Short story by Michael Botur
A window smashes, tinkles. Shards of noise cut holes in the night. There’s a lull, for a silent second, then Gazza is bellowing at his woman, or his friend. Some creature in his tribe. This is the eighth instance in eight months. Another of your scumbag trash neighbour’s so-called parties melted into a sludge of ugliness, ruining your tranquil street. You’ve penned three mystery thrillers in which Vietnam veterans wade through a swamp of murder and mortars. That stuff is safe within those book covers. Outside the covers? Outside, it’s ugly, and there is no closing the book.
You speed-dial Noise Control and check on Philippa as you wait to be connected. Your wife’s eyeballs twitch under her sleep mask. She’s almost woken up, her bliss invaded. Philippa sleeps with earplugs in but Gazza’s rabblerousing next door has penetrated her defences. Take control, man, or Philippa will direct her frustration at you. Don’t neglect your manly duty. Protect your family. This used to be a good street before the mental rentals moved in. Regain it, man.
Hello, noise control? Me again, ha ha, I know, I know, terribly late isn’t it, ha ha, and on a Tuesday, I know, I know. You elicit a little laugh from the phone operator. You’re almost apologetic, almost remorseful that you’ve been forced to intervene, but this has to be done. You’re insistent noise control officers intervene at 148a Calcutta Close. Gazza Hendrix and his so-called friends cannot be allowed to ruin the neighbourhood. It’s not even his house – the man has the privilege of renting the place. Just precisely where IS the property manager or landlord? None’s been seen in a year. You inform the phone operator about the decibel breaches you’re registering, recorded thanks to the app on your phone you downloaded after the fifth breach. You insist she gives you her email address so you can personally send her a spreadsheet quantifying the noise breaches. You add a description of Gazza’s reprehensible so-called music, a vile electronica with occasional pauses to lull one into a false sense of security before the DJ’s voice says something about ‘Let the bass drop,’ and drop indeed it does, like a piano crashing into your bedroom. Since bringing his feral children home from school Gazza’s been blasting his apocalyptic soundtrack while cracking open cans of bourbon and cola and making endless calls yelled into his cellphone. There has been six hours of this insult so far. It has to cease.
Ordinarily, when unable to sleep, you’d listen to a little Baroque on your noise-cancelling headphones, but Gazza’s vulgar playlist loops a sample of the melody of Pachabel’s Canon, and this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The pops and shrieks of delight from the Hendrix children as they shoot bottles with a BB gun. The sacks of steaming rubbish left to stew on the berm in the sun. The cracks in your fence from waywarm automobiles.
Tonight, you’re lodging with your lovely listener on the Noise Control hotline the strongest complaint in history. You’re going to get Gazza and his ugly wife and his pitiful children expelled from the house.
You pace your polished oak floorboards as you complain, doing your best to walk on the balls of each foot to minimise your noise, even while the framed diplomas on your wall shudder and rattle. After your call to noise control is officially received and completed, you follow immediately with a strongly-worded email. You then spend an hour with the telescopic lens on your camera, taking photos from the safety of your bedroom windows, the argon-filled double-glazed ones with inbuilt bullet resistance. Around 1.15am, you send the council’s Parking, Barking & Noise Department photos of Gazza smoking some drug through a lightbulb, photos a shard of broken glass which has fallen into your property from one of Gazza’s broken windows, photos of sacks of garbage, proof of an oil slick leaking from a rusting hulk under the fence towards your stormwater drain and, perhaps most ghastly of all, two shirtless children on the deck, having a good time.
You pull powerful noise cancelling headphones over your ears. You duct tape your pillow around your ears, compressing the headphones. It’s 2.15, now. The thinness part of the night, where the uncivilised press against the plastic and threaten to break a hole in the responsible world. You find a Malcolm Gladwell interview on a very informative podcast. It dates back to late 2000, but the message surely remains valid. The gently-spoken Gladwell is discussing the Broken Windows policy first postulated by George L Kelling and then enforced in the city of New York by police chief William J. Bratton. Radical when introduced, Broken Windows is about policing what appear to be minor crimes to dissuade offenders from letting their sin pollute the population. From Gladwell’s cool lips spring statistics showing that within two years of citizens being encouraged to report crimes as minor as a broken window in an abandoned factory, neighbourhoods from the Bronx to Albuquerque to Lowell measured 65 to 78 percent decreases in noise pollution, graffiti, muggings and assaults. New York City overall experienced an eight percent decrease in the eight years 1988 to 1995.
