Southend U3A

August 2023

The Bloke Next Door - Pete Norman

The bloke next door is weird – real weirdy, weirdy, woo, woo weird.

I never hear him – at all. I never see him – at all. I never see him outside – at all. Not ‘out’ out, not in his garden – not anywhere. I never see him put his rubbish out on a Thursday morning – but he clearly must do it, because every single week the Big Biffa lorry stops and empties it for him.

Apart from the bin lorry, the only other connection I ever see is the Tesco van, which comes about once a week . . . but it’s always on a random day and at a random time and so, short of sitting on a chair in my front garden, waiting, all day every day, I have no chance of actually seeing him for himself.

He is so weird.

When I first bought this place, I made a point of introducing myself, by knocking on both sides, to say hello but I got no reply from ‘Green Gables’, despite the fact that I am certain he was at home at the time.

I have thought of all sorts of weird things: like he’s a hermit, shut away in his own little cave; or a troglodyte; or walled up like a nun . . . and, believe me, those were some of the more sensible suggestions I had – you see, I can do weird when I want to.

It is such a quiet little village, with very few houses and very little through traffic and everybody seems to know everybody else – everybody except, of course, the bloke in ‘Green Gables’. Within sight of my front door is the White Lion – the only exception from the cluster of cottages – and I sometimes walk down there for a pint and a little company.

I often bump into Bill and we enjoy a pint together and put the world to rights. I’ve told Bill about the bloke next door and he says that he has never seen him either but that Tom, who walks his Benji last thing every night, has seen him going out, on his bike, heading towards the town. Tom reckons he might be a vampire and that is why he can only go out when it’s dark. Now, that one really made my spine shiver but it also prompted me to maybe do a little bit of super sleuthing.

I haven’t got a bike but I do have an electric car, which doesn’t make much noise – barely a whisper in fact – so maybe I could follow him one night, stealthily and see where he goes.

The plan was to first of all see what time he goes out and then, the next night, wait in the car for him to leave home and then follow him – that’s as simple as I could make it.

I sat on a dining chair, by the window, with the curtains open and with the lights out and waited, and waited and waited and waited . . . but he never came. After a while I had to go to the loo and as I got back, I could just about make out a shape gliding past my window. Bingo! I checked my watch. Now I was all set for tomorrow night.

The next night I wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss him, so I went out to the car half an hour before the time . . . but I so wish I hadn’t. I had not realised just how tedious, how totally boring it was, just sitting in the car, in the dark, with no music playing and the mobile phone in my pocket so that whiling away the time on Spider Solitaire was out of the question.

I was, however, somewhat impressed with his punctuality when he emerged from his gate, almost bang on the same time as yesterday. He rode off towards the town. I gave him a hundred yards start and then followed him. The car lights were off but I knew the road well enough and the pale light of the moon and the glimmer from his rear light were sufficient for my purposes – it would all be ok provided no other cars wanted to share our road.

He was heading towards town, which was only a couple of miles away – if that – and I settled back in my seat and kept my eyes fixed on his rear light.

As we came closer to the town there were street lights, so I let him gain some ground on me before I finally put my side lights on – I could now blend in with the town traffic without creating any suspicion.

He rode down the High Street and past McDonalds and the church but then, suddenly, he turned left. I was pretty sure there was no road just there and, when I reached the spot, I saw that it was a narrow walkway between Boots and the shoe shop. There was no room for a vehicle so I was left staring down it, into the darkness, without any trace of his rear light.

Bugger!

I called up Google Maps and searched for where the walkway came out and a few minutes later I found myself in a dark and narrow back street, home to a vaping shop, a tattoo parlour and a charity shop, the name of which seemed highly appropriate – it was Mencap! . . . but there was no trace of the weirdo or of his velocipede.

I slunk home with my tail between my legs. I was angry at sod’s law and the narrow walkway; I was angry with the weirdo for messing me about – albeit unintentionally – but most of all I was angry at myself, for my obsessive behaviour.

Nonetheless, the next evening I was at it again, with a subtly altered plan. This time I drove the car into the town and parked up far enough away but close enough to see him when he emerged from the walkway. It was a dead end so I made sure I was facing in the right direction to be able to follow him.

I was there bright and early and the car and I melted into the shadows. Another long drawn out, boring time passed until finally I saw a dim light approaching down the walkway. I slipped down in my seat and held my breath. The light grew brighter, the bike emerged from the walkway . . . and turned right . . . and rode across the pavement, out of the dead end of the road and out of sight.

Yes, it was a disappointment; yes, it did look as if I had lost him but I had familiarised myself with the street pattern and I quickly eased the car out of the road and back round . . . only to find that he had disappeared, totally, absolutely, completely!

I quartered this part of the town, carefully searching for any possible sign of the bike . . . without success.

The next night I moved on to Plan C. I parked the car with a clear view of the road where the dead-end bit ended and waited. I watched the second hand of my watch as is clicked around at a glacial pace . . . but then, finally, I saw it – the light – I slid down again and watched as he rode out of the dead end and turned left . . . and almost immediately into the back yard of a building. A door opened with a bright white light and then there was darkness again.

I had a rough idea of the street layout but I drove back round to make absolutely certain – he can only have gone into the flat over the charity shop.

As Alice would have said, ‘Curiouser and curiouser!’

Maybe he was meeting for an illicit game of a poker, or for some clandestine liaison . . . or . . . well, who knows? There was absolutely no point on staying around – I had wasted enough of my time on an intrusive and unforgivable obsession. I officially gave up.

It was a couple of weeks later that I was just about to go up to bed when I heard a car pull up outside. I certainly wasn’t expecting anybody but I was damned sure it wouldn’t be for him, so I opened the front door to go out but, to my surprise, the man went down next door’s driveway. I gave him an apologetic wave and turned back but a part of me was curious, so I took my time.

The man knocked twice but there was no answer. He introduced himself to me as Alan and asked if my neighbour Colin was in. I told him that I had no idea but that he usually went out in the evenings. Alan said, ‘Yes, I know. We both work for the Samaritans but he hasn’t turned up tonight and I really am very worried about him.’ He glanced back at the other house. ‘He’s got a lot of issues himself but he always says that that makes him the perfect one to help the kind of troubled callers we get to deal with. He’s always reliable, you see – always punctual – that’s why I was worried when he didn’t show up tonight.’

I grabbed a powerful torch and together we walked over to the house, shining the light through the windows as best we could but we could see nothing. Then Alan pointed into the far corner of the lounge. I shone the torch across and I could see a pair of feet protruding from a chair.

I hammered on the window but there was no response.

Alan ran around the house trying the doors but when he found that they were all locked, he smashed his elbow through the glass pane of the back door and, before I knew it, we were in the lounge staring down at him . . . at him, that it is and a half empty bottle of whiskey and a couple of packets of Paracetamol.

I shouted out, ‘Call an ambulance!’ I knew this was probably a wasted effort but we had to do something.

There was a low groan and a slurred voice said, ‘Don’t need no ambulance . . .’ He belched. Then, ‘Didn’t have the balls to take ‘em.’

We sat him upright and made him comfortable. He opened his eyes and looked at Alan and then he fixed his eyes on me. ‘Who are you?’

I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, ‘I’m the weirdo next door.’

He seemed to think about this for a moment and then said, ‘Why are you a weirdo?’

I smiled. ‘I tell you what, you two come round to mine for a barbeque tomorrow and over a cold beer, I promise I’ll tell you everything.’