The Hoarder

"Hot sweet tea. That's what you need," the old man said as he helped Michael over the threshold of his cottage into the hallway.

Michael was starting to feel more himself.

"Let's get you sat and then I'll make us a drink," said the old man as he guided Michael from the hallway through a low door into a living room with rustic ceiling beams. It was, Michael thought, a lovely room. The old man positioned Michael in front of a narrow armchair, showing signs of use but not wear, and Michael gratefully plonked himself into it. No puff of dust emerged as his weight lowered into it and he was struck with how different the inside of this cottage was to its grounds.

"There you go," the old man said and added as he went through another door, "I'll just be in the kitchen. I won't be long. Just get the kettle on and then we'll be able to have a chat. Alright?"

Michael managed to bleat after him a weak, "Yes" and then added, "Thank you" and he soon heard the bustling about and chinking of someone making tea. His breathing had steadied and his heart settled once more in his chest where it belonged.

You don't work in Environmental Health and not encounter the odd rodent but Michael had never been touched by one before in such an audacious and frankly, uninhibited way. He took the time that he had on his own to look around. He was wary - of rats, mainly. He tried not to dwell on the repellence he felt but it was hard not to.

Focusing on the room in which he was sat was a welcome distraction. First impressions? It was cosy. It was also full of stuff which in itself was no great surprise considering the outside but this was seemingly a far more orderly place. It appeared to be a well-arranged time capsule or a living museum exhibit. Michael couldn't see a wall or not a plastered one at any rate. From floor to ceiling were a variety of what could only be described as "things". It reminded Michael of pictures he'd seen of the libraries in stately homes, only it was not only books which were stacked and arranged but items, all in a place of their own, like an elaborate jigsaw - of "things".

Michael could see an old radio in its own nook next to a stack of vinyl, next to some knitting needles, next to a hand whisk. Above these were leather bound books, next to a set of Allen keys, next to a shower curtain, next to some mother boards (possibly?), next to eggcups, next to acrylic paints and brushes next to some hemp sackcloth and so on. It was a mixed bag - it could either be viewed as a treasure trove or a rubbish heap. It reminded him of one of those "Find the item" games where everyday objects were hidden in unusual places in an ordinary picture, like a living room or a garage. You had to search for corkscrews and batteries and touch the screen when you'd found them, earning points for your observational skills. They made his head hurt.

"How do you like it?" A shout came from the kitchen above the boiling noise of the kettle and Michael was a little startled at how the old man was able to read his thoughts. He wondered what to say until he realised that the old man meant the tea.

"Just milk please," Michael answered.

"Sure you don't want some sugar?" the old man suggested.

Michael replied," No, I'm feeling a lot better now, thanks," as he sat back into the chair.

The old man reappeared at the door moments later, with two mugs on saucers, all mismatched, each saucer having a shortbread round perched there.

"There you go," the old man said, offering Michael one of the mugs. "I took the liberty of bringing in a biscuit. Don't feel obliged to eat it."

Michael took the proffered mug and said,"Thank you." The tea was steaming and the perfect colour. The shortbread round looked very tempting. Only moments ago, he wouldn't have been able to entertain the idea of eating but now, he found himself eager to sample it.

The old man went to the armchair across from him and eased himself down slowly into it, his eyes on his tea the whole time.

"Ah," he said, letting out a long sigh and once sat, he took a big slurp of tea.

The two of them sat in silence, punctuated only by quiet slurping and the munch of biscuit eating. Michael was impressed. It was a good shortbread round. He was feeling decidedly more like himself.

And then he remembered the rat and then he remembered his reason for being there and suddenly, his appetite fled like a startled rodent and the murmurings of nervous nausea began deep in his stomach. He placed the mug and saucer on the floor next to the chair and picked up his iPad.

The old man did the same with his tea. The two men faced each other in a sitting stand-off. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked.

It was Michael who broke the silence with an awkward clearing of his throat. It was the old man who spoke first.

"So," he said.

Michael looked at him, this kindly man. Now that they were opposite each other, he could look directly at him. Michael saw nothing extraordinary. He saw nothing chaotic or confused. He saw someone cognisant and social and confident. There were none of the indicators that he had seen in other hoarders. This man was holding eye contact; his living area was respectable, maybe a little dated fashion-wise but there was an eclecticism to the place; it wasn't dusty and most telling of all, it smelt okay. Actually, it smelt nice. Sandalwood maybe? A little cinnamon?

Whatever the actual scent was, it was not faecal in its essence nor the warm, rotting odour of dirty dishes and unemptied bins.

The old man's opening "So" weighed heavily in the air between them. Michael did feel like the first move had been made in a duel or the opener to a chess game and he wasn't sure why. He was about to start his normal spiel when the old man got up from where he was sitting and with urgency approached Michael until he was in front of him.

Michael didn't know how much more his heart could take today. What was he going to do? Had the old man brought a knife from the kitchen? Was this to be how it ended for him?

This is the second chapter in a serialisation I am writing. If you missed Part One: