Day was dawning on what would prove to be the hottest day of the year. Standing at the side of the Arumpo Road and gazing serenely into the middle distance, Jeremy Blackwell felt himself become wonderfully disorientated. As the tarmac road stretched away into the distance and a peaty smell blew delicately around his isolated body, he slipped further and further into serene contemplation. In this state, Jeremy was increasingly unsure what year it was, and he surrendered himself to the overpowering reality that the earth was indeed a flat expanse from which one could simply step off into nothingness.

The magical thing about the world, he mused to himself, was not that it floated silently through space, dancing a great gravitational ballet with the stars, but that no matter how one tried to reach it, a veil of secrecy still hung over that point of finality. The Earth did not spin on its axis, rotating like a spit giving its component parts equal access to the suns warmth.  No, it was more like a treadmill from which the end would always be hidden behind the lost horizon ahead.
“Perhaps all one need do is stop searching.”
Blackwell stumbled over the words, his first for what felt like weeks. His mouth was dry and the words coarsely aggravated his throat.

To his left, the ‘Walls of China’ rose from the ground like mini Himalayas, assuredly surveying their surroundings with an air of royalty that belied their temporary station in these parts. Vertical veins cut deep into the formation, appearing to conceal a very real, very powerful threat, like the neck of a strongman. It was this that made them appear far larger than they actually were, filling them with an overshadowing significance to which they could never reach.

In the distance an ancient dry lakebed was already being eaten by the heat which would slowly dissolve the rest of the world into mirage. It was only 8.30 but already the heat had become unbearable.  Behind Jeremy, a Shingleback Lizard yawned, opening its pink jaw to a ninety degree angle which would have appeared obscene, had anyone been watching. Its black tongue protruded from the now closed mouth, sucking in heat like a fire demon from hell and establishing how best to deal with the temperature which daily threatened to engulf its senses and blot out consciousness.

This was an environment Blackwell knew well.  He understood the power nature exerted over its dominion. If he was to escape its mighty wrath, he should get going and reach shade. Otherwise he would be in for a tortuous headache brought on by, and culminating in, the unbreakable spiral of dehydration…and nausea…and death. Death was not something that scared Blackwell, indeed it was something he had engaged in his entire life.

The road that stretched into eternity had proved illusive. Past horizon after horizon, Blackwell progressed, offering silent prayers to the Gods he had shunned that his small Renault Megane would abruptly plummet from the Earth to somewhere across forever.  The heat created a haze from which visibility had long refrained from being the dominant sensory guidance. Projected into a scene from some Dali painting with stable constructs melting into each other, instinct and belief had usurped control of Jeremy’s body, guiding the car as it passed across flat dry expanse. Along this uncompromising road Blackwell passed, inscribing the ground beneath with his inconsistent thoughts. Amidst the blurring of his vision one image held true, its luminescence guiding Blackwell like once the constellations in the night sky had destined a previous life. That life was so distant he could barely comprehend its distorted message, but for the first time in living memory it was growing bolder, a composite image of a life he had forgotten. Memories seared at his self, questioning all he had once perceived stable, distorting his canvas as he had done so many times before.

Outside the car’s contained reality, hurtling across the surface of an unusually significant planet, the Universe barely glanced at the intricacies of a single life. Barely. The metallic green car, propelled onwards by its human masters was not a contained force, insignificant and unobtrusive. Its forward motion forced air-pockets around its sleek design, moving atoms of dust which could change the world. Mingling with these particles, the heated carbon emissions rose into the atmosphere joining new wind currents and flowing endlessly out into the wider world.  To possibilities unknown. These particles of air would tread an irregular path across time and space, interacting with the people, places, and lives that Blackwell had divorced. They retained the singular stamp of his being, intermingling with the clouds and creating an historical atlas of everything.

Of course, for the Kangaroos innocuously ignoring his incursion, this was not of foremost consideration. Winds caressed their weathered hides, but grandiose concepts and philosophical ponderings had never been their primary consideration.   A singular Wedge-Tailed Eagle shot past on the wind, soaring overhead and silhouetted against the burning sun; its role in the life of a passer-through fleeting and unmemorable; a blot on the landscape without which a picturesque world would dissolve amidst monosyllabic cataclysm.

Blackwell neither saw, nor considered any of these things. His world was too big, had grown steadily larger over the years, and was now trapped inside his head, melding into an agoraphobic collage of his experience. He ploughed on through both his internal and external agora, seeking refuge under every bush he saw.

Jeremy Blackwell reached his destination without realising he had departed. Wearily he peeled his sticky shirt from the seat, only just comprehending the scale of his dehydration.  He emerged from his self-contained sphere into a bastion of sanctity which embraced his every sense. It was from a past life, but it felt like home. Jeremy was awaking from entombment, and he recognised the familiar shapes, colours and sounds of a world he had forgotten. Standing before him this evening on a calm suburban street to the South of Sydney stood a two-story house raised slightly off the ground in the customary stilted manner. In this style, the front door became the focus of the entire exterior, rising majestically between four symmetrical windows and perfectly centred within the wider structure. Down the steeply cut stairs that led away from the house to the street below, the path was lined on either side by a single Lemon tree, though it bore no fruit at this time of year. Blackwell’s attention was drawn below these trees to the grass which, although clearly well-watered, affected the brown tinged colour of all Australian foliage. The grass surrounded the house, enticingly hinting at lush treasures hidden in the back garden.

Back on the pavement, Blackwell had never been so powerfully excited about a recognisable place. He felt an urge to run but a gurgle in his stomach warned him that his muscles lacked the nourishment to do so. In his minds’ eye, Blackwell shot down the path, taking the steps two at a time, and smashed head-first into the thick mahogany door adorning the house.

********************************

Across the mahogany divide and separated by a matter of hours, Jason Langdon stretched his arms towards the ceiling, encouraging life into his tired muscles, and plumped down into an unfamiliar armchair.  Patterned with a rich and intricate red and purple check, Jason took refuge in its depths.  A short push back and a footrest appeared, allowing him to recline and continue his stretching.

“I am getting too old for this heat”, he spoke aloud to no-one in particular.  Above, the air conditioning emitted a low vibration which melted into the background.  Langdon picked up the novel he had set down last night and absent-mindedly flicked through the clean crisp pages.  They felt slightly rough, even to his wrinkled touch, as though they contained enlightenment worthy of a more refined reader.  Jason Langdon, classed himself squarely in that bracket of individual.

            This was a novel Langdon came back to consistently, a solid citadel of intellectual rumination through which he could construct and conduct a speech worthy of his station.  As a very well-read-kind-of-gentlemen, Langdon conceived of himself in tragically clichéd terms: the aging intellectual, whose artistic temperament matured like a fine French cognac, the political radical who remained true to his ideals.  Langdon viewed himself as the ultimate enviable dichotomy; young at heart, wise of mind.

            The average sized room was in a poor condition.  Pale brown paint peeled from the walls and, if Langdon hadn’t known it was once a bright, clean ecru the taste of the previous owners would be called into question.  At the bottom of an ever dustier skirting board, the floor was uncarpeted, exposing cracked wooden decking in need of varnish.  The low ceiling was adorned with plastered patterning of small, semi-circular designs which, if stared at for long enough, began to appear a portrait of varying clouds, swirling about each other in a storm-impending sky.  In the corner of the ceiling, the air-conditioning blew out across the clouds, adding its cold front to the barrage of warm air from outside.  From the centre of the storm a single halogen skylight shone down into the room below.  Apart from the chair Langdon sat on, the room was sparsely decorated.  The only other furniture was a small table on which rested a covered lamp, a pair of reading glasses, a sharpened pencil and pad of paper, and a small stack of books.

