Third Prize
The Landlord’s Ladder
Mel King
It’s 4 pm on an unseasonably warm April afternoon. You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, squirming because your back hurts like a bastard from hunching over your laptop. You’ve been perched in this spine-crunching chiropractic nightmare for almost eight hours now, trying to distract yourself. You’ve wasted over two hours playing a game that you don’t even like, argued with a bunch of strangers on social media about a topic you don’t give a shit about, and changed your sheets, which are now mouldering in the washer. Right now, you’d trade the bed, the washer and your laptop for a decent massage, a bottle of Cuervo, and some peace and fucking quiet.
Music is blasting right outside your window; it’s Phil Collins, complaining rhythmically from 1982. You wish he’d stop.
Just thinking about the washing fills you with irrational rage, because if your dickhead landlord wasn’t here, clanging around on the roof and racing up and down his ladder like he’s goddamn Fireman Sam, you’d have hung that washing out, and let the sun bleach away any developing mould.
‘The sun is nature’s disinfectant’, your grandma used to say, and although it isn’t at all scientifically accurate, you really loved your grandma, and upholding her well-intended nonsense feels like a nice way to honour her memory. But instead of doing anything productive, or even soaking up some rays, you’ve been sequestered inside all day, waiting for your cheapskate prick of a landlord to complete a roofing job you both damn well know he isn’t qualified to carry out.
As mad as you are about your washing though, the thought of having to go outside and talk to Scrooge McFuck makes you madder. There’s always a chance that when he makes one of his inevitable snide comments about the length of the lawn, or points out a cobweb under the eaves, you might lose control and push the ladder out from under him.
He’s got the radio blasting in his Hilux and naturally it’s your least favourite station. Daryll Braithwaite’s having a sing now, about his non-negotiable plans to go horse-riding. You hope it doesn’t run down the Hilux’s battery, because it’s parked in your driveway, blocking you in. Worst of all though, he’s working right outside the bathroom window and you’re busting for a piss.
If he’d hired a qualified roofer, the job could have been done in a couple of hours, and you wouldn’t have wasted your entire day off seething in your bedroom, ruining your favourite Egyptian cotton sheets and screwing up your posture. Stupid tight ass prick. You wish the sun would disinfect him right out of existence.
Crash.
‘Fuck!’ he yells. You take your glasses off so you can press your face to the window and peer sideways. The angle is bad, but you can just see the ladder – an ancient wooden extension ladder like your Grandad used to have. You bet it’s still sturdy as hell too, and long; Grandad used to say that fully extended, his could reach the moon. When you were little, you believed him. Anyway, you can see a roof tile in pieces at the base of the ladder. Nice one, Butterfingers.
Down the ladder he races, all Blundstones and belly and white hair, like Father Christmas doing basic training. Rod Stewart calls out from inside the Hilux, wanting to know if you think he’s sexy. Your landlord picks up the pieces of broken tile, fitting them together, and for a minute you think he’s going to try to repair it – wrap some Gaffa tape around it and bung it back on the roof, good as new. Instead, he tosses the pieces into your wheelie bin. There’s a sticker on the lid that tells you what belongs in that bin, and builder’s rubble has a big red line through it. You think about drawing a big red line across his stupid face and putting him in the bin. You’re not usually such an angry person, but if anyone knows how to push your buttons, it’s this shithead.
You don’t hate landlords indiscriminately either; you’ve had a couple of decent ones over the years, but this guy is just a miserable tight-ass bastard who’d sell you for spare parts if he could get away with it, and then get on the Landlords Australia Facebook page to cry about how he’s losing money now because your house is vacant.
Shania Twain takes over the airwaves, and he starts singing along, loudly. Things cannot possibly get any worse than they are right now.
***
It’s 5pm. Your day off is officially over, and Numbnuts is still banging and thumping around on the roof, like he got tired of basic training and decided to take up Zumba instead. The Temptations are singing Papa Was a Rolling Stone. Now we’re cooking. Suddenly, you’ve got the urge to go out on the tiles – a few hours on the dance floor might loosen up your aching back. You contemplate joining your workmates for post-work drinks; after the crappy day you’ve had, you’d welcome the repetitive gossip and shop talk, but he’s got his extension cord plugged in through your bathroom window, and you don’t want him coming into the house to unplug it when you’re not there. You’re still trapped.
You wish you hadn’t called the real estate agent yesterday and asked them to fix the roof. You wish you’d just gone to Bunnings and bought a big bucket to put under the leak. Then you could have spent your day off lying on the couch, playing Xbox, making poor nutritional choices, and day-drinking. Like a normal person.
Really, you should have learned your lesson last time you were stupid enough to put in a maintenance request, when your security door seized up and wouldn’t unlock. You’d expected the agent to send a locksmith, but instead, He Who Must Not Be Named turned up, toolbox in one hand and the world’s cheapest door lock in the other. It wouldn’t fit the door, so instead of making a five-minute trip to Bunnings to get the right one, he’d spent a whopping six-and-a-half hours with a drill and a multi-tool, carving up the door to make it fit. When he was done, it looked as though someone had unlocked it with a shotgun. It didn’t latch anymore, either. He’d left it that way, telling you ‘It just needs time to settle’. The locksmith you paid to fix it after hours laughed so hard, he had real tears in his eyes.
You’re startled by a bang on your bedroom window. Your favourite house-hoarding asshole is shouting and motioning for you to open the window.
‘It doesn’t open,’ you mouth at him, pretending the drafty fifty-year-old windows actually seal out noise. He contorts his face into a shocked expression and yells ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT DOESN’T OPEN? WHAT DID YOU DO TO IT?’ You fantasise about hitting him. Your new Dyson stick vacuum is within reach; if you swung hard and fast, you could break through the window and belt him with it before he knew what was happening.
