He’s back, and this time is seriously threatening – and there’s no point in me calling the police
Part seven Understanding an amateur landlord
From Guardian Money: Landlords – We’re nice really
Again, Bill arrives before the official notice says he is due. Again, he tries to let himself in. Again he shoves his hand through the letterbox and rattles the door, bellowing about how he knows I was sent notification letters and emails. Nobody sent me emails about this or anything. The inspection notification states that he’s due in a few days’ time, when (again) I planned on asking a friend to witness his behaviour, which is the worst I’ve seen so far.
He shouts more abuse before trying to barge in. The door is chained and I tell him in no uncertain terms he’s not coming in, that he’s intimidating me and this must stop.
Through the spyhole, I spot another man lurking, who also begins to shout, backing up whatever Bill says: “He’s coming in, it’s his right.” I remind him that I’m calling the police. Bill gloats: “Call them. I’m not afraid of the police.”
And why should he be scared? When it comes to property and tenant rights, the police will probably side with Bill, as they traditionally see themselves as protecting property owners’ interests or are clueless when it comes to the law in these matters. Bill makes it quite clear that he’s going to snap the door chain to force his way inside, taunts me again: “Go on – call the police! Have you called them yet? I want you to call them!”
I tell him he’s going to behave himself: he’s to stop shouting, keep his distance, and once inside he’s allowed three minutes. He strides around sneering without actually seeing anything worthwhile, especially as the flat is clean and tidy and the only faults are testimony of his own neglect, such as mould. He stomps quickly around in circles, a stranger standing guard outside. I keep the door open.
Why did I let him in? Because realistically, I suspect the police will take ages to arrive, and if they turn up after Bill has kicked the door down and thrown me out, they will take his side. Better to co-operate. I do so, phone in hand, ready to dial 999.
Bill is leaving when suddenly his mood changes and he starts shouting that he wants to hit me: “If you were a man I’d hit you! You’re lucky you’re not a man!” Rushing towards me, he raises his fist but, thinking better of it, backs away. Bill towers over me.
That’s it – no more. I’ve had enough. I release all my pent-up fear. I am screaming at him, he’s a snivelling, pathetic coward who gets his kicks threatening women. He’s out of here and he’s not coming back. I am not Bill’s punchbag emotionally or physically, no matter what he thinks.
Hours after he’s gone, and still shaking, I notice my half finished copy of Bleak House and am inspired to decide that Bill takes a Dickensian view of property management. That’s the last time he’s coming in here.
