I get shatter a lot, but that isn't what scares me about this job. When I arrive at a

home and see someone burst out of the front door clutching a rifle, I know what to expect.

They have something to lose, they're scared and they don't know what to do. So I tell them.

I give them resources and fighting back, I refer them to law firms who do pro bono work,

government bodies and charities that can help them get back on their feet. I speak calmly

and with empathy. And people listen. Some even thank me as they pack their things up and

drive away. People ending themselves are harder to deal with. I get at least three or

four a year and people who do it out of spite really go all out on the spectacle. The harder

it is for the bank to clean up, the better. And people assume the bank puts their house

in the market the second it seized, but a house can sit forgotten for years before I'm

sent to look it over. Lone bodies swinging in empty living rooms, flesh like melted

candle wax from all that time left in open air. I find it profoundly sad. These people

lay themselves out like a spiteful diorama and then no one turns up. They slit their

throats while clutching eviction notices and by the time I arrive the blood is dried and

the ink is faded. The worst ones don't just hurt themselves, but they're loved ones

too. Packs are more common with the elderly, but it isn't always octogenarians. Families

too. It's rare, but it does happen. A sun-baked house with drawn curtains, so much time passed

in dry autumn heat that this skin turned paper thin, receding lips, black toothless gums

born in a rictus grin. Hell of a thing to see staring out of a crib.

Each house is its own apocalypse, its own ruined city for me to wonder. Whiskey in the

toilet system, fentanyl under the bed. Biddles pass too. And it doesn't just end with

the people we kick out. These places are empty so long you will often get squatters. Usually

...