James Bowen: The World According to Bob

The policemen also seemed to know about the flats and its dodgy past. They were pretty understanding.

‘OK, Mr Bowen, that’s all I need for now, it’s unlikely we will need a further statement for the inquest, but we will keep your details on file in case we need to speak to you again,’ the PC told me.

We chatted for another moment or two. He told me that they had found some ID on the guy and also some medication which had his name and address on it. It turned out he was on day release from a psychiatric ward.

By the time I saw the officer back out into the hallway, the scene had been completely cleared. It was as if nothing had happened. It was as quiet as a grave in the flats. No one else seemed to be around at this time of the day.

In the quiet I suddenly felt myself being overwhelmed by what I’d just seen. I couldn’t hold back my emotions any longer. Back inside the flat, I just burst into floods of tears. I called Belle on my mobile and asked her to come over that night. I needed to talk to someone.

We sat up until well past midnight and drank a few too many beers. I couldn’t get the image of the guy collapsing out of my head.

I was in a state of mild shock for days. On one level, I was shaken by the fact that this poor guy had died in that way. He’d spent his final moments on the floor of an anonymous block of flats, in the company of a complete stranger. That wasn’t the way life should work. He was someone’s son, maybe someone’s brother or even someone’s father. He should have been with them or his friends. Where were they? Why weren’t they looking after him? I also wondered why on earth he had been allowed out of his psychiatric ward for the day if he was that vulnerable?

But, if I was honest, the thing that hit me hardest was the realisation that this could so easily have been me. It might sound silly now, but I remember thinking that it felt a little bit like Scrooge being visited by the ghost of his not-so-distant past.

For the best part of a decade, I had lived like that. I too had been a phantom figure, hiding away in stairwells and alleyways, lost in my heroin addiction. I had no real memory of the details, of course. Large chunks of my life back then were a complete blur. But it was safe to guess that there were probably dozens – maybe hundreds – of occasions when I could have died alone in some anonymous corner of London, far from the parents, relatives and friends from whom I’d cut myself off.

Thinking about it in the wake of this man’s death, part of me couldn’t actually believe that I’d lived that way. Had I really been reduced to that? Had I really done those things to myself? A part of me couldn’t imagine how on earth I’d been able to insert a needle into my flesh, sometimes four times a day. It seemed unreal, except I knew it was reality. I still bore the scars, literally. I only had to look at my arms and legs to see them.

They reminded me of how fragile my situation remained still. An addict is always living on a knife edge. I would always have an addictive personality and some mental health issues that I knew made me prone to destructive behaviour. All it needed was one moment of weakness and I could be on the way down again. It scared me. But it also stiffened my determination to continue that slow descent to earth that my counsellors had talked about. I didn’t want to be that anonymous man on the stairs again. I had to keep moving on.

We all have our obsessions in life. For Bob, it’s packaging.

The assorted collection of boxes, cartons, wrapping papers and plastic bottles which we use during our day-to-day life around the flat, absolutely fascinate him. And some materials fixate him more than others.

Bubble wrap, naturally, is a source of endless entertainment. What child doesn’t love popping the bubbles? Bob goes absolutely crazy with excitement whenever I let him play with a sheet of it. I always keep a watchful eye on him. Each time he pops a cell with his paw or mouth, he turns and gives me a look as if to say ‘did you hear that?’

Wrapping paper is another fascination. Whenever I unwrap a present for him, he shows more interest in playing with the fancy paper than with the actual toy itself. He is also endlessly obsessed by the crispy, crunchy cellophane used inside cereal packets and by supermarkets to wrap bread. It never ceases to amaze me, but he can spend half an hour rustling a ball of cellophane. Balls of scrunched up aluminium kitchen foil have the same effect.

There is, however, no question about his absolute favourite type of packaging: cardboard boxes. He basically sees every box he comes across as a toy, an object designed to provide him with hours of fun. If I ever walk past Bob with a cardboard box in my hand he lunges at me as if to grab it. It doesn’t matter whether it is a cereal box, a milk carton or a bigger box, he bounds up, paddling his paws quickly as if to say ‘give me that, I want to play with it NOW’.

He also loves hiding away in the bigger boxes, a habit that has given me a case of the heebeegeebees on at least one occasion.

I don’t let Bob wander out of our flat on his own and the windows are always closed to avoid him climbing out. (I knew cats had the ability to ‘self-right’ themselves in the air and we were ‘only’ five floors up, but I didn’t want to test his flying abilities!) So when, one summer evening, I couldn’t find him in any of his usual spots I panicked slightly.

‘Bob, Bob, where are you mate?’ I said.

I looked high and low, a process that didn’t take too long given the smallness of my flat. But there was no sign of him in my bedroom or in the kitchen or bathroom. I was beginning to genuinely worry about his welfare when it suddenly struck me that I’d put a box containing some hand-me-down clothes I’d been given by a charity worker in the airing cupboard. Sure enough, I opened the cupboard to see a distinctive ginger shape submerged in the middle of the box.

He’d done the same thing again not long afterwards, with almost disastrous consequences.

Belle had come around to help me tidy the place up a bit. It wasn’t the most organised and orderly of homes, at the best of times. It didn’t help that, for years I had been a bit of a magpie. I don’t know whether I subconsciously harboured dreams of opening a junk shop or whether I was just fascinated by old stuff, but somehow I’d collected all sorts of bits and bobs, everything from old books and maps, to broken radios and toasters.

Belle had persuaded me to chuck out some of this old tat and we’d organised a few cardboard boxes full of them. We were going to throw some in the rubbish but take others to charity shops or the local recycling place. Belle was taking one box down to the rubbish area outside the flats and was waiting for the lift to arrive when she felt her box jiggling around. It freaked her out a bit and I heard her scream from inside my flat. By the time I opened the door to see what the trouble was she’d dropped the box to the floor and discovered Bob inside. He was extricating himself from a collection of old books and magazines where he’d curled up for a nap.

Soon after that I’d actually made him a bed out of a cardboard box. I’d figured that if he slept in one he might be less obsessed with them at other times. I’d taken one side off a box then lined it with a little blanket. He was as snug as a bug in there. He loved it.

It didn’t entirely get rid of his obsession, however. He remained deeply interested in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. Whenever I put something into the bin he would get up on his hind legs and stick his nose in. If I ever challenged him he would throw me a look as if to say ‘hey, what are you throwing in there? I haven’t decided if I want to play with that or not.’ For a while, I started jokingly calling him the garbage inspector. It wasn’t always a laughing matter, however.