Chapter Thirteen - Rude Awakenings from Sleeping Rough
Hell’s Victory
Resolving to go down fighting is admirable in theory, but not so easy to commit to when you are nearing the end of a losing battle. Nursing a vicious hangover, I spent the next day gathering the paperwork I needed for my new landlord: proof of identity, proof of previous address, proof of benefits, National Insurance Number, and bank statements for the previous three months. Two days after that, I was sent to sign the final paperwork to move into my new home.
I was accompanied by one of the Passage House staff –one of their Jekylls, everyone’s friend, trusted by no-one. I presumed after my eleventh-hour save in the offices of Assisted Accommodation I wasn’t trusted to follow through. We arrived early and found ourselves waiting in uncomfortable silence together for two hours past the appointed time. When we finally met with the leasing agent, he started scrutinizing my bank statements asking questions about every withdrawal and deposit listed. What had I withdrawn this £20 for? What had I purchased at this supermarket? What had I spent that amount on at this coffee shop? It seemed a lot to spend for a coffee.
He pored over the deposits with the same microscopic study. My Jobseekers Allowance payments were straightforward, but he noticed the deposit made when my friend in Toronto had lent me money on my arrival at The Connection, and another made by my aunt within the past month. He asked why those deposits had been made. He then told me I would have to provide their bank details before we could proceed with the lease. I asked why. He answered he needed the guarantee he could still collect rent if I defaulted. I told him that was ridiculous; illegal; and he had that guarantee: the government is paying. He replied I shouldn’t be accepting money while collecting benefits as that constitutes fraud. He said far too many people used the charities, “took advantage of their kindness”, to defraud the system. “I don’t know how they do things in Canada, but we take that very seriously here.” He asked my chaperone if he was aware of these payments who answered in the negative.
I couldn’t speak. I tried but was completely incapable of talking. The good old, always reliable tremors kicked into gear and I quietly started crying. He said, “You’re shaking. Are you on drugs?” I couldn’t respond. I cannot clarify how much time elapsed while the three of us sat in silence as they watched the tears slowly trickle down my face –probably not much, but it felt like hours. Pure silence as they watched me cry, punctuated by an occasional sniff as I tried to prevent my nose from running.
My chaperone suddenly put a hand on my shoulder and said, “I’ll take care of this.” He left the room to make a phone call and I sat there, still weeping, still sniffing, alone with the leasing agent who just sat there and watched. After a few minutes my chaperone returned, assuring me it was all right. I had been given permission to turn down the flat. I was still moderately catatonic as we left, but as we were walking out the door clearly saw him turn to the agent and say, “Thanks. This won’t be a problem now. We’ll be in touch,” and give him a thumbs up.
I spent the duration of our return to Passage House listening to my chaperone tell me how lucky it was he had been there to help me “dodge a bullet.” I was reminded of this heroic rescue for days afterward by all the staff, accompanied by the now familiar refrains they were only trying to help, I should be grateful, and they were the only ones who cared about my well-being.
I was extremely sceptical of the entire rescue itself, suspecting it had been yet another theatrical performance staged for my benefit. One that had wasted my second choice for accommodation. But I hoped to take advantage of the reprieve to return to my previous flat. I had been in touch with the landlords and they were open to the idea. I was going to provide their contact details to the Department of Works and Pensions at our next meeting.
I explained this to my case worker when we met to discuss my final housing option. After reminding me yet again they had helped me “dodge a bullet”, she explained it was the only accommodation available in North London and I would have to accept a flat in the south. I needed to get over my obsession with living in London. I reminded her it was to take advantage of the employment and training opportunities I had arranged. I told her of the plans I was organizing, and she said I couldn’t make my own housing arrangements without them. I told her that was not true as I was in the process of doing just that. She reminded me I had breached confidentiality and data protection laws and could face prosecution. I told her I didn’t care; I was doing it anyway. She then said I could only accept if it went through Passage House and asked for my former landlord’s contact details. I refused. She told me I was pushing my luck. I repeated, “I don’t care.” The meeting came to a chilly close.
A few days later my former landlord phoned me. He told me the charity had been in touch and he had decided not to go ahead with the arrangements. He wasn’t aware of my issues and had to think of the safety of his other tenants. He wished me luck and disconnected. I quietly cried myself to sleep that night and the next, stifling my chokes and sobs any time I heard the familiar sound of footsteps in the hall outside my room.
