Into Thin Air Read online

  Into Thin Air

  By Nigel Bird

  Copyright 2011 by Nigel Bird

  Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

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  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Into Thin Air

  By Nigel Bird

  The party would be in full swing when he arrived, which would allow him to put his plan into operation. They’d be talking about it for years to come.

  “Remember that party with the fish? Booze and glass everywhere, and all those fish staring up at us. Turned out half the people there had one in their drink. It was the craziest thing I ever saw.”

  He sorted from the pile of clothes the warmest things he could find. Layers would be the key—everybody had said so before he’d left. A T-shirt, a long-sleeved top that needed washing, a thin jumper and a thick one and, since he wouldn’t be seen, the bobble-hat his gran had knitted.

  Once the coat and gloves were on he walked over to the box-room, opened his toolbox and took out a hammer and a screwdriver.

  Upon leaving the house his cheeks flushed in the cold. Thinking ahead to the evening he laughed out loud, then carried on over to the fishpond. He stepped over to its middle and wiped off the day’s snow to make windows.

  George smiled and bent down. He jabbed the screwdriver into the ice and clubbed at it until he found a regular rhythm. Each blow exploded into its echo. Nothing much seemed to happen to the ice, though, other than a few small dents. Impatiently he began to stab at it, then stamp on it, but to no avail.

  After another search of the box-room, George returned to the pond with an electric drill, unplugging the outdoor Christmas lights to free up the socket. He chose his spot and carefully positioned the drill. Again and again the bit slipped dangerously from the ice and skimmed his boots, but the idea of that party, “It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” spurred him on. He found that by rotating the drill bit he could widen the hole, and that as it widened it deepened too.

  The fish were nearly free and were more orange than when he started. One final whirr would be enough.

  The drill no longer found resistance, stabbing into softer surroundings. George looked down in horror.

  An almighty stench reached his nostrils. He turned his head and stood up, coughing as hard as he could to repel the intruder from his lungs.

  Pulling himself together, a glove covering his nose and mouth, he bent down once more to see what could be salvaged. An aroma like that could double the impact once the ice melted.

  All that remained was a soggy, useless mess of fish.

  After reconnecting the Christmas lights, George looked at his watch. There was too much time left to kill. The only thing he could think of to kill it was beer.

  * * *

  Down the high street then, stopping at the crossroads to make a decision.

  Left.

  He crunched along to the Chimpanzee Bar. This was the bar he liked least of all those around, but the regular clientele, a wide range of primates, would no doubt be sleeping off the night before.

  He felt the desire to be back in the company of family and friends, which led to thoughts of Carol.

  He recalled her excitement at the prospect of visits to Denmark.

  She never came.

  After a series of excuses, it eventually emerged that she’d rather spend time with Duncan.

  George hoped with all his heart that it was pissing down with rain back home, that Duncan had the flu and that Carol’s face was covered in spots.

  “I’ll take a beer.”

  The barman poured the beer and left it beside the woolly hat and gloves.

  He’d have liked some music, but the jukebox offered only hard rock guitar. Didn’t bikers occasionally feel the need to wallow in Sinatra? Didn’t they ever tire of having a good time?

  Halfway through the beer he ordered a whisky. He gulped it down and banged the glass down hard. In this way, he had found that he could avoid shuddering in public.

  Looking around for a seat he realised that he wasn’t alone. In the window booth sat a girl reading by candlelight.

  He walked over to her table and put out his hand to introduce himself.

  “Hi, I’m George,” he began.

  “Marie.”

  The hand she ignored seemed large now and he was relieved to find that it still fit into his pocket. He pressed a coin into his palm and continued.

  “Hello, Marie. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but could I join you for a while?”

  “The story can wait,” Marie answered.

  George sat and as Marie put her book down he glanced at the spine. He didn’t understand the title; he hadn’t made much of an effort with his Danish.

  “Any good?” he asked.

  “It’s nice to put it down for a while. It’s very old-fashioned.”

  “Doesn’t the drink help?”

  “Not really. I need to concentrate. I have an essay to write.”

  “You wouldn’t read it out of choice then?”

  “I prefer magazines,” she smiled.

  He sensed that this road was a cul-de-sac and tried another approach.

  “Would you like another drink? It may not help with the book, but it might make the day more fun,” he tried.

  “A Christmas beer would be nice.”

  George called over to the barman and offered the girl a cigarette, which she took. George always felt that this was a good sign. He took one for himself and struck a match. Marie’s face was caught in its light, and as she looked up he became aware of her eyes. It threw him off balance and he only remembered to light his own cigarette when the heat of the flame reached his fingers.

  George talked about the goldfish. Marie smiled every once in a while. Even so, he felt some relief when the story came to an end and the beers arrived.

  “Happy New Year,” was the toast.

