Lewis

It was a frosty day, though the sun was shining, and the crunchy
grass sparkled underfoot. Lewis walked home through the park, wearied
from the trauma of his night, wishing for respite from his jumbled
thoughts - the physical strain, the emotional discomfort he was
experiencing. He'd left his jacket somewhere at some point, at some
earlier time when such things hadn't seemed important, when it had
seemed like a good idea to go exploring and home hadn't seemed so very
far away. But what the hell had he been doing for the last few hours?
He shivered slightly, feeling the cold, rubbed his arms ineffectually.
A sheepish old dog peed apologetically then bounded off towards the
river. He remembered morning - a dawn call of rising traffic noise, the
grinding steel of shop shutters. The flicking on of fluorescent shop
lights. The flicking off of streetlights. The way the pavement had
flowed uncomfortably from side to side, making Lewis worry that perhaps
he was on the road itself, a motorway perhaps, and a car might hit him
at any moment. He'd worried about other things - muggers, police,
hypodermic needles carrying incurable diseases, as well as long term
concerns about his mental health, social status, relationship with
others, future employment prospects and so on. The possibility of slow,
untreatable death. The possibility of rapid, unavoidable death. The
impossibility of growing a new set of teeth. All these, and many other
concerns, had flashed through the young man's mind, finally leading to
the conclusion that nothing would solve his predicament except
immediate exit from social environments. Solitude was needed. He was
resolved now, as soon as possible, to take the first available flight
to Iceland, a country with unusual daylight hours that would suit his
polar nature. He was horrified by days like this one when the weather
seemed so undecided. To be so cold, yet so sunny. A warm shiver ran
through his body at the thought of this, for Lewis had an unusual
body-mind dynamic as regarded temperature. A thermo-dynamic, in fact.
He chuckled. It was enough for someone to ask Lewis's mind the innocent
question: "aren't you a bit warm in that" or conversely "aren't you a
bit cold in that" for Lewis's body to react instantly, becoming
sweatily overheated or shiveringly cold as the case required. No one
would ever ask such a question in Iceland. There people would always be
warm, he assumed, or cold by choice.

He watched the ducks for a while. The pond was iced over so they had
grouped together in an effort to melt it, swimming round in slow
deliberate circles. He wondered if they'd go the other direction south
of the equator, like water running through a plughole. One of the ducks
turned the other way, and the others turned too. Oh well, thought
Lewis. He wished he had bread to throw, noticed that someone had
already tried, throwing some stale old rolls onto the ice. A pigeon
pecked at one despondently, then fluttered towards the bin.

There was a man on the bench just ahead, middle aged, well dressed. He
sat fully upright, with his eyes closed, a can of Tennents and an
Evening Times. Lewis assumed he was sleeping, and walked past
assertively, with a casual glance to make sure he wasn't dead. The
man's eyes flicked open suddenly, as if trigged by some invisible
mechanism.
- Have you got a light, pal?
Lewis checked his pockets, shaking his head, then produced a yellow
clipper, much to his surprise. Lewis didn't smoke, nor did he tend to
steal lighters, so its presence in his pocket was a minor
mystery.
- Cheers.
The man pulled out a packet of cigarettes and placed one in his mouth,
shuffling objects from hand to hand in the following ways:
1) Newspaper: from right hand to lap to left hand to bench (left
side)
2) Can: from left hand to right hand to ground (right foot)
3) Lighter: from right hand to top of can to pocket
4) Cigarette: from packet in right hand to left hand to mouth
All this was done with such speed that Lewis hardly noticed the
disappearance of the lighter, an object destined for many complicated
adventures before its gas ran out.
- Do you smoke?
Lewis didn't.
- Don't you feel cold in just a shirt?
His whole body shuddered, skin prickling up in goose pimples.
- So, my man. What team do you support?
Lewis didn't like football.
- Come on, there's no a wrong answer. I don't care if your team's
shite.
Lewis mumbled something complacent.
- Oh well. You're missing out you know. See the big result? Three
nil.
He waved the newspaper in his left hand, nodding his head for
emphasis.
- At last the prospect of silverware, a chance in Europe to quest for
the cup. An act of God. Which got me wondering&;#8230;
The man flicked from back page to front page.
- How this could happen. The self-same time my team is achieving
victory over the opposition, this earthquake kills thousands. Now the
earthquake, also an act of God, happens on the populated half of an
island thousands of miles away, not affecting the empty half. Which
leads to two possibilities. Either He too is so engrossed in the game
that He lets it happen - unlikely in view of His omnipotence and so on,
or, and this I refuse to believe, God's a bastard.
Lewis yearned to get home, wishing more and more he could collapse into
bed. Every attempt to think ended in a crunch of static interference.
Little green shapes danced before his eyes.
- Now the universe started out this big&;#8230;
He indicated something very small between finger and thumb.
- Then God made everything; trees, plants, stars, planets, everything
you can see feel or imagine. Sometimes your team wins. And
yet&;#8230; this can happen.
He indicated the front of the paper.
- Every time they try to explain, they get to smaller systems - atoms,
neutrons, quarks, ever smaller. Yet this. This is never
explained.
Somehow the cigarette had never gone out. He waved it to emphasise his
point. Big orange lines got left behind, like a sparkler. Lewis felt a
nauseous lurch at the thought of smoke.
- What's your name, son?
- Lewis.
- Well Lewis, I'll give you some advice. Firstly, you look fucked. Go
get some sleep. The other thing is&;#8230; Don't try to understand
this world we live in. An earthquake, a game, we can't see the link.
Maybe there isn't one. But there's no such thing as chaos.
- What about&;#8230;
- Butterflies and tornados? Shit happens. Shit happens.
He shook his head ominously. Lewis walked on, confused. The man stayed
sitting.
He wanted to go back, to ask some questions. He was sure the man must
know. But he was nearly home. He crossed the road. Again. The door
pushed open and he climbed the stairs, one at the start, then in twos.
A drumbeat came into his head, increasingly persistent.

Opening the front door (two turns of the key), he stood in the hall for
the moment. A girl walked out of his room, stared at him sulkily,
stormed towards the bathroom. She was wearing a t-shirt. His t-shirt.
Peter was in the kitchen.
- Fuck, Lewis. You look like shit.
- Who&;#8230; who's that?
- Oh. Sylvia.
He grinned.
- What was she doing in my room?
He lowered his voice.
- She thinks it's my room.
- But&;#8230; what about your room?
- It's really messy, and you were out. Don't say anything.
Lewis was annoyed.
- Chill out. Oh, that girl phoned.
- What girl?
- You know.
- Patricia?
- Mmm&;#8230;
- What did she say?
- Not much. Sylvia answered.
- What?
- Your mobile rang and she tried to turn it off.
- She answered my mobile?
- Shouldn't leave it lying around.
- In my own room? Shit.
He walked purposefully towards his bedroom and packed quickly, jamming
stuff into a rucksack, grabbed his passport and made for the door. Back
down the stairs, one at a time then a jump at the end. He got into a
taxi, feeling foolish but determined. He was halfway to the airport
before he realised that he'd left his keys behind.