The Living

I
David keeps track of time by the chiming of the church bell. Half past. The bell toll buffets the nets hanging over the small bright windows overlooking the crowded streets. Margo, the team leader, pushes up her gold-rimmed spectacles and clutches her flip-chart pen between bright pink fingernails. She says something about targets. All he hears is blah blah blah as droplets of sweat force their way down his back between his creased white shirt and itching skin.
From the top of the church tower you can see across the shops and office blocks, to the hill beyond. You can see his apartment, the white walls gleaming in the August sun. At this time of day that sun will be falling in through the living room window across the parquet flooring, catching the edge of the sofa. It will be glinting off the three empty beer bottles left on the coffee table and reflected back in the glass of the over spilling ashtray. Up there, out of it, you can't hear the rattle of taxis and busses in the city streets, or smell the putrid stench of hamburgers and hotdogs cooking on open wagons in the town hall square. Up there you can't see the gaudy mismatched clothes of shoppers and tourists weaving through the streets. Sitting on the sofa, looking out of the window, all you can see is sky.
Margo has stopped talking and the silence pulls him back into the office where a few of his colleagues (geeks the lot of 'em) are scribbling on note pads, their heads bobbing in acquiescence at something she's just said. He stares rigidly at the thick blue pen still gripped in her claws. The only thing he's written is his first name. There it is, scrawled across the note pad in spidery writing, like the doodles that cover his old A-level text books, put there when he was a teenager, sitting with Andy at the back of the physics class, bored shitless.
Margo knows this. About his lack of attention, not Andy and the physics ' though it wouldn't surprise him if she knew about that too ' she has a way of sniffing out trouble, she said so the day she welcomed him to the company. "I know a slacker when I see one. She holds her grey eyes on him for just a second longer than's comfortable. Those down turned, heavily massacred lids are magnified to terrifying proportions through the lenses of her specs. Then she slowly pushes her fading blonde hair back behind her ears and breaks into a smile, turns back to her flip chart and carries on talking.
David lets the biro slip from his warm fingers. No use pretending now. He stretches his legs out in front of him and lays his palms flat on the cool wood of the desk and slides down in his seat, feeling his damp shirt press against his back. Three chimes. Margo says something about net gain and he, eyes heavy now, thinks of open skies and fields that roll on forever.

II
Out in the August sun. Free. Or freer. He takes the steps up off the road behind the office, towards home. He marches everywhere these days. Like everyone else in the city, he charges from place to place, not caring for the in-between. Money, job, conversations yet to be held, scenarios that could have gone better, plans for the weekend, who to call, where to go, what to wear, what to drink.
In the playing fields a little bit further down the valley he can see two lads having a kick about. Shirts off. Late teens or maybe early twenties. Skin touched brown by the sun. Probably students. God, he used to love having a kick about with his mates. 5 pints a night and copious amounts of dope, that was all he cared about back then. But what's the use in all that memory lane crap? He feels inside his jacket pocket and touches his wallet. When he was a student he'd live off the same pasta dish for 3 days straight, have to search down the back of the sofa to find enough money to buy a pint, there were times he'd been so poor he'd hadn't even been able to afford to phone call home for a loan. Now those days were over. The flea infested houses, the making do with clothes from trendy second hand shops pretending it's cool, having to choose between a good meal and more booze. Fuck that.
"You are a lucky lucky man. A voice behind him. He turns and is face to face with the bulbous head and blue turban of an squat Indian man smiling broadly at him.
"What? he asks, looking around in case the fella isn't talking to him.
"You are a lucky lucky man, I see it, the stranger says.
David hesitates for a moment, eyes darting left and right. You can never be too sure these days. Cameras could be anywhere and you could be the next star of some mad reality TV show. The stranger keeps on smiling, hands clasped calmly in front of him, the breeze gently billowing out his light grey trousers.
"Yeah OK. Bye. He turns away and keeps on walking up the steps. But the persistent stranger follows on obediently behind, almost treading on his heals. David's hand goes instinctively back inside his jacket and rests on his wallet again, before he whirls around and says through gritted teeth, "Look matey, I don't know what you want¦ But the Indian holds up his hands and takes a step back, shaking his head and laughing.
"I'm not after your money, sir. No no not at all.
"I'm really busy, alright?
"I won't take up much of your time sir, I promise you that.
He drops his shoulders, "What?
The stranger smiles, takes out three little slips of paper from the pocket of his trousers.
"Hold out your hand a minute, if you would.
David scrutinises the stranger for a moment more and then slowly opens his free hand. The stranger stares right back at hi, narrows his eyes and then scribbles something furiously on one of the pieces of paper. Then he roles it up into a ball and drops it into David's palm.
"Now tell me, what is your star sign?
"What?
"Your star sign?
"Err, Gemini.
The stranger looks pleased with himself. He scribbles again on a second bit of paper, rolls it up and drops it into David's palm.
"And your favourite colour?
I'm not sure I have a favourite colour, he thinks, but says, "blue, because it was the one colour he wore, all his other clothes being white, black or grey. The old man smiles.
He scribbles something else down and drops the last of the paper balls into David's palm. "Open, he says, gesturing excitedly towards the balls of paper held in David's fist.
And there, scrawled across these slips of crumpled paper, are the words, "GEMINI and "BLUE and the third "70.
"What's that? he asks, looking at the figure.
"That, says the old man with a glint of triumph in his eyes, "is the amount of money in your wallet.