Eight for eight. One a year.
One window too many.
The principle is that each window represents a busted tooth, Gladwell explains. The teeth are the front of any neighbourhood. The first part of a character one notices.
Around 4.20 there’s a female voice imploring somebody not to walk out on the effing road and then a wet SMACK as if somebody has dropped a packet of mincemeat from several storeys. Red and blue lights lick your windows. Gazza begins bellowing at the cops. A woman is crying. There’s a squeal from Gazza’s swing set. The children are playing merrily.
At 4.45, you find the find the name of the property manager, Neelam Gurunathan, on a list which costs $19.95 to download from Anything.com. You let Ms Gurunathan know this is the eighth time in eight months Gazza has let his personal ugliness become everyone else’s problem. You give the name of your solicitor Graham G Baigent, LLB, and inform Ms Gurunathan that unless she gets rid of Gazza, his ugly wife and their two feral children, Mr Baigent will be launching civil proceedings on your behalf.
Enjoy the last of the louche life, Gazza, honestly. Here cometh divine intervention.
You fall into a cloud of foam and cotton.
Felicity pulls her shawl and shoes on and puts the keys in the ignition and backs out of the driveway. Your rhythm is ruined; it’s not until 11 that you roll out of bed, trudge to the study, switch on your computer and sit on your office chair in your dressing gown, moaning into your hands. A key conference call took place at 9.45. You missed the call. Somebody is going to pay.
Barrister and solicitor Graham G. Baigent costs $295 an hour whether visited in person or over the phone. From 9.13 to 9.43am you give him as much pre-prepared information as possible over the phone and he promises to send a letter forthwith, CCing you in. That letter is dispatched at 12.01pm. The end begins.
Mr Baigent’s legal notice is combined with your spreadsheets, your photographs, your video recordings of smacked flesh and cracked glass and clanking cans. The letter concludes by encouraging Neelam to research Broken Windows policy and neighbourhood renewal. To begin with, Gazza must be removed. Neelam must be leaned on, and she in turn must lean on the landlord.
It’s 3.08pm when Neelam telephones your mobile and apologises and promises to take immediate action. Her words have a low status; somebody has leaned on her. She is in trouble. You put two Javanese statuettes on the windowsill to hold the curtains open, sit on the edge of the Ottoman and watch as, 20 minutes following the phone call, Neelam Gurunathan trots up the driveway, looking uncomfortable as the navigates the potholes in the spotty asphalt. Gazza comes to the door in a white singlet, camouflage pants and a blue paisley scarf wrapped around his forehead. Even inside his house, Gazza appears to be wearing thick black sunglasses. His children run among his legs, even though it’s a school day.
Neelam’s body bends and contorts meekly as she hands him a letter in an envelope and attempts to walk away. Gazza opens the letter, understands he’s been given 14 days to vacate the premises, and begins hurling objects at the woman who until a moment ago was his property manager.
Homo paupertas can read a letter! Astonishing, really. Not so astonishing is Gazza’s reaction to the upset. Gazza selects a toaster to hurl down the driveway to the rapidly-departing messenger. The children chase after the toaster and inspect the spring now protruding from its mouth. It’s a sort of rudimentary science lesson to these troglodytes. Something smashes. More males emerge from the house, then follows a long period of drinking cans and smoking on the deck, the men muttering, while the children frolic in the driver seat of a car wreck. Gazza then begins a hauling rubbish onto the kerb – a foaming couch, a mannequin, some tyres. Bottles, cans and crates: he and the children simply throw them from the deck towards the road.
No matter – victory’s achieved. You’ve fixed the broken windows! You! You’re a superhero of sorts – a realistic Batman. You text message to your wife, ask her to pick up champagne and oysters on her way home. You squeeze in a couple hours writing. Hero Dan Drayton finds himself on shore leave in Bangkok and isn’t sure if he should trust the advances of a simply gorgeous Thai girl, who lures him into a grotty flat which resembles 148a Calcutta Close and it’s full of drunk ruffians with back plastic sunglasses fixed to their eyes, baboons in singlets who beat the shit out of the hero just for being eloquent and intelligent and successful and polite and you push your wheeled chair away from your cherrywood desk and lie down on the couch, flipping on the telly for some comfort. Death Wish, the film is. The hero has his comfortable life taken from him by barbarians. He exacts revenge empowered by a Colt .45 pistol. You switch off, take a shower, evaluate your muscles in the mirror, sob a little.
