Written by Sam Christie
Bjorn’s kids writhed quietly on the birch floorboards of the apartment, flicking bits of Lego in
lazy movements and pausing occasionally to clip another piece onto a half-constructed sailing
boat. On the huge flat screen TV fixed to the wall, Bardarbunga spewed lava down sharp folded
gullies, its summit crater glowing and belching out smoke which formed into sulphurous clouds.
The sound was down low, but it was still possible to make out the excited commentary yelled by
a puffer-coated man against the thudding rotors of a helicopter. Bjorn was cooking in the open
plan kitchen, idly looking up at the volcano while slicing onions.
I was half-dozing on an orange corduroy chair, thumbing the top of my beer bottle, making
blooping sounds. As I was contemplating having a cigarette, my phone rang. I nodded at Bjorn
and slipped out through the French doors and onto the balcony in the direct heat of the sun. It
was Tess.
“Hi, so when are you actually coming home? It’s been three days now, I’m about to pop, you’re
having an adventure and I’m hot and can’t get comfortable.” Her voice was flat and nasal.
“Tess, I’m not having an adventure, I’m working. I’m coming back tomorrow all being well.” I
could feel the Sunday afternoon sleepiness being replaced by a nudge of worry.
“Well, it better be well. I’m not well, I feel like I’m about to burst. It’s any day now…anyway, it
is an adventure in Reykjavik playing jazz. I’m in Bristol, I’m hot, I look like a balloon and I
waddle.” She’d not found the final trimester easy and a lot of the discomfort had found its way
out through a kind of resentment at the fact that I was still working and she wasn’t. I remained
amazed she’d let me come here so close to the time.
A long squirt of lava leapt from the volcano’s crater and flopped down the side, flattened by the
wide screen that I could see through the glass doors. The boys had started sloppily pushing each
other in what looked like a little disagreement over the Lego boat.
“Look, I’ll see you tomorrow evening. I’m flying in the late morning and I’ll be on the coach by
the afternoon. All being well, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” I chinned the phone and slid a
cigarette out of the soft packet.
“Yes, well, I’ll see you then and in a few days you can start being a proper father. Right, I need
a piss and let me know when you land. There’s something about dust from that volcano. Love
you.” She rushed the last words and hung up as I made to echo them. She never asked about
gigs.
I finished the cigarette with the sun soft on my face. I could see the city from here and it wasn’t
a bad place at all. Sophisticated. The rest of the band half-jokingly kept trying to persuade me to
stay and make a life here. They needed drummers in Reykjavik apparently. The lava, flowing in
lines down the volcano, made it look like the sides were cracking open.
I went back in and Bjorn thrust a thick sandwich in my direction along with another opened
beer. The apartment smelt of fried meat and sulphur. Everywhere smelt of sulphur in Iceland.
“Tess?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes.
“She wants you back, man. She wants you to be the good
baby father.”
Bjorn was tall, bearded, blond and had a man bun that irritated me, but he was a fine pianist and
a good host. He pointed at the TV.
“You know we call it Bardur’s Bump. It’s right out on the glacier and is always just about to go
off. If she does go big this time you won’t be getting out of here for six months.The dust won’t
clear for that long.” Bjorn laughed.
“Six months?” My mind turned to what that might be like. How would it work? Would the
government pay me to stay and would Bjorn let me keep his spare room? Perhaps I could get a
gig for pocket money?
The next day, I sat in the middle of the plane and fastened my seatbelt. The hostess brushed her
hip against my shoulder as she passed and I eyed her swaying gait, gliding up the aisle. Within a
short time, we rumbled along the runway and in a roaring crescendo lifted with a graceful leap
into the air. As we climbed, I looked at the bobbing jet engine and imagined the turbine clogged
with piles of volcanic ash; grinding. Below, the ground shook and translucent lava reached up
to catch us as we fell like a spent firework at the party’s end.
.
Sam Christie is a writer based in mid Wales. He has been longlisted for the Bridport Prize 2021, was second in the Writers’ and Artists’ Short Story Award, and was third in the New Welsh Writers’ Award 2023. He has published poetry and prose in various literary magazines.