Silent killer
Tuesday 17th February 2009
It was so ridiculous, I couldn't wait to share it.
'You'll never guess what Martin said earlier!' I sniggered to my mate, Bob Schenker, then 31. 'He reckons we should go out together! You and me. Imagine!'
That afternoon, I'd been moaning to our mutual friend, Martin Stalker, 36, about being single for two-and-a-half years.
'How about Bob?' Martin had said.
'As if,' I'd snorted.
We'd all been at school together and, in the past few years, we'd started hanging out in a big group. Bob was always flirting.
'Admit it, Vikki, you want my children,' he'd joke.
He was 5ft 10in, with jet-black hair and green eyes, and he was proud of his muscular arms.
'Do you want to feel my guns, Vikki?' he'd tease.
But now, as he cockily slipped an arm round my shoulder, I felt something unexpected. Electricity.
'Oh. My. God. I fancy Bob!' I gushed to my best mate, Sarah Giffen, 33, that night.
And two months later…
'I fancy you, too,' he admitted.
The banter continued, though, and I joked about the fact he slept ,in a single bed. He lived in his parents' three-bedroom house in Peterborough, in the bedroom he'd grown up in. His mum and dad had moved to Austria. So, most nights, we stayed at mine. Everything was great except for one small thing. After six months together, I knew I loved him, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell him. On 17 March 2006, Bob had builders round to fix the damp chimney in his spare room. The next day, I had to go to a wake after a friend's mum died.
Days like that make you think. So as soon as I got home, I picked up the phone. I'm going to tell Bob I love him. But he seemed out of sorts.
'I've got a headache and I was sick earlier,' he grumbled. 'I must be coming down with something.'
I told him to ring me later. I could hardly say: 'I love you', when all he wanted was to sleep.
When I didn't hear from him that evening, I called three times. No answer. I rang at 9am the next day and he still didn't pick up, so I went round. I banged on the windows and doors, but there was no sign of him. In the end, I called Sarah, whose husband, Rob, is a policeman. Together, we hammered on the door, but when there was still no response, Rob phoned into the police station.
'I'm going to break in,' he said.
Something was wrong. I knew it. He smashed the kitchen window.
'Wait here,' he said, jumping in.
'Please let everything be all right,' I prayed.
But when Rob let himself out of the house, his face told me everything wasn't OK.
'Wait for me next door,' he said.
Numb, I went and waited with Bob's neighbour, Dom. A few minutes later, Rob arrived.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Bob's died.'
I could tell you about the awful wailing noise I made, Sarah arriving and trying to calm me down, or the utter despair that hit me. But worst of all was when Bob's mum called me.
'Is Bob all right?' she asked. 'I can't get hold of him.'
I panicked and hung up. How could I tell her? Rob said a police officer would let his family know.
It was a few days later when the police started talking about carbon monoxide and the building work. It turned out the builder, David Johnson, 56, had taken short cuts, leading to the flue from Bob's kitchen boiler being blocked with debris.When Bob had put his boiler back on, it took just seven minutes for deadly gas to seep into the house and poison him as he slept. But strangely, I didn't feel angry at the builder. I was sure he hadn't meant for this to happen. Four months later, I sat with Bob's coffin in the chapel.
'I love you,' I said. Too little, too late.
After the British funeral, a service was held in Austria. There, I spoke to one of Bob's friends, Doris.
'At Christmas, he told me he'd found his wife,' she said.
He had loved me, too. Last April, Johnson was charged with manslaughter. He didn't look at me in court. Not once. Not a single apology. Anger replaced the pity I'd felt for him. His sloppy work had taken a young man with everything going for him. Johnson was jailed for three-and-a-half years, but seven months later, in November 2008, he appealed and
a year was taken off his sentence. Justice? Hardly.
I'm telling my story because I want everyone to have a carbon monoxide tester in their home. The gas has no smell or taste, which is why it's called the silent killer. Alarms cost just £20 and one would have saved Bob's life. I know that's a lot of money to some, so in April, I'm doing a sponsored trek for the Corgi Trust, who subsidise alarms for those on low incomes. I don't want you to have any regrets in life. Trust me, I know what it's like to live with those.
Visit www.co-bealarmed.co.uk