You eat in, that night, in comfort, with a tablecloth and candlelight, Brahms on the radio, and outside, silence like snow.
He shows his face, the landlord does – well, he VISITS the offending property, though he doesn’t remove his black aviators to make eye contact as you’re called over for a handshake and a chat. Ms Neelam Gurunathan introduces you to the man who owns the monkey-cage. She inflects the introduction with apologetic little notes about the conduct of what she keeps referring to as ‘the tenants,’ and backs away to her car to let the men talk. You’re astonished to find yourself dealing with a person who’s professional, civil, responsible. A late 30s man with the physique of a yachtsman and the white cardigan to match. Behind the oily lenses his skin is well-stretched over his skull – he pays for a good chemical, perhaps, or a great surgeon, or maybe it’s just the lifestyle of sunny days and salt-spray and charts showing healthy rental yield which really let a man sleep at night. He says he splits his year between sailing Kowloon Bay and tending to his investment properties in this country. He’s a respectable man – you can tell by his handshake, his jawline.
Once you’re done chatting, he’s given a tour of the run-down bungalow by Neelam – apparently for the first time. The owner of this half-a-million dollar asset appears never to have seen the actual building. He strolls the deck merrily, perhaps imagining he’s on the deck of his launch. He kicks aside whatever objects are in his way – a sun-brittled plastic buggy, a dog dish, more bourbon cans.
Close to the conclusion of the tour, the landlord speaks to you over the fence.
‘By the way, brother,’ he says, looking down his nose so you almost get a glimpse of his eyes, ‘I could use someone like you to check my assets for me, if you’re needing work. What’re you doing for work right now?’
‘I edit a financial industry publication; I also publish action thrillers…well, I will, so long as my agent gets off her behind and…. Anyway, I’m gainfully employed, but thank you.’
He looks startled at that and pushes the sunglasses back up his nose. ‘I just assumed, since you’ve been monitoring these guys 24/7… .’
‘When you say check your assets, d’you mean the tenants, or… Because I work in financial services, if it’s time to revise your portfolio– ’
‘Tenants come and go. Brick and mortar’s the part that stays. Safe as houses, my friend.’ He hands you his business card. It’s thick and heavy and white. ‘The world needs people like you. Hit me up if you wanna go pro. Be a kicker-outer.’
The landlord doesn’t appear to have a vehicle of his own. Ms Gurunathan opens the back of her Prius for him and he hops in and disappears. Onto the next property, presumably.
It’s settled, then. Gazza the window breaker, the polluter of neighbourhoods, is moving on, with his tribe of cavepeople in tow. Gareth ‘Gazza’ Hendrix, whose last name prickles you with its non-traditional spelling, its pretentious X as if he’s trying to make a political statement by spelling his name stupidly.
The world needs people like you. Be a kicker-outer.
Supper tastes all the more incredible tonight with the garnish of praise from somebody rather reputable.
You lean your chair back from the dinner table to dip your ears in the ambrosia that is Pachabel’s Canon, and stroke your wife’s hand. Later, you make love.
They carry crumbs from the house like ants in a steady procession across five hours, and then the house is restored.
Gazza’s common law wife is seen, briefly, carrying small seedlings out from the basement and loading them into the back of a van covered in bumper stickers. Gazza himself spends his final afternoon doing endless loops around the driveway on a BMX bicycle, as if grinding his musk into the concrete. The children are spotted carrying armloads of shiny orange metal out. They’ve stripped the copper from the hot water cylinder, presumably, and you begin dialling the police before watching them all vanish, and ending the call, and that’s that. A year of terror concluded not with a bang, but with a whimper.
You enter a zone of bliss. With the ability to concentrate on your work, you move up and up through the peerage that is literary fiction. First there’s the Pushcart Prize, which your publisher nominated you for without a hope you’d achieve the thing. Then there’s a two-page spread in the weekend paper listing what you suppose is a rather impressive six novels and three works of historical research, not to mention academic papers. What really hauls you onto a podium is the telephone call directly from Penguin managing director Ferguson Chen, who says he has a talent acquisition manager with an opening perfectly suited for your type of writing – so long as you can bring more spies into your books.
