The flat was a shadow-box of clutter
Youve lost your minds! Simon stood his ground. Youve turned the flat where we grew up into a rubbish tip. Youre a disgrace to us, Mum. The neighbours talk about you!
The deeds have all four of our names, said Claire. Ive a share in this place. Simon does too.
And were not about to let you two turn our property into a breeding ground for vermin. Either you pick up the bin bags right now, or…
Or what? William narrowed his eyes. Will you throw us out? Youve no right!
Well get you taken off the register in court, Simon cut in. Send you somewhere the size of a broom cupboard where someone will teach you a thing or two about hygiene.
Claires scented handkerchief was pressed tight to her nose before she even reached the door. The reek leaking from flat number forty-eight was thick and tinged with the sharpness of rot and old grease.
Simon was beside her, fiddling at the collar of his coat with a grimace. He knocked the bell had given up long ago underneath a crust of oily dust.
You reckon theyll answer? Simon muttered.
What other option do they have? Claire shifted her tote. Mrs MacDonald from downstairs rang again last nightthree times. Says cockroaches have started parading up the pipes from our flat. In troops.
The door cracked open. Their mother peered out, her hair a nest of greasy ropes. A huge splodge of something oily adorned her faded housecoat.
What do you want? her voice rasped. Come to snoop again?
Mum, let us in, Simon leant gently but insistently on the door. Were not here to judge. Just need a talk.
They squeezed inside. Claire almost tripped over a mountain of ancient newspapers in the hallway.
Atop the pile: a battered slipper and an empty milk carton, lording it over the chaos.
The sideboard beneath the hall mirror was completely obscured. Paper scraps, receipts, crusty bread ends, a glorious pelt of grey fluffbarely a patch of wood was visible.
Dear God, Claire whispered, wide-eyed. Mum, wheres Dad?
In the lounge, their mother shuffled away towards the kitchen sink, which grew a Mount Snowdon of plates. Watching telly. Why the faces? You act as if youve never set foot here before.
Thats the problem, Mum Simon wandered into the sitting room.
Dad was embedded in an armchair, cocooned by empty pizza boxes, crisps wrappers, and shells from bags of sunflower seeds.
The television screen danced with static, reflected in the grimy glass cupboard, where the old tea set festered in cobwebs.
Hi Dad, Simon went to twitch the curtains.
Leave it! Dad snapped, eyes fixed on the TV. The light gets in my eyes. Sit down or go back where you came from.
Claire ventured into the kitchen, prodding the corner of a tea towel with distaste. Something small and orange wriggled beneath. She pulled her hand back, nausea rising.
Mum, this is beyond a joke, Claire turned. You cannot live like this!
Mrs Atkinson from number 45 said shell report you to Environmental Health. Theyll evict you or slap you with fines!
Listen to you! Mum threw up her hands, almost brushing a sticky shelf. Miss High-and-Mighty!
You and Simon have ruined my life. Spent your childhoods making a pigsty, me cleaning up after you.
Remember, Claire? Porridge on the carpet, Play-Doh mashed into the rug. I learned then: why bother cleaning? Itll be filthy again tomorrow. I got used to it.
Mum, were thirty! Claire shouted. We moved out fifteen years ago! Our places are spotless exactly because we cant stand filth after growing up like this. Hows that our fault? Were not the problem!
Habits die hard, Dad called from the lounge. Dont apologise, love. We like it this way. Feels… homey. And your nosy neighbour should mind her own garden.
Simon drifted into the kitchen, nose twitching.
Enough. Claire and I have decided. Tomorrow youre going to the clinic.
Mum froze, clutching a stained mug.
Clinic? Were not sick!
No, Mum. Well people dont sleep on piles of rubbish. Weve booked you with a geriatrician and a psychiatrist. Could be depression, or that… what is it… hoarding disorder.
Could even be early Alzheimer’s. Were worried, you see? We’re hoping this is something treatable.
You think were off our rockers? Dad finally heaved out of the armchair. His trousers sagged and his vest was riddled with holes. Committing your own mum and dad?
Not sending you awayjust a check up, Claire reached for him. Dad, just look around. Its a tip. Arent you ashamed?
Were comfortable, Mum sniffed. If you keep on, well see your doctors. But only so youll shut up for once!
That was that.
***
Claire and Simon spent the next week ferrying their parents to every top specialist in town.
