I first met Dr Kenneth Williamson and his wife, Mary, back in 2010 when I moved into my detached house on Stanton Road after my own marriage broke down. At that time, they had both just retired and were spending as much time as they could manage out walking and chatting to anyone and everyone they met along the way. They even, on a couple of occasions, tried to set me up with the son of one of their friends. I politely declined. After a lengthy divorce, the last thing I wanted was to get into another relationship.
Everything changed one night last March. Mary had passed away in her sleep. I had called round with a newspaper for Kenny, as I do every morning, and found him crying in the kitchen. He had been inconsolable. His partner of 36 years was gone.
After the funeral, he changed. He became massively introvert, much more distant and unresponsive. On the rare occasion that he would speak, he began insisting that we refer to him as Dr Williamson as opposed to Ken or Kenny, which he had preferred previously. He hasn’t been out of the house since the day we buried Mary.
James and Claire Smith, a lovely young couple and good friends of mine from over the road, approached me soon after Mary’s death and voiced their concerns to me about the doctor’s health. We agreed that the three of us would regularly visit him and make sure that the house was clean and he was eating something substantial.
On the first visit, we all attended and we were a little alarmed to find that almost every piece of furniture had been covered in several layers of bubble wrap. The settee in the living room, the dining room table and chairs, even the single bed that his wife had slept in. All that had been spared were the television and his favourite armchair in the living room and the microwave and kettle in the kitchen. Claire asked him where he had found the bubble wrap but he had chosen not reply. We had all exchanged concerned glances at each other; clearly the man was struggling with the loss.
James and Claire discussed this and they thought perhaps that it would better for Kenny’s friends to help him through this difficult time rather than bring in a qualified carer on the sole grounds that he wasn’t coping with the change and more disruption to his daily routine may be detriment to his mental health. Initially, I had been reluctant to go ahead with this but we all agreed that if we noticed any deterioration in his condition, we would arrange for further help for him.
Over the next few weeks, we saw very little progress in Kenny - to the extent that I had been on the cusp of calling in professional care for him more than once – but James and Claire seemed almost unbreakable in their determination to rescue our old friend. He still rarely spoke to us and even when we did manage to draw something out of him it would only be a one word answer to one of our questions. I think what concerned me most was that he would call Claire or myself by his late wife’s name, never our own. I began seriously questioning our decision to do this by ourselves. Our intentions had been good but, now, I’m not sure we have done the right thing.
Earlier today, James and Claire called round at my house after they had cooked lunch for Kenny. Claire wore a smile from ear to ear. Before I could invite them in, she announced that my next door neighbour had insisted that she call him Kenny and to drop the formalities. This was good to hear and I allowed myself a little smile at the news. Maybe our time and effort was paying off after all. I expressed my concern about Kenny’s apparent inability to tell myself or Claire from Mary. James nodded as I was talking. He, too, was still worried about this but he was insistent that Kenny’s request to be called by his first name was a sign that his condition was improving and we just needed to keep up the work we were doing for him.
Before they left, Claire advised that she was going back over to spend the afternoon with him. She hoped to be able to coax him out into the back garden while the weather was nice. James had a few errands to run and would be gone for a couple of hours. I suggested to Claire that I would go over and prepare an evening meal for Kenny later on so she and James could have the evening together. We agreed on this and we all went our separate ways.
I stand now on Kenny’s doorstep with a carrier bag in one hand, which contains the chicken and potatoes I intend to cook for tonight’s meal. Out of courtesy I knock on the door but I don’t wait for it to be answered. Kenny hasn’t been answering the door, anyway. I’ve just gotten into the habit of doing it so he’s aware that I’m coming into the house.
I push the door open and step inside. The first thing I can hear is the television and I smile. I can tell even from here that Kenny is watching one of his nature programmes. He always did love animals; I sometimes wonder why he became a doctor and not a vet. I cut straight through the kitchen and enter the living room to greet him. His eyes are glued to the screen and he seems not to notice me. I glance at the television and shudder at the sight of a spider on the screen. Gross… I hate spiders.
“I’d sit with you for a bit but I think watching this would put me off my dinner,” I joke. He doesn’t respond. He just sits staring blankly at the screen. My heart is sinking at this point. I can’t see any sign here of the man I used to know.
“Did you have a nice afternoon with Cla-“. I’m stopped in my tracks by what I glance through the ajar dining room door.
I push the door all the way open as I step through. There are the dining table and chairs wrapped up as they have been for months, but there was something else now. A figure, wrapped up in bubble wrap like a caterpillar in a cocoon, sat in one of the chairs, slumped forward over the table.
“Kenny,” I manage to choke out the words, “what the hell is this?”
I have a horrible feeling in my gut that Claire is the one wrapped up in here. I suddenly feel very afraid of this place and of the old man in the next room. I want to be back at home, or just anywhere else.
“Mary? Is that you, sweetheart?” The voice behind me makes me jump. I spin round to see Kenny stood in the doorway, staring at me with glazed over eyes. He has a roll of bubble wrap in held tightly in his right hand.
“Got to keep you safe this time,” he says, unravelling the packaging. “I promise I’ll never let them take you away again.”
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Credits to: MikeTheBoomer
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