You’ve been working on a tome about the first stock market formed by the men who seeded forestry in this country and sold 20 year bonds tied to the value of pine, but you suppose you could squeeze in a Russkie or two.
That night, you and Felicity celebrate with a dinner and a show – Madame Butterfly, a 2.5 hour return trip to the city centre and home, cringing as the car slows as you approach your home and practically orgasming as your ears realise there is no sound on the street. Gazza is gone.
The advance on the book Penguin pays you is comforting, soothing. You purchase a new oak bookcase, an $800 chair, and upgrade that Range Rover of yours to a 2018 Tesla.
For a month, your guts are a pretzel of twisted angst while you check to see what kind of poor people are being dumped in your neighbourhood now but each time slice the curtains and peer out through your binoculars, there is little to look at.
With no new neighbours appearing, you contact property manager Neelam Gurunathan to ask for an update.
Miss Gurunathan no longer works for Asset Advance, you’re informed.
The new property manager, Jitesh Johnson, informs you the decision has been made to keep the house empty for a year to “increase its value.”
Pressed to explain, Mr Johnson breaks it down for you. It’s a formula known as a TRA, or Tenant Risk Algorithm. The decreasing value of a property caused by suboptimal tenants is plotted on the Y axis of a three dimensional graph. Rising prices for pristine houses are plotted on the X axis. The Z axis shows the rental payments of the tenants, which restore some balance to the force tugging down the price of a house once it is no longer pristine.
‘It’s like when you drive your Tesla off the lot, it loses half its value the moment it hits the street, sometimes better to leave a property empty, know what I’m sayin?’
You tell him you do indeed know what he is saying. Your ears prick up. Jitesh Johnson is a man you can identify with.
‘Listen, we got some seriously bad TRA scores with our applicants at the moment,’ Jitesh Johnson explains, ‘So if you know any good tenants needing a place, please send ’em my way.’
You inform the property manager that you don’t interact with people of the renting class and that anyone with half a brain years ago got a deposit for a mortgage, put the money on a house, signed up for the Reserve Bank newsletter and watched house prices push up from underneath like being on top of a luxurious lilo as it inflates.
This TRA thing is fascinating, however. You discuss it with Felicity over supper, meditating about the haves and the have-nots and how you can understand why sterilisation if offered to certain families and it’s really doing them a favour. After a little lemon gelato, you squeeze in a quick three hours of writing before bed. There’s a rather wooden subplot your editor has insisted you put in in your otherwise-innovative spy novel. Around midnight you wearily add something about the villain’s TRA score enraging him and turning him into a remorseless maniac. It’s humane, you feel. It’s a realistic motivation. Next time you’re on a panel at a literary festival and you’re asked how you manage to understand the complexities of each of your characters, perhaps you’ll reveal your genius.
Or perhaps you’ll chuckle quietly to yourself.
Hammering, male voices, a pang of cigarette smoke, the buzzing drone of a saw. There’s the waft of fresh sawdust through your open kitchen windows. All this at eight in the morning.
People have returned to 148a Calcutta Close – a couple of rough-looking men wearing boots so thick you’re surprised they can lift their feet, yes, then there’s a trio of Chinamen. You’re shocked to see Gazza is amongst them, swapping lighters, cupping their hands over cigarettes. They’re drinking as they work, waving at a crane which has suddenly darkened the street. It lowers a giant metal bin, and the males motion it forward, walking backwards. The beastly bin lands with a PCHUNK, scaring the birds. The men begin tossing rubbish into it. Gazza Hendrix – surely that’s not him, but his gait, his physiognomy, it HAS to be – Gazza works with enthusiasm. Perhaps he’s on that so-called crack everybody talks about.
You manage to get Jitesh Johnson to answer his mobile phone. You pace your polished oak hallway.
First question: isn’t there some sort of legal restraint against that man returning to the property?
Secondly – does he know I asked for him to be kicked out? Is my family in danger?
‘Please don’t sweat, he’s used to getting kicked out of places all the time,’ Jitesh Johnson explains, ‘He knows it’s nothing personal.’
The property manager explains that Gazza has come back purely to labour on the house, Jitesh says. No wonder Gazza looks so unfazed ripping things out. The old hot water cylinder is being taken out, there’s some asbestos cladding that requires careful removal and a mountain of black rubbish sacks, plus there’s the windows – they’re being replaced with double-glazing filled with argon gas.