III
"You must climb the mountain by foot, don't use the cable car. There you will find what you have been looking for.
"What mountain? When?
"You will know.

He stands by the living room window, lights up his third cigarette of the morning and stares back into the room at the coffee table cluttered with empty beer cans, an over-flowing ashtray and a couple of bottles of pills: pills to help him sleep, pills to help him wake up again.
It's late September and the grey morning light casts weakly across the mess on the table and all around it, the dirty clothes, the unread newspapers open at the recruitment pages, take away boxes still half-full of food.
Well I've got news for you old friend, he thinks, picking up his jacket and leaving the flat.

There's been a car accident on the street at the bottom of the steps. He walks quickly past and turns his head, a red Fiat is on its side and one of those Smart cars is cracked against a lamppost. An old woman stands by the bus stop giving a running commentary to her friend on her mobile phone, as she watches firemen cutting someone from the wreckage of the Fiat.
"He's not going to make it, poor love, she says. Something dark is trickling from the car and spreading in a long thin line towards the gutter. David looks away and up. Sees a row of office workers standing in the window above him, mouths agape.
Move on. Nothing to see here. He turns the corner and slams into this bloke coming the other way. They both make embarrassed apologies and attempt to step to one side, mirroring one another. Fucking gorgeous, he thinks, and the dead car driver's gone in a flash of some deep blue eyes and a pleasant smile. He flattens himself against the window of a travel agents and lets the bloke pass, watches him go, hopes he'll turn and acknowledge him. But he doesn't. Moment over, he starts to move on again when he notices the sign in the window, a big picture advert for holidays in the alps, a red train surging through a snowy landscape under a clear blue sky. And then he sees his own reflection, shabby jacket, collar all turned up and shirt half in and half out of his trousers. And most of all his own eyes, dark rimmed and without any shine at all. He lingers there as an ambulance races past him, its lights swamping the grey street in neon.