Casting a warm, reddish light across the intentionally basic room, the lamp invoked an image of Langdon’s warm, rosewood study back home where the hours seemed to slip by imperceptibly amid academic splendour.  Langdon was in the middle of a book tour, not for one of his own, but as the resident expert host of a well known novelist whose latest book rested at the top of the pile on Langdon’s left.  It had been two months since they departed England and, having reached a sojourn in matters, Langdon had come back to Sydney, to house-sit the building whose memory he clung to so passionately.  This house was a constant reminder of fondly held memories which continued to call to him from across the globe.  It was his first return in two decades.

            Langdon found the page he wanted, marked as it was by a luminescent pink page marker, and rested his reading glasses delicately upon his nose.  They had become an essential fashion accessory to him, an external vision of his internal dichotomy which made him appear, he presumed, both playful and intelligent.  The book he had opened now revealed itself to be Life is Elsewhere by Milan Kundera and, more specifically page number 65 of the Faber and Faber edition in which Langdon’s favourite character first entered the novel.  He considered the creation of Xavier a stroke of genius, at once liberating the main character Jaromil from his earthly station and allowing the novel to float across boundaries and borders.  To Langdon, Xavier was a metaphor, the metaphor, for the majesty of freedom.  Freedom to drift from one story to another, a specific time and place one minute, a completely different one the next as one reality dissolved into the next, intertwining together in a great adventure of the soul.  Amidst the never ending dream-world Xavier inhabited, one could be everyone and everything he had ever wanted, all they had to do was dream.

            This was the metaphor Langdon would use at an informal discussion of modern literature at the University of Sydney that evening.  He would compare Kundera’s subtly interwoven message with other examples of this concept from popular culture and antiquity.  Langdon smiled satisfactorily to himself.  All he needed was an introductory joke and they were never difficult to devise.  After all, middle-class artistically minded people were some of the most sheepish consumers of simple stereotype one could ever encounter.

Three hours later, Langdon set down pencil and paper and arose from his chair.  Despite the biting heat outside, he felt comfortably cool in this empty room and, having finished preparation for the discussion that increasingly excited him, he headed to the kitchen to fix himself lunch.

            The flimsy MDF wooden concertina partition door was light to the touch as he slid it open to expose a pantry, the like of which the modern world had all but disposed.  The room harked back to forgotten days of housewives and two drum manual washing machines, pantry’s stacked with tinned food, and casseroles baking in the oven.  The room brought a customary smile to Langdon’s lips as he crossed its thin vinyl flooring to the unsightly refrigerator in the corner.  Using force to break its insistent seal, the door flew open and banged loudly into the larders white door-frame.  Langdon quietly wondered how many times he had done this over the past three days, and whether there was a point at which the fridge would rebel against this kind of treatment.  This fleeting thought was pushed from his mind by the more urgent matter of what to eat.  Not that the choice was particularly extensive.  Langdon went for a B.L.T. sandwich and removed the ingredients, leaving only a small jar of Vegemite in the door.

            Amidst the smoke created by his too-fast frying of the bacon, Langdon coughed loudly and glanced though the window into the garden bathed in golden, unrelenting sunshine.  He looked to the empty swimming-pool with a rim of blackened crust running around its sides and the small pile of baking foliage in the bottom.  It was a forlorn sight to see an unused swimming pool which should have been reverberating with the sound and excitement that emanated from the other pools in the street.  What really caught his attention was the grass which cried out for some love and attention.  Starched grass always brought him out in a thirst, and sympathising with the grass, Langdon vowed to water it.

“Later tonight.”

He again spoke to no-one, and carried his hastily prepared sandwich back through the front room and out onto the front steps of the house where he was immediately hit by the heat which he had successfully avoided all morning, but now surrounded his every sense.  Langdon stretched, squinting his eyes to protect them from the suns brilliance, and perched himself on the top step.  Momentarily he recoiled from the concretes insistent heat but the shock was temporary and he settled down to this midday sauna.

“Maybe this really is the life for me” he reflected, feeling his problems melt away amid the liberating temperature.  There was no-one else out at this time, again proving to Langdon the essential truth of the saying about mad dogs and Englishmen.  The sandwich tasted strange, as though the mayonnaise was on the turn but, never one for culinary matters, he ploughed on to the finish, disregarding the slight murmurings of his stomach.

