CHAPTER FOUR
Too many drinks the night before was no excuse to avoid his run for a second day, so Mitchell set out at a cracking pace making up for the day before. It suited him. Running cleared his mind as he recounted those ninety-nine minutes of yesterday. He knew it madness trying to piece together the unexplained events, but it kept him occupied and made the run go faster.
True to his word, he arrived right on time to intercept his coffee just as Sarah was snapping the lid onto the cup. They entered their ritual, flirtatious banter, before Mitchell set off as quickly as he’d arrived. He took the reverse track home again finding the park bench unoccupied. Heavy clouds hung in the sky and the heat of recent days had mercifully abated. Catching his breathe and thoughts, Mitch patiently waited to see if the old man would appear for a third time.
The click of his cane was soon heard in the distance. A little later than before, as evidenced by Mitchell’s now empty coffee cup, and Mitch readied himself in anticipation. He offered no greeting this morning but removed his phone and fumbled for the stopwatch function. Just like yesterday, the old man stopped when his cane echoed the metallic clunk and Mitch pressed the start button on his phone. The digits whirled to the hundredth of a second as the blind man mimicked his previous action. Learning his lesson, Mitch made himself comfortable on the gutters edge, oscillating his gaze between the old man and the numbers ticking by in his hand. Patiently he watched the man’s movements until a distant rumble from above ushered the first spattering of tiny raindrops. They were mist like at first as Mitch noted the clock wheeling its way over the hour mark. The man’s dark glasses had long been removed, and his controlled foot movement continued as the misty rain heavied. Soon large droplets appeared on the concrete. The wide brimmed Fedora must have kept the man’s collar and back dry, but the blue shirt worn for today’s outing showed no evidence of rain. The rusty brown plates turned a darker shade with the rain, adopting a glossy appearance as if breathing life back into the tired old metal.
But there was something very odd. The entire plate was covered in water; even the area beneath the man, as if he wasn’t there to shield the falling rain.
Having always been industrious, Mitch rarely stood idle and found it testing how the man could stay static for so long. Whiling away time seemingly with nothing…maybe that’s how you become aware of the people and things around you, by taking time to see detail in the smallest things? The thought distracted him and Mitch almost missed the old man wobble as the cane slipped momentarily on the glassy surface beneath. Startled, and remembering just in time, Mitch pressed the stop button and the numbers ended their ascension at 99:15:04. No handkerchief was needed today, but the glasses returned to their rightful position and the old man set off whistling the ‘Blue Skies’ tune once more.
Mitchell thought the tune a funny choice given the cloud and rain, but after all, the man was blind. He’d shown his ability to tell a Rosella from a Finch and could pinpoint the location of the singing cicadas. He was so attuned to his surrounds how could he not notice the rain as readily?
With only a split seconds’ thought, Mitch tucked away his phone, shook the gathered rain from his sodden head and sprinted to the other side of the road. Leaping onto the footpath he entered a slow jog and scanned the path to his right seeing the man making his way carefully down the steep hill in the wet conditions. Mitch heard neither the clicking of the cane nor the whistling tune and had little time to concentrate on either. His breathing heavy, his mind racing. He didn’t stop until overtaking the old man but slid to a sudden halt when eyeing what lay ahead.The road at the bottom of the hill had come to intersect a minor thoroughfare heading left and right. A roundabout island easing traffic flow joined the four roads. Footpaths were on either side spreading in each direction. Four roads, eight footpaths….which direction? Why hadn’t he noticed this before?
Mathematically he worked the equation eliminating a quarter of the possibilities straight away, the paths heading back up the hill. But six options remained. Without knowing where the man was headed, Mitch had no alternative but to pull up, catch his breath and wait. The old man was indeed still whistling and Mitchell focused on his every movement.
With almost synchronistic timing, the tune hit its final note as the man stopped his stride when his cane tapped the dip in the gutter, clearly listening for approaching cars before making the crossing.
Shit. Mitchell was on the wrong side!
He didn’t panic; he would always outpace the elderly man and used the time to prepare for the chase. He waited to see which path the man took, in awe of how faithfully he advanced across the road. Given the amount of traffic, the still drizzling rain, and of course his blindness, he placed his trust entirely in the thin rod of fibreglass extending merely a metre from his feet... Mitchell spent half his life trusting no one but himself and questioned if his composure would be as casual if holding that cane right now.
The man then continued in the same direction. Mitch gave him enough time to cross the road and settle into his gait. He looked up the road finding no further obstacles and was confident of fashioning a meeting within minutes. In his mind a plot quickly developed.
After checking for traffic, Mitch employed the gutter like a runner’s starting block to begin the pursuit; sprinting to gain distance and purposely puff himself out. He passed the man with expected ease and checked to his right seeing his prey remained on course. With a comfortable distance now between them, Mitch crossed the road and continued to run; but on a reversed bearing. He approached his quarry and slowed to a jog, forcibly increasing the depth and sound of his breathing; he was no Rosella, but confident of being heard. He slapped his shoes a little harder on the wet pavement just to be certain. Mitchell reached the man and stopped, and with gambled timing ventured,
“Hello again sir, trying to beat the rain?”, drawing a heavy gasp between every second word.
“Yes. It has come a little earlier than expected, and unfortunately caught me out. No matter, I actually enjoy the freshness it brings,” the man replied as if talking to a friend. “I heard you slowing down. Are you nearing home or were you making way for a poor old blind man?”
Mitch was astonished by the rapid, and correct conclusion his new acquaintance made. He may have lacked the faculty of sight but he saw much more than Mitch ever did. Could he sense lying as readily he wondered? Mitchell laughed awkwardly.
“Yes I am. I’ve had enough for the day. And after your show of independence yesterday, I wouldn’t dare make the same mistake twice. Besides, I could have just jogged around you if needed.”
“But you didi’t. You crossed the road a little further up in order to meet me?” The man smiled. Mitchell thought it wise to ignore the comment and was thankful the man couldn’t see his eyes drop.
“My name’s Mitchell Atherton,” he said extending his hand without thinking. The old man casually shifted the cane from his hand and tended it forward meeting Mitchell’s perfectly in mid-air.
“Well hello again Mr. Atherton... Albert Churchill. Yes, just like Winston. It is indeed a pleasure,” he offered as introduction. For the second time in less than a minute Mitchell was astonished by the man’s ability and wondered if he was really blind. “Are you from around here Mr. Atherton? I haven’t seen you before.” A natural statement, even for a blind man.
“Yes I am, but I pretty much keep to myself.”
“As do I,” Albert replied before Mitch could think anything of it. The rain heavied providing Mitchell the break he needed.
“Mr. Churchill, can I buy you a coffee so we can both get out of this rain?”
“That’s a splendid idea Mr. Atherton. Do you know How’s Your Day Bean?” Mitchell chose not to lie to Albert Churchill; he was too wise to his youthful ways.
“I sure do, shall we say 30 minutes?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Mitchell walked to the cafe periodically shaking his head in disbelief, asking the same question of himself over and over.
“What are you doing Mitch?”