IV
The girl behind the ticket desk sniffs back a nose full of phlegm and stares at her computer screen. "You're lucky, she says. "Up 'till t'other day we had nowt 'till next month, what with no one wantin' to fly.
"Right, says David, shuffling from foot to foot while keeping an eye on the departure board.
"But since that accident last week, we've had a ton of cancellations.
"Good, he says and winces. Fifty people die in an accident and she delivers it like good news.
"Dangerous business, she sighs. "Travelin'
He hands her his credit card.
"I'm taking me holidays in Devon this year, she says.
Ticket collected, he hurries towards the waiting train, clutching his hastily packed bag. He doesn't stop to catch his breath as he boards the train, just leaps on, finds his seat and sits down. The train rumbles into life. A whistle blows on the platform. He's still wearing his coat and clutching his bag like he's not staying, but it's too late now. The train slides out of the station and it won't stop until it's in another country. His eyes dart up towards the emergency brake. He could be dragged from the train screaming, "But this is an emergency! I'm having a mid-life crisis and I'm only thirty-one!
Margo would be calling his flat right now and mumbling about his lack of enthusiasm, pleased that he's messed up and won't be coming back because she knows a slacker when she sees one. He imagines the phone ringing away in the living room of his top floor apartment. The bell echoing through the hallway and into the bedroom. Then his own voice kicking in on the answering machine, talking to the walls and the growing shadows and the rain hammering against the double glazing.
Deep breath. He takes his coat off and stows his bag above, sits back down and watches the great grey city slide past in flashes of graffiti and filth. His heart thumps against his chest, and he drops his head against the glass as the train sways gently through concrete and glass, and he closes his eyes. He imagines the track stretching out before him, reaching out beyond the urban sprawl, through the suburbs of duplicated housing, out in to green countryside under a breaking sky, on further, under the South Downs, down beneath the choppy waters of the English Channel and on and on and on.

V
His eyes flip open and for a moment he's sure he's still moving. After 15 hours on a train, with just a brief stop in a freezing Parisian station to break the journey, his body's become used to the sway of the train and the sense of being propelled forward. He thinks, just for a moment, that he's still on the sleeper service out of Paris, squeezed in to a grim compartment, lying on the top bunk, staring up at the speckled brown ceiling scrawled with crude drawings of hairy cocks. Dark French countryside slides by under clattering wheels, the black occasionally shot through with light and jittery shadows as they pass another empty station.
He lies on his hotel bed, eyes open, hands at his side, clutches the sheets beneath him, feeling the same rough cotton under his hands as the itchy sleeping sheet he's had to endure, clutching onto them for dear life as the train veers to one side then the other as they judder across points.
Staring up at the ceiling now, he traces the journey from beginning to end. A flickering imagine from a magic lantern on a decaying screen. Hastily packing his bag in the grey morning light, turning and leaving the flat without pausing for breath, legging it down the steps into town, his memory snagging on the step where that Indian had started all of this with those fucking bits of blue paper and prophecies about mountain climbing. And on and on and on through the tunnel, waking up and a vague memory of a dark haired girl sitting next to him, bent over a note book and scribbling furiously. He wakes up again and she's gone.
He changes trains in Paris. Huddles over a coffee, waiting for his connecting train, as rain pours down from the cracked arched roof high above and showers around him. The station is too loud and too bright, a voice echoes through the halls, angry and distant and faces glance his way, eyes narrowed, as if they suspect him of something. Now his friends will be calling, his mother too, her voice breaking up with worry.
Somehow, he made it across from his flat to here, to this hotel room in some town he's never heard of at the foot of the Alps, through a delirium of tiredness and aching pain, of doubt and sickening fear. It happened. It did happen. He refocuses his eyes and sees the ceiling of the hotel room again. It's morning. Sunlight falls through the window, between the crack in the curtains where he's not drawn them properly. It falls across the white ceiling, the delicate blue flowers on the cream wallpaper, the pine coloured furniture and this white duvet. Outside, cathedral bells ring out a loud, insistent melody. Morning again. How many mornings since he left? One? Two?
He closes his eyes again. Releases his grip on the bed. Lights flash in his eyes. Passing stations in the dark. Picking out the scrawl on the carriage roof. The face of a Japanese girl on the bunk opposite, looking over at him, with a bowl haircut and boyish features. She's speaking. Telling him a story. When they got on the train they'd made some rudimentary conversation but he was so tired, he'd just crawled onto his bunk and shut his eyes. But later, as they were leaving Paris, he'd asked her where she was going and found out she was actually half Swiss and had come back to trace her family. She was barely out of her teens, and travelling alone in Europe for the first item.
"Aren't you a bit nervous? he'd asked.
"Nervous?
"Scared? You know, travelling alone?
He'd not travelled alone. Ever. That had just come to him. There on the bunk talking to her and now again here on the hotel bed. He'd never been out of the country alone. And he was shit scared.
The Japanese girl had shaken her head and said, "Oh no. I'm not scared. And then, later, just out of the blue, or rather, the black of the carriage darkness, she'd told him a story.

