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I've been reading a story, he said. You'd like it. It's a good one.

What's it about? I asked.

Well, he said, there was this ballooning accident, see, and the people in the basket of the balloon got killed. You know that one? You know the one I'm talking about?

Never heard of it, I said.

Well, the story mostly happens after the accident, he said. At a memorial ceremony seven years later, at the beach, where the balloon crashed into the sea. It starts with the narrator, he's the guy that piloted the balloon and caused the accident. He's saying that the chairs, the ones at the memorial service, they ought to be put in a semi-circle facing the water.

Oh, I know that story, I said. It's famous. It won some famous competition, the Katherine Mansfield or something. That was based on a real incident.

Was it? he asked. How do you know?

There was this ballooning accident in Wellington and a lot of people died, I said. You know it? You remember? The balloon hit a high-voltage power line when they were coming down to land. Big winds swooshing about everywhere till the balloon was in trouble, and so the pilot tried to out-climb the problem. Horrible business. Or maybe it was an accident with a small plane. Yeah, maybe a small plane hit the wires.

There's always accidents with small planes, he said. They're treacherous. Those buggers fall out of the sky in New Zealand more often than they go up. No, no, the story was based on the Christchurch earthquake. The guy who wrote it is from Christchurch. The CTV building collapse, remember? Quite a lot of international students, they were in Christchurch back then, studying their English. Especially quite a few Japanese students, they were inside when that shoddy death-trap of a thing came down and they were all crushed and killed.

So what's that got to do with the price of fish? I asked.

In the story there's a Japanese family who lost their child in the balloon accident, he said. Then the mother shows up at the beach for the memorial, seven years later. Mrs Nishiura. She's the one who moves the chairs into a semi-circle facing the water at the end. It's a great story.

It's bullshit, I said. I don't see a Japanese woman doing that. I don't see it. Moving chairs around in front of a whole lot of other people? Never.

Why not? he said. They've got chairs in Japan, haven't they?

Look, I don't know, I said. But someone ought to be in jail for the way the CTV building fell down in that town. Jesus, talk about raw towns that you believe and die in, it was criminal. It was almost inevitable that the thing fell down. Somebody should have got locked up.

You're not drinking your beer, he said. Hurry up and I'll shout you another one.

Thanks, I said. You do understand those competitions are fixed, don't you.

What competitions? he said.

Short story contests, I said. What the organisers do, they get hundreds of stories from all sorts, aspiring literary writers and such, you know what I mean, those people. So they hire a group of kids for almost nothing, just literary wannabes, and get them to read a batch of stories and chose one or two goodies each. Then the kids pass the selection on up to the celebrity judge, who only has about a dozen to manage. Easy. So what happens next, right, the judge in his or her ivory tower simply picks the winning story by an up-and-comer she or he thinks needs a hand, or maybe just by somebody they like, and then they write a few judge's comments praising everybody else. Easy-peasy. So the real vetting is done by people who don't know jack shit about stories, no more than the people who write them.

You sound bitter, he said. Drink your beer.

Anyway, I remember reading it, I said. Your balloon story, the contest winner. It's very smooth. All the transitions are really smooth.

Transitions? he said.

The jumps in time and location, I said. They're not really like jumps at all. More like melding, everything's melded, see. And the writing too. Smooth as. Six people in the basket, a take-off early in the morning in the middle of Hagley Park, somebody's nervous. The pilot tells him that statistically it's safer than driving your car to work.

I've never been much good with numbers, he said.

Doesn't matter, I said. They're all doomed. We expect that from the start, don't we, and besides, halfway through there's a quiet grilling of the pilot by the air-accidents inspector. What do you think's going to happen, they have a pretty nice time flying and go home? Come on. And the pilot at the memorial service, he's all eaten up by grief and guilt.

Yeah, but that's not true, he said. That's not what really happened, see, because I've just been googling it here on my phone. Look, check my phone. Go on, look. The actual pilot, he shoots though to Dubai and he starts a new company there and kills some more people in another accident. Yes, another one. That's what happened in real life. And he didn't give a hoot about that either, because in the newspaper article here online he just makes a lot of excuses. You know people like that? You've met them, eh. Nothing is ever their fault.

People are bastards, I said. I need a drink.

You've got a drink, he said. Hurry up.

So these people in the balloon, I said. They die in the sea. As a result of the crash-landing. The husband of the Japanese woman, he's the one that dies. It's awful, although the story's very tasteful and doesn't drag it out. The main thing is the memorial ceremony all those years later. It's nicely done, the slick management company in charge of arrangements with chairs on the sand and putting up a rostrum, the Japanese consulate people who arrive, the mayor, the media, the speeches, the whole thing is so patently hollow. Then at the end there's the healing moment when the pilot and Mrs Nishiura sit together--well, almost together--since they're both sitting on chairs, with one empty chair between them, in near silence. It's moving.

Fuck moving, he said.

No, well, it's all pre-Facebook, I said. None of these people can keep in touch during their day-to-day lives.

Yeah, but death, he said. It's a heavy thing.

So's taxes, I said.

