Geriatric Ram Raider

I got a phone call in the early hours of the morning.

It was, even after making allowances for sleep induced stupor, one of those disorientating calls because the voice on the line obviously knew me on a one to one basis. I could not place it.

I feigned recognition in generalities until my memory bank activated and found a perfect match in the folder

 >people: not family: friends: neighbours: acquaintances: people who live in the same street as my office:<.

It was Alec. He lived two doors down from my workplace.

His house was a beautifully and sympathetically restored 1830's built terraced which had resisted acquisition and conversion into offices or consultancy rooms, a fate that had befallen the majority of the properties on John Street. In the 1970's the survival of the inner-city block was in the balance. To the rear there were proposals for large scale demolition and clearance of old back to back and semi derelict dwellings that had, to that period, managed to resist poor original construction, intermittent flooding, gnawing by rats, bombing by the Luftwaffe, arson intent small boys and the misguided ambitions of town planners with aspirations of creating a Utopia in Hull, oh, and a ring road.

The fact that John Street was one of the last of its type in the locality worked in it favour and it was saved from the wrecking ball. I was frequently accosted by Alec on the pavement outside my office with pleas to do a bit more by way of authentic improvements to the front elevation. He was the champion of the application of black gloss paint over the lower courses of brickwork. My building, a functional office, had a rather sun-faded matt black finish which had been painted once, perhaps, in a decade.

We agreed to disagree. After all, we had been awarded a Civic Society Award for the renovation ten years before and were rather sitting on the laurels of it. The visit by two ladies from said Society to adjudicate what we had done was, to my fuzzy memory, very much conducted in a fine sherry atmosphere and playful joviality. I still think we attained the award for being entertaining hosts to the somewhat tipsy, impressionable blue rinse delegates rather than on the merits of the property.

Alec, on the crackling phone line, said that my presence was urgently required. He was a diligent and attentive neighbour and in return for periodic use of fax and copier he kept an eye on our building. Over the years we had been burgled, had the lead stolen from the porch canopy and had to fit a stronger spring to the letter box in the front door after someone (male, possibly) had urinated through it on the way back from a bender at a city centre pub. I did not enter into any detail and was soon driving through the deserted suburbs and into Hull.

As I turned into the Victorian town square, of which John Street formed the northern side, I was not sure what to expect. There was no sign of flames or smoke. Given that the Central Fire Station formed the eastern leg of the square I had not been too concerned about a conflagration being undetected or allowed to run riot. Alec tentatively waved me into a parking space directly outside my office. He said that I had better follow him and we walked past the Old School, now flats, and then a sharp left turn and left again onto the back road which serviced the homes and businesses and a couple of surface car parks.

Where I expected to see our eight foot high palisade gates there was instead a scene of devastation. A blue Ford Fiesta hatchback was firmly wedged not just into the metalwork but through it. Both gates, amazingly were still padlocked together in the middle but useless as a deterrent having been forced up and mangled by the impact of the vehicle similar to trying to open a tin of tuna with a blunt object.

Had this been an opportunistic ram-raid or a means to clamber up and over the gates from the car bonnet and roof?

The actual story was hard to comprehend.

The elderly owner/driver of the Fiesta had come into town for some shopping on what was the usual thursday late night opening. Unable to find a space in the municipal car park she had tried the surrounding streets. The signage for the surface parking at the back of John Street had caught her attention. Driving the sharp left and left again, that I had just walked, she had become disorientated. As her car mounted the kerb and bounced off a wall she was confronted by a large explosion and was immediately shrouded in the air bag as it emerged forcibly from the centre of the steering wheel. No one had told her that the Fiesta L model was equipped with an air bag and so its deployment was even more of a shock, A natural response was for her left foot to hit the brake pedal but instead it had stamped down on the accelerator.

The outcome was now in front of me. It was almost a work of art, Anthony Gormley would be proud with the welding together from speed induced friction of motor car and double gates.

The unfortunate old lady had required hospital attention for minor bruising and injured pride. She also now knew about air bags which must have been a first for her generation. I spent a further two hours waiting for a recovery vehicle to extract the hatchback. It was a difficult operation with the usual bumper mounted tow bar points being at a ninety degree angle to the road. It was easier to lift up the gates with the chains and hooks on the commercial vehicle and with the pressure relieved the blue car just rolled out, or rather was spat out of a teethy metal mass ,looking a bit sad.

It was then elevated onto a low loader and taken away.

Alec and me stood surveying the scene. It could have been a lot worse for the lady and the damage to property was not materially significant. I walked back to my car. Alec, sensing that I was vulnerable, commented that the brickwork on the front of my office would look really good in gloss back. At that time in the early hours, tired and cold I think that I agreed with him. That consensus would be difficult to renege on in the harsh light of day, in about five hours time to be exact.