VI
There was an old house in a village in the mountains, and all the villagers said it was haunted and that anyone who went into the house never came out. Then one day a traveller comes into the village and despite the warnings of the villagers he is drawn to the house because of its mysterious appearance, and, one night, he goes inside. The villagers all tutt and shake their heads. The traveller never returns and villagers know he never will.
But the traveller finds something unexpected in the house. Once inside the door, it is no longer imposing and terrifying, but a lavish palace, decorated in gold and silver, and there are diamonds and other jewels piled in every corner. The traveller wanders amazed through the house for almost an hour, until he finds a beautiful woman sitting on a golden throne right at the top of the house. The woman is a witch, but she is a good witch. She tells the traveller that she has hidden herself in this house because the villagers are superstitious and don't like witches. So, in order that she's never discovered, the witch continues this rumour that the house is haunted by making sounds like a ghost in the middle of night and by turning the lights on and off.
Then the traveller asks what has happened to the others, who had entered the house before and never returned. And the witch tells him that in order to keep her secret safe, she offered all those who dared enter the house enough gold to keep them happy for a hundred years. And all they had to do in return was leave the house by a secret exit in the middle of night and never ever return to the village, or tell anyone about the house. So, at midnight, the traveller collects his own chest of gold and leaves by the secret passageway. And he's never seen in the village again.

VII
He stands in front of the full-length mirror, regarding himself with dark-rimmed eyes under the unflattering hotel room light. There he is, wrapped up in a new jacket, new heavy boots strapped to his feet, a rucksack slung over his shoulder. Everything seems a size too big for him, he'd had to make do with what he could find, and afford, and now he looks like a sack of badly packed potatoes about to head out into the artic. It's still dark outside, middle of the night ' practically. Better, perhaps, to go back to bed and come at it fresh in daylight.
But no. He makes fists out of his hands and heads towards the door, opens it and fumbles his way out into the corridor, turns and as the door closes, he stares longingly back at his bed. Then he's staring at wood.
It's snowing as he leaves the hotel. The hotel receptionist had raised her eyebrows when he'd come in yesterday and asked about the weather conditions up on the mountain. "Probably bad, she'd said, "why? And when he'd said he might do some walking she'd said, "In this? You are mad! Not exactly comforting.
Under bruised clouds, he sets off for the station. A lone figure walking through the medieval streets of the city, beneath beautifully carved oriel windows and past stone fountains where gargoyles spout ice.
At the station, it's a different story. People are bustling everywhere, throwing up plumes of smoke and hot breath into the cold morning air. It's a working day and all over Europe people are heading off to work. Margo would be getting in right now, turning on the office lights, getting her flip chart paper ready for another day.
The sky is breaking up now, a silvery light shimmers on the horizon, but the snow falls thick and fast around him. There's no way he'll be getting up a mountain, walking, in this. He stands on the platform among the men in suits and long black winter coats, and bouffant-haired ladies in fur, huddling dogs to their chests and chatting to one another in whispers. And here he is: a splash of colour among the black and brown, in his red jacket and blue waterproof trousers. Looking every bit the hiker. Every bit the lunatic more like. No matter. He's taken the advice of some fat bloke and come on this journey for no particular reason at all. Yep, jacked in his job and jeopardised everything he had. He had to concede, he probably was mad.

