THE WRITER’S LIFE | FICTION
It was two years ago that I first had the courage to call myself a writer. I’d been writing quite solidly for two years before that, but it took that long to get a few stories published. Then I wrote my first flash fiction novel, so when I proclaimed myself as a writer, I at least had a track record I was willing to be judged on.
Nowadays, people ask me the usual questions: Have I written anything they’d know (probably not), why did I become a writer (it happened), what’s my favourite short story (Echo Beach), and so on. Just recently, someone asked what my first story was. And actually, before I became a writer full-time, I did write some other stories. There are two of those old ones in my anthology, and this is an adaptation of the eldest. Written in 1999 (in the millennium before this one, FFS), when I was having a lesser personal crisis than the one which saw me homeless, then become a writer, like I’d one day be able to call myself.
This is a very short story of reunions, and of identity…
The Crow by Mikko Lagerstedt
It’s easy to find something you’ve not seen for a while, if you remember what it looks like. But only if the thing still resembles the memory, and hasn’t been changed too much with time. Nat knew what it looked like as it once was, but couldn’t be entirely sure when that was.
Things looked different on foot, and in the dark. He often drove down this lane, but always during the day, and it was many years since he’d parked with Sam in the lay-by, near the bridge that crossed the stream. Nat would could collect Sam from work and they’d dine out, on fish and chips served in yesterday’s news, with a 1966 Ford Cortina their dining car.
Here was the woods, where they’d shared many moments. There, the fields where they’d run, walk, sit and talk, or lie down and pedal on sky bikes. Behind were places they’d grown up, and all around were their lives.
Sam flew a year ago, a free spirit which should never have been caged. Tonight was their anniversary. To either side, familiar trees, hardly changed in so many years, and a constant, surrounded by much change. Some of those trees bore the scars of Nat and Sam, carved into their gnarled skin. Once they would skip along this road, pushing one another into the bushes. Today it was a walk alone, the trees no longer alive in the dark, now just monuments to the past.
The bending road glowed a dull white, as the headlights of a car approached a figure ahead, then slowly passed. Nat walked towards the figure, a young woman at a bus stop. She clutched her long black coat around her face, her peroxide hair damp, and clinging to her face with the smudges of smiles.
“Hello,” she said, her claret lips forming a piano smile.
“Hello,” said Nat. “Been waiting long?”
“Three weeks. I needed to sort some things out first. You?”
“Spur of the moment really, sort of found the wings no-one thought I should have. I’m Nat by the way.” He extended his hand.
“Tash.” She darted her hand quickly out of her coat pocket, just long enough to gently shake Nat’s. “As far as some of mine were concerned, I’d died a long time ago.”
“How do you mean?”
“They gave up on me. I had only one love. They thought they were helping, but I was a prisoner. I kicked back too many times. They gave up. I was dead to them, no longer the person they knew. Only I know who I am, and I’m me, the same person who destroyed their friend. It was premature mourning: their coping mechanism. And here I am”
“I suppose in some ways, we’re similar.”
A light lit up Tash’s face. Nat turned to see a car approaching. It slowed down and the driver lowered the window. Tash reached for the handle, then Nat placed his hand on hers. “I think I was unfairly judged,” he said.
“Need a lift?” asked the driver. The warmth from the car steamed the air, and Nat leaned down to look in. A man in the back seat looked unwell.
“No thanks,” Nat replied, “the bus should be here soon. Is he okay?”
“He’s not so good. I’m taking him down town. I can drop you off if you like.”
“It’s okay. We’re going the other way. Thanks all the same though.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be late for anything. The buses can be pretty unreliable around here.”
“It’ll be here soon.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” The driver smiled, and drove away.
The rear lights of the car disappeared around the corner in a red mist. Then the fog turned pink, as the headlights of a bus approached.
“Here we go,” Nat said.
“Here we go,” said Tash.
“Are you meeting anyone when we get there?” Nat guided her onto the bus.
“I’ve got a couple of old friends I want to look up,” she replied. “You?”
“Yes, my husband,” said Nat.
Tash looked out of the window, as the bus passed an old Ford Cortina, parked in a lay-by. The windows were misted, so she couldn’t see if anyone was inside.
© Steve Laker, 1999
My books are available on Amazon.