Old Ernie was a one, living on the house block at the rear of the property that Ivan had inherited from his father, and his father afore that, the property that was, by rights, his. His resentment had not quelled one iota in the sixty two years that had elapsed. The worst type of resentment, too. A resentment with no object, except perhaps, a heartless God. Who or what else was there to resent: a dumb dog, a fallen log, a startled horse? It resided within his chest as a lightning bolt with nowhere to call home.
And so he lived. In the shed. On the house block. His flat-irons his constant companions, his hands and his feet. His laborious means of getting himself around. Heaving massive shoulder blades and forearms – and stumps for legs.
The gnome at the bottom of the garden. The Boo Radley of Coonabarrabran. Poor bastard.