The red mountain train drags him up out of the city, rattling beside the road as it zigzags up the valley side. Snow is falling wildly now, hitting the window of the carriage and sticking there. Just the odd light down beneath them, and then these fade into a mist and there is nothing at all. He turns and looks down the carriage. Grizzly old men with long beards sit with their legs apart staring his way and chewing on pipes. The train conductor comes in, stops by him and looks down, sneering, takes his ticket and mumbles something, moves on. Further down the carriage he cracks a joke with someone, a woman, and they both laugh.
He's tired and his mouth is sore, his body aching again, his forehead cold and clammy. He hunches up and doesn't know what to do with himself. Looks away from the grizzly old men and stares at his own reflection in the dark glass. Thinks of the year before. A year ago from now. Way back over there. In that life. He was in love with a lad called Ed who sold guitars and smoked roll-ups. Beautiful. It was probably, yes, must have been exactly a year ago to the day that they'd driven down to Kent to meet Ed's parents at some awkward family do. His arm slung over the back of the driver's seat, music on the stereo, motorway lights flashing though the car. Ed was staring intently at the road, it was raining heavily and he hated driving in the dark and bad weather. "I'm glad you're here, Ed kept saying. And he moved his arm across Ed's shoulders and smiled thinking, this is it, this is the beginning of love. They were going to meet Ed's parents, and he would get on with them, like he always did with parents. And in a few years time, they'd come to the wedding and help buy their first house. And he imagined the furniture they might buy and holidays they might have, all through that long journey down the rainy motorway to Kent, dreaming of what was to come. Then three weeks later he woke up and found a note from Ed saying sorry. And contact was broken.
And then they break out of the mist and the snow, and daylight spills in through the carriage, falls in patches of shimmering delicacy over the faded leather seats and swiftly brushes against his face. They are above the valley now and heading out into the foothills, through white downy hills and little villages with painted fronts, where church spires rise out from among evergreens. And there, for the first time, glinting in the morning light, impossibly white, is the mountain.
His heart jumps at the sight of his destination, his stomach takes a side step and a summersault. He smiles. Then the smile drops and he frowns. Then he smiles again. His palms break out in a sweat. He's hot, and he unbuttons his jacket and slips it off, sits back in his seat, places his hands in his lap. He gives up fighting. Lets himself be carried toward his towering destination.

The train leaves him at a village, which is little more than a collection of low concrete prefabs and a station for walkers. He is alone on the roadside, with the sun anchored to the horizon, slicing across the snow and the gleaming off the mountainside. According to the guidebook this particular mountain has a path that goes right up to the top, which is passable even in the depths of winter. Easy, he tells himself as he walks down the track from the road, and wonders what all the fuss was about. He's just out for a nice stroll up a pretty big hill. And when he gets to the top, well, maybe he will make some miraculous discovery, or maybe there'll be nothing there at all. Whatever. He'll come down by the cable car, get back on the train and be safe and sound back in his bed by nightfall. And then the rest of his sorry life can continue.
The track weaves through snow-covered fields at the base of the mountain and guides him into a canyon where a crystal blue lake shimmers under a thick layer of ice. He stops here. Listens to his own breath. Looks around. No one about. Silence. He lifts up his hands and shouts "Hello! and listens to his own voice echo from the rock walls, bounce off the ice, sink into the snow, rise up into the pearl sky. He's always wanted to do that. The sound of his own voice makes his heart race again. He walks on, follows the track round the lake and starts the long assent.

