To say that Mrs Sleeman was subjected to the most tragic of horrors is an understatement. At seventy five years of age she was a typical, if active, pensioner. Widowed the past ten years, she had organised a relatively busy life for herself – bingo twice a week with the cabal of other ladies in the street; the weekly journey out with her daughter. She dearly missed her late husband, but she had the strength of mind to rise above gloom and sadness and always see the best in life.
Principal to this outlook was her total belief in independence. Not for her the home help or intrusion by state busy¬bodies. Her philosophy was simple. Come the day that she couldn’t look after herself, it would be time to meet her maker – end of story, and that was that. However, life WAS to change the day she came out of the post office with two weeks pension in her purse.
We can argue why the young man did it for ever. Some would say that he had been brutalised in life. In this particular young man’s case the signs were obviously there. Consider the psychological trauma caused by his mother’s refusal to give him Weetabix in the morning; and consider, too, his clothes. No designer labels here. No, this young man tried his best to make up for the poverty he suffered, but he simply wasn’t a walking billboard like his peers. And that, without doubt, could be classed as abuse by his parent.
But whatever the reasons for his actions, at half past nine this particular morning, this particular young man ran up to this particular old lady, formed his hand into a fist, punched her once in the face and then twice in the stomach, placed his other hand in her bag and ran off with her purse.
Mrs Sleeman crumpled into a heap on the pavement. Immediately, people surrounded her, soothing her, checking she was alright and sympathising with her. But although Mrs Sleeman had the presence of mind to realise that the vast majority of humanity in her town were sympathetic and good, the event had an ominous effect upon her philosophy. For as she found herself deposited back in her house, she felt a sudden comfort from its security that she had never before known.
As the days dragged on this security became more omnipotent. Many times each day she would look out of her window and see the world. But whereas before it had been most definitely her world, it increasingly seemed to be alien – to be menacing. And as the days turned to weeks Mrs Sleeman cut herself off from that world. Shopping was done by a home help, and twice
a week the social worker would call to make sure she was alright. Oh, her cabal of friends continued to call, but rather than encourage her to go out, they sympathised and considered cutting themselves off from the world lest they, too, be mugged.
And so the effects of the mugging grew. Mrs Sleeman, no longer active and optimistic; her friends no longer jolly as they went off to bingo, but looking over their shoulders at every shadow and putting distance between themselves and every passing youth. For they were no longer just youths, but would ¬be attackers.
Of course, the young man was oblivious to all this. Immediately upon disposing of the purse he had gone out and bought a pair of designer jeans and a named T-shirt. Now he too could be a walking billboard and, due to the immense courage he had shown during the mugging, was a bit of a hero to his friends. However, one day, unbeknown to him, he and his friends walked past Mrs Sleeman’s window just as she was looking out and hating the evil world outside.
No one can truly explain what went through her head as she saw this young man walk past with his friends. The attack had been locked in time and she had a perpetual memory of the event, including every element of the youth who attacked her. And this young man was that attacker, she knew. But whatever the thought processes, an energy rose within her and, almost without thinking, she found herself rushing to her door, opening it and going out into the world.
Hurrying after the youth, she first called him and then caught him up. His friends looked aghast as she spun him round, poked him in the eye, raised her knee to his groin and waited for him to crumple. Then Mrs Sleeman rifled his pockets and found the proceeds of his latest mugging. Delightedly placing it in her pocket, she totteringly raised her foot and kicked him in the face before heading for home to prepare for Bingo that night.
The effect on the young man was incredible. He had been shamed in front of his friends, and their laughter made him withdraw into himself over the coming weeks. And being so withdrawn, a complete change in attitude occurred and he mugged no more – indeed, he became a totally new man. As for Mrs Sleeman, after being told off by the police, she received an award for courage. And as for the youth who mugged her, his transformation was complete and he became a vicar.
© Anthony North, 1993
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My sister, Janie, was dead. And as deaths go, it wasn’t a particularly pleasant one. Identifying that body was the most harrowing thing I have ever had to do. You can hide the crazed eyes of a violent death by closing the eyelids, but you can’t hide the tautness of the muscles around the eyes. They spoke of the truth of the event – as did the fingermarks around the neck, and the deep gouge in the back of the head. Even the coroner was undecided just when she died. Did the crack on the head kill her, or did it merely stun her whilst those fingers held her in the grip of death?
