The Hoarder

Kendal was glad he'd got the barbed wire although it was a bastard to work with. Luckily, he had some thick leather gloves just for the purpose, picked up from a house sale in Barnsley after a particularly fraught encounter with an arms' dealer in 1976. He'd come across the house sale on the way home after a long debrief, the sign for it stuck to a lamp-post, a messy creation written on the back of an old cereal box which seemed oddly charming and parochial after the bloodiness of what he had just experienced. The craving for something pedestrian and domestic and normal drew him in. It had proved a levelling distraction, sorting through the things left behind by someone who'd had a pretty standard existence. Kendal had felt envious of the simplicity of a life lived represented in the items remaining and for sale to others, and it had grounded him on a day when that's what he needed.

He would never forget that sign.

And, as a result of seeing that sign, he also got these superb gloves which he was able to put to such good use. Another bonus. They didn't make things like this anymore.

It was starting to get warmer. Kendal was keen to get as much done as he could while the sun was rising. It was good to be doing something. He'd become a little obsessed with the news, quite rightly, and whilst he needed to keep an eye on what was going on, his old contacts continued to drip details to him. That morning, he'd had a message land from Sinclair, a comrade from his "younger" days. Ken, better start making the tea as the kettle is boiling, it read and Kendal knew just what this meant.

The barbed wire was needed. Good job he'd finished sorting the composting toilet last week which was a brainwave he'd had whilst watching one of those homestead programmes from the U.S. where Alaskans rescued hapless romantics, dreaming of self-sustainability and off-grid living. If they've got it right though, Kendal thought, they're about to come into their own.

It wouldn't be long before T.V. would disappear, not that Kendal would miss it much. He'd always preferred books and had been stockpiling those for years anyway. He'd be dead before he got bored which was small comfort.

Also, less T.V. would mean less power draining from the batteries he'd installed for solar power. He wished he'd bought more batteries but some were better than none and he knew he'd be in a better position than most.

He'd done half the perimeter of his property before the sun beating on his head and the sweat soaking his shirt made him think that maybe it was time for him to have a breather. Mrs. Bellingham had been watching him curiously from behind her grey net curtains when he'd been at the curbside. He could never warm to her. It wasn't her slovenliness nor her lack of care for her health. It was her mean face he didn't like, her hanging jowls and her knitted brows.

He'd stockpiled some biscuits but they were a poor substitute for his homemade shortbread rounds. He was going to try and make as many rounds as he could before the milk dried up. He thought about getting a cow - milk, yoghurt, butter, cream! - but it wasn't realistic to keep an animal. He needed to centre on himself and just himself. He had enough canned food and goods in jars to last a long while and his garden was well-tended. He had stores for water too.

Kendal sat down on a crate and wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief kept in the top pocket of his shirt. He thought about his progress. He didn't have a lot of control but what control he had, he owned. When they came, which they would, it wouldn't be easy.

He thought back to that morning. Sinclair's message about the tea had been followed by I've got those stamps you wanted. They'll arrive shortly.

All very cryptic. This had determined his day's activity. To those in the know, this was an indication of war. Any reference to boil, boiling meant that things were heating up i.e. getting worse. Stamps, stamp meant that troops were on the move.

Kendal picked himself up and headed indoors. He needed a drink. Thirsty work, building barricades. He hoped Sinclair was right about the timescale. There had been no panic on the news but it was difficult to know whether information was being controlled. He thought it was. He had heard the mechanical whine of drones overhead, scanning, not shooting - yet. He was in the process, in his underground workshop, of creating a disruptor to bring them down discreetly. He would need to test it soon and hope that it worked undetected. The thought both excited and worried him.

Kendal ran the tap at the kitchen sink and drank deeply and greedily from the glass he'd filled. Cool, refreshing. He would enjoy this while he could - water on tap. He felt tired. The temptation to have a nap was strong but he knew he'd regret it if he succumbed. There were vegetables to harvest and pickle; apples to store and peel, stew and can; shortbread rounds to be made. He would rest later, when the sun drifted down.

