There are few things more inspirational than the joyous shrills of children playing on a late Summer afternoon. Carefree, uninhibited, children live for the moment. Emotions are fleeting, and the anticipation of tomorrow has them up with the lark. Childhood is brief but precious, and as those moments become memories, it's not uncommon to forget the things we once cherished. For Arthur Wharton, the sands of time have eroded the enthusiasm of youth. His appreciation for life’s pleasures has given way to a consuming resentment. An ill will toward expressions of happiness. And no greater declaration of happiness encroaches on Arthur’s world than the screams of the neighbourhood children, connecting bat with ball to knock one out of the park.
Coopers Plains is an older suburb, situated on the southern outskirts of Brisbane. Quite a few post-war era houses built in the 1940s still stand, a testament to the quality of their hardwood frames rather than any builder’s workmanship. Arthur's home was built in 1947, and he has been living here for the best part of thirty years. It was once a quaint home. His wife nurtured the most splendid roses and glorious sweet peas while Arthur maintained that house with love and vigilance. Those were happy times, but sadly, all good things must come to an end. After the death of his wife, Arthur retreated from this world. The beautiful gardens quickly withered and died. The house fell into a state of disrepair. He never regained his will to live or care for anything. He never took solace in the fact that his beloved wife no longer suffered. Never had the strength to apply perspective over all these years that passed. It's no surprise that he became the nasty, shell of a man he is today. Devoid of kindness and positivity, he exists as a blight on this wholesome neighbourhood.
The Guthrie family have lived next door for a couple of years now. The twin children, Ann and William, are delightful angels. Good kids and the pride of their parents. You couldn't ask for a greater gift than these two cherubs. In fact, besides Arthur, you can't find anyone in this neighbourhood with a bad word to say about them. And just like their friends, Dylan and Jasmine Turner, who live at the property to the rear of Arthur, they love to spend their recreation time outdoors. The kids often play together, and their parents quietly treasure this time they can have to themselves. The Guthrie’s property is sharp. The gardens display a nice selection of native flora, spruced up with a smattering of exotics. The imposing Jacaranda out the front lays down the most glorious violet carpet in late spring. It's a sight to behold and the centrepiece of Carnaby Street. Over winter it drops its foliage, cutting a haunting silhouette as it casts a long, dark shadow over Arthur's house each afternoon. The Turner property is by no means shabby either. But with more concrete than grass, it's the Guthrie’s lush, green lawn that hosts the backyard cricket of an afternoon.
The contrast between Arthur’s property and his neighbours’ does not go unnoticed. Visitors never fail to mention it, and passers-by twist their heads like carnival laughing clowns. On numerous occasions, Mr. Guthrie has offered to carry out some cosmetic improvements. Fixing that swinging gate to cure the incessant banging. Giving the rusty iron roof a lick of paint to shave off ten years of weathering. Running the lawn mower over the jungly spread of Summer Grass and Crowsfoot. But these gestures of goodwill, delivered through vicarious embarrassment, were always rejected with a snarl and a “mind your own fucking business”. So, despite the charity of his neighbours, and with no family to lend a hand, Arthur’s property continues to exist as a decrepit eyesore. Not that he cared though. He “don’t give a fuck”.
The interior space of the Wharton abode is no more impressive than the exterior. It's run down, neglected, and the colour scheme has not aged well. Begrimed posey-green walls meet tarnished linoleum flooring. The layout is minimalist with tired furnishings, drab floral curtains, and a random assortment of hanging prints. Upon opening the front door, a dilapidated wooden staircase leads to the upper level. Arthur sleeps in the western bedroom that just so happens to peer down on the Guthrie's backyard and provide a view of the Turner residence. The rickety double bed is quite a vantage point. Down the hall, at the top of the stairs, is a wooden console table supporting a large bowl, brimming with a collection of balls he has gathered from his property.
He may be declining with age, but the man is not an invalid. His small, weekly groceries are delivered to his front porch each Wednesday, but he is mobile. He is often seen making his way to the corner store, returning with cigarettes and a brown paper bag. He talks to no one on his journey, and no one dares engage him. The children are petrified by his threatening demeanour, and their parents know he’s not worth the time of day. He’s such a prick. Of particular vexation is this nasty habit of procuring the children's balls that find their way into his yard. Such a puerile and selfish act, but what more would one expect of a man with such a horrid reputation?  The delight he derives from his pettiness is sinister, and the wretched state of his property is not a safe place for explorative kids. All manner of creepy crawlies have made Arthur's home their own. There's certainly snakes. In the heat of the day, the unmistakable slithering can be heard as their cold-blooded bodies seek heat and prey in the noxious grass. There's mice, and by night, their larger, more cunning brethren, the rats, rouse from slumber to infiltrate the house. There's insects, thousands of them. And with insects come arachnids. Spiders, to be precise. Big ones, small ones, the poisonous and the innocuous. They inhabit every corner of the yard, finding shelter amongst the weeds and discarded items that litter the property. A chaos of webs to snag unfortunate bugs that happen to venture in the wrong direction. Any child game enough to jump the fence and retrieve a ball in this hostile territory, most certainly has a death wish.
