Whitehurst WIP

It was near impossible not to respond. Everyone had computers, didn’t they? They had holographic mobiles, tablets, the old style smartphones some people refused to let go of. In most other places, it was only the occasional household that she had to visit, often because the homeowners were paranoid over the government pursuing them. There had been one guy who chased her off by throwing empty cans at her, but most seemed to relent eventually.

But seven thousand non responders? Every village may have its idiot, but this one seemed to be populated with them.

She turned her Mini into her first housing estate. A soulless part of the town, she thought. The brick houses were all the same, squares with the same white rimmed windows, four on the front of each house. A couple of the front gardens were overgrown with tall grass and weeds, a rose shrub growing out of control over a fence. An elderly man was sat in a chair in his front garden, staring unblinkingly at the house opposite him.

Laura supposed she had better do this in numerical order. Number one was on the far right, so she pulled up into a spare parking bay. She grabbed her overstuffed folder, ensured her census officer vest was on, and stepped out. The estate was oddly quiet. She had expected to hear inane chatter or supposedly ‘sick’ kids outside playing, screaming and laughing. It was Monday after all. Leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, and birds twittered, but those seemed to be the only sounds.

It was warm, so she had expected to hear a radio playing in someone’s garden. The old man’s, perhaps. But there was only silence.

Do they know I’m coming? Laura thought suspiciously. Are they all pretending to be out, all at the same time?

After all, it wasn’t uncommon for neighbourhood residents to communicate to each other.

She headed to Number One, Marsh View, through its gate and to the smart painted black door. Up close, she supposed the houses were desirable enough. Not quite like those country idyllic houses on the other side of town, like the houses people dream of or the ones seen on television. Still, they were decent enough for most people to aspire to.

Laura rapped twice on the black door, and took a step back on the porch. Then waited. Her eyes drifted for a glance at the window to her right, waiting to catch the curtains twitching, or a person scurry out of sight. Yet, there was nothing. She waited to hear something behind the door. The thumping of footsteps on stairs, or a barking dog, or the inane voices from a television.

Yet the house was completely silent. Perhaps, genuinely, there was nobody in. She marked the house as ‘absent’ on her list, and headed to next door.

House two looked the same as the first. The same black door, the same windows in the same position. This time, she could see the glow of a television screen inside the house. So, there was somebody home.

She rapped twice on the door, and took a step back. Then waited. She thought she could hear someone approaching on a hard floor.

The door clicked and swung open, inwards. A man in his early fifties had answered her. He gave her an empty look. As if he was totally vacant behind his grey eyes. Laura forced a smile.

“Good morning” she greeted as she checked her notes. Number two was home of the Barrows. “Am I speaking to Mr Barrow?”

His stare was blank, and he barely blinked at her. Most people would react when their name was spoken, perhaps a bristle, or a slight raising of their eyebrows as they were addressed. It was as if she was speaking of someone other than this man.

"I'm Laura Hill, I'm here with the census forms," she tried again. She flashed her badge on a purple lanyard about her neck. "Is it alright if I ask you some questions?"

The response was a slight hum, a slight nod of his head. Laura brandished her pen from her pocket, clicked it ready to write. This is old fashioned as hell. She should have had a tablet that automatically typed out what was being said. It would have been easier, and far quicker for her. Government cuts again, she supposed. As far as 'civil servants' went, she was on the lowest rung and not worth spending too much money on. The old pen and paper was good enough.

"Can I ask for your full name, Mr Barrow?" she asked.

"Barrow," he replied. "Barrow."

Was he trying to be funny? "Barrow Barrow?" Laura questioned. It sounded like a joke name. "I mean, your first name, second name, then your surname."

The request confused him. His eyes seemed to roll back as he tried to come up with a name. He stood there, giving no response to what should be a very simple question.

"I mean, what do your family and friends call you?" Laura had to clarify further. For a question so simple? "I doubt they call you Mr Barrow, Mr Barrow."

His haggard face creased into a frown. He was trying to remember what he was called, although he shouldn't have had much trouble recalling. He was on record as being married, his wife still living with him.

"John," he said.

"Okay," Laura said as she noted down the first name. "And your middle name?"

"Barrow."

"That's your surname, sir."

"John Barrow."

She could have pulled her hair out in frustration. Laura bit down the growl that was rising in her throat, fought the urge to roll her eyes. No one could possibly be this stupid. He had to be having her on. It would be impossible for him to be living in the community. Her hand squeezed around her pen just that little bit tighter.