  They talked about Christmas beer and New York and of their good intentions for the year ahead.

  “I want to have a drinks cabinet, full of exotic bottles so I can have a drink for every mood,” George said.

  “You can invent cocktails. I’d have a drink called Melting Snow,” she said, “with grapefruit, rum for warming, something blue to make it look cold, tequila for the melting part, crushed ice and fruit.”

  “Would you like one?”

  “If you join me.”

  “Let’s do it,” George said, already half out of his seat.

  He passed on the instructions to the barman and returned, to take up the conversation again.

  “I’ll swim too. I could do with getting into shape.”

  “I’m going to get fit as well,” Marie added. “There’s a gymnasium at college right next to the bar for the warm down,” she smiled.

  “While you’re there I’ll be eating instead. I figure on going to a new restaurant every week.”

  It would certainly do him good to get out of the house more often.

  “Do you have any good intentions?” George asked.

  “I need to study harder and I could do with a holiday.”

  “Where were you thinking of?”

  “Some of my friends are going to London. Maybe they’ll let me go along.”

  “I hear it’s a great city,” George said, immediately jealous of them.

  The barman arrived. From the glasses he was holding erupted pink fountains of light. George was amazed by the touch of class.

  They tasted good too. As they drank, they invented a whole string of fantasy cocktails, one for every occasion. When conversation dried up Marie took an apple from her bag. She offered it to George, who declined.

  Marie wiped it gently, removed the stalk and placed it on the table. She took a bite from the middle leaving a perfect white circle.

  George had never paid attention to anyone eating an apple before, but he was beginning to wish he had.

  She told him about apples and how she loved to eat them, buying whole boxes at once.

  The alcohol began to thaw his spirits and he sat back to relax in the softness of Marie’s voice. He became so transfixed by her eyes that he forgot about the apple until he realised it had disappeared. He looked into the ashtray for traces; there were only the butts and the ash of the afternoon.

  “Where’s it gone?” he blurted out. “The apple, I mean. Where’s it gone?”

  “I don’t like to throw away any part of them,” she said.

  “Yeuk. All those hard bits,” said George, genuinely horrified.

  “When we were little, my father would finish the core for us. Nicer than cluttering the car.”

  “He must have been sick as a dog after a long journ
ey.”

  Marie laughed. As she did so, two more beers arrived.

  “When do you go home?”

  George was unsure of how to answer.

  “I’m due back in the fall,” he began. “It’s flexible though. I can extend.”

  “Would you like to stay longer?”

  “I’m still finding my feet really, but I’m optimistic.”

  “Optimistic?” Marie interrupted.

  “When you feel good about the future.”

  “We should drink to that.”

  “To optimism,” George said, raising his glass. “If things don’t work out, I can always travel. London perhaps.”

  “Don’t you miss home?”

  “A little, but I wouldn’t have left in the first place if everything had been going well. I needed to do something different.”

  Another apple appeared from Marie’s bag. This time he wasn’t going to miss a thing. He found out that he had things to say about apples too.

  “My mum said if you ate pips a little tree would grow inside you and they’d have to cut it out,” he said.

  “You believed her?” It was Marie’s turn to sound surprised.

  “I was only five. I always believed her then.”

  “No wonder you don’t like eating the core.”

  “That and all those hard bits.”

  George’s thoughts remained firmly attached to her eyes and the space behind them. By the time he remembered to pay attention to the apple, it had already disappeared. Marie put away her book and announced that she had to go shopping. George found that he had a need to go shopping too.

  They walked to the supermarket together.

  George began to feel uneasy, as if his presence had become intrusive. Though he was desperate to know what she would put into her basket, he made an excuse and set off to wander around alone, collecting a slice of cheesecake, a jar of pickles and two kilos of apples.

  They met up again at the till, paid and walked outside. Marie pointed out her bus in the distance.

  “Would you like a bit of cheesecake?” It was all George could do to prolong things.

  She nodded. George removed the ribbon from the box, took out the cheesecake and held it out to her.

  He no longer cared what the weather was doing in New York.

  Her finger brushed away the crumbs from her lips. She bent forward to kiss his cheek and ran for a bus that seemed to be expecting her.

  Marie called out to George as the doors closed, but he didn’t hear. The bus pulled away. He fell against a lamppost and finished off the cheesecake. He looked down at his shopping and was horrified by his choice of clothes. He muttered to himself, lit a cigarette and headed for home.

  * * *

  George took his only sharp knife from the drawer and began chopping. As quickly as he could manage he removed the pips, put them into ice trays, covered them with water and took them outside to freeze. They’d be ready just in time.

  “Remember that party?” they’d say. “Everyone swallowed a pip and had to have saplings removed in the spring. It was the craziest thing. The craziest thing.”

 

 

  Nigel Bird, Into Thin Air

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