The Hoarder Read online

  Published in Great Britain in 2018 by Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE

  canongate.co.uk

  This digital edition first published in 2018 by Canongate Books

  Copyright © Jess Kidd, 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on

  request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 78211 849 7

  Export ISBN 978 1 78211 851 0

  eISBN 978 1 78211 850 3

  Typeset in Bembo by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire

  For Eva

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 1

  He has a curious way of moving through his rubbish. He leans into it, skimming down the corridors like a fearless biker on a hairpin bend. He gallops and vaults through the valleys and hills, canters and bobs through the outcrops and gorges of his improbable hoardings. Now and then he stops to climb over an obstacle, folding his long legs like picnic chairs. And all the while his chin juts up and out and his body hangs beneath it, as if his grizzled jaw is wired to an invisible puppeteer. And all the while the backs of his big gnarly hands brush over the surfaces. For a tall man and an old man he can shift himself when he wants to.

  I don’t move like that. I wade, tripping over boxes and piles of mildewing curtains, getting caught in cables, hooked on hat stands and assaulted by rutting ironing boards. I flounder over records, books, stained blankets, greasy collections of plastic bags, garden forks, antique mangles, a woman’s patent leather shoe and an unopened blender that also grates and peels. And cats, cats, cats.

  Cats of all kinds: ginger, black, brindled, tabby and piebald. Cats sleeping, eyeing, scratching and licking their arses on sour cushions, humping under upturned boxes and crapping on great drifts of newspaper.

  I try not to look at the details but some little thing always catches my eye. A dead mouse curled in a teacup, a headless ceramic dray horse, a mannequin’s pink severed limb: that sort of thing. I have a morbid bent.

  This morning I am excavating the northwest corner of the kitchen. Taking as modern topsoil a pile of local papers dated September 2015, I have traced back through layers and layers of history. On reaching a sprinkling of betting slips stuck to the linoleum (dated March 1990) I was able to estimate that this filth hole has not been cleaned for at least twenty-five years. Having opened several speculative trenches and located an oven, I am now enthusiastically cleaning its hob.

  I count (sing with me):

  Seven withered woodlice

  Six shrivelled spiders

  Five black bags

  Four kitchen rolls

  Three dishcloths

  Two scouring pads

  And industrial grade thick bleach.

  I am wearing a disposable apron, extra-safe rubber gloves and a facemask for the smell and for the spores.

  He’s staring at me from the kitchen door, Mr Cathal Flood, three feet taller than usual because he is standing on a mound of discarded carpet tiles. This makes him a giant because he is already a fair height: a long, thin, raw-boned, polluted old giant. The set of eyes he has trained on me are deep-socketed and unnervingly pale: the pale, pale, boreal blue of an Arctic hound.

  ‘You had no business throwing out the cartons and so forth.’ He talks slowly and over-loudly, as if he’s testing his voice. ‘All my things gone and I had a need for them.’

  I turn to him, breathing like Darth Vader through my mask, and shrug. I hope my shrug communicates a profound respect for his discarded possessions (twenty refuse sacks of empty sardine tins) combined with the regretful need for practical living.

  He narrows his gimlet eyes. ‘You’re a little shit, aren’t you?’

  I pull off my mask. ‘I wanted to find your cooker, Mr Flood. I thought we might branch out, give the microwave a bit of a break.’

  He watches me, his mouth tight with venom. ‘I could curse you,’ he says, a hint of a sob in his frayed brogue. ‘I could curse you to hell.’

  Be my fecking guest, I say to my Brillo pad.

  I draw hearts on the rotten hob with bleach and then start scrubbing again. Mr Flood mutters in broken Irish on the other side of the kitchen.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ I murmur. ‘You have a poet’s voice, Mr Flood. Loaded with foreboding and misery.’

  I flick the dishcloth blithely into the corners of the grill as Mr Flood switches to English. He wishes me a barren womb (no changes there, then), eating without ever shitting, sodomy by all of hell’s demons (simultaneously and one after another), fierce constrictions of the throat, a relentless smouldering of the groin and an eternity in hell with my eyes on fire.

  Then he stops and I look up. He is pushing his hand through the spun floss of his hair (white halo, cobweb magnet, subject to static) patting it down, as if making himself presentable. Then he raises the still-dark caterpillars of his eyebrows a fraction of an inch and dips his head to one side. The effect is oddly charming; it has something of an ancient misanthropic squirrel about it. His mouth starts to work, in a series of stifled contortions, like a ventriloquist with hiccups.

  ‘Are you OK, Mr Flood?’

  He takes a deep breath and bares his tarnished dentures at me. I realise that he’s smiling.

  I venture a tentative smile of my own.

  ‘Don’t you ever lose your temper?’ he asks.

  I study his face for signs of attack. ‘No, Mr Flood, I have a sunny disposition.’

  ‘Isn’t that a grand thing for the both of us, Drennan?’ he says, and with a quick pat of the wall he climbs down from the carpet tiles and swims back through the hallway.

  I stare at the damp patch on the seat of his trousers.