            When the sandwich was finished and he was satisfied with the growing redness of his forearms, Langdon rose from the step and returned to the house.

The sun was beginning to set on the hottest day of the year, though the heat had dropped only slightly and the air maintained its oppressive and sticky weight.  The temperature remained formidable but now merged with a soft cool breeze which melted around the forms of the people beginning to emerge from the seclusion of their homes.  Like the lightly dancing touch of a silk scarf, it invigorated the skin with unnoticed delicacy. 

In the front bedroom of the house he so fondly remembered, Langdon was preparing himself for the evening ahead.  Stepping out of the shower he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and examined himself.  He brushed his hand through his full head of hair without realising he looked exactly like an aging David Ginola.  Langdon was proud of his hair; it was part of his dichotomy; the elegant style, cut and fullness of it taking years from his face, while its silvery-grey colour demarked him as a man of reputation.  Though he would never admit it, he quietly admired the startling resemblance his face bore to Max Clifford, the British publicity mogul.  His students often referred to him as the ‘silver sheep’ in vague but sarcastic reference to the metaphorical ‘lone wolf’ he was keen on referring to.

            Langdon ran conditioner through his still wet hair before towel drying and carefully injecting it with the bounce and hold of a branded male grooming range.  He smiled easily at his reflection.  This was a routine he conducted daily, his hands doing their job without the aide of his brain which was already dancing through his wardrobe and picking out the perfect outfit to complete his appearance.  After selecting a short-sleeve, blue Aquascutum shirt and a pair of deceptively expensive cream chinos, he opted for a prolonged spray of anti-perspirant across his naked torso.  This would be its ultimate test, Langdon considered, and it better not fail him.  Donning his newly polished gold wrist-watch and matching chain, a 50^th birthday present from university colleagues, he applied face-cream liberally and smiled as his skin tingled from the menthol and eucalyptus which invigorated his cleansed pores.

The doorbell rang.

            Halfway through dressing, Langdon was about to ignore it when he flicked his eyes to the bedside clock and realised it was probably his driver, early as they always now appeared to be.

“I shall be with you in a second” he shouted at the window, directly speaking to someone in particular for the first time since the postman two days ago.  He pulled on the chinos which had been carefully ironed to appear casual and threaded a plain brown leather belt to complete the appearance.  Langdon strode bare-foot out of the bedroom and down the stairs, cursing his idiocy as his left foot picked up a splinter from the rough-edged floorboards that ran throughout the house.  Reaching the front door at a hop, he opened the spy-hole and looked through the thick mahogany door - so at odds with the rest of the house – into the alternate world outside.

            The man standing there was unshaven, looking dishevelled and hungry.  The man was also standing disturbingly close to the door, restricting Langdon’s view of him to his thin features and offering a less than pleasant image of nostril hair.  Atop his head, the tips of a fringe were matted to his sweating forehead.  With an increasing belief that this could not be his driver, Langdon pulled the large door open and greeted the man cordially, squinting as the sun reflected blindingly off the roof of the house across the street.  Against that light, Langdon could only make out the man’s shadow, in whose arrival he ignored a rising sense of foreboding.

*******************************

Jeremy Blackwell lifted the heavy brass door knocker to its pinnacle, released it and watched it fall in a smooth arc to connect firmly with the thick mahogany door. Thud.  He waited.  Stepping back from the door he looked up, the sun now safely set behind him and watched the sky darken slowly through shades of blue.  He waited.  He thought he heard a sound from the upstairs, but it could just have been a floorboard creak in what he remembered to be a very warm and welcoming house.  How he longed to feel as he had, at peace with himself and excited to stay settled, not constantly dreaming of the next horizon, the next adventure.  He moved forwards again, trying to peer through the spy hole despite realising that this was futile.  He waited. 

