Disappearing off the Face of the Earth

by David Cohen

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. You’re probably just confused because I have one the same.’

  ‘But it’s not this one?’

  ‘No, Ken. That one’s yours. Try it on.’

  I put the jacket on. It fitted me perfectly. And yet I was still convinced it was Bruce’s.

  ‘You try it on too,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, Ken. If you want me to.’

  It fit Bruce just as well.

  ‘Guess we’re the same size,’ he said. ‘But it’s still not mine.’

  Perhaps it was my tracksuit top after all. Had I experienced some kind of memory lapse? Time was sticking it to me no less gleefully than it was to Bruce, but surely I wasn’t old enough to be going senile?

  I was still holding the piece of paper with the picture of the mysterious building.

  ‘But if it’s mine,’ I said, unfolding the picture, ‘how did this get in here?’

  We both studied the image.

  ‘Does this building look familiar to you?’ I said.

  Bruce replied, ‘Technically, Ken, that’s not a building; it’s just a rendering of a building that’s yet to be built.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘If you look closely, you can see it’s not quite real. It’s been done on a computer by some architect.’

  ‘Maybe it’s been built since this image was made. Maybe it’s real now.’

  ‘Maybe. I doubt it, though. I mean, I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Why should you have seen it? It could be anywhere in the world, for all we know.’

  Bruce shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right, Ken.’

  ‘Anyway, that doesn’t answer the question of where this came from.’ I waved the sheet of paper in front of his eyes.

  ‘Ken,’ Bruce said, ‘haven’t you ever just put something in your pocket without thinking? I’ve done it more times than I like to admit. Weeks later I find it there and think, where the hell did that come from?’

  I tried to recall where I might have obtained such a thing.

  ‘What possible interest could I have in some strange building that hasn’t even been built yet, according to you?’ I shook my head. ‘It’s a complete mystery.’

  Bruce shook his head too. ‘A complete mystery, Ken.’

  Eleven

  I didn’t say anything more about it to Bruce, but the tracksuittop episode disturbed me. I accepted that the top was mine and not his, but how did that picture get into the pocket? Maybe, as Bruce said, I’d absent-mindedly picked it up somewhere, stuck it in my pocket and forgot about it. It looked like a page from one of those compendiums you get from property developers or real estate agents, but I’d had no dealings with either.

  And what were those letters on the back?

  But there was other business to attend to. The Ellen situation remained unresolved. I’d been thinking about her a lot; in fact, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She still refused to answer my calls, and I didn’t want to drive to her house again. I hated to think I was harassing her, but I couldn’t just take this on the chin and walk away. Of the various silences I’d been subjected to of late, hers was the worst because I could see no reason for it.

  Although she’d told me the name of her business on more than one occasion, I couldn’t recall it. I remembered, however, that it was located in Slacks Creek. How many mobility scooter businesses could there be in Slacks Creek? As it happened, there were two. I chose the one closest to Hideaway, which turned out to be correct. It was located in a shopping centre, sandwiched between a bath-and-tile showroom and a physiotherapy clinic.

  There were lots of scooters lined up outside; I wasn’t sure if they were for sale, or whether they belonged to patrons and the shop just happened to be very crowded at that moment. But there were only a few customers inside. I could see a sales assistant at the rear, talking quietly with an elderly couple, but there was no sign of Ellen.

  I inspected some of the scooters on display: the Shoprider Powerchair Cougar 10, the Tzora Elite, the Sportster SE. I even sat on one and moved the handlebars left and right, imagining a time when I would be unable to get to the local supermarket without the aid of a machine. Those scooters always made me think of death. I wondered how Ellen could spend her life surrounded by them; I’d only just entered the place and already I felt that if I stayed much longer, the remaining years of my life would collapse into five minutes and I’d walk out – or ride out – a brittle-boned old man.

  I got off the scooter when I saw the sales assistant approaching.

  ‘Is Ellen here?’ I said.

