Deceased Estate

‘Doesn’t it creep you out?’

John glanced at his young offsider, deliberating whether to answer or tell him to shut up again. Too many questions. Too much inane banter. If he’d had the strength of two or three men he would have worked alone. He kept quiet, knowing that Yang would speak again, if only to fill the distasteful silence.

‘I mean going into a house where someone died, and touching their stuff. Does it smell? Man, just the thought of it, gives me the willies, you know?’

The older man sighed, loosened his grip on the steering wheel then tightened it. ‘It’s just furniture, okay. We pick it up and carry it out to the truck, just like every job. That’s what we do. Move furniture. Every house is just a house. People live. People die. We move furniture.’ Although he knew that wouldn’t satisfy Yang or stop his blabbering, he rested; comforting himself with the thought that he had given it his best shot. John had done countless deceased estates, and despite what he said to Yang, some of them had disturbed him a little as well. Not that he could ever put his finger on what exactly bothered him, but there were occasions when something felt weird. He recalled one job in particular which had so troubled him that he had not been able to sleep that night. A deceased estate. A deceased old man who passed into the afterlife alone in a big house filled with the detritus of a long life. It did smell too. Stunk of death and decay. Reeked of yesterday’s odours. John shook off the memory like sand off a beach towel.

‘Furniture has history,’ said Yang. ‘It tells stories.’

‘’Bloody hell mate. What are you? A philosopher?’

Yang stared straight ahead, unaffected by John’s ill humour for he was accustomed to it. It was a temporary gig which paid pretty good money and he enjoyed the physicality of the work as well as the more than decent pay. He could endure the sour old timer for a few months until he had the money he needed to make his big break. John took him for a fool and treated him with undisguised contempt, but Yang’s skin was thick. Being an immigrant had forged a certain resilience, as it did with most. Australia had at first seemed full of excitement and wonder, then drudgery and disappointment took over. Frustration after frustration had sorely tested his faith, squeezing the hopeful exuberance from his bones. Until he met Suzie, and then the game changed. John was typical of many narrow minded, crusty farts he had met during his time in Wollongong.

‘Take a lounge for example,‘ continued Yang. ‘A couple buys a lounge, maybe the first lounge. Let’s suppose it’s new. They take the plastic off, and they sit on it. Then they move it. She wants to try it here, and there, and what about like this. He says yes to everything, playing his role, until she settles on a position and they sit again. She kisses him. The lounge is important to her. It’s a symbol. Maybe it’s the first piece of furniture they’ve bought together. She kisses him again. He kisses her back, and then they christen the new couch which is marked for the first time with humanity, stained with sweat and a little semen.’

The truck rumbled to a halt out front of a dilapidated bungalow which hid behind overgrown shrubbery on a large, and largely neglected block of land. Having managed to filter out most of Yang’s rambling yarn about sex on sofas, he swung the truck out from the kerb in a wide arc to line up its rear end with the driveway. He then reversed in. It seemed unlikely that the truck would fit, but John persisted until it had nested comfortably beside the house with enough room between it and the garage to allow the back doors to swing open.

Yang reached for the door handle.

‘I reckon you’ll have better luck this way mate.’

After trying to open the door anyway, he found the aforementioned shrubbery stubbornly resistant to the idea, so he clambered over on to the recently vacated driver’s seat, then slid down on to the ground as gracefully as he could. He’s noticed how smoothly John always got in and out of the truck. Striking Yang as neither flexible nor fluid in his motions, John nevertheless possessed impressive agility.

‘Back door,’ called John from the rear of the truck.

Yang noticed the silence. It was a hot morning, steamy and still, stifling life. He wiped his forehead, feeling the sheen of perspiration which had assembled almost as soon as the truck’s engine was turned off, stealing the bliss of air-conditioned crispness.

‘Are you coming?’ roared John. ‘Or are you waiting for a bloody invitation?’

A whisper in the bougainvillea caught Yang’s attention. He froze, listening carefully to hear the words.

Meanwhile John had retrieved the spare key, opened the door and was already walking through the house assessing once more the volume of furniture. He’d completed the process when he quoted for the job, but now he added the process of imagining everything in here, packed inside the truck. Packing a truck with furniture and belongings was like doing a jigsaw puzzle. People though moving furniture was all about muscle, but brains were required to do it efficiently. When he reached the living room which was towards the front of the house, he looked at the lounge and smiled. Sweat and a little semen.

The fabric three seater looked to be in relatively good condition, as though it had not been used much compared with its companion recliner which showed signs of having housed a man rather than merely providing him with a seat. It looked comfortable, inviting. John sat down and nested in the luxurious softness.

Yang strained his ears, but heard nothing more. He could smell jasmine as well as the bougainvillea and other sweet garden fragrances: an aromatic tour de force stewing in the humidity. The heat was oppressive. His shirt stuck to his skin. He had grown used to it over the years, learning to endure, if not enjoy it. He walked to the back of the house, noticing the rotting garage which leaned to one side as though about to faint from exhaustion.

The rear porch was small and crowded with overgrown potted plants. He smelled the roses before he saw them, majestically crowning long, thin, thorny stems. They reminded him of Suzie, who loved flowers and infected him with her love of nature. A spiritual woman, she had allowed him to reconnect to a side of himself he had neglected during his quest for meaning in adventure. He loved her, not only for the beautiful person she was, but also for the way she made the whole world seem brighter and more wonderful.

‘John, where are you?’ said Yang as he opened the back door and entered the house.

‘Living room.’

Inside the house, it was cooler and malodorous. The exact opposite of the outside world. Yang felt uneasy as the ancient mustiness assaulted his senses.

‘This chair,’ said John, as Yang entered the room, ‘is incredibly comfortable. Seriously, it’s no wonder the old bloke spent most of his time on it.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Hell of a spot to kick back and croak it, don’t you think?’

Yang saw a shadow pass over John’s face, and thought he saw otherworldly sparkles glittering on his eyelids. His discomfiture ballooned. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting on with it?’

‘Damn straight,’ said John, startling Yang with a speedy exit from the recliner. He gestured to the lounge. ‘I didn’t notice any sweat or semen on it. Maybe you should check, eh?’ Then he chuckled wickedly. ‘Master bedroom first. Let’s get that mattress.’

As he followed John down the hall, Yang studied the walls and fancied they had never been cleaned. They may have once been splashed with brilliant white or whatever fashionable shade was popular at the time, but time and neglect had facilitated the accumulation of grime. He looked more closely and saw a fine mist escaping from invisible pores. Running his hand along the wall, produced balls of slime on his fingertips. He walked on, slowly becoming aware of the sponginess of the floor.

‘The carpet’s wet,’ he said.

‘Just smells wet.’

‘No, it’s wet. Look!’

John ignored him. ‘It’s pretty ripe in here, isn’t it?’

Yang reciprocated John’s avoidance, crouched to feel the floor with his hand. It was dry. To take his mind off the disconcerting sensations he was experiencing, Yang said, ‘It smells very bad in here.’

‘That’s what I said.’ John grabbed a hold of one side of the mattress. ‘Give me a hand with this, will ya?’

While he searched for the handles at the side of the mattress, Yang observed it slowly changing colour, darkening. Just as he slipped his hand inside one of the handles, the mattress seemed saturated with blood, and the handle snapped from its weight. ‘Blood.’

‘Don’t be so bloody squeamish,’ said John. It’s just a little stain.’

‘The whole mattress is soaking with blood. I’m not touching it!’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

When he looked again, the mattress had returned to its normal shade of grey and Yang could see the golf ball sized blood stain near the edge. ‘Nothing,’ muttered Yang. ‘All good. Let’s get on with it.’

As they shuffled down the hall, Yang did his best to overlook the stench and the slimy wetness: the combined effect of which was that he felt as though he was walking through a sewer instead of a house. He musn’t let his imagination run away. He had to keep his fevered and worsening delirium at bay. Work hard. Work fast. In the midst of his private pep talk, John suddenly dropped the mattress and went into the living room. ‘What are you doing?’

John snuggled into the recliner and closed his eyes.

Yang repeated his question.

‘Just resting,’ said John. ‘I feel really sleepy all of a sudden. I just need a nap. Do what you can and I’ll help you later.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ 

‘Or you can take a break too. No hurry is there. Lay down on the lounge. It looks comfortable.’ Then he chuckled unpleasantly again, quietly this time as though he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

‘John? John!’

Noticing the steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest, Yang realized he was actually asleep. He had no idea how anybody could fall asleep just like that. Yang stood there staring, wondering what to do. The last thing he wanted to do was lay down on that sofa. He gazed at it and saw that it was blood red, but he couldn’t remember what colour it had been before. Maybe it was red. Nausea brought on by the acrid atmosphere mingled with confusion, and disgust and something new: fear.

‘John! Wake up! We have to get out of here.’

Yang tried to pull him up by the arms, then by reaching around his back under his arms, then he slapped him. John was dead to the world, and too heavy for Yang to carry. With adequate effort, he might be able to pull him onto the floor, and that might be enough to rouse him. He tried, but John now seemed so attached to the recliner, he couldn’t even move him forward. Was it sweat which glued his back to the chair. Yang attempted to pull him by one arm – both of his hands clasping John’s forearm, he yanked and pulled, cursing all the while but it was all to no avail. Yang slumped on the floor, exhausted by the effort of trying to move John or at least wake him, but he recoiled instantly at the wet touch of the carpet. It felt as though it was sucking at his clothes. He sprung to his feet, heart racing in a state of panic now. What to do? What to do? What should I do?

He scrambled out of the living room and into the hall where he slipped and crashed into the wall. The plaster gave way, cracking beneath his weight. Yang winced then regained his feet, heading for the back door. The room seemed darker now, the air even heavier. He could hardly breath. His head was swimming, and pain was screaming from different parts of his body. His hand. He looked and saw no wounds. His back, but then it was gone. His chest: sharp pain. Then none. He could hear his heart beating loudly inside his ears, his body seemed to have been separated from his mind. He could not do anything. Could not move anything. Could not feel anything. The smell and the heat were overwhelming. If only he could get to the door and escape. It could not have been that far. Just a few more steps. Surely. He vomited then, and for a moment, was reconnected to his body: momentarily, but long enough to feel the fall, and the slushy welcome of the putrid carpet. He struggled to his feet again, fighting the debilitating fear with everything he had. Then everything went black.

‘Yang! Yang? Are you alright? Talk to me. Say something.’

Cold water was splashed on his face, reviving him. It was still dark, but there was a luminescence to it, like a light shining behind a thick curtain. More water. Cold. So refreshing. He opened his eyes slowly.

‘Talk to me.’

‘What happened?’ croaked Yang.

‘I dunno. You flipped out. Had some sort of panic attack or something.’

Yang eased himself to a sitting position, and accepted the bottle of water which John offered to him. ‘A panic attack? Really?’

‘I told you there was nothing to worry about, but you got yourself all worked up about this being a deceased estate. I tried to calm you down, but you were talking all crazy like bloody mattresses and wet carpet, and strange whispers.’

Yang sipped from the bottle, savouring the healing coolness. ‘But you were asleep on the recliner, and I couldn’t get you off.’

‘Me sleeping on the job. Fat chance,’ said John. ‘Like I said you just had a panic attack or something I reckon. We have to get back to work. We’ve lost a bit of time with these shenanigans of yours.’

After drinking some more water, then emptying the remaining contents of the bottle over his head, Yang said,’ I imagined it all?’

‘All in your head mate,’ John said. Then he chuckled wickedly, but quietly as though he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

THE END

Bio: Heavy metal lover and cricket tragic, D.A. Cairns lives on the south coast of News South Wales where he works as a freelance writer. He has authored six novels and had over 80 of his short stories published, not including the anthology, "The Devil Wears a Dressing Gown." "I Used to be an Animal Lover" is his first foray into book length non- fiction.

E-mail: D.A. Cairns

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