Sink: Old Man's Tale (3 page)

Jeremiah picked up his tea and sandwiches and exited through the backdoor.

When Graham
got within view of the decrepit old house he turned and headed at a right-angle away from it. Nighttime was already descending, the heat dissipating, the red of the Outback fading into a deep sapphire blue. He tucked his hands in his pockets and raised the collar of his coat.

The old fart came out of his house and headed toward the far corner of his land, toward a tall eucalyptus tree. He sat underneath it on a branch that jutted out at a right angle, like an arm trying to pull itself out of the ground, and looked toward the empty flatlands of the Outback, stretching into the distance in all directions.

He could see Jeremiah’s lips were moving, his head nodding.
Crazy old loon.
He would be better off in an old people’s home if he had any sense.

Graham turned to the house. It couldn’t be counted as breaking and entering if he entered without breaking anything, right? He’d visited the house enough in his youth to remember the layout. It wasn’t a large house and it couldn’t have changed that much over the years. There had clearly been no extensions or renovations.

Graham approached the front door, not visible from Jeremiah’s vantage point. Was it just his imagination or had the crack up the side of the wall gotten larger? It was thick and almost reached to the roof now. Graham shrugged. What were the chances it would collapse right this moment after all these years? He turned the door knob, but it didn’t open.

A fuzzy scrap of wood stuck out of the wall like an unkempt hairdo. He pulled at the splinters and found a small hole. It wasn’t big, but then Graham didn’t have the biggest hands. He pressed his fingers together and pushed them through the opening. His hand got stuck. He pressed harder and there was a soft crack, like the crunch of damp wood. Around his wrist was a bracelet of rotten wood. He angled his arm down, reaching for the door knob. He went up onto his toes and touched it with his fingertips. He stretched a little further and felt the key. He turned it, and the lock clicked open.

He pushed the door open. It squeaked on old hinges. He stepped inside and closed the door, leaving it unlocked in case he needed to make a quick getaway. He took his rotten wood bracelet off and pressed it back into the wall.
So much for not-breaking and entering.

He turned and looked at the house’s interior. His eyes widened. He hadn’t thought this through.

The house’s
interior was as damaged and changed as Jeremiah’s exterior. Graham wouldn’t have recognized the place if it wasn’t for the fact he’d just walked through the front door.

Newspaper towers were lined up against two walls. Some leaned over and would have fallen if another tower hadn’t propped it up. Paths wound through the detritus like wild animal trails in a forest.

Model airplanes hung from the ceiling. Some had a thick layer of dust on them, others spotless, having been recently installed. The paintwork was exceptional, performed by a steady hand, the pieces interlocking clearly and distinctly. Even the pilots had faces, screwed up in concentration, hands gripping their airplane controls tight.

Only a few workspaces were not covered, and these, Graham suspected, were the areas Jeremiah most often spent his time. The wingback armchair had a vague outline of where the old man would sit for the night, a small bar heater at its feet. A small patio table was used as a dining table. It was damaged, chipped and worn. One of the legs had snapped off and hastily fixed by shoving books underneath it, propping it up. One knife, one fork, one small and medium-sized plate. The hallmarks of a bachelor. Despite the mess there was no dirt on the furniture. It was well-maintained, if not tidy.

Out the kitchen window, the eucalyptus tree was cast in silhouette by the setting sun. Jeremiah was still sat on the tree root, head bowed down and forlorn.

Graham cast an eye over the space. There was a cupboard, a wardrobe and a cabinet. He ruled out the wardrobe and cupboard and headed for the glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. If he lived here, it was the place he would most likely put any important documents.

He pulled the front door open. A shelf of paper and cards, memoirs of a former life, spilled from the inside. There was the fusty smell of dead skin and old paper. A library for the old. Jeremiah was living in a scrapbook.

Graham picked up the fallen pieces of paper and glanced at each one. Some were grocery lists, yellowed with age, others random phone numbers, old bills and receipts. Graham piled them up to one side while he sorted through the rest.

He sensed someone looking at him. Through the glass side panels of the cabinet were photo frames of a smiling happy family, windows into a world, a bubble, that no longer existed, fading like a burning tree, brightly for a fragile moment before turning to ash. That was the space Jeremiah existed in now, a bubble, an echo of the moments of the past, and though he existed inside it, it would end with him. No one would remember him, until one day the wrecking ball came to demolish the house and remove the body of the impediment to the development project they were working on. That would be how Jeremiah Witness would be remembered. A blockage to development, a remnant of a world that no longer existed.

Graham caught movement out the corner of his eye. Jeremiah was heading back to the house.

Graham didn’t panic. Jeremiah was moving slowly enough for Graham to consider his options. Leave now, grab the car keys that hung from a hook on the cabinet, or stay and hide, waiting for the right time to continue his search.

Though Graham hated to admit it, he needed his job, and as much as he hated his boss, times were tough in finding a well-paying position.

He was spoilt for choice regarding hiding places. The question was, where? He crouched in a corner behind two piles of old newspapers, within easy access of the front door, and peered out from between them.

The backdoor slammed shut. Jeremiah grumbled to himself under his breath as he came into the front room. Graham could make out some words, but most were indistinguishable. Was he insane? How could he not be, locked up in here by himself for the past God knew how many years.

Jeremiah fell into his armchair, shuffled his shoulders, getting deep into the fabric. He turned the radio on and listened to a show. Graham didn’t think he’d heard old music like that since he was a boy and watched black and white movies. Within moments heavy snoring rattled from the old man’s nose and throat like a cartoon sound effect.

Great,
Graham thought.
Now what am I supposed to do?