  ‘I think she’s in her office.’ The assistant looked towards the rear of the store. ‘I can see if she’s free. Who shall I say is —’

  ‘Just tell her a friend’s here to see her. She’ll know who it is.’

  The sales assistant walked away. I drifted around the shop, pressing the handbrake of a scooter here and there. I could hear a radio in the background: a seniors’ station playing songs from yesteryear, interrupted every so often by commercials for retirement villages and laxatives.

  I looked up and there was Ellen walking towards me. She wore a white blouse and dark pants, and her hair was tied back. She looked every bit the professional businesswoman.

  I smiled. ‘Hi there, boss. Nice shop.’

  She looked displeased, even kind of shocked.

  ‘But don’t you find it a bit depressing?’ I said.

  She ignored the question. ‘Why are you here, Ken?’

  ‘Ellen … Come on now.’

  She broke off our conversation to greet a middle-aged woman and her father, asking the sales assistant to attend to them. When they’d moved on, she said, ‘Ken, this isn’t the place …’

  ‘But where is the place?’ I said. ‘I can never get you on the phone.’

  ‘That’s another thing – you’ve got to stop calling me.’

  ‘I only do that because … well, you know.’

  I could hear Julio Iglesias singing ‘Begin the Beguine’ in the background.

  ‘I have to get back to work,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Can I meet you after you finish? We’ll go out for a drink.’

  Ellen took a breath. ‘You really must be out of your mind. How can you expect me to … What you did was just – I can’t get past it. I don’t want to get past it.’

  I took her hand. ‘But what did I do? You still haven’t told me.’

  She snatched her hand away.

  ‘Is there someone else?’ I said. ‘Is that what’s going on here?’

  ‘Are you taking the piss, Ken? Jesus!’

  ‘No. I’m honestly at a loss. What have I done? Whatever it was, I’m sorry. Just tell me.’

  ‘Let me give you some advice, Ken: learn to take no for an answer! Do you know what they call people who don’t take no for an answer? Stalkers. That’s what you’re doing right now.’

  ‘All I’m doing is earnestly seeking an explanation. That’s all I’m doing.’

  She laughed – not her usual quite nice laugh, but the sort of laugh reserved for things that aren’t funny.

  ‘I’m clearing out my unit as soon as I get the chance. I don’t want to store my scooters there anymore. I’ll ask my stepbrother to come with me, so don’t get any ideas. I’ll stick it all somewhere else.’

  ‘There’s no need to do that, really. Plus, I’m giving you a discount, which I can barely afford to do. You won’t get such a reasonable price anywhere else.’

  ‘I have to get back to work.’ Ellen retreated in the direction of her office. I stood there, at a loss. The radio was playing something by Acker Bilk.

  I really couldn’t fathom Ellen’s behaviour. I couldn’t recall doing anything to cause her to react this way – certainly nothing that was beyond forgiveness. For the moment, I had to put it down to her emotional issues. She was prone to abrupt shifts in mood, and a conviction, without any real foundation that I could see, that certain people were out to screw her o
ver in some way. Had she added me to the list?

  I was, at the very least, glad to be out of the shop. The odours of self-storage were many and varied, but that place had a smell I hadn’t smelled before. It lodged itself in my nostrils and remained there until I was safe inside my van again.

  I switched on the CD player, seeking comfort in King Crimson once more. I recalled that when Ellen and I first met, she hadn’t heard of King Crimson; when I played her some, she said she wished that were still the case. I missed her.

  Even though I was sure I’d left the CD in there the night before, there was no disc in the slot. I wondered if perhaps I really was losing my memory, and if so, what would be next?

  You’d better get used to that smell, I told myself. You may be shopping for a scooter sooner than you think.

  Twelve

  At work the next day, I was washing my hands in Hideaway’s tiny bathroom when Bruce appeared and announced, ‘Unit 45. Dotfote.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Dotfote. D-O-T-F-O-T-E: disappeared off the face of the earth. It’s happening so often these days I thought we might as well use an acronym. Time is money, as they say.’

