GAS NUTTER

I smell gas a lot: on the street, in the air. “Natural” gas. Natural but bad, evil gas; escaped gas. For a while I assumed I was imagining the smell. Others didn’t share my experience. They suggested, gently, it was a bit paranoid. To my memory I’ve no experience of a gas disaster. But then again, I remember little of being small. 

It does seem to happen more when I’m alone. Small smells. So faint you barely notice, then it evades you again. I feel like a child when I smell gas. Naive and angry, desperate to prove that things can be proven. Did I smell it or not? Gas doesn’t care. It’s gone before you’ve noticed. I smelt it a couple times in Longsight the other night. I went up to a house door a whole three times inhaling like a nutter. I should have knocked on but I was pretty certain no one was in. When I’ve asked strangers if they can smell it too, they’ve usually told me I’m smelling something else. I’ve never trusted my senses. People I encounter on my sniffing trails certainly don’t. 

So yeah, I’m at the door. Sad door. No one in. I smelt gas once. Then it’s gone – or is it? Keep coming back to smell. Look mental, probably. I leave the premises. I really am certain now I’ve imagined it. I go up the road. I have business in the area you see, and I’ll be returning tomorrow, too; I can check again. By a school I smell it once more. It’s stronger this time but gone quicker. I wonder, do rotting leaves smell like gas? There’s a drain. Is it coming from there? I’m stuck and confused.

I rang the gas emergency number. I tried to tell them I’m a bit mental, that I hallucinate the smell of gas a lot and that I’m on my own with no one about and I just thought I should ring but they shouldn’t take me too seriously. “Hello yes I’d like to report the smell of gas, but I really can’t be sure whether what I’m smelling is actually gas.” The man spoke to me like I’d finally left my sinning ways and converted to the Church of Gas Emergency. He told me I’d done good today. He described all the different ways people could be hurt in a GAS ACCIDENT and all the ways I may have saved them with my call. He made me feel special. I kept saying I’d called for advice, though, on why my nose smelt gas so often. They explained that unfortunately they cannot give me medical advice, but that I’d definitely done the right thing by calling. He made me promise to walk far away and not to smoke. I went a bit away and had a fag during the call but inhaled very, very quietly so he wouldn’t notice. 

I ended up telling them about the house too, on the same road. They said an engineer would come within the hour to check the whole long road and area. I kept saying sorry. They definitely thought I was mad at this point.

I walked home. I’d needed a piss for a few hours but my business in the area was work that made it hard to find a toilet, and the gas call had taken 40 minutes stood in the cold. No pisser.

When I got home, I went on the internet. I read extensively about two types of people: the Gas Dreamers and the Gas Hunters. That’s what I’m going to call them. Turns out the predicament affects many. Smelling gas on every corner. Every day being met with the weight of responsibility the sense gives you. Never knowing if you’ll be draining the Services or preventing Sudden Death. Hallucinating the smell is common, I learnt. Paranoid, guilty sniffers. Being remarkably good at catching the faintest of leaks is, apparently, also common. Which was I? 

I returned to the scene the next day. As I said, I’ve business in the area. The shuttered “No one’s in” house had its whole front concrete dug up, the ground’s inners all exposed, big GAS EMERGENCY and NO SMOKING SIGNS and “Apologies for the inconvenience.” I wondered if the people who lived there even knew this had happened yet. The “No one’s in” people. I worried they were dead. I thought about knocking on again. “Hello yes I didn’t knock on yesterday but I rang the Gas People and yep yes no, don’t worry about thanking me, but yes yep, I am the reason they’ve dug up your front and no, I’ve no idea when it might go back to normal.”

I didn’t knock on. I left. I’d spent the night before wondering if I’d ever know if my nose spoke the truth or not, but the day-lit conclusion didn’t bring the relief I maybe thought it would. The house stared back at me. Empty and accusing. I’d never knocked on.

The sun was setting beautifully now. Big pink and orange. I was in the part of Longsight that’s high up enough you can see hills off in the distance, like when you get the bus to Stockport that goes through all the heatons and on a clear day you catch the hills rising up above the town centre. 

I read about how many people die from sudden gas explosions – 30 a year in Britain – and about how all the pipes are too old and leaking. I thought about all the people behind “No one’s in” doors and what they’re up to. And whether they’ve left the gas on.

illustrations by Rosie Callaghan