He criss-crosses for a while beneath the cable cars, confidently striding up the path, looking up at the small blue tin boxes glide above him, the odd face peering down, receding and vanishing into the mist that clings to the mountaintop. Red and white markers hammered onto trees show him around and out of the canyon, the path is wide and clear of snow. He reaches up into the air, pushes his arms out towards the low sun and closes his eyes, feeling light on his face and the cold air filling his lungs. And for a while he just walks on, winding beneath the gliding cars, following the markers, watching the trees thin and the snow pile up, until the markers are painted on rock and the path has narrowed, and he's walking over crisp snow which makes a satisfying crunch underfoot. He feels a rush of sudden joy. Thinks, fuck me I'm actually going to do this! And then he thinks of home.
His foot falters. There are rocks on this path underneath the snow. His left foot goes down and turns slightly, but he saves it before he gets a sprain by putting his hand against the mountain wall and steadying himself. Out of breath, hot under his thick new coat, red faced and he hasn't even realised it. He's been marching up, determined to get to the top. Now he stops, takes a breath. Gets his rucksack off and takes out a bottle of water. Stops. Listens. Closes his eyes. Hears the beating of his own heart, his rasping breath, the gentle whine inside his own head. Whispering thoughts. Opens his eyes and he's surprised to notice how high he's climbed: he's far above the canyon now, he can see the lake where he started far below through the mist.
Well there is that question, he thinks as he shoves his water bottle back into his backpack and slings it over his shoulder, tightening the straps so it's snug against his back, keeping his hands free to support him should he slip again. His joy is suddenly more treacherous. Going home to what exactly? A mortgage he can't pay, a house full of stuff that doesn't fit anymore, a life frayed at the edges, and this overwhelming sense of¦ He stumbles again. Loneliness is one of those words he hates to use.
He saw Ed that one last time. He turned up unannounced one evening to return a couple of books David had lent him, and he'd left a few things at David's house which David had, accidentally of course, burnt. There was this eggy moment in the living room: Ed sitting there in his tatty old grey duffle coat picking at his fingers and staring at the floor, as David pretended to look for some CDs which were, in fact, lying melted in a skip outside. Then Ed was on his feet again and at the front door, they hugged awkwardly, David clinging on for a second too long and then berating himself for it. Then the door was closed and he sank to the floor and listened to the door of the apartment stairwell squeak open and bang shut, and Ed's footsteps retreat down the stairs. And there was this ringing silence. And then this incredible sense of numbness that just swooped over him.
The trail, which had been getting steeper and narrower as he climbed, comes to an abrupt halt. He's on a ridge, looking down into a deep crevasse on the other side of the mountain. Above him a flat rock wall leans slightly outward, overhanging with snow. He puts his hands against the wall and turns forty-five degrees, peers over the edge, his stomach rolling over. There's a platform way below him, and people there wrapped up in woollen hats and long coats. He's above the cable station. He's climbed too far. He takes a step back and flattens himself against the wall, a cold sweat breaks out on his forehead as he sees himself as this small, brightly painted figure on a huge white edifice under a looming sky. Just him, alone on this path that tumbles into nowhere and all this vastness that just seems to sweep him up and¦
But he breathes. Unclenches his fists. Turns again very slowly, suddenly unsure of the ground he is walking on when only moments ago he was striding so confidently up. He takes a few steps down, makes himself breath again as his hands search for the wall and then his feet sweep out in front of him and the sky rolls over and he hits the floor, the backpack flattening out and acting like a sledge. He is sliding down and off the mountain, his hands grasping for anything, his boots throwing up snow as he tries to dig them in. Then his boots leave solid ground and he feels space beneath him as his body bends, turns, hands grasping for anything, feet kicking against rock and ice and snow. His fingers lock into the ground, grab loose rocks and gravel and snow, tears come into his eyes. He lunges, the bag slips from his shoulders, hangs cumbersomely around his arms, so he lifts up one hand, lays the weight of his body on the path and lets the bag drop, then kicks his feet against the rock wall and pulls himself up on to the path and just lies there, face pressed into the snow, as he imagines his bag turning and twisting and tumbling down the mountainside.

