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[Just so you know sometimes the text changes to the first person this is because it is the characters thoughts, normally they would be in italics but I couldn't get them to work, and sorry about the lack of paragraph indentations -- I copied it from word.]
Nick Thompson sat in his living room with his feet on the coffee table with a glass of iced water in his hand. The TV opposite him was on an early evening showing of Cops, but he wasn’t at all interested. He was much more interested in the snow outside, it was dark but he could see it. It hadn’t snowed this hard in England for a long time, when he looked out of the window into the street he was reminded of those long lonely nights he had spent in Canada. That town in the Northwest territories, Norman Wells, saw some of the most miserable days he’d ever lived, not only because of the fire, but just the sheer loneliness and insomnia he had experienced.
The snow outside of the window was not welcome for Nick. For years he had thought the lack of distinct seasons in England made the country boring and soulless, everything was grey. But now, this year, it was either summer or winter. Now it was winter, in mid October. It was weird.
He drank his water and crunched one of his ice cubes. He turned off the episode of Cops which now showed a disgruntled guy with a strong Californian accent being thrust into a blue and white police car yelling You coppers won’t be able to keep me, you hear- and then the door being shut, blocking his voice.
Another ice cube slipped down his throat as he stood by the window looking out onto the estate he lived on. He was in a small detached house on a newly built estate on the outskirts of Exeter, Devon. The snow kept bashing against the windows and the roads were already covered in a sole height covering.
I won’t be going anywhere tomorrow. He wondered whether the phone lines would be out soon.
Any snow in England and you’d think the country’s been nuked. ‘I wonder whether the phone lines will be out’, it’s only a twinkling of the stuff, no way enough to cut the phones.
And if in agreement, the kitchen phone rang. It hang in shrill repeating tones, like some Amazonian frog, quietened a little by the door. Nick considered ignoring it, but thought otherwise.
He went to the kitchen and unhinged the phone off of the wall; “Hello?”
The answer was that of a gruff man with an American accent, maybe Mississippi or Tennessee, Nick wasn’t great with geography or placing voices. The Mississippian’s - or Tennessean’s voice was hushed, over the line, or maybe because he was the bearer of some bad news. But when he spoke he knew who the voice belonged to and he knew this day would come eventually, and he had dreaded it for a long time.
It was early last year, it was now late this year, but he still remembered it quite well, 2011. He was on a long term break in America, in the foothills of the Appalachians. He had planned to hike them all at once, he knew people did that - ‘Thru-Hikers,’ the thought had seemed a good one before he had set out. Two months after he started, on the North Carolina/Virginia border, he had just about had enough.
He had blisters on his feet, which had burst, new blisters had formed on top, popped and formed again, his knees had buckled and he had to drag his blistered feet around. His head was thumping and the bugs were all starting to crawl.
“Don’t slap at ‘em, just wave ‘em away.”
Ha, he had tried, failed. Now his arms and legs hurt from being slapped.
Luckily he had just about had enough of the path when it had been cut across the middle by a large freeway going into town. So he had decided to hitchhike.
“And never hitchhike in tha USA.” Another word from the late, wise Robert Thompson, which he had that miserable, Thursday morning flatly ignored. Easier to hitchhike than walk to a 3-Star roadside motel, even if the driver could turn around at any time and cut a hole in you 2 feet wide with an even bigger blade.
Turned out that the driver had no intentions of cutting a 2 feet wide hole in Nick’s chest, more of an intention to break down in the conveniently named ‘Breakdown Lane.’ This left Nick with the choice, walk to the 3-Star roadside motel a further 12 miles down the busy freeway with no footpath or walk 2 miles to a camping ground just off the freeway.
Having decided on the 2 mile walk to the camping ground, Nick left his breakdown-lane bound friend and set off with his rucksack on his back. It seemed especially heavy today.
When the sound of the cars disappeared, the trees seemed to as well. He had reached a point where the trees gave way out onto the side of a cliff, with about 15 feet from the tree line to the edge, where the ground slipped away and created an awe-inspiring site. Miles and miles of trees with the odd bare mountain top sticking out like an island in a sea of green. Off in the distance he could see the freeway curving around and then opening into a tunnel on a mountain side, after that it was gone. Any trace of a town was absent and it became clear that Nick had made the right choice in coming this way, just for the scenery, but there was also a calm silence broken only by the quiet chatter of birds and a trickle of water from somewhere below.
