Junk Mail

'Dear Mr Boeder

It is with great regret that I write to inform you of the results of
your recent tests. It is not normal procedure to discuss matters of
this nature in writing, however since you have failed to turn up for
any of the seven appointments we have arranged, I am compelled to
inform you now.

The results of the tests undertaken on the samples you have provided
have lead us to conclude that you are infected with a rare virus.
Furthermore, the particular strain we detected in your sample, is an
especially virulent one. Without the correct medical attention, it is
highly probable that you will succumb to the effects of the virus
before the year is out.

Although you may presently feel no need to do so, I strongly urge you
to contact the hospital and arrange a further appointment....'

Without finishing the letter, Martin folded it and used it to brush the
small pile of bread crumbs on the coffee table into the wastebasket.
Then picking up his half-filled coffee cup, he sneezed heavily, sat
back in the worn sofa and switched the TV over to the weather
channel.

"Christ. The poor bastard. Dying and he doesn't even know it."

Curling his forehead up, Martin winced at the thought of it. It wasn't
as if he knew who Mr Boeder was. Then again, the name "Boeder" rang a
bell and he was sure that he had seen it before, but like almost
everything else, he couldn't say where on when. Still, the address had
been right.

Startled back into reality by the mention of hail on the forecast,
Martin drained the coffee cup, placed it back on the ring-stained table
and switched off the TV. He shouldn't have opened the letter. That was
all. And now that he had read the contents he felt very uneasy.

Just the thought of hospitals and doctors pushing and probing made him
feel weak again. It was only two or three months since his own little
accident and the memories and scars were all too fresh. But, at least
they had looked after him. That he had to agree. If it hadn't been for
them, he wouldn't even have the house.

The house. 'His' house. 26 Hillfoot Drive. That was a joke. Laughing
aloud at the sheer unfunniness of it, Martin looked around the small
living room for the millionth time.

Nothing in this house was his, that was the problem. Even after all
this time, it still felt like a boarding house. Every morning he
expected to walk into the dining room and see the landlord serving full
English to the blue rinse brigade. The horrible green carpet, the
stupid South Park mugs, the dingy net curtains. God. It was
hideous.

Biting his lip and clicking his finger nails together, he tried to
remember what his 'own' house was like, or even where it was, but it
was useless. There was the accident and then there was nothing. No
names. No faces. No sounds. No pictures. No history. Nothing. Just a
fat face in the mirror, that looked too old to be his.

Going through the same fruitless ritual he went through every morning,
he tried to recall the day in July, when he had driven to Edinburgh,
for some reason that escaped him, had a car accident, lost his mind and
been christened 'Martin' by the nurses.

Still, he concluded, rubbing his aching head, at least they had looked
after him.

Turning his mind back to this morning's letter, he wondered if the
hospital would be as kind and considerate to Mr Boeder.

Poor Mr Boeder.

But by the time the weather forecast had finished, Martin had forgotten
all about him.

On Thursday morning however, another letter arrived.

Mr Boeder owed money. Lots of money. In fact, so much that the Scottish
kneecap merchants he had borrowed off, had launched court proceedings
against him. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't a telephone number to call,
so Martin screwed the letter up, shaking his head, and threw it in the
bin. It was so bad it was laughable. No doubt, Mr Boeder was long gone
by now anyway.

On the following Saturday, a package arrived addressed to K.Boeder from
H.M. Customs, that looked and felt like a passport. It looked like the
old boy was getting to do a runner and who could blame him. But enough
was enough. Taking the parcel in one hand and grabbing his house keys
in the other, Martin walked out the front door and round to no 24. The
weird old woman next door would know who this Boeden bloke was. More
than likely, he was an old tenant. Maybe she would even have an
address. Besides, this was starting to become an obsession.

Wading through the knee high weeds, Martin made his way to the front
door and knocked three times on the faded green door. Nothing. He tried
again. Nothing. It was getting dark. Scribbling a message down on the
back of a torn cigarette packet, Martin pushed open the rusted letter
box and listened for the familiar thud on the mat. Mr Boeder would have
to wait.

Martin was downstairs when the mail arrived on Monday and opened the
door to meet the sour-faced postman. The young man who was clearly
half-asleep, blinked slowly like a cat coming round from anaesthetic
and thrust 2 letters in Martin's freshly -showered hand. The first was
addressed to Mr Boeder.

Martin winced and held it in his hand like a cold fish. Then closing
the door quickly, he ripped open the envelope and read through the
first paragraph.

Dear Mr Boeder,

'Further to our recent communication, we urge you to make an
appointment with our&;#8230;&;#8230; '

'Jesus Christ!' not another.

Tearing the letter in two, Martin stormed into he lounge and threw the
pieces in the waste basket. Sinking heavily into the soft sofa he then
flicked on the TV, more for company than pleasure, sneezed loudly and
slid his thumb nail into the second envelope. It was addressed simply,
to 'Martin'.

'Dear Martin,

You may not remember me, but my name is Andrew Collins. I was the
doctor who treated you at St James' after your
accident&;#8230;'

Martin scanned ahead impatiently.

'After taking a personal interest in your case, I am delighted to say
that I have managed to track down your family members...'

Martin's heart missed a beat and the airs on his harms sprung up like
the teeth on a comb.

'...your mother has been trying to locate you for a number of weeks and
would desperately like you to get in touch. As a result Martin, we can
now tell you your real name. From our records, prior to your crash, it
is certain that you were called Kenneth Edward Boeder and lived at 26
Hillfoot Drive.'

Martin froze, dropped the letter and sneezed loudly.

Poor Mr Boeder.