For Nobody

Axel got home with the shopping, left it in the kitchen and caught a look at himself in the hall mirror on the way past. Bruno had given him a perfect cut.

It was his last night sleeping there, and he was surprised how little he cared about leaving the flat.

Before he started cooking he switched the speaker on, put some music on and looked into the bedroom again to check everything was ready for his trip. That made three checks so far.

There was nothing left in the room except the brown canvas rucksack, stuffed to the last pocket, and the nine coloured boxes stacked up by the door.

Everything in it had a use, and some things even had several, like the spork, which was just as good for scoffing cereal as for spearing meat.

The boxes still needed a home. When he invited Bruno and Clara, he’d had the idea of playing a game with them and giving them the lot after dinner. He’d tell them about the trip then, too. He pictured himself explaining the rules of all nine games before pudding and decided one would do them nicely.

He switched the light off and went back to the kitchen. He got out the chopping board and the knife and started on the veg, chopping in time with the music.

He’d already chopped the green peppers and was reaching for a red one when the little bastard rolled across the counter and dropped into the sink. Axel stood there for three seconds, knife in hand, staring at it.

He must have caught it with his elbow. Peppers didn’t chuck themselves into sinks, and there was nobody else there. He did it with onions all the time.

He fished it out of the sink, chopped it, and put the pan on with some oil. While it heated up he chopped two cloves of garlic.

He was just tipping the garlic and the chopped peppers into the pan when the music paused and a little chime went off.

A notification on his phone. Someone had sent him a message.

“Hey Axel, we’re not gonna make it tonight after all, we’re knackered so we’re watching a film. Next week for sure, bro!”

He read it twice. Then he put the phone face down next to the speaker, stirred the garlic and got on with the cooking.

Bruno and Clara hadn’t let him down once in four years, and they had to pick that night to start.

He stood looking at the pan with the garlic spitting. They’d swapped the very plan he’d made for his last night for a film on the sofa. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know. That was the worst bit: they didn’t know because he hadn’t told them, and it still hurt as if they did.

What bothered him most was that even if he’d told them, they might still not have come. At nine on a Wednesday people were worn out. He’d spent four years like that himself, barely making it as far as the sofa, and nobody had come looking for him.

That left Eva, who had nine o’clock written down on a bit of paper. It was ten past, and the speaker was still playing in a lonely kitchen with enough food for an army.

He got on with the courgettes, the chicken and the squid, which were considerably more work. Then he added the rice and stock, put the lid on the pan and stood in front of the hob for seventeen minutes, watching it cook.

At twenty past ten the paella was on the table, ready to be demolished.

He had two helpings. He scoffed almost the lot and found himself staring at the other three plates on the table. He collected them and put them on the draining rack.

Standing in the kitchen with his belly full, he wondered why the fuck he was waiting until tomorrow.

“Fuck it,” he said, out loud, to an empty kitchen.

He said it angrily, which was something that never came out of him, and it sounded so odd in his own mouth that he nearly laughed.

He washed the pan, covered what was left and put it in the fridge for nobody. He grabbed the rucksack.

“Right, let’s go,” he told himself. He took the nine boxes as well, which were heavier than the rucksack, and carried them stacked against his chest with his chin on top.

It was pleasantly cool outside and, for the moment, the rucksack didn’t feel all that heavy. So far, so good.

He walked the same way he’d gone that afternoon, towards the barber’s. He left the boxes at the foot of the glass door, under the wooden sign that said “Closed”, and on top he put a folded page from the shopping notebook, with four lines written standing up on the pavement.

Mates, I’m off on an adventure. Don’t know how long for. The games are yours, I hope you play them more than I did. Axel.

And he carried on down the avenue.

He turned left, followed a few more avenues, crossed a bridge, and over there it felt different. No more houses, no more tarmac. The ground was dirt, and instead of houses and street lamps there were trees and darkness.

He’d left the city… and for some reason even the air smelled different.

It smelt of wet earth. It smelt of freedom.