitors.”
Taverner’s last comment sharpened my focus, reminding me why I was there. I reconfirmed to myself that he didn’t appear depressed or to be suffering from any other form of mental disorder—based on my imperfect experience in these matters. However, he had poor to no insight into how far he’d fallen with his lack of self-care. Neither did he seem to be aware of the clutter and grime that now pervaded his world. Although he was bound to disagree, I felt he needed practical help to put straight place and person. Perhaps psychological intervention of some kind. A medical examination wouldn’t go amiss either, I thought—plus a course of antibiotics, a long soak in a buffed bath infused with a generous dose of disinfectant… and open windows.
I realised Taverner was collecting the newspapers not only for their entertainment and educational value alone—such as that might be—but as a poor substitute for normal social interaction. That they posed a potential fire risk and a hazard to health was undeniable. I knew I was duty bound to say so in my report, along with my other findings and concerns.
The assessment was now as complete as my patience would allow. While standing with Taverner on his upstairs landing, scribbling down my last notes, I pondered what makes one person an enthusiastic collector, another a hoarder—and the many permutations in between. What the dividing line might be within cultural norms, trespass beyond which would constitute abnormal behaviour? I concluded that seldom in life was anything straightforward—either ‘this’ or ‘that’ but fifty shades of grey. I sighed and looked at Taverner, who’d picked Satan up at some unseen moment and was now stroking the ugly brute.
“Well, Mr Taverner. I have almost all the information I—that is to say, we—need at this time,” I said. “It just remains for me to check your living room before I leave and let you get on with your day.” I paused. He waited. “Before I do that, I think it only right and proper that I tell you the main findings of my assessment—visit—so far today.” Taverner maintained his unblinking gaze and was otherwise motionless except for his slow, rhythmic stroking of Satan’s matted fur, the brief silence punctuated by the cat’s resonant purring and Taverner’s bubbling windpipe. The moggy’s master picked up on my hesitation.
“Please, Mr Heinz, there’s no need to hold back. You may be frank.”
“It’s Haine” I snapped, no longer able to contain the accumulated irritation of Taverner’s continued insistence on mispronouncing my surname—a flash of frustration that freed me from my tongue-tied, awkward wavering. I let officialdom, and my feelings, loose. “Mr Taverner, this just won’t do.”
“I’m sorry?” said Taverner, taken aback.
“The condition of your flat—by which I mean the state into which you have allowed it to deteriorate—is most unacceptable and we cannot allow it to continue.” Taverner’s pupils dilated. His hand slowed on Satan’s fur. “Further,” I said, “the newspapers you have accumulated pose a serious fire hazard to both you and the other residents of these flats; we must clear your hallway and staircase of them.” Taverner’s pupils were now larger than Satan’s. I continued my mini diatribe, failing to notice the draining away of what little colour there had been in Taverner’s cheeks, and the grotesque grimace beginning to contort his facial features. “It will be my recommendation to the Council that they relocate you to a temporary holding flat while they arrange for this one to be cleared out, deep cleaned, and redecorated, before allowing you back in… assuming the Council allows your tenancy to continue.”
Well, that did it. A bubbling furore erupted in Taverner’s chest, ascended to his throat, and spewed itself out in a torrent of seething expletives and phlegmy spittle with me as their target. Taverner’s facial colour mutated from extreme pallor to mottled crimson, the arteries bulging on both sides of his scrawny neck. In tandem with Taverner’s apoplectic explosion, Satan hissed and spat and, with fur raised and claws extended, launched itself off its keeper and flew past my face in a black blur down the stairs. Taverner was now holding his wet handkerchief to his mouth and coughing with such violent exertion I thought he might die on the spot, his bloodshot eyes sending rivulets of tears down his cheeks.
“Don’t move, Mr. Taverner,” I blurted, “I’ll fetch you a glass of water.” Taverner waved his left arm and hand back and forth as though he were sending an urgent semaphore message, and attempted to speak, but I ignored him, turned and descended the staircase as fast as safety would allow me among so much clutter.
On entering the kitchen, I made for the sink. Not one glass was available that wasn’t either filthy or didn’t have something unnameable living in it. I hesitated with outstretched hand as I reached for the cold-water tap, instinct at once intervening and taking command, causing me to pull back as though something were about to take a bite. Stumped, I turned and looked across to the counter by the fridge-freezer combo and spied the off-white mug Taverner had been using earlier for his coffee and, picking it up, found it to be empty. Without giving the matter a second thought, I reached for the handle of the fridge door and pulled, expecting to find a cold drink of some kind inside which I could pour into the mug and rush back up to Taverner.
As the fridge door swung open and the interior light flickered on, the most god-awful stench of sweet almonds and rotting flesh hit me and, for a moment, I couldn’t draw breath. Then I saw it, and released my grip on the mug, which dropped away from my hand and exploded in a mass of shards on the vinyl floor. My mouth agape, I stood as though paralysed, eyes transfixed by the horror before me. The fridge was all but empty, save for the middle shelf on which sat one item—a large capacity, wide-mouthed glass container with a lid—the grandaddy of Mason jars. Crammed into this, with its features pressed and contorted against the jar’s sides, was a human head, immersed in some kind of colourless liquid. Thank God its eyelids were closed. Despite the twisted features, I couldn’t mistake that redhead mop and freckled face. The head belonged to my former colleague, Neil. I shuffled back, then turned and lunged the few steps to the kitchen sink and, ripping off my facemask, spewed up the contents of my stomach.
I slowed my breathing, then drew the back of my hand across my mouth and nostrils to wipe away the acrid liquid residue, my stomach still churning, tears welling in my eyes. With a start, it then struck me. The eery silence. Taverner’s coughing had stopped. But when? I glanced up into the dirty window glass above the sink, blinking several times to clear my vision—just in time to see Taverner’s reflection as he approached at speed behind me, a claw hammer in his right hand.
As he lunged at me I half turned and side-stepped but wasn’t quick enough—the hammer’s cold metal head glancing off my right temple, sending excruciating shockwaves of pain through me, distorting sight and muffling sound. Taverner’s reeking tobacco breath hit me full in the face as he slammed his body into mine, knocking the wind out of me. Pinioned against the rim of the kitchen sink, I was at Taverner’s mercy as he raised the claw hammer a second time to strike, his eyes full of murderous intent.
With mere seconds to act, I shot my right hand behind me to grab anything in the sink I might use to defend myself—and stabbed myself on the prongs of a metal fork, which might have broken skin had I not still been wearing my latex gloves. In an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy, I grabbed the fork in one smooth movement and shot my hand upwards with as much force as I could towards Taverner’s head, so sinking the blunt-ended handle into his left temple with a sickening crunch. The force of my blow stopped him dead in his tracks. Blood shot across the white of his left eye, giving him a demonic look, and he dropped the hammer and toppled sideways, twisting as he did so towards the kitchen table. His forehead crashed down onto the front rim of Satan’s toilet box, catapulting the rear of the tray upright and sending wet clumps of litter and turds flying over Taverner’s back and across the floor.
Never had I so longed to possess the power of precognition. Were it the case, then I would have foreseen upon waking that by midday, destiny had appointed this day and time to have me staring at the lifeless form of John Taverner, murderer and former council tenant—no longer able to collect his treasures.