He sat up and peered over the newspapers at the armchair. Jeremiah lay with his head tilted back, restrained in one of the loping crannies on the top. He snorted as he slept, body lying like it had been filleted.

Graham swallowed. If he was going to leave, now was his chance. He glanced at the door. He could sneak across the room, open the door, and get away… But what about the papers? How was he going to get them? He’d have to return another time… Except he was never going to get a better opportunity than right now. He couldn’t search with the old man laying the way he was. He might be a heavy sleeper but he couldn’t risk him waking. His only hope was to get the old man to go to his bedroom. He could sleep deep and sound, leaving Graham to search the decrepit house to his heart’s content – not that it made his heart content.

He reached for one of the old newspapers. He laid it down and unfolded it. Then he scrunched it up. He stopped, flinching at the loud sound. He waited a second. The old man hadn’t moved a muscle and was still fast asleep.

Graham drew his arm back and threw the ball. It fell short and didn’t make it to the old man. He balled up another page and took aim. This time, it sailed through the air and struck the armrest of the old man’s chair. He rolled up another newspaper ball and let it fly. This one struck the old man on the forehead.

Jeremiah bolted forward, sitting up. He seemed to stare at the newspaper ball in his lap, and for a second Graham thought he was scuppered. It wouldn’t take long for the old man to find him crouched as he was. He coiled his legs to spring up at the front door. He waited as the old man blinked his yellow eyes and got to his feet with great difficulty.

Jeremiah stumbled forward on his large bulbous feet, the paper ball falling from his lap. He stepped on it as he headed out of the room and in the direction of his bedroom. With his gaunt expression and the juddering way he moved he was the closest thing to the living dead Graham had ever seen. He waited, watching as the old man slid along the corridor. There was the heavy squeak of springs as he fell into his bed.

Graham waited a moment. He rose above the newspaper Tower of Pisa and crept across the room, stepping in front of the corridor. The old man’s feet stuck out the end of his bed. Graham relaxed, just a little.

He turned to the front room. He could run away, leaving, and never come back, and he would never need to remember this moment in his life ever again, and that was certainly what he should do… Instead, he found himself stepping toward the cupboard.

He pulled the first drawer open. A few small paint pots and screws rolled into a corner. Graham picked up a sheaf of papers and read through each one. Nothing. There was a photo album. He hesitated before he picked it up. Graham enjoyed photos, looking at the pictures and making up his own stories about the people and places. It would be a time sink unless he focused and pushed himself to just skim through the images, but the moment he opened the album he was enrapt.

The first picture had an image of him in it. It showed him with Jeremiah’s son Stuart. They had smiley faces. Graham sat in a wheelbarrow, Stuart holding the handles.

He turned the thick pages, going back in time. The photos were not arranged in any particular order. Now they were of a wedding. Judging by the hairstyles, circa 1965. Happy faces and broad grins. Graham wondered where those people were now.
In the ground, probably
, he thought.

Graham paused. What if he did find the deeds? What would possessing them mean? They would mean the project would be greenlighted and they could evict the old man. Even if he claimed ownership of the land there was still a lengthy legal process. They would begin work on the land in the meanwhile. If Jeremiah’s home were to be knocked down by accident, well, that would just be bad luck.

Did it change anything that he knew Jeremiah? That he had spent part of his youth here, under his roof? Eaten his food and played with his son? Working in the property business meant you were supposed to leave your morals at the door, or else you’d find your resume posted to it. You couldn’t afford to make those kinds of decisions when you were in business.

But the world Graham and Jeremiah’s past belonged to was gone, every bit as much as the photos that catalogued them on the walls and in the albums. All those eyes looking down at him, judging him. He felt embarrassed to be in this position. How did he ever end up here? How did he go from a child who came here to play during the evenings and weekends to someone who stole from those who had shown him nothing but kindness?

Was this what he needed to force him into a new line of work? To do something he really wanted to do rather than something that just paid the bills? His shoulders shrank.

“What are you doing?”

Jeremiah stood in the doorway. He’d woken up and stumbled down the corridor without Graham hearing him.

“I… I was just…” Graham said.

“What are you doing in my house?” Jeremiah shouted.

“I was just…” Graham said

Jeremiah leapt forward and gripped Graham by the collar, holding him in a tight fist. Despite the old man’s age, Graham feared for his life, feared suffering the same fate Jeremiah’s wife had. Murdered, with a swift anonymous burial.

“Get out!” Jeremiah said. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He screamed and bellowed, and his weedy arms seemed very strong. He threw Graham forward, toward the door. Graham tripped on a newspaper tower and hit the floor face first.

The floor shook. Graham felt it beneath his hands. And it continued to shake, long after it should have stopped.

Jeremiah’s eyes were wide with rage. Then they mellowed into confusion. A hanging photo frame shivered and shook, rattling on the wall. He reached out a hand to stay it, but it leapt off and smashed on the floor. Now all the frames were jittering, the model planes bandying to and fro like they had been possessed.

There was a loud crack and the floor gave way beneath them, falling away like crumble. Jeremiah skidded and banged into the wall. The hole spread wider and wider, and the newspapers and cupboards fell into it, consumed. The house shell itself remained intact, only the floor a gaping hole.

Finally, the building stopped shaking. Graham and Jeremiah stood, panting and out of breath, staring at the deep hole before them, each standing on a lonely platform of safety. Their eyes rose and they looked at one another, sharing a moment of relief.

Creeeeaak!

Jeremiah’s eyes widened. He looked at his feet. His platform snapped and he fell into the hole like he was standing on a stage trapdoor. His voice grew distant as he shouted: “Good Gooooooooood!”