  I’d stopped listening. I was staring at Bruce’s face: something had changed. I realised he was wearing glasses.

  ‘What’s with those?’ I said.

  ‘These?’ Bruce’s brought his hand up to touch the frames, which were thick and black. ‘I need ’em. Getting old, I guess.’

  Bruce had never mentioned that he needed glasses. I wondered if he really did, or whether it was merely an attempt to make himself look more interesting, or at least a bit less uninteresting. Bruce had small, pale eyes, so his bald head flowed almost seamlessly into his nondescript face. If nothing else, the glasses helped to interrupt that flow.

  We took the boltcutters and the torch and the camera to Unit 45. Once again, the door was secured by a Sargent and Greenleaf padlock.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ I said, pointing to the lock.

  ‘What do you mean, Ken?’

  ‘These last three units – the one with the comics, the one with the figurines, and now this one – they all have the same padlock, and it’s not your everyday padlock, either.’

  Bruce, having disabled the padlock with the boltcutters, removed it and weighed it in his palm, as if it were some precious stone.

  ‘Sargent and Greenleaf,’ I said. ‘You were holding the others just like you’re doing now.’

  Bruce looked at me quizzically. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody is. Not to mention the one at the construction site.’

  ‘Which construction site?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake – Pharaoh’s Tomb.’

  Bruce stopped examining the padlock. He put it in his pocket.

  ‘What were you doing there, Ken?’

  I detected the whiff of a challenge in his tone.

  ‘I go by there every now and then to see if they’ve started building.’

  Bruce studied my face, waiting for me to continue. I have to say I felt a little uncomfortable, being looked at by Bruce through those thick black frames – as if they gave him the power to see right into my soul.

  ‘It’s probably not wise to do that,’ he said. ‘Someone might see you and get the wrong idea.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Nothing, really. Just a bit of friendly advice. I just don’t think it’s wise to hang around construction sites.’

  ‘I wasn’t “hanging around”, and anyway … Look, let’s just get this done.’

  The defaulter’s name was Michael Tan, and for some reason I wasn’t entirely surprised to see that his unit was crammed with eBay-worthy merchandise: pearl necklaces, a woman’s gold watch, a diamond bracelet, a Prada handbag, expensive suitcases filled with high-end-brand women’s suits and dresses and underwear. At first it looked like Michael Tan was either a thief or a glamorous transvestite who kept his secret life locked away. But there were also things of little or no monetary value. One box contained numerous photographs of a young Chinese woman; I guessed the clothes and jewellery and accessories belonged to her. Another was stuffed with diaries, paperback books, half-empty perfume bottles, tubes of lipstick. In another, a jumble of random contents: a dirty drinking glass, a stack of documents from a Sydney oncologist, a small cushion, even some used tissues. This woman’s entire life seemed to have been hurriedly packed up and shoved into the unit. But there was no trace of Michael Tan.

  I was sure Kelvin Gadd could turn most of it into a nice little earner, but I wasn’t quite as excited this time.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ I said.

  Bruce perched himself on one of the boxes. ‘Can’t you see?’ he said.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘All this stuff belonged to Michael Tan’s wife.’

  ‘Belonged to?’

  ‘I had a little chat with Michael,’ Bruce said. ‘Horrible story. He was married only two years before his wife Li was tragically taken by cancer. Tore the guy apart. He had plenty of money, but Li was his entire world. She died, what, maybe a year ago, but he’s been holed up in his house and has barely set foot outside since.’

  ‘Another recluse,’ I said.

  ‘Precisely. But he couldn’t bear looking at his wife’s things – a continual reminder of what he’d lost. And yet he couldn’t bear to throw any of them away.’ Bruce picked up one of tissues. ‘Not even this.’

  We stared at that tissue and its residues of Michael Tan’s wife.