For a brief instant he took off his pack with the purpose of getting out his tent and setting up camp, but the thought of a high wind scooping him up and placing- slamming, him into the trees below made him think otherwise. However he did not put his bag back on, he did not secure the buckle around his waist and plod off back into the forest behind him, he sat awhile in thought. What better place for it?
The wind was low but the cliff was high, so he lay down on the rocky ground a little way away from the edge. He began to doze as he watched a bird, some sort of bird of prey he assumed, fly around above him, gliding aimlessly on a gust of wind.
After awhile he looked at his watch and discovered it was half an hour after he had lain his pack by his side. So again he moved off, walking on the rocky side of the cliff, but keeping the path in site just through the trees, he did after all want to get to a camp site tonight.
Slowly he began to gain up the courage to peer over the side of the cliff, shouting and expecting an echo but getting none, his voice seemed to be sucked up by the nature around him. He started to think that after a couple of days rest in town he might get back on the trail again, it was this thought that led him to pick up a rock and toss it over the side of the cliff.
Only that’s what he had hoped to happen. It all happened rather fast, he bent down and scooped up a rock and wandered to the side of the cliff only to tumble on a crumbling piece of rock. The rock he was holding flew out of his hand as he began to slide down the steep surface, which crumbled with every attempt he made to dig his hands into the side to get his grip back, but he fell for what seemed like minutes when he had only fallen perhaps 5 feet down, until he landed on a flat precipice sticking out horizontally over a completely vertical drop. The drop underneath him was not 5 feet, but unfortunately for Nick, it was about 70 feet at his best estimate.
He lay there motionless for a moment, wondering if he was dead, which he had assumed from the minute he tumbled. But according to his brain, all bodily organs were functioning completely, the only thing he had lost was his rucksack, which had fallen the 70 feet after cowardly, bailing from his back instantly after he began to fall. The coward had got his just deserts as, after peering over the edge of the precipice to see, it had had the fabric torn and all its contents were now broken or scattered all over the rocks below. And his lunch.
Damn it, was his only thought, which then became; Shit, I need help.
“Help,” he called with all the breath in his lungs. “HELP!” He called like this for a few minutes, but to no avail. He instead tried to crawl up the side of the cliff, but any effort he made was in vain as the wall of loose rock just crumbled as he grasped for footholds.
Soon, after calling some more, crawling some more, falling some more and calling some more, he sat back down on his precipice and sighed.
At least the view’s nice, he thought and then it was the voice of his father; Robert that came to him. Ya dumb shit, Nick, what tha hell you gone an’ fallen down there for, eh?
Mr Thompson, as he had the guy’s who worked for him at his little fish-n-chips shop call him, had been old when he had died last year, and even though he was an asshole the death of his father had weighed heavily on Nick. Lung Cancer, at the age of 67, that’s what the smokes did to you, and that’s why Nick had given up a few weeks after the funeral, let me tell you, that wasn’t any fun, but his pale face peering up at you from the casket was enough to tell you what you had to do.
Nick’s father had imparted all of what little remaining wisdom he had at the end, before telling him that he should find some woman, get kids and stay in some little cottage somewhere in Yorkshire. That wasn’t wisdom, that was common sense, but Nick couldn’t have that life and he knew it. He could never stay in one place, after he had finished school he had left home, nothing there except a dipshit father who couldn’t get over the lose of his wife, Nick’s stepmother. His real mum had died in childbirth, or she was murdered in childbirth if you look at it from his father’s point of view. Just another piece of baggage for the Trail of life.
But now all his baggage was scattered on a bunch of pointed rocks, 70 feet below him on the edge of a puke green jungle of ferns and mosquitoes. All of a sudden the view wasn’t as great, maybe because he was 5 more feet into the picture or maybe this view could be the last he saw. Probably the latter.
Quit being a melodramatic baby, he thought, before once more attempting to scramble up the way he came down, and a scramble it was, but a good scramble, he got within reaching distance of the cliff edge before his foot hold gave way and Jack fell down, with Jill tumbling after. But it wasn’t Jack it was Nick, dumb Nick, Nick who was now cursing the scenery when really he should be cursing himself. Nick who had 20 minutes early been like; “Golly, now there’s a breathtakin’ sight.”
Had he said that out loud?
No, but someone had.
“Hello?” he called, praying it to be a well trained survivalist with a shit load of rope. And some late lunch maybe. But doubting the very existence of the voice.
“Who said that?” asked someone from above, a Southern voice, maybe from Mississippi- or Tennessee.
“Help me, shit, help me, I’m down here.”
A red cheeked, cleanly shaven man wearing a plaid hat which came down to his ears, popped his head over the edge of the cliff, just where Nick had fallen. He had his hand clasped tightly over his head to stop the hat blowing in the wind, which had picked up quite a bit.
“Hey mister, what the damn-heck you doin’ down there?”
Nick stopped a sarcastic remark that hung on the tip of his tongue, but which was the first thing that he had thought to say, that’s no way to make friends there Nick. “I fell. Just there actually, so I’d be careful.” The red cheeked man’s head disappeared from view and for a moment Nick believed he had left him.
But in no time at all the man was stood up leaning over the edge of the cliff dangling some rope, it was to be expected but it did make Nick smile when he saw the man was dressed in a red and white chequered jacket, he looked like a proper hunter, or the proper hunter’s wannabee, he was no survivalist but he did have a shit load of rope, so Nick couldn’t complain, especially when he was back on safe ground on the top of the cliff. The two men walked what Nick judged to be a safe distant away from the edge before Nick shook the man’s hand and introduced himself as Nick Thompson.
“Well hey there Nick, I’m Tom Robinson,” the man said.
“Tom Robinson? How’s Atticus and little Scout these days,” Nick couldn’t resist with a great wide, slightly mocking smile, but knew when Tom only gave him a blank stare that his little literary reference had been wasted. “Anyways, thanks a hell of a lot for helping me up, if you hadn’t come along when you did, who knows…”
“No one, ‘cept maybe God, but that’s the good thing about being human. You wouldn’t have been as grateful if you knew I was gonna come along, now would ya?” He smiled and Nick returned it. “You were headin’ for the campsite before you took a tumble, am I right?”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Then come on, you eat dinner with me, then I might be able to lend you some money once I give you a ride into town tomorrow morning.”
Nick had a curious feeling, as he did always, as to why this man was being so kind. What could he be after? But he soon dismissed it as some of his father’s genes.
And that’s how Nick met Tom.
They got to the campsite at about half past three and Nick ate a packet of oat biscuits as a very late lunch/early tea. Tom explained that he was on a, what he called, “a well deserved break from work, to tour America in a car.” Nick pointed out that he wasn’t in a car, but was swiftly told that the car had been parked in a car park just off the freeway so that he could sleep at the campsite instead of the luxuries of a motel.
Why the wannabee hunter would pick a campsite over a motel, when both were in easy reach, went over Nick’s head and he chose not to ask.
After organising their tents and sleeping bags, Tom decided to; “Save Nicks ear from being wagged off,” and went off on a walk.
He wouldn’t be so eager to walk off if he’d been walking for eight weeks solid. Nick hated that voice, the inner demon that moaned and spitted at anyone who came close and he did his best to try to encourage that voice to die, or get along with people more. He just saved you’re life and here you are bitching about him. But he did never shut up, maybe now he’s gone you can get some piece and quiet.
Peace and quiet was pretty easy here, he did not have to share the camp site with anyone else, so they had pitched their tents up in the middle of the small grassy field, which was perfectly green and beautiful (not that it was appreciated by a grouchy Nick, however the negativity he felt was countered by the attitude Tom had when they arrived: “What a bootiful little campsite,” followed by a “Golly Gee,” which Nick had grown to loath.
He put the Tom into one of three categories, either the purposefully irritating, so to get on Nicks nerves, the slightly retarded, so he had no idea that he was annoying, or the excruciatingly happy and mind bogglingly dim. He had all bets on the last.
It was at the time of day when the sun is still full, but the background is just beginning to show the first signs of the coming evening, it was a time when Nick had nothing to do and plenty of time to do nothing in. So he followed the sound of a river down the embankment on the farthest side of the field, which fell down gently onto a slow moving river secluded with trees at either side. He had brought his book, which he settled next to a tree before taking his empty water bottle and filling it up on the bank of the river. He returned to his book, drying his hands on his shirt and placing the bottle so the purification tablets within could do their work.
He nestled himself in between two large protruding roots at the base of the tree and began to read, taking all the time in the world. Within quarter of an hour he was asleep.
Tom called it a day when the path began to slope steeply upward, no use exhausting himself, and began to head back to the camp where he had left his new friend.