An unexpected and unrelated ray of light soon pierced through the gloom, connected to the biography that had inspired me to come to England in the first place. Throughout my stay at Passage House I was repeatedly pressed to get involved in their history project, as I had been at The Connection. I heard the familiar reminder that I could use my skills to write for them, with the new admonition that I was selfish for not wanting to share my talent with others. I generally rolled my eyes and ignored it, but an opportunity was being presented that genuinely attracted my interest.
The staff of Passage House had organized a tour of Buckingham Palace for their residents. As John Kirk had received a knighthood there in 1907, and my grandfather, Frank Mitchell, had received an OBE from Queen Elizabeth in 1963, I was keen to visit the same room where the honours are bestowed. It was a strong connection to my family’s history -twice over. I eagerly signed up and was genuinely excited. I even agreed to write about the occasion when prodded.
It proved even better than hoped. The woman who currently organizes these events accompanied us. After explaining the family history, we spent most of the tour with our heads bent in conversation. She agreed to exchange contact details so she could arrange a private visit and grant me access to their archives to find material relating to both ancestors and their communications with the Palace. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I was chomping at the bit to grasp it.
When I sought her out at the end of the tour her entire demeanour had changed entirely. She looked wary, nervous and uncomfortable in my presence. I asked to exchange emails and she said she had been speaking to the Passage House member who had arranged the tour and to discuss it with him. She then told me she hoped I get the help I needed before hurrying away, eager to leave me behind.
I immediately asked the relevant case worker. He said this was not the time or place. We were in Buckingham Palace and it was not the place to create a scene. He would give me the contact details another day after we had a meeting to discuss it. I asked to arrange a meeting right away. He said "Not now. Later,” and told me to stop harassing him.
One of the other Passage House residents on the tour joked, "You know you're never going to get those details." I agreed, but still tried. I tried three times to arrange a meeting and received the default charity reply of “Too busy.” Every time I was told I had to fill in a Customer Satisfaction Survey about my stay at Passage House before we could discuss it. I would also be asked when I was going to write about the tour for them. I told them I was “Too busy.”
It was bad enough they were using my immediate family as pawns to either explain the “root cause” of my issues and homelessness, or to wield as carrots or weapons to induce my compliance on any given day. They were now ransacking my family’s history. It was an area they had no right to intrude on as it had nothing to do with how I fell into my circumstances, or how I would climb out of them. Nothing was sacred. Nothing is sacred in the obsessive charity drive for data on their clients.
My ‘zombification’ began then; and would benumb me with varying degrees of intensity throughout the following year. I simply gave up. I was coherent, functional, and in full possession of my mental faculties; but I lost all capacity for emotion. No anger. No gloom. No grief or sorrow. I was nothing more than a husk shambling through the motions of existence. I had committed to life –that surprisingly remained unchanged– but I was too exhausted and weak to commit to going down with a fight.
Sure enough, my dead grandfather became the carrot of choice. They had overheard during my Palace conversation that his career had started as a Councillor for South Croydon in the 1930s. That was suddenly a fitting criteria for housing despite my previously being told otherwise. I didn’t care. They knew of an available flat in Selsdon and had started making the necessary arrangements as I had to agree to accept it anyway. I didn’t care. I was admonished for not sharing this information with them at the start because if I had, all this unpleasantness would have been avoided. Despite all the drama I had created they were pleased they had found a happy ending to my homelessness; living where my grandparents had once lived. I was lucky they had persevered. I should be pleased, and –as always–I should be grateful. I didn’t have to fight the urge to vomit on them. I simply didn’t care anymore. I accepted the flat.
I met with the leasing agency on October 30th and signed the contract, accepting a flat at a rent almost twice what I had been paying at my previous accommodation. When I returned to Passage House, they announced I would be moving in that night. I hastily packed my belongings and waited in the lobby while they arranged a taxi to take me to Selsdon. The cab arrived shortly after 9:00 p.m. As I was loading my belongings, the staff on duty informed me there was a phone call for me in the lobby, but to make it quick as the taxi was waiting, and they were paying for it.