A dishevelled hiker stumbles past tourists, his face grey and bruised, his coat torn across the back. The tourists, who have come up the mountain the sensible and conventional way, turn and watch him as he walks by. He reaches the platform, and collapses onto a snow-covered bench, struggling to control his breathing and to stop a wide, stupid grin from ripping his face apart. He has to push his hands onto his calves to stop them from trembling.
David looks up into the sky, closes his eyes, tries to steady his thinking, his breathing, his body. Opening his eyes again he sees a family by the railing is looking his way, the small boy has a finger up his nose and peers at him with large dark eyes, his head cocked slightly to one side. His mother gives him a sharp slap around the head and they move away. David gets to his feet, walks to the railings and looks out. The mountain falls sharply down, rolls out into the hills and the valleys to where the sun is setting, scattering petals of light across the horizon which settle on the distant city. Clouds are bubbling up, gathering pace. As he watches, they swell and swallow the sun, the city, the rolling hills. A cold wind races past him. The valleys below are swathed in cloud and he is looking down at a white nothingness.
A newspaper, caught on the wind, flaps past him and catches on the rails. His hand reaches across, catches it, and his eyes flick over the photograph of a child being carried from a bombed-out house in the arms of her father, blood and dirt smear their contorted and charred faces. He lets the sheet go and the wind takes immediately, it ripples up into the air, the child somersaulting once before crumbling up in the gust. He looks down and sees the petrified nations staring back up at him, waiting for a plane to come hurtling their way. He sees them peering guardedly into their letterboxes, examining every package they're not expecting with horrified suspicion. He sees them hurrying home to watch the television, through streets that, at any moment, they fear might be the site of the next, bigger, most deadly, attack.
"Is that what you wanted me to see? he mutters. And then he turns away, pulls his jacket around himself and heads towards the cable car station, suddenly so weary he can hardly drag one foot in front of the other. The clouds rise up and claim the mountain, they settle over the cable car station, blinding everyone with mist and spoiling the view.

The last cars leave the top station a little after five, and there's nothing left to do but try and blag his way into one of them without money or cards. The ticket inspector isn't moved by his story about a lost rucksack, staring impassively at him as David explains his predicament while letting other people file past into the descending carriages. It's only the unexpected intervention of an English woman, who hears his story and pays his fare, that saves him from hypothermia on the mountaintop or an impossibly risky walk back down the way.
"Officious bastard the woman mutters, as they climb into the car and begin the slow, swooping decent into the mist. Middle-aged, with long silver hair, wearing thick rimmed glasses and a black fake fur coat. She introduces herself as Harriet, waves her hand when he starts to thank her for her help and then turns away from him and stares out of the window. The car bobs and sways, runs over a pylon and drops down further, but there's nothing to be seen.
"What the bloody hell were you doing walking in this weather anyway? Death wish have you?
He blinks, shakes his head and smiles wearily. "I don't know what I was expecting to find, he admits.
"Well it's mountain top dear, what apart from rock, snow and ice were you thinking you might find? God?
"I really don't know, he says. "I was kind of told to come here.
"Really?
And then he tells her about the Indian man back home, his mind reading trick and his prophecy.
"Oh dear, the woman says. "You've been had, haven't you.
"Had?
"It's an easy trick. Let me guess, he wrote something down and then asked you the question?
"Yes¦ but he knew all kinds of things¦ my star sign, favourite colour, how much money I had in my wallet.
"Which he probably found out by having a look in there. Damn good pick pocket I bet.
David thinks about it. Runs the scene over in his again. Then feels the cable car away and his heart fall away beneath him. Yes. He's been had.
"But why would he send me all the way here? It makes no sense.
"Maybe he thought you needed a break, she quips.
Her face cracks into a comforting smile, nudging him with her arm. "Well at least you lived to tell the tale, she says.
But somehow that doesn't take the sting away. He's probably been and emptied my flat, he thinks. Bastard!
Snow is falling again, coming down in fat flakes over the roads and glinting in the lonely lights of isolated houses and farms as they cable car glides into the bottom station.
"I was born near hills, she says in a whisper, looking past him and out into the snow. "I lived a good part of my life around them. Perhaps that's why I love that mountain so much. Up above things and all that.
"Sounds like a nice childhood.
"Boring as hell, she quips. "Do you want a drink? She delves into her handbag and retrieves a silver flask, unscrews the top, takes a swig and offers it to him. The cable car doors open and everyone starts pouring out, heading for the last train home. Warm whiskey flows down his dry throat, sits his stomach and turns his skin tingling red. "Hated the bloody place, she continues. "Well you do, don't you? When you're young. I got myself into all kinds of trouble. She tilts the flask his way, drinks from it again, finishes it and then pops it back into her bag,
"You escaped then? he says.
"You could say that. Not without a price though,
"I've tried running away.
"You can't, you see, that's the trouble. It always catches up with you, doesn't it?
"What does?
She shrugs. "This mess of a thing we call life, dear.
"Oh, yes. Life.
"I often think I'll just bump into him, she mutters much later, when they are sitting on the train and heading back into the valley. "Silly really. I even paid for your ticket because I thought you might be him.
The trains rattles and swerves, the snow clearing for a moment as they go over the brim of the valley and begin their descent back into the city. Lights suddenly spiral out below, the orange strip of the autobahn shooting away, the constellation of city life.
"I'm sorry? David searches her face, and she snaps back into the carriage from out of the cold, smiles again and sits back in her seat.
"Well I can't wait to get home and have a cup of tea, I don't know about you. And then she folds her hands and closes her eyes and says nothing more until they're saying their goodbyes at the train station.