The hairy huntsman spiders that inhabit Arthur's house are perhaps his fondest friends. He never ceases to be awestruck by the sheer size they attain, feasting on the smorgasbord of delicacies on offer. Their leg span is larger than a hand, with abdomens as thick as a thumb. They're a constant presence in the house. Unpredictable and appearing unannounced to startle the shit out of old Arthur. But they don't ask for anything, nor do they talk back, so he tolerates their presence. Every night, they emerge to explore the house and ambush their quarry. God knows how many live here, but Arthur has come to recognise particular specimens. Particularly one gargantuan female, distinguishable by her uniquely spotted abdomen and conspicuous missing leg. She’s too old to regenerate the appendage, but the handicap barely hinders her ability to navigate the house. It's not uncommon for Arthur to wake during the night, turn on a light, and be greeted by this formidable rogue. She’s mature and battle-hardened, a survivor.
Friday afternoon, 5:40pm, and the summer sun recedes. School’s out for the week and the backyard cricket is on. Ann and Dylan play the field, William on the attack, and Jasmine defends with the bat. It's almost tea time, and before long, their parents will be calling the kids inside for the evening. William runs in from the Eastern end, unleashing a medium-paced ball at the stumps. With a sharp eye, Jasmine observes the swing, adjusts her stance, and whacks the ball clear of the fence, straight into Mr. Wharton’s menagerie. Joy turns to disappointment, another ball gone, and the day’s play comes to an end. Not everyone is despondent though, Arthur rarely misses a trick. Not five minutes pass, and he retrieves the latest addition to his collection, placing it proudly but precariously atop his hoard.
This night, Arthur drifts off to sleep as usual. And like every other evening, when darkness settles, and the coast is clear, the creatures of the night begin to emerge. Cockroaches scavenge for crumbs, and the rats try their luck at the fruit bowl. The spiders warily scope for a meal, and the mammoth female, of which Arthur is so endeared, traverses the wall at the top of the stairs. She makes her way down to the console table, mounting the bowl on her way. She's light-footed but cumbersome tonight as she relocates her egg sac. Her sheer size is enough to dislodge the latest prize and send it falling to the floor. A few bounces and the ball comes to rest in the hallway. Making a leap to the floor, she lands with a soft ‘thud’ and scurries off towards the stairs with her clutch. Being a light sleeper, the disturbance awakens Arthur's senses. He reluctantly decides to investigate under darkness, making his way to the hall. Treading no more than four steps from his room, he brings a slipper down on the ball. It slides from under him, taking the foot as it shoots across the floor. He loses balance and in confusion, grabs for purchase as he spins towards the staircase. He lands hard on his face. His dentures dislodge, and his remaining teeth shatter on impact; his nose breaks, face spilling blood, his descent continues. Connecting with each step, his body continues to break. The right humerus snaps under his weight and dislodges from its socket. A sharp crack pierces the night as the left fibula shears cleanly and perforates the skin. In less than ten seconds, he lies unconscious and broken at the foot of the stairs.
His consciousness returns before dawn, and pain consumes him with an intensity you would wish on your worst enemy. His shattered face a stew of blood, flesh, and bone fragments. Incapacitated with splintered limbs, his predicament is dire, and he knows it. No one is coming to help, and no one will miss him as he lies with a dislocated jaw, fractured in three pieces. If there is one small miracle to be thankful for, it’s the clear airway that's formed, for his nose is a mess of pulverised cartilage. He attempts to draw breath, but a foreign blockage moving through his trachea creates a wave of panic as it starves the brain of vital oxygen. The huntsman clears his throat and exits Arthur's mouth, her seven legs tacky in the coagulated blood. Her eight beady eyes stare nonchalantly into Arthur’s dilated pupils. She's satisfied with her deposit, and now she must hunt, but she will return. Before sunrise, she’s back with a nutritious morsel, a juicy cockroach not long dead. Making her way through the muck, she climbs into the hole that was once Arthur’s mouth and descends the oesophagus. Reaching his stomach, she unloads her gift and exits his body again, choking the poor bastard with her hairy mass.
Throughout the days, she stays close to Arthur’s weakening soul, guarding. By night, she hunts and sustains him. Hour after hour, day after day, he reflects on his life and why he will die in his own blood and excrement. Every second of this unfathomable pain, he prays for salvation. Images of his beautiful wife, her alluring smile, and her dazzling garden flash through his mind like a psychedelic journey through the past. No one is here to accept his repentance, and on this evening, six days since that fateful cricket match, he feels an explosion in his left lung. The egg sac ruptures, and its contents waste no time in seeking out their mother. She's waiting for them, hundreds of them, and they instinctively latch onto her, leaving the protection of this failing body. Her work here is done, and Arthur’s pathetic death will soon be upon him.