If its depression, Simon would whisper against a surgery wall at least thats treatable. With therapy… medication…
Maybe hormones, Claire agreed. If its just them… I dont know how I’ll cope.
The psychiatrist called the whole family in. The doctor, a steely-haired woman, rifled calmly through test results, brain scans, endless forms. Mum and Dad sat expressionless.
Well, Doctor? Claire leaned forward. Is there anything wrong?
The doctor removed her glasses and set them on the desk. First she looked at Simon and Claire. Then at their parents.
Ive run every test we have, she said carefully. We checked cerebral blood supply, ruled out dementia, checked the thyroid. Theres no sign of clinical depression.
Your parents have excellent recall for their age. Their orientation and logic are unimpaired.
So…? Simon frowned.
The doctor sighed.
Medically, your parents are perfectly healthy. No psychiatric diagnosis.
But they live in a rubbish heap! Claire cried. You cant breathe in there!
Well, the doctor exchanged a glance with Mrs Taylor. Its called domestic negligence. They just dont care. Theyre lazy.
Theyre comfortable in that mess and see no reason to make the effort. Its upbringing, habit, personal tastenot a medical problem.
A thunderous silence. Suddenly Mum flashed a triumphant grin.
Hear that? she jabbed a finger at Claire and Simon. Healthy, she said! And you said we were dotty.
Claire almost broke down. Shed been so hoping for an illness…
***
They brought the parents home. With a weeks free reign, the rubbish had ballooned. Potato peelings lay across the kitchen table, cockroaches stalking the starchy hills.
So, all done with exams? Dad flopped into his rats nest of a chair. Let us live now. Lock the door behind you.
No, Dad, Simon barked. Not so fast. We hoped you were ill and needed support. Turns out youre just… filthy. So this conversations about to change.
Dont you dare talk to your father that way! Mum leapt up.
This is it. Either you clean up or I go to the council. Youll be evicted, well sort the flat and lock it up.
Mum screeched.
Ungrateful brats! I gave my whole life for you, and now you want me scrubbing the place?
Dont lie, Mum! Claire stepped forward, voice trembling. We were normal kids. You were just always lazy.
Always blaming someone or something. First us, then work, now your age. Truth is you just dont careabout us, yourself, or any of this. You love the filth!
Yes! I do! Mum banged her fist on the mound that was once a table. Dust burst upwards in a glittering cloud. And whatll you do about it?
Stake out the place, mop in hand? You wont. Youve your own lives. Youll scream and storm off. And Ill carry on as I please.
She grabbed a stale bread crust and defiantly took a bite.
Get out. I dont want to see you. Call the doctors for yourselves, you pair of lunatics.
Simon glanced at Claire, his look hollow with pain and disappointment that made her want to cry.
Lets go, Claire, he whispered. Theres nothing left to save. The doctor was right. This cant be cured.
They stepped out. Behind them, Dad demanded the telly turned up and Mums shrill laughter pierced the air.
***
Claire and Simon stayed away for nearly two months. Then, one Monday, Claires phone pinged with a message from Mrs Atkinson:
Its started. Theyve arrived.
She couldnt help herself; she went straight over, stopping on the landing to watch men in biohazard suits and masks entering number forty-eight. Neighbours filled the hall.
Its intolerable! the woman next door was fuming. Cant breathe in my own kitchen, the stench has seeped everywhere! How long must we suffer?
Their parents were led outeach held firmly by an arm.
This is outrageous! Mum hollered, struggling to break free. Ive got doctors notes, Im fine! Youve no right to touch my things!
The cleaners began hauling bin liners outhuge, black, splitting with decades of hoarded filth. There were so many they filled the entire hallway.
A no-nonsense woman from the council glared at William.
Why did you let it get this bad? This is a public health hazardrats, everywhere!
Mum spotted Claire and shrieked:
Claire! Claire! Tell them! Tell them you and Simon didnt help! That you abandoned us!
Claire just turned and walked away. The neighbours clamoured for the family to be thrown out, but she no longer cared. Let them do as they would.
***
Mum and Dad tried to beg a place to stay. Mum rang that evening to announce they were homeless for now.
Who knew how long the clean-up would take? After chemical fumigation, one couldnt sleep there for ages.
Claire refused to take them in. So did Simon. Now, all they felt towards their parents was a cold recoil of revulsion.