By golly it had been a long day, the mornings drive had been a long one and his decision to stop when he had was very lucky. If he hadn’t stopped then he wouldn’t have headed to the campsite he was heading for now, he wouldn’t have seen that beautiful view on the edge of the cliff, and most importantly he wouldn’t have come across Nick Thompson when he did. That poor fella had been stuck on a little precipice a little less than a man’s height down and if it hadn’t been for Tom’s safety rope, he would have- Best not to think about what if’s, as Tom’s wife would have told him.
Well the afternoon’s rescue had given Tom quite a boost, he fancied himself as quite the survivalist out here in the woods, and the walking he’d done today had been with little joy in his step.
He stopped and sat on a rock, whilst he took the lid off his canteen and took a drink. It was hot, and the bugs were amassing.
He swatted at a midge whining at his ear and thought about Nick. He didn’t know a thing about the man, he had thought after he’d given Nick the run down of what’s going on in his life, Nick would have reciprocated, but he hadn’t. He was an interesting man, a little reserved, but Tom liked him.
On the path, on any path, on the road for that matter, he felt like an explorer. He thought you didn’t have to discover new lands to be an explorer, because outside you’re front porch everything is a new land to yourself, so really everyone who goes somewhere new is their own personal explorer. Some people didn’t share his view.
Well he felt like an explorer. Any journey, no matter how short for him was an adventure. Security at the Shop-x-change in Redwood, Mississippi didn’t stretch far from reality. Any adventure he could get before God took him was an adventure savoured, he felt like a drowning man clutching at straws. He didn’t think it would be long until he died now, he wasn’t old, not really unhealthy - a beer gut and a bad thumb asides - but he knew, it wouldn’t be long.
He arrived back at the camp to two empty tents in the middle of the field, at the same time as a young couple strode in holding hands. He gave them a big grin and a wave, before going to say hello.
When the sound of the river came back, the light in the sky was waning. The book had fallen by his side and his page was lost, it didn’t matter, the book sucked balls.
Nick stood up and stretched, took a sip from his water bottle and rammed the book back into his back pocket. He had had a dream. He dreamt he was still on the precipice, it was dark and he was counting the trees below him. He didn’t know how long he had been on there but any weight he had on him was gone and a bird of prey was circling above him. He realised that the bird was there for him.
All of a sudden from behind a voice called to him. Someone cloaked in shadow called his name then offered a hand to help him up. But Nick recoiled, for the hand was clearly diseased and discoloured, the owner of the hand must have been thinner then he, because he could see the individual bones and tendons in its diseased hand.
The voice spoke up; “My name is conquest, can I lend a hand.”
There was a snorting and from out of the gloom behind the figure strode a white horse.
“Can I lend a hand.”
Then gloom had consumed the dream and he had awoken slowly.
As he was walking back up the slope towards camp he thought, I could have died today, I owe this guy a lot.
When he got back to the camp he found Tom talking merrily to a nice young couple; Adrian and Isabella, over a can of sausages each, courtesy of Mr Robinson of course. Nick wolfed down a can of his own as soon as he was offered them and finished it with an apple. Later that evening when the couple had wandered off, Nick told Tom about his dream.
“I would have died if it weren’t for you, so if you ever need a favour from me, don’t hesitate to ask.” He gave Tom his address and phone number and if he knew that Tom would have ever wanted a favour, he would have thought twice about doing so.
So when Tom rang Nick that winter’s evening late next year, Nick knew he had a favour to ask.
“Hello? Is that Nick?“ said the low voice from the other side.
“This is Nick. Who is this?” Need I ask.
“It’s Tom Robinson, you may not remember me but we-”
“I remember.”
“Okay, well I was wondering if we could catch up, considering I’m gonna be in England next week, I thought we could meet up.”
“You’re coming to England?” Nick asked hoping the answer to be no.
“Yeah. Devon, you always said it was nice, maybe you could show me around a little bit.”
“This my way of putting up my side of the deal?”
“Well, I hate to intrude, so only if you’re free of course.”
Nick thought for a moment, rubbing his hand over his eyes. What harm could it do?
A lot.
“It’s pretty cold over here, so dress warmly.”
“So it’s okay if we meet up?”
“Yep. A deal’s a deal.”
He hung up after they exchanged good-bye’s and see-you-soon’s, and made himself a ham and cucumber sandwich. What harm could it do?
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