It was Crisis. I was surprised because I had not had any contact with them for three months after being told they couldn’t interfere with the work of other charities. She asked me about “the status of my situation.” I asked if I could phone her back the next day as it wasn’t a good time. I had a taxi waiting. She said, “So they’ve found you a place?” When I hesitatingly answered in the affirmative, she cut me short and gushed, “Great. So it’s a happy ending then,” and disconnected. I was promptly bundled off in the cab.
My “happy ending” began when I arrived at the flat shortly after 10:30 that night. There was no electricity in my room. No lights. No heat. The meter indicated it was over £30 in arrears. The door from my room leading into the back yard had no lock. There was also no bed. No stores were open at that time of night to do anything about it. And two of the other tenants were drinking up a storm with the stereo blazing in the room down the hall. I unrolled my sleeping bag, unpacked my clothes to use as a makeshift blanket for additional warmth, and spent the night shivering and staring into the darkness.
My phone ran out of power during the night, and without electricity I had no way to charge the battery. I also couldn’t use the shower as it was connected to the electric water heater and wouldn’t run hot or cold. I had only £40 in my bank account, and because the Universal Credit benefits system makes payments a month in arrears, that had to last from October 31st to December 2nd. Happy ending indeed.
A new bed was delivered the following day. The landlords hadn’t expected me to move in that same night and were genuinely apologetic. It took four days to arrange the electricity, two of those days spent travelling around London trying to obtain the correct pre-payment key for the meter, eating up over £10 of my funds. The arrears were cleared as they were not my responsibility, and I spent another £10 charging the key so I could turn the electricity on. I had less than £20 to stretch over a month.
I spent an additional £4.50 travelling to the Marylebone Job Centre to arrange the transfer of my account to their location in Purley. I explained the financial disaster, and they quietly provided a much-needed lifeline. I was not only switching offices; I was transferring from an old benefits system to the Universal Credit model in the early stages of its launch. I was only due two days of Jobseeker’s allowance before my transfer. I received the full two-week payment. This error was corrected the next month, leaving me with just under £200 per month to survive on for the first two months. But it was enough. I spent that Christmas without heat, and barely eating enough to subsist on, but it guaranteed survival that otherwise would not have been possible.
Sadly, it was not enough money to take advantage of the job opportunities I had arranged. I had to drop out of the 16-week internship with Lloyd’s Bank because I could not afford the cost of daily transportation to northern London with the austere amount of cash available. For similar reasons I had to turn down opportunities presented by the Casting Connection. And my ‘zombification’ impeded my ability to write, to provide features for the Metro website. I would try, and each attempt would be tearfully abandoned as I discovered that part of my brain had shut down and remained inaccessible. I was too tired, too defeated, too burnt-out.
I would soon discover the other four tenants had been placed there by Crisis. The property itself was well known throughout the neighbourhood as the Crisis house where they arranged tenancies for their clients. For an organization that professed not to interfere with the work of other charities, they did a lot to help them behind the scenes, whether those actions were in the best interest of the people they were helping or not.
My charity organised “happy ending” came with one final, unexpected surprise. A month after moving in, I noticed a peculiar visitor on my LinkedIn social media account: James S., a private investigator who conducted investigations for various government departments in England. I had connections with less than 10 people at that point, all in Canada, so thought the chance of anyone randomly landing on my profile were slim –particularly when he visited over a succeeding number of days.
I asked my new case worker if it had anything to do with my benefits. He didn’t respond, simply stared at his computer screen for a few moments before changing the topic. I asked through my online Universal Credit journal repeatedly over the next month with no response. Finally, after more than a month I was informed the private investigator had nothing to do with their department.
That turned out to be yet another lie.
At the end of January I received an official letter from the Department of Works and Pensions informing me an investigation had been conducted based on an anonymous tip I had refused to search for or accept employment from May to November of 2018, the exact length of time I spent with The Connection and Passage House, fighting them tooth and nail over the employment issue. The investigation had concluded I was not guilty of wrong-doing and there would be no interruption to my benefits, and I would not be subject to any penalties or charges.
I had no way to discover the identity of the anonymous complainant, but the message had come through loud and clear, as it had since the first day The Connection’s big red door closed behind me.
Help the charities . . . or fuck you.
My two-year deadline expired. I lost my Permanent Resident status. I could no longer return to Canada. I could no longer return home.
As the author of this work I do not authorize its use in whole or in part for any charity fund-raising or awareness raising campaigns.
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