  I have worked at Mr Flood’s house for just over a week and he’s finally said my name.

  I consider this a relative success.

  Sam Hebden, a geriatric whisperer brought in at great expense from a better agency than ours, lasted three days before Mr Flood ran him off the property with a hurling stick. I haven’t had the pleasure, but I gather Sam was in tatters.

  Perhaps Biba Morel, Case Manager, was right after all in pairing us: Cathal Flood meet Maud Drennan. Biba’s cake-saturated voice was full of glee when she phoned me that day. I could picture her, squeezed behind the desk, sucking on a cream éclair. Her jowls wobbling with delight as she rifled through her agency
files, performing that alchemic magic she was renowned for: matching geriatric hell-raisers with minimum-waged staff. Biba the social-care cupid, dressed in a stretch-waisted suit and floral scarf. Her voice honeyed with the joy of facilitating yet another spectacular client–care worker relationship.

  I hardly listened, but if I had, I would have heard the words: attracts a higher pay rate, challenging, assault, hoarding and common ground. I would certainly have agreed that Mr Flood and myself, both being Irish, share a love of fiddle music, warm firesides and a staunch belief in the malevolence of fairies. Not to mention the innate racial capacity to drink any man alive under the table whilst we dwell, in soft melancholy, on the lost wild beauty of our homeland.

  But now, as I survey the scene before me, my optimism falters.

  Even the cloakroom in Mr Flood’s straight-up, falling-down, Gothic crap heap is on a grand scale. Part-ballroom, part-cave, with a great black marble horse trough of a sink and wall sconces three feet high topped with whipped glass flames. An antiquated tin cistern roosts high above a monumental throne – a masterpiece in crenulated ceramic. The colour palette of this room is unremittingly unwholesome: the paintwork is lurid sphagnum and the tiles are veined the blue-black-green of an overripe cheese. The linoleum, where I’ve swept the floor, is patterned with brown lozenges like ancient orderly blood stains.

  In one corner a limbless Barbie doll floats on an ocean of takeaway menus. Her smile is a picture of buoyant fortitude. I wonder if she is part of some sort of art installation, like the abstract expressionist shit that splatters the wall and the mug tree lodged in the toilet bowl.

  Perhaps this is a job for another day. Perhaps this is a job for never.

  A low-grade grumbling tells me that Mr Flood is haunting the corridor outside. He has been watching me all afternoon, lurking behind stacked boxes and disembowelled televisions as I crinkle through his house in my disposable plastic apron.

  I’m certain he’s working up to something.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see him dragging a filing cabinet to the mouth of the door. He arranges himself on top of it, ruffling his many layers of clothing and folding his rangy limbs like an ancient disdainful crane.

  Then: ‘I’ve been thinking, Drennan.’

  ‘Good for you, Mr Flood.’

  Then: nothing.

  I glance across at him, waiting. He is staring down at the hands resting on his knees, so I consider them too. Palms big enough to span a melon, fingers slim and dextrous-looking: a pianist’s or a surgeon’s fingers. A smear of paint on the knuckle of his wrist, and long, curved nails, as strong as horn. He wears several checked shirts, each with overstuffed patch pockets, which give him the appearance of having multiple lopsided breasts. A woollen scarf is wound haphazardly about his head. On his feet he wears a pair of winkle-pickers laced with string. The toes alone are a metre long. They curl at the end with all the coiled threat of a scorpion’s tail.

  I put on my safety goggles and turn back to the toilet, hastily extracting the mug tree from the bowl. I triple bag it without breathing, tie the handles and get ready to start my bleach offensive.

  ‘Maud Drennan.’ He says my name slowly, as if tasting it, savouring it. ‘There you are with your head down the toilet. Will you come out and let me talk to you?’

  Now here’s a departure: it wants to talk.

  I pull the chain on the old-fashioned cistern. The thing flushes with a rush of rust-coloured water.

  ‘What do you want to talk about, Mr Flood?’

  ‘The house: how are you finding it?’

  I glance up at him. He has an expression of twisted playfulness, as if he’s pulled half the legs off a spider and is now going to watch it reel round in circles.

  ‘The house is grand.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘You’re rattled by it and by me. I can tell by your pinched little face.’

  ‘My face is in no way rattled or pinched, Mr Flood.’

  ‘I make you nervous.’ His voice softens. ‘Don’t lie to me now, Drennan. I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I growl into the toilet bowl.

  He sits in silence for a while, then, softer still: ‘You have a beautiful set of eyes. The brown of a newly split conker.’

  I squeeze bleach under the rim.

  ‘Or a polished walnut table.’

  I start to scrub.

  ‘An amber glow to them in the light, like fine Cognac.’

  I scrub harder.

  ‘Had a little sister with eyes just like yours,’ he says. ‘Could bore through the chest of a fella at ten paces and grab him by the heart at five. Eyes a man could drown in. Like hot treacle.’

  I straighten up and throw him a withering look. He looks back at me gravely, sucking solemnly on his dentures, without even a hint of a smirk.

  ‘Of course, it was miraculous that she had a pair of eyes at all,’ he says. ‘Considering . . .’