Kendal was just heading back out to his further tasks when he heard the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. He tried to peer through his forest of reusable items but he had accumulated more since Michael's visit in direct contravention of their agreement and it was a thicket of random shapes of different sizes and colours. The light had long since decided to end its futile attempt to reach the ground through any discernible gaps. The path to the front of his property, which had always had its hazards, Kendal would admit, was even more treacherous now, deliberately so, to deter those who would try to get through.

Despite the thickness of Kendal's hoarded things, he was able to discern movement. Someone was coming up the path. Kendal's senses quivered. He shifted from foot to foot and felt the solidness of the pistol at the base of his back, under his light linen shirt. It was always good to be prepared, an attitude that had served him well throughout his 65 years. His eyesight was still sharp and his aim was excellent. His anxiety though was more difficult to suppress. He knew so much. He had seen depravity first hand, experienced it too and his brain liked to return to it more and more as he was getting older. He supposed it was because there was more to look back on than look forward to, although this was a state of mind that Kendal fought every day.

Whoever was heading his way was spry, fit. Kendal swallowed. He was an old man, for God's sake! He was no opponent now. No doubts, Kendal told himself. Don't let them in. Remember your training. Kendal tried to quash the conviction that his life might soon be over. His inner turmoil was not evident from his expression but he was fearful and very much aware of it.

Kendal resisted the temptation to shout out and waited, hand ready to reach behind him if needed.

He watched the corner where the grandfather clock rested. Any second now. He acknowledged the pun internally, his eyes focused on the point. Coiled. Ready.

A figure sprang around the corner dressed in combat green, slim and athletic.

"Stop!" Kendal shouted and placed his hand behind his back.

The man, Kendal could see it was a young man, stopped suddenly.

"What do you want? Who are you?" Kendal asked.

"Hello, Mr. McIntyre," the young man said. "It's me, Michael."

Kendal's hand remained on the pistol. Michael? The Environmental Health Officer? What did he want?

"Michael," Kendal said, stalling for time.

"Yes. I visited some time back about," and here, Michael gesticulated to the mass of detritus behind him, "this stuff and removing it."

Kendal stayed very still and watched. Why was he here? Kendal was wary of surprises. He'd had to deal with some fairly unpleasant ones in his time. He knew that there would be more to come but surely not this soon?

"I remember, Michael," Kendal said. He'd liked the young man. He'd seemed younger than his 33 years, naïve. Kendal envied him. At 33, Kendal had already faced killers and killed. Their lives were very disparate, his and Michael's and yet, he recognised something of himself in him or was it that he saw something that he wanted to protect? That was worth protecting?

Michael was surprised at the way that Kendal was greeting him. He wasn't sure how to proceed as when he had imagined coming back here to take him up on his offer of help, he recalled the old man and his solicitous welcome from before, his steady arm around his shoulder when the rat had run over his foot and the tea and shortbread and this was the vision with which his expectations had provided him.

Instead, he had a rather sweaty Kendal, although still well-dressed, in front of him, as taut as a guitar string. Michael supposed that to Kendal he did look different: his style of dress; his physique; his fitness. He was a different person to the man who'd visited before. But he was nothing to fear. In fact, the opposite. He felt a comradely respect for this old man and felt sure that he would be pleased to see him. It had been true what Kendal had told him. He'd been right about the whims of men and their designs for power. They were in the thick of it now although most other people were trying not to admit it was so. Michael wanted to learn from him. He didn't want to die. He wanted to do whatever he could to survive. Kendal was his best chance. Michael hoped that Kendal would be willing: Michael felt like Kendal was his best option.

Kendal watched the young man. He could see the changes in him outwardly - were there changes inside too, invisible to him and more importantly, had they been detrimental? Kendal decided to test him.

"So, Michael. The day has come."

Michael waited. He wasn't sure what to say. Kendal's words felt loaded.

"Are you on your own?" Kendal asked.

Michael hesitated and then said, "No."

Kendal tensed. Was this it? His end? Was he to be hijacked by an Environmental Health Officer who was scared of a rat?

This is Part 9 in a serialisation I've written. For Part 8, click here: