Click for podcast (third story)
Read by Miranda Harrison
I meet him down by the river like I said he would. He’s watching a mallard go by on the water, three ducklings following in its wake. At first I think he’s waving, his hand held awkwardly in the air like a flag at half-mast. But he isn’t waving. His arm is held aloft by a small balloon, its ribbon attached to his wrist.
"What's that?" I say, startling him.
He looks confused for a moment, and then he sees what I'm referring to. "It's nothing," he says, pulling his arm down against his side. He leans forward and kisses me. "Thanks for coming."
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes, of course." He smiles, but it looks forced. "Everything's fine."
Each time I ask him about the balloon, he's evasive. Don't worry about it, he says, or I barely even notice it's there.
A few days later there’s a second balloon, this time on his ankle. I suggest going to get it checked out but he refuses. Won't even consider it. At night I watch him sleep, his limbs contorted. I examine the balloons, the glossy surfaces and thin ribbon. I want to touch them. I reach out my hand but he wakes, interrupting me. He knows what I was about to do, and he makes me promise never to do it again.
#
It is the weekend, and it is snowing. The garden has been transformed overnight, like something out of a Christmas card. I sip coffee while he skips out of the door, childlike.
"Look," he says, gliding over the snow-sheened lawn. "I'm not even making a mark."
I think this is supposed to be a good thing.
#
I wake in the middle of the night, and his side of the bed is empty. He's not in the bathroom, either, and there are no lights on downstairs. I check everywhere, even the garden. It's only when I return to bed that I hear him, snoring. I turn the light on and look up – there he is on the ceiling, surrounded by balloons, oblivious to my distress.
In the morning I watch him dress, silently. He acts like it's nothing out of the ordinary: the new straps and braces, the stones in his shoes. As though these things are normal. I tell him about what happened in the night but he shrugs it off. I tell him I'm worried but he says he's in a hurry, and can we talk about it later instead? I know we won't.
#
I come home early from work and I wait for him, needle in hand.
"Don't you dare," he says when he sees me. "Don't you fucking dare."
"What else can I do?" I shout.
He ignores me and retreats out the door. I watch him drift down the street, the breeze tossing him this way and that.
"What do you want me to do?" I say, to the air, to no one at all.
#
The neighbours spot him first. They knock on the door and tell me, say they've already called the emergency services. I find a ladder and prop it up against the outer wall of the house, and I climb up to the roof.
He is clinging to the chimney, surrounded by balloons.
I rush over and take hold of his hand. There are tears in his eyes, but when he opens his mouth to speak, he cannot find the words. I wish I knew what he wanted to say. A plea? An apology? An accusation?
The wind is up, and the pull is strong. I try to find a tighter grip, but his fingers are slippery in mine.
I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on.
(c) Anton Rose, 2018
Anton Rose is an award-winning writer from the North East of England. His work has appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, and you can find him online at antonrose.com or @antonjrose
Miranda Harrison: Credits include More Than This (Bread & Roses); Women Redressed (Arcola); The Mesmer (Dirty Dick Vaults). Classics: Nurse, Romeo & Juliet (Leicester Square Theatre); Mother, Blood Wedding (Barons Court). Voiceover work includes BBC Children in Need; charity & corporate narrations; educational audio. Miranda also runs new writing event Page to Stage.
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