  ‘Considering what?’

  He takes cigarette papers and a pouch of tobacco out of his breast pocket and puts them on his knees. He regards me slyly. ‘Do you want to know why my sister’s eyes were miraculous?’

  I give a half-shrug, which means not especially, and turn back to the cistern, giving the chain a pull for something to do. But it’s too early: the mechanism clanks and there’s nothing. I’ll have to wait.

  Mr Flood waits too. With calm, practised movements he starts to roll a cigarette against his long thigh. His big hands are gentle, adept. I try not to watch him. He deftly licks the gummed strip on the paper, pinches the loose tobacco from the ends and puts the cigarette between his lips.

  ‘It all started with the wasps.’ He lights his cigarette and takes a drag.

  ‘The wasps?’

  He exhales. ‘It’s quite a story; do you want to hear it?’

  ‘Is it a long story?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He gives me a crafty smile, his blue eyes lit. ‘In my boyhood I was a great one for a dare.’

  ‘Were you now?’

  ‘There was nothing I wouldn’t do if you bet me to do it. I’d bite into the belly of a dead frog, shit on the priest’s doorstep, or sleep the night on the grave of the terrifying Mrs Gillespie.’

  ‘You did all those things?’ I give up on the cistern, shut the lid of the toilet and sit down on it.

  ‘I did. I was a holy terror.’

  I laugh, despite myself.

  He laughs too, delightedly. ‘Now one day the town’s children bet me I wouldn’t climb up the tree in Mrs Clancy’s yard and belt the hell out of her wasp’s nest. It was the biggest nest anyone had ever seen. For years it had grown unchecked, a great whorled bunion of a thing.’

  Mr Flood pauses for effect, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘Mr Clancy had been forever promising Mrs Clancy that he’d deal with it. But it was well known that he was terrified of wasps, having been stung on the end of his gooter whilst pissing in a hedgerow.’ Mr Flood opens his legs and points emphatically at the drooping crotch of his trousers.

  ‘I know what a gooter is, Mr Flood.’

  As if laughing, the cistern gives a sick gurgle.

  He grins. ‘So you do. One day, word began to go around that Cathal Flood was going head to head with Clancy’s wasps. There was nothing for it but to take a length of rope and a sturdy belting stick and set out for Clancy’s.’

  For a long moment he sits smiling at his knees. ‘Every child in the neighbourhood came to watch me climb that tree. Up I went, and soon enough I got a proper look at the nest.’ He frowns. ‘There they were, these great long feckers. Flying in and out, crawling over each other with their arses fat with venom.’

  Above me, a nervous dribble of water runs down through the pipes.

  ‘But I held firm and gave the nest a bit of a poke with my stick. All the children below roared and hopped as the wasps woke up and began to spill out of the nest.’

  He eyes me belligerently. ‘My next move was fearless. I stood up on
the bough of the tree and gave the nest a good clout. It peeled from the trunk like a rotten blister and fell down to the ground amongst the children, who scattered to the four corners of the yard. We all stared at the nest in surprise.’ Mr Flood hesitates, looking at me expectantly, waiting for the question.

  ‘Why? What did you see?’ I ask.

  Mr Flood leans forward, his eyes wide. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ he says. ‘Nothing happened. The nest lay there motionless. Dented but intact. And quiet. Not a peep from it. So the children drew nearer. And nothing happened. So the children drew nearer. And still nothing happened.’

  ‘The wasps were dead?’

  A smile plays on his lips. ‘I jumped down out of the tree and everyone gathered around me and we began to debate whether I ought to stamp on the nest or set it on fire. And that’s when Ruth heard it.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  He looks like he’s enjoying this. He has the voice for it: blarney-coated. ‘As we debated, my baby sister had toddled up to the nest and crouched on the ground. She dipped her head to it and listened. Do you know what she heard?’

  I nod slowly.

  ‘A low angry drone. The sound of a thousand wasps protesting,’ he says. ‘Ruth, in her innocence, picked up the nest. She cradled it in her arms and began to sing it a lullaby.’

  He relights his roll-up, tapping ash into a nearby broken soup tureen. ‘Of course, I’d noticed none of this for by now a fight had broken out. I was refusing to have anything further to do with the nest but the children had come to see a daring spectacle. I was just about to agree to eat a dead wasp, minus the sting, for I was not a total fecking eejit, when one of the children pulled on my sleeve and pointed across the yard in horror.’

  I’m on the edge of the toilet seat; the cistern too is riveted: it is holding its drips. ‘What was it?’

  Mr Flood frowns. ‘Ruth. Sitting on the ground, no bigger than a milk pail. Her face a mask of furious insects.’

  I shake my head.

  He leans forward, his voice clotted with disgust. ‘They were swarming all over her. No sound came from her mouth, which was opened as if in a scream, only wasps crawling in and out of it.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I whisper.

  ‘The wasps began to spread, coating her a hundred deep, writhing, teeming. Soon all that was left uncovered was one tiny outstretched finger.’ He mimics Ruth’s pose with his horn-nailed old digit.