But it's just a story, he said. You don't know. You don't know what it's like to come home in the middle of the afternoon and find the breakfast dishes still stacked on the drying rack, waiting to be put away. You find the chicken breasts thawing on the bench in their plastic wrapping. You walk through the house and there's the ashtray, still full, there's the clothes still lying in the laundry basket ready to be folded, like someone's only popped out for a minute. You don't know.

I don't, I said. You're right.

You don't know what it's like to lay the dining table for four, weeks later, he said. What happens is you stare at it and stare, until at last you figure out what you did wrong, and then you put away one set of cutlery and one plate. And you have to hurry because the kids haven't seen and they're coming, and you need to pull yourself together now and not break into tears, because you can't do it again, you can't just go on doing it again and again.

You're right, I said. I don't.

Because people don't really get over some things, he said. Like the man who's coming to your door six months after, some guy with a clipboard, and he's there about the subscription for the local community theatre. It's a family subscription, and you watch in silence while he puzzles in front of you about the name that's been crossed out on your family's list. So you've got this silly smile frozen on your face, you can't understand what you're doing exactly while he fluffs around, and you wish and wish that he'd go. Bloody go. Community theatre, I mean, hell. The way the world can sail on anyhow is horribly cruel. But hey, don't get me wrong either. I mean, after all this time I don't cry myself to sleep about it every night.

No, I said. No.

But I could, he said. The guy who wrote that story, he doesn't understand that. He doesn't understand about how these great emotions, loss, grief, guilt, they can crush you like stones, they crush the very life out of you. Like great stones laid on over and over for an execution, death by pressing.

So you think you can do better? I said.

What? he asked. Peine forte et dure?

That's the one, I said.

You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you, he said.

No, I said. Well, I don't think so. No, what I meant is, do better with a story. I mean, you spend your whole life trying to write a decent story. For art. For art, right? You read the books, you study the tricks, you set aside your precious time, you make all the sacrifices, you go without a proper job, you write and write and write. And nothing happens. The slush pile. The editor regrets, over and over. So, why? What is this? You've got no mentor? You've got no milieu? You're not part of the zeitgeist? Or you've got no bloody talent? Try, try, nothing happens, no achievement, no fame, no money, nothing, it's not fair. But then of course, why should fairness have anything to do with it? So you simply waste your whole life paying your dues and then watch somebody else walk away with the Katherine Mansfield Memorial Award. And the world can end any time it likes.

All right, I'll tell you a story, he said. You want better, you want moving, you want slick and smooth, listen. There's this guy.

Is he doomed? I said.

No, he said. That's the whole point. There's this guy and he's on a bus.

And the bus is going to crash? I said.

No, he said. For Christ's sake, shut up and listen. There's this young guy, right, just out of high school, he lives in Palmerston North and one afternoon he's going to Wellington on a bus. He's on an ordinary Newman's bus.

So it's a while ago, I said.

Doesn't matter, he said. The kid's going to Wellington to train for the ministry. You know what training for the ministry is? He thinks he's going to be a priest. He's going to study, you know? To be ordained into the priesthood of the Church of England. Anyway, he's left home and he's on this bus going to Wellington to start his career, his vocation I should say, because that's the sort of thing he talked about in the interview with the bishop. Vocation. He talked about his faith, his relationship with God and God's involvement in his life, and somehow this stuff worked, it got him in. But part of him, you know, to tell the truth, what he really wanted was just for high school to go on forever. He liked school, he was comfy there. But the thing is, in the end you've got to grow up, it's like you've got no real say in the matter. So when the letter of acceptance actually came, his father, who didn't think much of holy rollers, he said it was a miracle, ha, ha. And maybe it was because, sitting there on the way to Wellington, the kid admits to himself that he was pretty weak in some areas of the interview--he didn't really feel he'd showed off any sense of leadership or mission, and that's supposed to be an important part of the criteria for selection. And now the kid notices that he's the only passenger on the bus. He's sitting on that wide row of seats at the rear, you know the one, feeling the end of the bus swinging around on every corner of the road, and there's nothing he can see in front of him but the long narrow aisle all the way up to the driver, long and empty, with the backs of empty pairs of seats on each side. This makes him nervous. He's just a kid, he doesn't know much about the world, and he's all alone on this bus with a big change in his life stretching out before him, and suddenly he's assailed by doubts.

Assailed, I said.

By doubts, he said.

He doesn't know if he's cut out to be a priest, I said.

Exactly, he said. The kid doesn't know. Does he really have this vocation? Does God really want him to do this, or is he only there by some weird chance? I mean, these are big questions, the biggest. He wonders whether God could give him a sign, but of course nothing happens. So about halfway into the trip, somewhere before Otaki, he starts to panic, to really sweat, and he's still the only passenger. They haven't picked anyone up. The sun's starting to go down a little outside and it's like travelling in some sort of dream. So the kid gets to his feet and staggers up the aisle towards the driver to ask him to stop. I mean, please stop. Please turn the bus around. He wants to go home. Please don't take him to Wellington. Turn around, he wants to go home.

And the driver stops the bus? I said.