"I just need your middle name," Laura said, trying hard to keep her face neutral. She could feel her cheeks reddening with anger, regardless. She could put it down to the heat outside.

"John Mister Barrow," was the response.

"Mister is a title. You have another name that is your middle name."

"John John Barrow."

Clearly, he was not going to divulge his middle name to her, and she would be here all day asking the same question and getting increasingly stupid responses. Laura ground her jaw, and decided to leave the box blank. This was the government asking. They could find out his middle name easily enough if they so wanted. They didn't need a monkey to keep asking the same bloody question like a stuck record.

Next question was his age. When was he born? If he barely remembered his name, Laura had her doubts of him knowing his year and date of birth. He looked early fifties. So, around 2021? Maybe? He wasn’t old by any means. Her friend had text her that she had filled in a form for a one hundred and twenty two year old woman just a few days ago.

With a deep breath, she asked the question. Pull a small smile, and keep friendly, her pen ready on her form. Wait for an answer. However long that may take.

John Barrow hummed, searching his mind for his birthday. Laura assumed he was an early 2020s baby, the Covid generation. A pandemic baby. Late 2010s at most.

“Uh...is it March?” John asked to himself. “I want to say March. Twenty...twenty...two? One?”

As she feared, he was pulling out random numbers hoping for the right answer. The problem was that Laura didn’t know what the answer was. She had never met this man before in her life. She wasn’t even from Whitehurst. Barely had to ever trek to Whitehurst, and all she knew of it was that it was a small town with barely anything in it. A dead little place, really.

She stood there for several minutes, all the while John deliberated his own birthday. Laura clenched her jaw, biting down the outburst that threated to explode from her tongue. To call him a goddamn idiot for not knowing his own bloody birthday. For not even knowing his name. Who forgets their own name?

“We’ll just send the information to the secretary,” Laura finally decided. “Shall we move on? What is your occupation?”

“Uh, my what?” John asked, his frown deepening. “Oh...occ-occ...”

“Your job,” she had to clarify. “What is your job?”

“J-j-job?”

If the concept of a job was foreign to him, she was about ready to walk away from this one. Basic questions, and this man didn’t know anything.

Then, he shook his head. “No job.”

Laura noted that he was, apparently, unemployed.

The whole process had to be repeated with his wife that she knew lived here. Somehow, even the concept of a wife confused this man. A wife. The woman he was married to. She lived with him.

“Who lives in this house with you?” Laura asked, her head beginning to feel inflated with frustration.

“Sah...Sah...Savannah...” John forced out. “A lady called Savannah...”

“Savannah Barrow?”

John had to shout his wife to come to the door, to answer questions that he, as a husband, should know about his wife. Footsteps plodded down the stairs on the inside of the door, a rumble from within the house. Down came Savannah Barrow, a similar age to John, but perhaps a couple of years younger. Her hair was a bright, curly yellow, that it reminded Laura of a children’s cartoon, but her lips looked more ridiculous. Like two, over fluffed pink pillows on her face. Her lower lip appeared to be melting, the skin their showing the first hints of sagging.

She must have had those old lip fillers. Or never kept up her appointments.

“Hello, Mrs Barrow,” Laura greeted her, remembering to remain polite. Her lips pulled into a smile, but she felt it too exaggerated. “I’m here with the census. I just need to ask you some questions about yourself.”

She didn’t think it was possible, but Savannah Barrow looked more blank behind her eyes than her husband. At least she recognised her name. If she knew that, perhaps she would be aware of her middle name. Probably not much else by the look of her, though.

“Can I ask you what your middle name is?” Laura had to ask.

Savannah only blinked at her, as if unaware of what she was being asked. How could she not know het full name either? One person being an idiot to such a degree was just poor luck to come across them. But two? In the same household? Unless they were both in special educational needs class in school, but even they would know their own names.

“Savannah,” was Savannah Barrow’s reply.

Not again. If these people were not stupid, they must be playing a joke on her by pretending to be so. Laura was beginning to think that this play was long past its sell by date, but they kept playing their parts of idiocy.

They could have been conspiracy theorists, believing the government was out to get them by sending one of their low ranking monkeys to ask them about themselves. She had come across those people, but they were more direct in telling her to fuck off. That they wouldn’t tell the government anything, they wanted to be left alone. It was stupidity, mind. They had their DVLA issued licenses, their passports, their birth certificates, their national insurance numbers. The government knew who they were.

Laura sighed. “No, your middle name. Savannah is your first name.”

