Some people knew him as Steve and some people knew him as Paul. Nobody knew if it was his real name or not. He’d been a local fixture in the town for years. Nobody knew how long he’d even been there. He was a resident, but not quite. He didn’t speak with an accent nor did he ever talk about his past. Beyond certain every day greetings and questions, he never spoke much. The local harmless crank was pretty much everybody’s opinion of him.
He lived on a stretch of scrubland between a point where two roads met and created an island. The highway authorities found him living there one day in the early spring of 1996. He’d assembled a rudimentary frame from the branches and used a dirty blue tarpaulin to create a little hut. He’d brought with him pots and pans from somewhere and there was a small pit spread with ash. Sometimes people would see the smoke waving through the trees. When the highway maintenance people first made contact, he greeted them in a courteous manner and always pleasant. They all commented on the fetid body odour and general unkempt nature of his hair and beard. Nobody ever got close enough to see his teeth until after his death.
The locals at first were nervous that such a person could be living so strangely in such a modern town. The police questioned him, but he never broke any law. A few residents tried to have the stranger evicted from the island, but no argument would stand. Many assumed he’d be a criminal sort.
“Why else live like that?” They would ask.
The man never gave an answer.
One day the town priest paid him a visit along with a police officer. Access to the island was dangerous due to the constant flow of traffic. One time a car hit the metal barrier on a tight corner and smashed into it. The man appeared from the bushes and helped the wounded driver. At first startled and dazed by the crash, the man appeared from the bushes and calmed her until the ambulance came. Then he left. Later on the woman wished to thank him for his kindness with a fruit basket and blankets. They were left by the side of the road unused.
The priest asked tonnes of questions but never really got much out Daniel. This was the name he gave to the priest.
“I’ve no use for a priest, thank you,” was all he said.
The priest talked and talked, but the man paid no interest. There was no rudeness in his conduct. He thanked the priest for his time and effort, but nothing could be done.
Police officers would call in on the man every once in a while to see how he was. He would greet them cheerily, talked about the weather and return to his blue tent.
In the winter, the community got together and brought him gifts of blankets, boots, food, cooking utensils and a torch. Residents found everything returned to the side of the highway untouched. Nobody quite knew how he survived. But he did.
The years passed and the man kept to himself. People would still try to pester him and visit on occasion. One time an artist from the nearby college ventured to the island to discuss a variety of subjects. He watched the man, who gave himself the name Patrick, sitting on a log staring into the scrubland.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
“I’m watching life,” he replied.
The artist felt something profound was occurring, there, on the island. He got the idea in his head to ask the man if he be allowed to paint his portrait. Patrick did not answer. The artist took this as consent. Two days later he returned with canvas, easel and paints. The painting, a rather amateur effort, hangs in the town museum and considered the highlight of the tour along with the blue tarpaulin and the pair of worn black boots belonging to the man.
The highway maintenance crew picking litter up on the embankments and verges on around the island discovered the body. He lay in the foetal position as if sleeping. They thought he was taking a mid afternoon nap, but on closer inspection saw there was no breath. The serene complexion warmed them. The sky was perfect blue, the insects swished around the scrubland, but the man was gone.
News soon got around town and the mourners came to the island to pay their respects. Some citizens considered the actions of the mourners ludicrous.
“He was just the local crazy!”
Great bouquets of flowers were placed along the metal road barrier. A few policemen were assigned to the island to stop curiosity seekers from getting too close. But they came anyway and stood looking at the island for a while before returning home.
Forensic officers found very little. In the furthest corner of the patch of land the man called his home, the officers found a partially buried photograph of a man and woman smiling. They could not tell if it was the man they knew. The image was too badly scratched and worn down with age. It could have been there years and did not necessarily belong to the man, the officers discussed.
Two days later the coroner agreed with a colleague they could find no cause of death for the town’s most talked about resident. On the certificate they simply put it down to natural causes. The teeth were in a generally poor condition. The body was cremated and the ashes scattered on the island. Many notices were put out in an attempt to track the living relatives of the man. Nothing ever become of it. The townsfolk would visit the museum daily and stare at the photograph and stare at the boots and the dirty tarpaulin and wonder. It’s all they ever could do.