No, he said. The opposite happens. While the kid's standing there in the swaying aisle, because they're still moving, the whole bus suddenly goes pitch black. There's no light, nothing. He can't see a thing, it's crazy, it makes no sense, it's still only late afternoon. And this is a thick, unnatural dark, like having a swathe of suffocating black velvet pushed up around your face. It's like the death of Jesus, when the whole world went black. And suddenly the kid's aware in the darkness that they're floating, actually floating, the entire bus is moving in the air. Then there's an explosion that's shaking the back of the bus with a heavy whump, and lots of glass globules go everywhere from the rear window breaking. He hears the driver shriek. There's tons of cold air whirling about, and they must have run off the road or something because the bus is tipping and rolling and it's falling in the dark.

And they're both killed, I said.

Fuck no, he said. You think that'd be the end of the story? Neither of them gets killed.

They're brutally injured, I said. Disfigured, scarred for life.

Be serious, he said. When the kid opens his eyes, it's light again of a sort, and he can see the bus is lying in the bottom of a gully. But it's not that deep of a gully, all right? The bus is smashed up and lying on one side in the mud. The driver somehow gets out and takes off for goodness knows where, and the kid finds he's utterly alone in this lopsided wreck of the carriage. He's stunned, dazed. His arms and legs are bruised. Around him he can make out upturned twisted seats, bent and bashed windows, and bits of passengers' old rubbish, stuff that seems to have appeared from nowhere, and it's growing dim all around. I mean, evening's coming on for real now. Time passes and he can't see much. The kid doesn't know what to do, so he sticks there with the bus, sort of crouched down among some broken seats. He stays there all through one cold miserable night. Nobody comes. Once more it's pitch dark, the electrics on the bus are all shot. And through the whole teeth-chattering night the kid cries, cries bitter gobs of tears, and he prays to God to help him. He prays deeply to God to help him feel better, but above all to let him know what to do with his life. I mean, what now?

Well, you're telling the story, I said.

Yeah, when you let me get a word in edgeways, he said. Drink up and listen. The morning comes at last. It's slow, but there's sunlight in the carriage once more and the kid crawls out through one of the windows in the bus onto the damp grass and slimy muck of dirt and animal pooh, and then he climbs up to the road again. It's a hell of a job, he's scrabbling hand over hand, but he gets up onto the tarseal, which is already warming in the sun. He knows he looks awful. He's muddy and his shirt is torn and he looks, well, he looks like he's been in an accident. He glances about but he can't remember which way is Wellington and which way is home anymore. Then a car comes, and he stands in the middle of the road and waves it down. He needs help. He asks God to please make the car stop and take him where he has to go and he promises God that wherever the car goes, home or Wellington, he'll understand. He'll know what that means for his life. And, good news, the car does stop. There's a family in the car, a father, mother and a boy and girl, and they take pity on him and let him get in. He gives profuse thanks and pulls the door shut. And so off they go, into the brightness of the new morning.

Go where? I said. Do they go to Wellington or Palmy?

I don't know, he said. That's the end of the story.

What do you mean it's the end? I said. What happened to the kid? Did he get to be a priest or not? At least tell me that the kid went to Wellington. Tell me how one day the kid ended up becoming an archbishop.

I don't know, he said. I don't have any more information.

You're a bastard, I said.

Takes one to know one, he said.

All right, so here, let me read you the final bit, I said. The ending.

What ending? he said.

Of the balloon story, I said. The balloon that crashed into the sea off New Brighton. The shenanigans during the memorial service. You remember? You know what I'm talking about?

The story that scooped the competition, he said.

That's the one, I said. While you were just blathering away I looked it up and I've got it here on my phone, right now, the proper ending to the story. Listen, here it is. 'At last all the available family and friends of the deceased have turned up. The chairs are plastic and surprisingly hard. The wind is blowing in off the water, bringing salty flecks of foam. The cameras are rolling and the mayor is making a speech on how such a tragedy should never happen again, but nobody is paying much attention. It's cold and breezy, and people's hair and coat collars are being messed about. The family, the friends, the pilot, the guests, the media people, the Japanese consular staff, everybody is crying, quietly at first and then not so quietly, because the tragedy should never have happened in the first place, the needless accident, the deaths, the lives taken early. They cry without restraint. The sand blows all about them and they cry. Up, up and away the anguished sounds go, the wailing, the unceasing lament, up from the narrow damp strip of sad and ugly beach, up past the angled iron roofs of the nearby rows of houses, past the glorious stone and weathered-copper spire of the cathedral in the heart of the city, up through the layers of surrounding clouds and into the thinner higher air, up beyond the lip of the atmosphere and into dark space, and ever upward and onward the keening, the groaning, the awful sighing and hopeless pleading goes, up into the reaches of heaven itself, to be joined there by an even greater sobbing, an even greater weeping and grieving, a long deafening screaming unbroken yawl of pain that is the very angels crying for their share of the loss, the cherubs and the seraphs and the archangels howling beyond consolation, the entire celestial population of heaven begging for what has been taken from them and they can never recover, never have back, no matter what. Never, never, never, through all of eternity.'

Look, you're not drinking your beer, he said.

Copyright Ian Richards, 2023

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