There appeared to be no sound coming from inside the house. Come to think of it, he had no idea whether anyone lived there, although the cut and colour of the grass suggested it saw some attention.  Minutes past, the sky turned navy blue and lights began to appear along the street.  People passed him along the sidewalk, barely looking up from their daily routines, never noticing the new face leaning against the door to number Twenty-Three.  This is obscene, thought Jeremy, no-one recognises me yet I can’t forget a single detail. 

He remembered every detail; how the lady three doors away flung her windows open to let the evening air in; how the kids of number Twelve fired their water pistols at passing cyclists, running into the house in fits of laughter before the shocked rider realised what had happened; how the old man played cricket with his son and his gay partner, failing to appreciate the confines of the terrain and smacking the ball with a characteristic swing of the bat into one garden or another.

            This was the gospel according to Blackwell.  The world changed, he travelled, but that small corner of Sydney remained the same.  He sat down on the top step, unsure what to do.  No-one was home and the sky was almost black.  The heat was growing more comfortable, though the street still reeled from its sweaty onslaught.  Man made humidity hung in the air.  Sweat and the results of numerous cooling-off exercises had drenched and re-drenched surfaces, evaporation and re-evaporation failing to completely remove evidence of the days luxuries.  The freshening air was a welcome relief but it was little comfort to Jeremy, sat on the step in front of the house from which he had run for so long.  He waited.

            Three doors down the windows remained tightly shut, a young man returned to number Twelve walking hand in hand with a lady dressed beautifully in a loose white dress more reminiscent of 1920’s American plantations than twenty-first century Sydney.  There was no cricket and the few cyclists who passed were drenched only in their own sweat.  High above, the sky had turned black.  This was not right.  He waited.

            It was now approaching 11pm and the broad figure of Jeremy remained sat atop the up-most step, perched like a gnome and with almost as little movement.  He did not know why he waited since it was clear there was nobody home.  He could not abandon this house now and despite the urge to do so, he could not kick the door down either.  It was too thick and he had neither the strength nor the inclination to try.  His mouth was dry and his tongue felt large and alien inside his mouth. 

The faint patter of water alerted his mind as a sprinkler came to life, jetting its life preserving spray across an eager lawn.  Standing to attention, Jeremy strained his ears to listen for where it came from.  It sounded like the back of the house, and, deciding it was only partial trespassing to walk uninvited through the garden of the house you once lived in, he moved slowly down the stairs and around the house.  His muscles showed no appetite for the movement having been sitting down most of the day, but slowly blood returned and he could move, though even this exertion strained his gasping body and made his head thump wildly.  Jeremy could picture the sight of what lay ahead of him, a beautifully green, lovingly cared for garden, in three careful tiers leading up to the bluest, warmest swimming pool he had seen.  Before or since.

            The sight that met his eyes was nothing like this.  The grass grew long and unkempt, and was strewn everywhere with fallen foliage.  The pool stood solemn and forgotten but despite the sorrow in his heart at witnessing another fallen image of purity, Jeremy continued, ears pricked for the sound of the sprinkler.  Walking up to what had been the second tier, he peered into the adjacent garden and saw what he was looking for.  The garden was a mess, but what a mess!  Everywhere children’s toys lay scattered, discarded by the child who’s mind became instantly engrossed in another subject.  The pool, though penned behind a 5 foot wire mesh fence that made it look like a prison, was full and glistening in the reflection of the stars.  And there, across the other side of this unkempt Eden, a small sprinkler system, flitted back and forward, mechanically satiating its thirsty charge.  Just his luck it was so completely out of reach. 

Dejected and feeling worse than ever, Jeremy returned to his pose upon the steps, telling himself he would only wait a few more minutes.  Just until he could banish the present and open a portal through which he could escape into the memory of a former world.  He waited. 

The headlights of cars moved up and down the road, turning from white to red and vice-versa, swamping Jeremy’s vision in a sea of light.  Submerged in this dreamlike picture, his mouth increasingly tasting like soot and his head thumping with ever increasing vigour, Jeremy Blackwell fell asleep.

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