The Hoarder

If you were to happen upon Kendal's home as a passer-by, you would not recognise it as a dwelling, although the area was very much residential. You might think that someone had chosen a barren patch of ground for some fly-tipping; or you might think you'd taken a wrong turn and ended up at the entrance to a scrap yard.

Then you would see a gate and realise that it led somewhere and that beyond was a path - of sorts.

You wouldn't believe that beyond that again was a place of comfort, inhabited, a home to someone. To all appearances and for everybody else who lived around the site, it was an eyesore and a health hazard.

When Michael from Environmental Health pulled up alongside Kendal's house, he sighed. Before opening the door to get out, he sat in his car, took a moment and stared at the sight before him. An old metal bedstead lay upright, its head end to the sky, its white paint flaking, framing the gateway. Something was growing up the frame, green tendrils entwining round and round. Beyond it, he could see a bicycle frame, its back end raised, propped on some coloured crates. And then, it was difficult to distinguish individual items. It was a mass, some of it recognisable, some of it less so, all of it mingling with nature's green to make a strange forest. In places, between the leaves, bright blue tarpaulin tied with yellow rope bundled items together and secured them from the elements. The colours reminded Michael of Ikea, although this was no Scandinavian furnishing warehouse. The bright blue tarpaulin was tied tightly, with the yellow cord biting into it, so it looked trussed, bulging, the rope making segments in its vast misshapen body, like a sinister lurid caterpillar.

Gazing at the gathered mass of rubbish in front of him, Michael veered his mind away from small things that creep, the spectacle in front of him seeming to be a likely habitat for such creatures; it was probably best not to think about them, he reasoned.

With a deep breath filled with resignation, he climbed out of the warmth and relative comfort of his car, gathered his council-issued iPad and shutting the door firmly, took a step towards the gate that marked the entryway to Kendal's home.

***

"Watch your step!" a voice shouted.

Michael was startled as he couldn't see where the voice was coming from. He was in a labyrinth of bits, mainly metal. It was like a futuristic apocalyptic maze, dark and sharp. He'd arrived at 10am but he contemplated getting his phone out and using the torch on it to guide him. The wealth of rubbish caused the surfeit of light. He turned a corner having stepped over some thick piping to be confronted by the stark face of an old grandfather clock, its door open and its pendulum showing, its innards there for all to see. He suppressed a gasp and shook his head. This place was freaking him out a little, he realised.

"Keep coming straight!" The voice shouted again and with some effort, Michael continued forward, although his walk became less one foot in front of the other and more one leg lifted to waist height before reaching over to find ground again. His progress became more slow and the way became narrower. He could feel the stretch in his buttocks. He wished he'd worn looser trousers.

"Almost there!"

Michael could hear the voice distinctly and it was warm, rounded. He took one more big step, the path continuing sharply round to the right where he was greeted by daylight as the mass of accumulated detritus eased.

Michael took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the bright light on leaving the scrap forest. Hot after his scrambling, he fanned himself with his iPad, grateful for a minute to gather himself before addressing the reason he was there which was, he had to admit, going to be entirely unpleasant.

"Welcome, friend."

Michael tucked his iPad under his arm and using his hand to shield his eyes looked in the voice's direction. It belonged to an old man who was standing in the doorway of a cottage, smiling warmly at him. He was well-groomed, his white hair combed, his clothes clean and pressed. He was wearing a V-neck cardigan, buttoned up, with a white open-necked shirt and a paisley-patterned silk cravat. His rosy-cheeked presence was, Michael thought, entirely at odds with his surroundings. He looked like an actor or a retired accountant.

Where the man stood was a mini oasis in a futuristic nightmare-scape. His cottage was golden with a rambling rose climbing the stone work, the approach to the front door entirely inviting. Cottage garden plants like delphiniums and hollyhocks rose like natural spires and bees buzzed frantically, gluttons at a nectar buffet. At lower level, more flowers, mixed with thriving bright-stalked chard, providing a rainbow carpet either side of the path, which was now noticeably different. It was no longer a treacherous piece of dirt but a mosaic of blue and white pottery shards, pieced together and grouted, making a smooth walkway reminiscent of Roman villas or Moorish palaces.

Michael felt the sun's warmth on his skin and welcomed it. After the darkness of the accumulated stuff, it felt like a rebirth. It did something to lift his unease as did the appearance of the man in front of him. He didn't look like a nutter and the path was a piece of art. In fact, the whole cottage looked like a surreal art installation. Michael was immediately reminded of Sleeping Beauty and the prince thrashing through the thorns to arrive at his prize. It was all quite idyllic and what had started as a day of dread didn't feel nearly as bleak. He was, he thought, surprised, filled with optimism and good will.

Indeed, if the rat hadn't taken that moment to run across his foot, he probably would have written a report glossing over the unhealthy accumulation of useless shit causing an environmental hazard and put the morning down to being an interesting one away from the office.

But when Michael felt the weight of the rodent on his loafer and saw the fat grey body and long pink tail, his good mood was replaced immediately by disgust.

Michael shrieked.

The startled rat scurried off on its merry way.

Michael's heart was racing.

"Oh! Oh!" The old man shouted in sympathetic horror and immediately rushed towards Michael.

Michael made a conscientious effort to control his breathing so that he didn't shriek again or shudder. Unbidden, an image from a film with plague victims, moist and black with sores and pustules threatening to burst, entered his already traumatised brain and he wished, he wished that he was somewhere very far away from here, doing something very different.

"Are you okay?" The old man was next to him now and his concerned face was in front of Michael's. Michael was far from gaining his composure. His breathing was hurried, his heart still thumping from the shock.

"I feel a little faint," Michael found himself saying.

The old man put his arm around him as Michael felt the thudding in his temple and the distortion of his vision. He had never felt so weak.

"Here," the old man said. "Let me help you inside. You need to sit down. Come."

Michael leant into the shoulder of the old man which later, he would reflect was surprisingly robust and feeling strangely comforted, that's how Michael found himself walking on the beautifully crafted blue and white path into the den of a potential madman.

****