So, we’ve just put new batteries in the fire alarms, the garden’s been done. Also, about the bathtub about the back, you’re under strict instructions not to move it or use it.
What? I thought briefly about the strangeness of that statement and finished handing over the bond and getting the keys.
That night, sitting in a near empty apartment, with boxes all around us, I recalled what she’d said.
We’ve been here 2 ½ years now.
We’ve since found out the landlord had lived in our house for 30 years. He’d renovated it himself and made some additions. A batchelor.
What was he doing in a 3 bedroom house all by himself for 30 years?
Now the house down the street, with the windows that always have the curtains drawn; the yard is permanently overgrown – although in the last couple of months, someone has been digging in the front yard but you never actually see anyone doing it. The front door is never used and the side gate looks permanently shut. But at night, there are lights on. No one ever goes in, no one ever goes out. If we find out there’s a basement full of deadibones under that place, I WILL NOT BE SURPRISED. Not one Iota. I’m quite happy to get out there in tracky dacks and a dirty t-shirt and tell the nice journalist all about how I wasn’t surprised at all.
‘Yeah, there was always something strange about that joint, ya know…Not surprised at all.’ I’ll put my hand up for that 20 seconds of fame.
But the bathtub out the back.
What the hell is in it?
I dug out a little soil for a flowerpot when we first moved in. Whatever was in there STUNK. It smelled bad with a capital b.
What’s in the bloody tub – that’s what I want to know.
