Some years ago there was a man who lived alone in part of a city. It had been decided that he had 'mental health' issues, but was capable of living in society. He clearly wasn't a threat to others - it was the others who were a threat to him. His name was James.
Most crime is committed by members of the underclass against members of the underclass. An alternate reality exists in the sprawling estates, a world occupied by the weakest and most vulnerable, a world a long way from the opinion formers and pressure groups, a world that exists in the darkness of our nightmares. No-one represents the people of this world, and very few care.
James had a flat that was taken over by the crack dealers. Users came there to buy a few rocks then crash on the floorboards while the drug took hold. The dealers sent their runners to keep up the supply, meeting the users with their armfulls of stolen loot, looking to exchange electrical goods and cash for drugs.
James lived in the midst of this, a blurring reality tempered by his medication, his weekly visit to the chemist his only meaningful direction in life.
Until they decided to rob him.
James had a cashcard. He was never given money directly, he wasn't trusted not to lose it or give it away, so his money was paid into a bank account.
James didn't give up his PIN the first time. They had to come back again, and handcuff him to the radiator to administer his beating. He gave it up then. They never came back. James was left cuffed to the radiator in his front room. Some crack users came and went, looking for the dealers. The dealers didn't come back - the turf was tainted. Gradually less and less people went through James' flat. By the time the last few passed by, James was dead.
Not one person helped James. Not one.
Because society doesn't have to. Does James have a voice or any influence? No. Do his problems come to our door? No. Don't we have enough to do? After all.