  ‘Bruce,’ I said after a minute or so. ‘I’ve often wondered how it is that these little chats of yours manage to glean so many intimate details about people’s lives.’

  ‘Well, Ken, it starts out as a little chat – friendly small talk – but before long they’re pouring their hearts out to me.’

  ‘And why do they do that?’

  ‘Because I listen, Ken. I’m a very good listener. I sometimes think I should have been a therapist.’ Bruce neatly folded the tissue and returned it to the box. ‘Plus, I make house calls.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘I visit people in my free time, Ken. Lonely, isolated people – I do them that kindness. Why not? I’ve got plenty of time on my hands.’

  ‘You mean people like Michael Tan?’

  ‘Among others. And I prefer to think of them as fellow sufferers.’

  He adjusted his glasses. We looked at each other.

  ‘How long have you been doing this?’

  Bruce paused to think. ‘A while.’

  My head began to ache. I leaned my back against the door of the unit, and looked at the overflowing suitcases of Li Tan’s clothing, the boxes of perfumes and make-up. I could smell the assorted scents and fragrances of Li Tan.

  ‘What the hell, Bruce? Why would you do that? Why?’

  Bruce retrieved the Sargent and Greenleaf padlock from his pocket and methodically bounced it in his palm. Watching him, I felt a sudden urge to grab the padlock and pound it like a hammer into his lumpy bald head.

  ‘These people need a friend, Ken,’ he said, perfectly calm. ‘I play that part – I’m their friend.’

  ‘And tell me, what do you do on these visits? Do they invite you over?’

  ‘No. I take the initiative – someone has to.’

  ‘Are they happy to see a complete stranger show up unannounced?’

  ‘Whatever their reaction, they know I’m there to help. They may be reclusive but they still need company. In fact, they need it more than anyone.’

  ‘If someone chooses to be alone, it usually means they want to be.’

  ‘They only think that. Some people surround themselves with walls, Ken: a protective mechanism. You can’t really blame them.’

  I studied Bruce’s face again. He seemed so unruffled by everything. Self-satisfied.

  ‘I don’t think you should visit any more tenants, Bruce.’

  Bruce stoppe
d bouncing the padlock.

  ‘With all respect, Ken, surely what I do in my own time is my own business.’

  He smiled. So very reasonable.

  I changed the subject. ‘When did Michael Tan disappear?’

  ‘Last time I went to visit, he was gone. My theory is that he couldn’t live with the pain any longer. Not everyone can get over the loss of a loved one, Ken. Imagine finding the love of your life, giving your heart and soul to that person. And then, just like that, they’re taken away. Is that fair, Ken?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what’s the point of living when you feel so bereft, so utterly alone? When the woman you loved so intensely is no longer part of this world? Wouldn’t it be preferable, if you were Michael Tan, to join your beloved Li in the next world?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of these hypotheticals.’

  ‘And wouldn’t it be better,’ Bruce continued, ‘than having all these things – all these terrible reminders of your cherished Li – locked away forever, to liberate them, in the same way that you liberate yourself from suffering? Michael had locked himself away, just like he’d locked all these memories away. Maybe he decided enough was enough and it was time to free himself.’

  He fell silent. Neither of us spoke for some time. I thought I could hear a fluoro light winking in a distant corridor. The smell of perfume and fabric was almost overwhelming; I didn’t think I could remain in the unit much longer.

  ‘You think he’s done away with himself,’ I said eventually.

  ‘It’s just a hypothesis, Ken. I’m not saying he did or he didn’t. I’m just saying I wouldn’t be totally surprised if he’d … gone to the next world.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘It’s a sad business, Ken. But on the bright side, we’ll find a good home for his wife’s jewellery and things. And you know we need the money – not that it’s the priority here, but I’m sure Michael Tan would be happy to know his wife’s things have helped other people. Without wanting to sound crass, we do seem to be having a bit of luck at the moment. The universe has been taking note of us, Ken, and it’s decided to give us a break.’

  ‘You believe that?’ I said.