The woman pursed her inflated, melting lips in thought. Dark eyes darted from side to side. This had to be a performance, it just had to be. Playing stupid to make her give up and leave them alone. If it was, then it was a far cleverer ploy than telling her to go away. Put in the politest of terms, that was.

If it was, their persistence in their roles was almost admirable. Almost. It was, admittedly, frustrating. Laura was in half a mind to admit defeat, but she was not about to give people what they wanted so easily. She would end up losing her little, but very well paid job, rather quickly.

“Chantelle,” Savannah finally said.

“Your full name is Savannah Chantelle Barrow?” Laura asked, ensuring she had clarification before writing anything down.

“I like that name.”

Her pen paused, making nothing but a black dot on the paper. It could be that Savannah liked her middle name, if it was real. Or that she liked the name ‘Chantelle’ and decided that it was going to be her middle name now. It wasn’t her job to be confrontational, though. There were officers for that.

Still, she noted it down in the corresponding box. She put a question mark by the middle name, denoting that she wasn’t certain if the truth had been told. She had her doubts. A name could easily be verified, though. She wasn’t willing to get into a fight over something that was easy to be checked over. It would be them who were the idiots, trying to pull the wool over an official’s eyes. Hit with a fine for lying to a census officer.

“And what is your date of birth, Mrs Barrow?” Laura asked.

“Last week,” Savannah said.

Now she thinks she’s a comedienne. Laura never found these wannabe funny people that funny.

“I mean, the date of your birth. Day, month, year.”

“Last week.”

Right, so she was born last week, while thinking I was born yesterday.

“I need the day, the month, and the year,” Laura clarified. She couldn’t force herself to smile anymore. She was beginning to wonder if the pay was worth dealing with arseholes.

If it was supposedly last week, it would be April. Between the twelfth and nineteenth. She wasn't up for asking the specific date, knowing that she would be fed some insane responses, or that Savannah would choose a date because she liked the number.

Instead, Laura noted down the date range. Someone else could clear it up. If this woman held a license or a passport, then her full name and date of birth would be on record somewhere.

"Can I ask you your job, Mrs Barrow?" Laura asked, avoiding the word 'occupation.' She doubted Savannah understood the word either.

Savannah Barrow shook her head, yellow hair flicking left and right about her face. "No job."

Another one to be labelled 'unemployed.' Neither occupant worked. They had to be claiming benefits to keep paying for the roof over their heads. Laura doubted that the local council would be so magnanimous as to allow them to keep living there without paying. Or, if they owned the house, the bank definitely would not be so generous.

At least she was done with this house. That was a blessing. A great one, and she could get away from these two knuckle-draggers who were probably having a joke on her behalf. Laura ticked off the house on her chart, and offered the Barrows a brief smile. She had to keep polite, even if their stupidity had irked her.

"That's all for today," Laura said. "Thank you for your time, Mr and Mrs Barrow. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day."

She stepped back and allowed them to close the door. Yet they didn't. They remained in the doorway, still staring at her, and made no effort to close it. Laura looked back at them for a moment. There was nothing else to be said. She offered a nervous smile. Then stepped away, to go to her next house. Which was next door. Number three, Marsh View.

She took another glance down at her clipboard, and her eyes widened. Every single house on this estate had not responded to the census. From house one, to house twenty three. Not a one. A single house populated by conspiracy theorists was not out of the realm of possibility. Laura had expected that. But every single house on an estate? They couldn't all be conspiracy theorists. Could they? The couldn't all be so stupid to not know how to fill out a census form. Could they?

Laura took a moment to look around herself. The houses were silent. She would have thought they were empty, if not for the flickering lights of televisions inside. They were all soulless, all the same. Brick blocks with white trimmed windows, the occasional curtain twitching as soulless eyes stared down at her.

The old man was still there on his front garden, still in his chair as though he hadn't moved. His wide-brimmed sun hat was still planted on his head. Yet it was cloudy. The sky was nothing but a sea of grey, the wind howling every now and then. When it did howl, it was bitter. Laura shivered against it. Cold knives pressing against her cheeks. Her jumper was not quite enough to protect her from the chill.

Her gaze lingered on the old man pretending it was the height of summer. Indeed, he hadn't moved. He was still staring at the house opposite his. He had no interest in her, despite her being a stranger. Most people would be at least a little suspicious of a new face in their neighbourhood.

She hated this place. It was far too quiet, with nobody around and surrounded by overgrown gardens littered with weeds. The wind hissed between the houses.