Fiction

The Occupant

It took a few days for Martha to notice the little silver hatchback. People were always leaving their cars or trailers in the dead-end beside the small reserve, sometimes for weeks, or dumping rubbish in the small hours of the morning, brazen under cover of darkness. Martha, who lived opposite, would wake to see a cheap broken cupboard or a pile of worn tyres or an old fan, say, lying like a silvery corpse in the grass. People seemed to think leaving their rubbish in someone else’s street was acceptable, as long as they didn’t get caught. The unrestricted parking and the weedy, derelict air of the reserve, with its sickly casuarinas, was as good as an invitation.

Martha had asked for the council rangers to do more regular rounds, but of course they never did. She’d even thought about asking for security cameras, but what if she ever wanted to do something illegal herself? She’d have to wear a balaclava and sneak around from another direction.

So it was only on the Thursday, when she’d got up early for her walk, that she registered someone was actually in the little silver car. The front seat was rammed back as far as it would go. The occupant was a woman with grey hair wound up in a knot, wearing a beige, or possibly light grey, T-shirt. Martha always made a point of noting details in case she was ever required as a witness. That’s what she would have called the woman in her statement: The Occupant. The woman was craned forward, fixing her hair in the little mirror in the visor. If asked, Martha would have said the occupant was a woman of Caucasian appearance, around 50 or 55.

The woman gave no sign of having seen Martha come out of her clanging back gate. Just kept on with her hair, wetting her finger now and again to smooth the wisps, her thin white face pointed ahead like a prow. Martha saw what looked like pillows and blankets neatly folded in the back seat and a cheap blue tarpaulin forming a bundle.

The woman was still there the following Monday – Martha had thought the weekend would see her off – and the next few days at different times. Sometimes reclining, always staring ahead stonily. Martha had had to discard the friendly good-morning nod she’d prepared to give her if she turned. Martha had heard about homeless women living in their cars, but had always pictured at least a sedan or, ideally, a van. It made Martha’s back hurt to think of sleeping in that tiny car. How was the woman washing or, you know…

By the middle of the week, Martha had begun to imagine herself going over and tapping on the window and asking if the woman would like to come in for a cup of tea. Should she offer a hot shower? That would be the Christian thing to do. Not that Martha was a Christian these days, but she knew the drill.

Martha pictured herself ferrying the woman over the street to her place. She would be kind, but not too open-ended. “I thought a nice hot shower might be welcome,” she might say. Emphasis on the limited nature of the event.

She cleaned the old shower in the studio just in case and laid out fresh towels. Would the woman need a robe? Thinking about a stranger naked on her property made Martha uncomfortable. Would Martha be expected to wash the woman’s clothes, do a load, while the occupant showered or had her cuppa? If things went well, she might even offer the spare bed in the studio “for a night or two”. The woman must be dying to stretch out.

She talked it over with Liz. Her friend said she was crazy to think of letting a complete stranger into her home. Martha wondered when a stranger stopped being a “complete stranger”. The woman could be an ice addict, or worse, Liz said. Martha didn’t ask what “worse” might be. Women weren’t generally rapists or axe murderers, were they? Especially if they owned hatchbacks. She thought Liz was being paranoid. Even so, she would be careful not to let the woman see where she hid the spare key.

Liz said the good Samaritan plan risked being patronising at very least, assuming the occupant turned out not to be an ice addict. She might “have her pride”. Or, what if she didn’t have her pride and showed no sign of leaving once the agreed-upon few days was up? “Before you know it, it’ll be a cooked breakfast and a weekly change of linen,” Liz said, laughing.

Martha remembered uneasily the junkies she had known in shared houses in her 20s. Pride hadn’t held them back, that was for sure. They’d stolen and lied, borrowed and never repaid, all without the slightest remorse. She almost admired their invincible indifference.

It was all very well being a good person, but people could take advantage and make you feel a foolish person. Only the other night, she’d been played by a homeless man on the street. She’d been about to pass by, after smiling and apologising for not having any cash – she didn’t want him to feel ignored – but quick as a flash he’d said, no worries, love, and somehow dragged her along to one of those convenience stores, the kind lit up like an operating theatre. She certainly came out of it feeling she’d had a surgical removal. While she blinked under the fluoros, he ordered a packet of cheap cigarettes and a KitKat. Cornered, she’d paid up. The man at the counter gave a knowing grin.

Letting people into your life was easier than getting them out, as she knew from her ex-husband. Yes, it could all become awkward. Yesterday, she had felt a flicker of annoyance that the woman, in a blue T-shirt that day, her hair grown frizzy, was making Martha feel guilty. And without even acknowledging Martha’s existence. “Well, you do come from a place of privilege, Mum,” Juno was always telling her, as if Martha ought to feel ashamed for not living in a car. Not that she had told Juno about the woman in the car. The young were so judgemental.

Perhaps the woman didn’t want help. Perhaps she was just travelling and didn’t want to waste her money on a motel or liked to see the stars or being in fresh air, and Martha would come across as an interfering do-gooder making assumptions.

The next morning, Martha put on her new leggings and runners for her walk. She was still deciding if today would be the day. If only the woman would give her a sign. She opened the gate and stepped outside with a purposeful air, ready to help or briskly pass on by.

The car was gone. Only a crumpled tissue on the grass marked the spot.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on May 24, 2025 as "The Occupant".

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