True story.

 

The day contained little of note. Just work, lunch in the park - despite it being far too cold, back to work, then finally home. The winter days were short and filled with rain and clouds. They had said it might snow, but there was no sign of it yet. Cars and buses splashed through the streets, sending up sheets of water from the gutters to soak those who walked on the pavement.

 

But it had also contained a first. As he sat under the arch in the park, eating his sandwich, he had made a decision. And on the way back to his workplace he had stopped off at the chemist.

 

He finally arrived home, wet and tired. He hung his coat in the hallway, tweaking out the folds so it would be dry by morning. He turned the heater on in the small front room and headed to the kitchen to put the kettle to heat on the stove.

 

The paper was very soggy around the edges, but he sat down with it anyway, and read it, as he did every day. He was disturbed only by the kettle, whistling out when it was boiled. Once he had his mug of tea he settled again, and pulled out a pen from the pot next to his chair. He completed the crossword, as he always did, then prepared a simple evening meal. As he ate he listened to the wireless.

 

When it was time to go to bed he hesitated. The past nights had been spent staring into the darkness, sleep evading him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small dark brown jar, looking at the innocent white pills which lay inside it. He fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and placed both it and the bottle on the small table by his bed. Then he completed his regular routine in the bathroom before re-entering the bedroom and changing into his pyjamas. He turned on the bedside lamp, and turned off the main lamp. Now it was as if the pills and the water were in a spotlight, centre stage.

 

He didn’t believe in taking drugs, didn't believe that there was anything his body couldn't cope with without any artificial help. He never took painkillers, antibiotics only under extreme duress. But he knew he couldn't carry on with a few scant minutes of sleep each night. He'd been becoming more withdrawn, his mood plummeting as the intense fatigue each day wore him down.

 

He twisted the top off the bottle and threw two of the pills into his mouth, quickly followed by a sip of water, and swallowed before he could change his mind.

 

He didn't remember falling asleep. One minute he was staring up at the damp patch in the corner of his room, the next his alarm was ringing out, deafening in small room. He reached out for it, his head fuzzy, confused. But he had slept, and his body still felt heavy and sated. He smiled.

 

His morning routine was simple – wash, dress, kettle, make lunch, drink tea – possibly accompanied by a slice of toast, put tie on, find jacket, shrug into coat, and leave.

 

The pale light of dawn was washing over the city streets as he pulled open his front door, the pavement, for the first time all week, was dry, with just a few puddles remaining.

 

And there was a large smear of blood on his door, one end quite clearly a handprint. He stopped and stared, his keys still dangling from his fingers. There was another mark, too. And as he looked at it closely it looked as if it were the end of someone's fist, where they had thumped on the door. For help. Someone had been here, in the night, bleeding and desperate. He looked down at the step – more blood, droplets. He moved out into the street, but he couldn't see any more. It had probably still been raining or wet, so the only place the blood remained was in the shelter of his doorway.

 

He looked up and down the street, then walked, first one way, then the other – looking into the alleyways, anywhere a person could be concealed. There was nothing. He stood in the street, looking at the rows of black painted doors, and then settling on his, bright white gloss. It had obviously stood out like a beacon to the desperate person. And any other night he would have been awake. He would have helped.

 

He spent the day at work more distracted than ever. Just thinking of that red smear, waiting for him, waiting to remind him. He hadn't cleaned it off, in case someone did find the person – or worse, their body. It could be vital evidence. Evidence he had done nothing to help.

 

That evening he took a detour on the way home, instead going to the local police station. He waited at the reception desk, then asked the woman on duty there if there had been anyone found in the area. He explained what he had found that morning, but when she asked one of the officers on duty they said there had been no other reports – no one found injured, or worse.

 

When he got home he cleaned the door, watching the pink water flow down over the paint and onto the pavement. He threw the pills in the bin.

 

That night he lay awake, alert to every noise.

 

His one night trying to silence his demons and get some sleep had done the opposite. Now, added to their ranks was the faceless person, desperate for help.

 

Forty years on he was still haunted by the person he had never met.