‘I’M GOING HOME TO GET SOME TEA. THIS IS TAKING MUCH LONGER THAN I EXPECTED. I’VE WASTED MY WHOLE DAY ON IT, YOU KNOW’. The vacuum connects with the side of his face in slow motion, his mouth forming an O as his teeth fly out and hit the brickwork like little white hailstones. Plink! Plink! ‘I SHOULD BE CHARGING YOU BY THE HOUR,’ he shouts, pissed off now. You nod blankly, fully aware that he’s waiting for a thank you.
Smash.
You strike again, leaning out through the broken window and bringing the Dyson squarely down in the middle of his head. He folds down into a squat, hands clutching each side of his skull.
‘I’LL BE BACK IN AN HOUR. I’LL BRING MY WORK-LIGHT. MAKE SURE THERE’S A FREE OUTLET FOR ME TO PLUG IT INTO.’
You snooker-shot him in the chest with the stick vac now; he rocks backwards, and as he drops his hands, his head splits neatly in two, each half falling to the brickwork beside him. Damn, that vacuum cleaner is strong.
He gives up on you and walks away, shaking his head in disgust. You don’t care; you’re too busy mentally composing an Amazon review and giggling.
Best vacuum I’ve ever had. Took out my landlord in two blows! Five stars! He drives away, taking his shitty generic music with him, pausing to get bogged in the driveway and spin mud up all over your fence. You’ll probably get an email from the real estate agent later, complaining about your muddy fence. Your mirth is ebbing away, and dejected, you put on some real music, set an alarm for 45 minutes, and crawl into bed. Maybe a nana nap will improve your mood.
You dream about vacuuming your fence. The mud won’t come off; instead, it darkens and spreads, like toxic mould growing at lightning speed, across the fence, and then it creeps up the shaft of the Dyson and right up your arm. You try to scream, but what comes out is that Hoodoo Gurus song that you freaking hate. You wake drenched with sweat and it’s getting dark outside your window; you slept longer than you meant to. The Hilux is back in the driveway, radio blasting, and your hose is lying in a puddle beside it. Did he seriously come back and use your water to clean his car?
A second extension cord now runs through your bathroom window, which means he came into the house while you were sleeping. So much for walking up in a better mood. You’re livid.
You switch on a light, and nothing happens. The power is out. You go outside and shout out for the world’s most annoying amateur roofer, but there’s no sign of him. It’s odd, but surely, he’ll be back soon – he can’t have gone far without his wheels. You don’t want to turn the power back on in case he’s switched it off for a good reason – your day has been bad enough without getting zapped. The dark is starting to settle in now, the fading grey sky peppered with migrating bats. You crack a beer and watch them until the sky is black, waiting on your front lawn for the landlord from hell to come back, but wherever he is, he’s taking his sweet ass time.
Led Zeppelin fills the night air with that perfectly loose boogie that always gets your feet tapping, and you decide that it’s a sign that you’re meant to go out and blow off some steam. You return to your darkened house, foraging around for a candle. You have a camping lantern, but you like the idea of showering by candlelight. You turn on the water and get started on another beer. You’re well past caring what the landlord thinks now; if he comes back and sees you naked, drinking beer in the shower, then good for him.
Delicious smells waft in through the window. Someone is having a BBQ – pork if you’re not mistaken. And why not – it’s a lovely night. You take your time in the shower, singing along to the Hilux-cum-jukebox now. Your mood has improved so much, you even sing along to post 1988 Metallica. You knock back two more beers, thanking the heavens for gas hot water. You’re getting pretty buzzed; things are looking up.
The breeze intensifies, making the candle flame dance. It breaks apart the shadows, casting a pulsing glow on the roof. You can hear some creaking from above now; Numbnuts must be back at last. You hope he got an eyeful when he went up the ladder.
There’s a big shadow on the roof. It’s hard to tell in the candlelight, but it looks kind of convex, like it’s bulging. You put down your beer and climb onto the edge of the bath to get a closer look. The ceiling creaks again, loudly this time, and a horrifying understanding washes over you. Your guts turn to ice, and you scramble for the door, but you’re soaking wet, and drunk, and as the ceiling splits open and releases its horrifying load, you slip backwards, crashing to the floor beneath it.
And there he is – Scrooge McFuck, on top of you now, pinning your soaking wet body to the bathroom floor. His hand flaps wildly next to your face; it’s hard to tell in the candlelight, but it looks charred, and it smells a lot like barbecued pork. Through the new hole in your ceiling, you see the ladder extending right across the gap, and you wonder, for a moment, if it really does reach the moon.
He’s grunting, and his hand continues to flap like a dying butterfly, amongst clumps of rotten insulation and plaster. It’s impossible to roll him off you; you’re cocooned between the bath and the dunny, locked in the worst cuddle you’ve ever had. He’s speaking now, rasping something urgently between coughs and gasps. But you can’t hear him, and you can’t get out from under him. Until someone comes to help, you’re trapped.
Fox on the Run fills the air, drowning him out. You tap your foot, glad your legs still work, and sing along with Brian Connolly’s sweet as fuck lyrics, rationing what breath you can draw into your compressed lungs. You watch the candle flame dance on what’s left of the roof, and wonder what will last longer – the cheapskate, or the apparently never-ending battery of his Hilux.
Mel King writes science fiction, horror and comedy. She is this year’s winner of the Speculate Prize for Emerging Writers, and received second place in Geelong Writers Prize 2024. Mel’s writing has been published in Backstory Journal, the Village Views and Geelong Cereal.
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