One
Aidan
“It’s two hours, Aidan. Do you have to be a wanker about everything?”
I spare Bernard, my boss, a bored glance. “It’s not two hours. That bozo you hired is an epic fuck-up. Whoever takes over has to start all over again. At best, it’s a half day.”
“So? It’s one o’clock.”
“I finish at three, mate.”
Bernard’s glare turns murderous. “I’m asking you to work overtime—two hours, like I said in the first place, at time and a half. Don’t mug me off here. Remember you were late on Mondayandhanging out of your arse yesterday. You owe me a solid.”
I owe kind-hearted Bernard far more than that, but I’m not in the mood to spend any longer out in the cold than I absolutely have to, even if I need the money.
Being a prick is easier than giving a shit.
I light a cigarette and ignore Bernard’s increasing frustration. Awkward silence never bothers me. Why would it when I’ve spent most of my life alone?
Bernard sighs. “All right. Double time, and that’s my final offer. If that ain’t enough for you, I’ll do it my damned self.”
As if. Bernard is pushing seventy and hasn’t been fit enough to scale a tree in years. He’s also loaded, so I don’t feel all that bad for rinsing an extra fifty quid out of him. “Whatevs. I’ll do it. But if I’m not finished by five, I’m leaving anyway.”
“Of course you are.” Bernard drops a set of keys on the dry-stone wall I’m lounging against. “Just don’t dump the van at the pub again, or I’ll have yer balls.”
He stomps away, leaving me to finish my smoke in peace.
I don’t bother to watch him go. Instead, I stub my fag out and flick it into a nearby bin.I can’t be arsed with this shite.But I’m already three days late paying rent, and I’ve spent half my impending wages on tick at the shop. Without this last minute job, I’m pretty much fucked.
* * *
The tree that needs felling is in the front garden of one of the nicest houses in Buckbourne. Rich twats that get on my last nerve with their manicured gardens and huge cars they don’t know how to drive live there. Still. I like trees. Something about their silence calms me. And I have a respect for them I don’t have for much else.
I set up my gear, secure myself to my safety harness, and scale the trunk while the lady of the house hovers on a front porch that’s bigger than the single room I call home.
“Are you sure you should be up there? The other chap was just going to cut it down.”
I roll my eyes, tempted to pretend I haven’t heard her, but I’ve learnt the hard way that ignoring certain conversations only extends them. I scan the area of the tree concerning me and then skin down, returning to earth. “I’m going to cut it down too, but not until I’ve trimmed the diseased sections. Otherwise I’ll be sawing through the base with the risk of those weak branches landing on my head. Or yours.”
The woman blinks. “Oh. Okay. Your colleague didn’t mention any of that.”
Because he’s an absolute melt.But I don’t say it. I don’t say anything. Just dead-eye the woman until she retreats into her palatial home without offering me so much as a cuppa. Bernard’s most affluent customers are the worst hosts.
I turn my back on the house and gather what I need to trim the tree before I bring it down, then I climb again. At the top of the tree, I don’t resist the urge to look out over the town. Never can. Being so separate from the world is the sole reason I never piss Bernard off enough to sack me. I live alone, work alone, and when I’m sitting with the birds, it’s as though no other fucker exists.
Solitude.
Tranquillity.
It’s a crying shame to shatter the vibe with a chainsaw, but that’s life—my life, at least—and the white noise of the saw brings a detachment of its own.
I work through the diseased branches. Some are so fragile I break them with my hands. When I’m done with the south side of the tree, I shut the saw off and lean back to assess my progress. There isn’t much to do on the other side, and it’s already wobbly from the botched attempt to fell it that morning.Half an hour and I’m gone.I don’t keep many promises, but the pub is calling my name.
Out of habit I glance over the horizon to the village green. The Red Lion turned their Christmas lights on last week, so it’s easy to spot. I can almost taste the cold Guinness sliding down my throat, smell the wood fire, and hear the beeps and dings of my favourite fruit machine. Just a few more cuts—
The roar of a diesel engine blasts through my thoughts. Irritated, I spin around, searching for the source.
Headlights break through the fading daylight. A gritting lorry appears at the top of the slope, sliding on the icy tarmac.Too fast.It’s going too fast.But the rest of the world seems to move in slow motion. I scramble to descend the tree trunk as the truck careens towards me and obliterates the fence in front of the big house. It hits the tree a split second later.