He goes back to his hotel room, he considers collapsing into bed there and then, but hunger and the aching need for a drink drive him back into the snow. He heads to the nearest restaurant, weaving around crowds of people, most of whom carry shovels and spades, perhaps preparing for a bad night. In the restaurant there's a bit of a stir. The waiters are listening to the radio intently, muttering to one another. He's one of a few people in, and they're unusually brisk with him, standing over the table and watching him eat, presenting him with the bill before he's even finished. As soon as he's paid, one of them pulls on a jacket and leaves, taking a shovel with him as he goes. David follows him out on to the street, watches as he joins the strange procession heading out of town.
With nothing better to do, David follows. He keeps back from the main throng, trying to catch snippets of conversation even though he doesn't understand a word of it anyway. Everyone seems happy enough, but there's an urgency in the way they're walking, shovels slung over their shoulders, wrapped up in hats, gloves and scarves. It seems like half the town is out tonight, men, women and children.
The crowd turns out onto the main road and there's a line of cars heading away from the city too. Horns blear out and people rise up cheers along the parade, hands waving and clapping. They walk on for about half a mile, the snow still turning and twisting under the street lamps, laying thickly on the road and turning to slush under car wheels. David turns, sees the procession continue behind him, still more people coming with more shovels. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps walking, trying to look as if he's going with the flow while keeping his distance just in case it's some kind of neighbourhood dispute they're walking into, or a riot on the local government offices. But as they start down the other side of the hill just out of the city, he sees where everyone is heading: the stadium arc lights glow out brilliant white in the darkness, and on the football pitch hundreds of people are at work clearing the snow.
At the gates to the stadium, a burly man in a big blue parker shoves a spare spade into David's hands and motions him forward so as not to create a bottleneck. Faces are lit up brightly in the glare of the lights as people pass one shovel-full of snow after another along lines to growing mountains at the side. Different voices fill the air: German, French, Italian, English here and there. A group of Japanese students toil busily away in one corner, a look of intense earnestness on their faces. David hovers in the midst of this scene, the spade dangling at his side. Then out of this cacophony of mixed up voices, someone calls him name and he turns to see Harriet waving his way.
"What is this? he cries, raising his arms as he approaches.
"You don't know? She laughs. "Some bloody idiot has damaged the snow plough and they can't clear the pitch in time for tonight's game.
He shakes his head, looks around again at the ordered chaos going on around him as a gang of teenagers race past, throwing snowballs at one another. Not teenagers. A woman, she must be in her sixties, stumbles in the snow and her skirt flies up, revealing a pair of thick bloomers beneath. She can hardly sit up for laughing.
"Well, asks Harriet, tapping him on the shoulder. "Are you helping or standing there like a blithering idiot?
David smiles. Then digs his shovel into the snow. He looks up and watches the snow twisting and turning past the arc lights above the stadium, and he imagines a great fall of snow laying gently across the city and the mountains, melting into the dark waters of the English channel, settling on the beaches and roads and rows of all the shops and houses back home. Tiny flakes of perfection turning and twisting through the darkness until they come to rest, melting into the whole of it.