Gazza spends the week living on the lawn out back; he’s not allowed inside the house. As soon as demolition and renovation are complete, his tent disappears.
Your life goes from strength to strength. It’s not just the three book deal with Grove Press, the Bertelsmann imprint dedicated to VietLit. It’s the ability to complete your FinTech hours for a higher rate from Wednesday forward. It’s the comfort, the satisfaction, the upbeat result from your cardiologist. It’s being able to sit in 148b Calcutta Close and truly feel safe within your walls.
It’s the way your wife points her nose in the air as she’s hot-gluing wires onto her sound installation. Felicity is about to display an exhibit at the art museum showing how the eruption of Mt St Helens inspired a hundred artists who scraped grey across their paintings, often mixing real ash into the pigment, creating a new movement known as Emergency Art. She’s painstakingly brushing, turning her head (away from you), adjusting her lips, biting her tongue, straining her biceps to connect the wire to the diode and…. Light! You have light!
You seize her, haul her up. She looks you up and down, asks you what makes you think you’re worthy of her donating her body to you.
You’re happy, that’s what. Pure, Buddhist, Libertarian, relaxed, unselfconsciously happy. The renovations next door have begun to wane. With the poverty stripped out, good money is sure to flow in. You’ve defeated the noisy neighbour’s reign of terror, you’ve demonstrated to some lowlives that their conduct will result in punishment, you’ve shown children that their parents must obey a community’s standards. You’ve quieted the neighbours’ house and quieted your own. And – to top it all off – you’ve become a wolf of publishing. A don, a silverback. A hero. A man. You want her to join you in celebration of yourself. In celebration of the two of you. Happiness rediscovered.
That happiness begins with a hard and shocking shag against the bookcase in the conservatory, where Felicity’s buttocks hit the wooden frame hard enough to shunt tomes out of the shelf. Your kisses afterward are wet, sloppy, careless, your lips smeared on her eyes, her lashes on your tongue, her hand on your hammering heart.
The Pony of the Penines is a 2000 piece train puzzle spread across the mahogany table in front of your bay window. It cost well over 150 Euros and was a limited edition design from exclusive German puzzle manufacturer Berslfärne. You have it priority shipped over Amazon, plus insurance, bringing the total cost to €204.
With Gazza gone – and his pickup truck gone, and its obnoxious rubber testicles gone, and parties gone, the cans of bourbon – everything seems polished. Your world glows warmly. It’s the shy smiles of mothers on the street pushing prams. It’s a film at the Rialto Cinema Deluxe with three hours of Anna Netrebko singing Aida at the Met while you sip a tiny bottle of champagne and enjoy a crisp choc top ice cream with pecan nuts. It’s a trolley pushed through a safari of familiar faces, it’s gouda cheese and the right Chianti.
You’re exiting the supermarket and there’s a beggar with sunglasses on, blonde-ish dreadlocks and – oh God, say it isn’t so – children twisting between his legs like pythons.
You reach into your pocket automatically, hold your wallet tightly, fondling subtly for coins, of which there are none.
Your car lies just beyond Gazza and you have no choice but to pretend to receive a call on your mobile phone, saying Yes, honey, I have wine and cheese and I do believe that’s all required, home, James, and don’t spare the horses, ha ha.
They’re seen again, days later, one the corner of main street and high, thumbs out. The wife is reclining on a bench behind Gazza and his children, napping.
You spot Gazza and his strange entourage once more on the waterfront, where a photographer is taking photos of you with the wind flicking your scarf so those who open your books know you live in a moody world of tempests and discomfort.
Your ears are alerted to a squeal from the children of a particular register which can only mean Hendrix children – a certain vomitous, regurgitating hacking of the throat you long-ago learned to hate. The children’s gross cough is followed by their mother telling them to shut up. They’re easy to spot, the Hendrixes. They’re amongst a pile of suitcases, Gazza pacing and smoking, buried in a baseball cap and piles of tattoos on his shoulders, evidently waiting for someone to take the family somewhere.
‘YO!’ comes the spear of noise. It lands in your back, pinning you. Dan Drayton would never creep away, pretending not to have been engaged in conversation.
‘Gary,’ you say, and swallow. He comes jogging over, surprisingly sprightly, as if upbeat. Happiness derived from, what? Methamphetamine?
