He gazed down at the stark whiteness below. A world with no contrasts or contours, a harsh barren landscape, unforgiving and foreboding.
He stared harder. Once children had played here, racing and chasing, laughing and crying…living. Perhaps a sledge had raced down that hill – an over zealous father tripping as he launched his daughter and her friend into a soft and chilly oblivion.
There – the snow-laden sky seamlessly merging with the winter landscape. Maybe a tree stood there with grey squirrels living within and without – deemed outcasts because of the colour of their fur.
He allowed himself a chuckle as he remembered that these little rodents never remember where they have buried their nuts. As they forage around they dig up the tiny caches left by others of their species.
He sipped at his mug of hot-chocolate as he looked harder. There was nothing.
This used to be so easy. He felt agoraphobic. The vast white expanse was just too great. Tiny ripples appeared in his drink as his hands shook.
Where have they gone? It wasn’t just the children that he missed – it was their barking dogs – beware of yellow snow – jumping and twisting in the air to catch a flying snowball. The park bench laden with caustic old men, huddled together drinking their flask-flavoured tea, complaining about kids today and how they have no respect for their elders.
There was a time when this world would positively pulsate with action. Down there, just next to the bench, just as the robin flitted away having had it’s fill of the stale crumb offerings of the old guys, a suspicious Eastern European man would hover. No, not Eastern European – more Eastern Bloc - a package concealed inside his long black coat, waiting for the drop.
There she was. She was a lot younger than him, dragging a small boy behind her, wearing high-heels, a ludicrous choice given the weather. Furtively, the man looked around and handed her what looked like a box of chocolates. They walked off in opposite directions without looking back.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A leather clad person, probably a man, raced by on a trials motorbike, spraying snow in…
Another sip. The hot-chocolate had cooled somewhat into warm-chocolate.
There must be something! Maybe the old guys on the bench had been gay lovers…a twist on the fem-fatale theme – maybe one of them had known the Eastern Bloc guy – a lover scorned?
Ok, time to look at the wildlife. A lone dog, wolf-like, pads across the landscape. He looks this way and that hoping for an opportunity.
He allowed himself a small snort of derision. Opportunity – that would be a fine thing.
He drank down the remainder of his tepid drink. He carefully scrutinised the dregs at the bottom. He walked through to the kitchen to wash his mug.
It was quiet…too quiet.
Oh for fucks sake, how clichéd is that?
He sat down again. Look at that – a polar bear! That’s more like it. An Inuit in a fur lined coat was waving a spear, no, a crossbow, no, it was more likely to be a gun…protecting his young who were all huddled up in the igloo. The bear had obviously come this far south because of global warming. A wonderfully poignant juxtaposition where man, the cause of the bear travelling south, and the bear meet face to face. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the bear devoured the man and all his family?
No, not here. Even in the land where he was king, the bear is now the underdog. Maybe he doesn’t have to kill it? Who are you kidding? In this cold and bleak world the bear has come looking for food.
More hot chocolate. It wasn’t as if they’d died! The twins had only gone to university. But their joint noise – their joint clatter and clutter is what had kept the house alive after Sheila had gone.
It was quiet, too fucking quiet. It wasn’t a cliché – it was true.
He sat down again. The Inuit and his adversary had gone – obliterated by the sudden snowstorm. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Where had they gone? What had they been doing there anyway? What about the spy and his gay lover? What ever became of the man with his kids on the sledge?
It was a female bear – there, through the clearing snow, he could make out the shapes of two…no, three cubs trotting obediently behind her. The Inuit had obviously found somewhere safe…or something.
The smallest bear at the back would be calling out, “Is it far now mother?”
She would turn back and smile kindly, “Not far now…”
No, that’s too anthropomorphic, he didn’t do anthropomorphic.
Shit!
He put down his mug and stalked off to the boys’ bedrooms. Carl’s Arsenal Duvet lay pristine over his bed. All the drawers were either neatly packed or empty. He’d taken his drum kit and his stereo with him. He looked at the small cuddly bull they’d got him as a baby. It was so funny, his nostrils used to flare and he’d snort whenever they tried to get him to do something he didn’t want to do. He sighed and closed the door behind him.
He walked into Michael’s room. His West-Brom duvet lay slightly squint across the bed.
He laughed at the memory, “For fucks sake – who supports West-Brom?”
He looked at his son’s first acoustic guitar propped carelessly in the corner of the room. He smiled as he remembered the years and years of practiced chords then tunes.
The boys had been in a band together for a while – they’d got a few gigs at the Ship-Inn. Lennon and McCartney they weren’t. More Lenin and Stalin. Now there’s an image.
He walked into his own room. He hadn’t slept there since the boys had left. Ideally he wouldn’t have slept there after Sheila had died – the bed felt too big. But that was years ago – they’d been babies when that policeman and woman had come to the door with their solemn news.
Again, he allowed himself a grin – he’d done pretty well as a single dad – sure it had been difficult, but his own mum had been fantastic – giving advice, her baby-sitting time and money when things had got a little tight.
He slept on the sofa now. He enjoyed the company of the TV. A voice, a constant murmur in the background as he fell into yet another dream-filled and restless sleep.
Back in the living room his eyes fell upon the magnificent installation that was their stereo system. Three boys with no female voice of reason to suggest that the Bose integrated set-up might be beyond their means. The same female voice that may have pointed out that eating took priority over sound quality.
Not to worry though, eh?
Tubular Bells played at, say, half volume ought to do the trick. He closed his eyes as he wandered through the house bathing in the beauty of Mike Oldfield’s finest as it filled every room.
Alone no more. He smiled at the thought of the boys shouting in unison, “Dad, what’s this shit?”
He sat back down in front of his computer. The stark whiteness of the empty page no longer held any fear for him. Gone was the cold unyielding snowscape upon which he’d tried to carve his earlier story – gone too were the bizarre restrictions that he’d placed upon his writing.
Stromboli stared with satisfaction at the merging colours of his Tequila Sunrise. He shifted his gaze and smiled at how the caricature in a glass so beautifully represented the perfect end to his day. The cool steel of his Luger pressed against his thigh provided quiet comfort as he awaited the arrival of Mr Jones.