A Bad Place

The sweet, sleepy silence of early morning had been shattered. Sara lay cosy under the duvet hiding, but unable to get away from the obtrusive incessant shouting of the television presenters – so loud and 7 am.

Soon after, the sickly stench of cigarette smoke drifted under her bedroom door.

It had been the right thing to do at the time.

“Umm...I feel really bad but, honestly, I've got nowhere to stay and I'm not working. Things are...tight”. Grant felt embarrassed to take Sara up on her offer some weeks previously.

“Not at all. You're welcome to stay - at least for the interim.”

Sara considered herself to be fairly flexible – accommodating, not set in her ways like so many people who had lived alone for years; but Grant's presence was testing this belief. Sky News, soap operas and cigarettes were his diet, and it grated on her.

Sara delayed getting up so she didn't have to face Grant, getting pulled in to sitting on the couch to watch moving pictures. She found she'd even run out of things to say to him.

“So – what are you going to do today?” Sara asked chirpily once she'd extracted herself from her bedroom – probably sounding like an annoying parent to Grant. She didn't care.

Grant screwed his face up and let out a huff of air, signifying “absolutely fucking nothing again.”

Sara quietly harrumphed, “Well, that sounds like fun...” as she grabbed her handbag to leave for work.

“OK – well, have a good day,” she said brightly as she flung the front door open, striding out into the fresh air. She filled her lungs. She fully knew she'd find Grant there on the couch eight or nine hours later on her return.

“I don't know what to do, Karen – I mean, he's been there for almost four months now. I can't shift him!”

“You need to tell him – simple.”

“He's clearly in a bad place. I have no idea whether he is actively looking for work. He tells me nothing, and I don't want to sound like a nag.” Sara could feel herself getting worked up about the situation.

“Look – he's taking advantage of your good nature now. As long as you make it easy for him, he's not going to rock the boat.”

“Ah, yes, my good nature,” Sara pondered as she gazed down at the cream on her coffee. She is what psychologists would describe as a nurturer. Despite being a direct expressive person at work, in her personal life the nurturer would coddle and comfort, causing large chunks of herself to be sacrificed.

Sara felt genuinely bad for Grant – it's true, he was in a bad place right now; but he had got himself into this situation, she had to remind herself. Previously a big spender with a decent job, Grant was smug in his squandering ways. He was a good time; cocktails and coke till 4 am, superb suits and shoes, perfectly styled hair.

Grant would never have presented himself the way he is now.

What had led him to this situation, she couldn't quite tell. Grant said nothing, but she suspects drugs and fraud might have had something to do with it.

There was an upside to all this – Sara was spending longer hours at work getting more done, and accepting more social invitations than she ever had, just to avoid going home.

Sara typed into the search field, 'my friend won't move out'. Google worked its magic, returning pages of advice, both dubious and trustworthy.

Legal remedies, suggested conversations, tips and advice.

She steeled herself, “Right, tonight I have to tell him.”

She was right. There he was on the couch, ashtray full, coffee stains on the table, East Enders shouting at each other. Grant hadn't moved an inch.

Sara placed herself tentatively on the other end of the couch.

“How was your day?”

Grant shrugged. He'd been wearing the same trousers every day for...she didn't know how long.

She persevered, feeling ridiculously nervous.

“How is the job search going?”

“The agencies are all wankers. They're full of shit.”

“OK – this is not going quite to plan,” she quietly assessed.

Sara paused a moment.

“Look, Grant – I know you're finding it tough at the moment, but I really need my space back. Is there some way we can agree a date that you'll move out by?”

Grant looked at her shocked, “So you want me to go? Where, exactly?”

“Do you have another friend you can stay with for a while?”

“No, Sara! That's why I've been here for the last two months!”

“Umm... four, actually...”

“Four, whatever! Where am I supposed to go?”

Sara calmed herself before continuing, “I really don't know, Grant; but you can't remain here forever.” She felt so guilty. Was asking for what you want in life always this hard?

“Why? Messing up your nice little lifestyle, am I?”

She ignored his sharpness. “It was understandable he should respond this way”, she rationalised, followed closely by, “Is this really him?”

Sara drew on Karen, a short, fiery Glaswegian lass. She wouldn't stand for this.

“OK, well, look – I've said what I need to. I am here to help you as much as I can, but it is time for you to find somewhere else to live.”

Grant simply turned back to the television screen.

Two days went by and nothing much was said between the two of them. Sara quietly hoped that this time in his life would teach Grant the lesson he needed, but she wasn't so sure. Her own lesson over recent years with various troubled friends was that there was no point offering 'you should...' statements of advice. It had to come from them.

Day three since The Conversation. Sara had to push hard to open the front door of her apartment. “That's weird.” A pile of plaid plastic carrier bags blocked the entry.

“What's this?” she exclaimed.

Grant didn't speak for a time as he pushed more carrier bags out of the bedroom with his feet.

“Doing as you asked.”

Her face dropped.

“Stop! Just stop!” How could this be happening?

“Just fuck off.”

Passing the tube station entrance, Sara sees a homeless guy - it's his preferred perch - wonders as she frequently does, what leads people to this situation; substance or physical abuse, mental illness? She wants to understand more and pities in equal measures but normally keeps a safe distance like millions of other Londoners. He lies near his shopping trolley, stacked with plaid carrier bags full of a jumble of clothes.

This time she shuffles in her pocket for some loose change. As she looks down, she catches his toenails - chipped and black, and he has shit on his trousers. His stench is homeless rank. As she drops the two pound coin in the used Costa coffee cup, her eyes move up to his; they wander aimlessly from side to side, his lids blinking slowly; a beard knotted and ginger.

Grant simply sees a blurry vision of a person in front of him as the coin jingles to the bottom of his cup.