‘Just wanted to say laters, cheers for being neighbours and all that.’ He’s short, up close, and what appeared through your binoculars to be intimidating muscles is simply fleshy heavy fat. He sticks out his hand to shake. It’s calloused and the fingertips are yellow. There are three watches on his wrist. ‘Might see you round town?’
What does the inflection on town mean? Is it a promise? A threat? A plea for shelter?
A child’s face appears between his legs as if he’s just given birth. The child crawls through Gazza’s legs, runs excited laps around the man. ‘Can we stay here and play, daddy, pleeeeease?’
‘Yeah, whatevs,’ he tells his son, ‘Got no place else.’
Tonight’s dinner party is certain to go ahead smoothly. You spent hours researching the structure of Japanese degustation – days, actually. The guests arrive; you’re hired the babysitter to adjust their cars on your driveway perfectly aligned with the driveway’s margins; the babysitter doubles as a coat girl, storing everybody’s furs and Cashmeres on a clothes rack. After drinks begins the kaiseki.
After kaiseki follows sakizuke, hassun then takiawase.
The conversation begins with widespread agreement that that DREADful Kim Jong-Un is surely going to get what’s coming to him, now that North Korea is under Chinese occupation and the coup has ousted the Kim regime. The United Nations blue hats can’t arrive swiftly enough. What escalates the conversation is Richard Sager’s provocative postulation that Kim Jong-Un is an unrealised genius, a sort of political Kanye West who’s talent and gaining attention through super-viral marketing should only be commended.
While the mukozuke, futamono and yakimono courses are served, a playful argument ensues with much shushing and flapping of fingers, indignant snorting, explosions of laughter, refills of bubbly wine. From the discussion of global threats arises a discussion about the threat of climate change. From climate change, humanity’s ability to adapt is discussed. From failure to adapt, the topic of human drains on the economy, propping up the poor, forced sterilisation and universal basic income. The fate of starving poor people is lobbed about; then the first question, naturally, about the fate of those pesky neighbours is proffered.
You’ve complained about them for a year, now everybody’s wondering what the complaining was all about.
Over the su-zakana, shiizakana and naka-choko, the crisp prawns, the chewy rice, the bitter onion soup, you try to stick to the positives; constructive commentary. You point out that Gazza has had many options. In fact, he’s privileged to be offered a motel. Gazza Hendrix is privileged to have had what he had.
Sasha Gold observes that over 44 percent of so-called poor people actually collect benefits which, added up, often give total greater comfort than that enjoyed by legitimately hard workers.
James Boxleitner doesn’t agree, and reports that in his years on the board of Salvation Station, the divide between middle class, working poor and benefit-dependent shrank every six months until there was no divide left whatsoever. He adds that by 2008, Malcolm Gladwell was, at every public appearance, mentioning his acceptance that Broken Windows was a failure whitewashed by Mayor Rudolph Giuliani. Broken Windows policies entered many people in the criminal justice system, permanently altering the course of their lives irreparably.
Broken windows, obnoxious noises, the stench of burning tyres: all problems which can be solved. Not social problems. Simple problems of effective rubbish disposal and council monitoring for compliance. No need to shunt someone’s life off the road.
‘Broken windows is completely discredited, you didn’t know?’ Boxleitner asks you, sneering, ‘We must bring you up to speed.’
‘It doesn’t change anything,’ Felicity interjects, standing in front of you. ‘Have some more Chianti.’
‘This stuff is $200 a bottle,’ he says. ‘It’s liquid gold, with fewer applications, and single-use.’
‘Just drink it.’
He has to peer around Felicity’s hips to look you hard in the eyes. ‘Auction it; let me auction it. You said you had two in the cellar.’
‘Boys!’ Felicity claps her hands. Fortunately, she lays out the Ko no mono, looking immaculate in her kimono. Following this course comes the tome-wan then the mizumono. Everybody chews, pausing periodically to wipe their lips with silk napkins and donate compliments to you and Felicity.
It’s collectively agreed that all in all, Gazza’s mysterious life and confused values require closer anthropological inspection, Sasha Gold’s nephew happens to be doing his masters in social anthropology and would be delighted to get in touch with the Nasty Neighbour if you happen to have his details and it feels good to proffer Gazza as a tool which somebody responsible can use, but when you come to write down the man’s number and address and loved ones and how to catch up with him, all you have is a name.