A Plane Tree Struck by Lightning

Shortlisted for the King Lear short story prize 2023 – find out more here

He sits on the bed and thinks about love. And as he sits on the bed thinking about love he drinks whisky and the more whisky he drinks the rancour inside him begins to grow until he feels it climb through his being like the sulphurous warnings of a volcano about to blow.

The street lamp lights up the plane tree on the pavement outside his window, the one whose trunk was split down the middle from top to bottom when lightning caught it the night before, when it cracked and screeched like some mythical beast that had once been all-powerful but was now vanquished and about to die. He had watched the storm, felt its thick, oppressive air, and stood calmly as the thunder exploded and the lightning lit up his room, as rain pounded the street, and as the lightning struck the plane tree with that hideous sound. He had imagined a god issuing a lightning bolt from his finger at will, pointing to whoever or whatever he wanted to punish or destroy. He looks again at the plane tree, split down the middle, the yellow wood of its insides exposed like flesh, and still he thinks about love and drinks whisky.

He takes the telescopic police baton from under his pillow and extends it, then slaps its tip into his left hand. He thinks he should have got rid of it after smashing her windscreen, but then he might need to use it again, so best be prepared. He wonders what people she knows, he doesn’t know much about her family or who they know, but he thinks they don’t know anyone bad enough to worry him. It had been an act of rage and he had felt rage before, but this time he hadn’t acted on impulse. He had thought about it and the more he had thought about it the more he had felt the rage. It had been a way of releasing the rage, of showing her how deeply he felt this, of showing her she needed to understand it. For the same reason he had pushed her up against the wall outside the corner shop, blocking any path of escape with his long, muscular arms, using the strength of the rotator cuff muscles and the biceps and triceps he had worked so hard to hone, the muscles that made him strong. The hours in the gym, perfecting the curves, so he could live with the man reflected back at him. He told her he was going to kill her. He lays the baton down on the bed beside him.

He remembers the fear on her face, her failure at defiance, her helplessness. And even then he wanted to brush her cheek with his fingers, tell her it was okay, that he loved her, she just needed to understand he couldn’t take any more hurt, that he had carried too much hurt in his life, that he wasn’t a brutal man, just misunderstood. If she loves him she has to understand this. When she really understands and can prove that her understanding is real, then he won’t feel the hurt anymore. Maybe she understands now.

He pours another glass of whisky. The street lamp behind the plane tree provides the only light in his room. He’s sitting up on his bed, his back against the wall, legs stretched down the mattress, and he is still thinking about love. Is that what this is? he asks himself. Yeah, she’s pretty, but he had been with many pretty girls, that wasn’t difficult for a strong man like him, one who worked so hard to look good, one who had an easy smile and who could make women laugh and like him. That’s easy. But she’s different. Okay, she’s younger, but she’s clever too, beautiful and clever and young, like someone who could go places, go places he could never go to unless she takes him with her. Though he had sensed early on that if she went to those places she wouldn’t take him with her and that was when he should have ditched her, told her ‘Sorry, baby, you’re not my kind’ and then he could have moved on, head held high, reputation intact. It would have been easy to find someone new, what with his easy smile and beautiful body. But he couldn’t have done that. He couldn’t have let her go. He wants her, wants to follow her everywhere she goes, wants to own that flame he sees burning inside her. Maybe she just pretended to love him because so many other women wanted him. He laughs in recognition of his charisma, his easy way with women, how other men envy him.

They had been together five months when he first sensed her distance. She was reading and writing every night, staying up late to study, when he had to get up early for work, when he wanted her to show her love for him. He tried being patient, but there’s only so much patience a man can show. Then she invited him to her parents’ house for a meal. Her mother poured cold wine to drink and offered him some. He didn’t like the taste. He could tell she was suspicious of him, didn’t think he was good enough for her daughter. He watched her father cook and tried to show an interest but he didn’t know what garlic was or what it was used for. Her father was surprised he didn’t know what garlic was and said so in a way that made him feel small, like a kid again, like a kid who didn’t yet know, but probably knew deep inside that he wasn’t going anywhere. Her father tried to be friendly though, but kept asking questions about his work, where he was from, all those things he felt uneasy talking about. Her younger brother looked at him like he was a freak. He could have easily shown that boy how strong he was. Maybe he still will.

He had tried to show her he could be her family, that she didn’t need a father who could cook and a mother who liked nice wine and a brother who just stared at him. He could provide her with somewhere to stay, money enough to buy food and drink, a circle of friends, his friends, and he would protect her because he is strong, stronger than most other men.

He didn’t like her friends whenever he met them. He didn’t join in her conversations with them and even her best friend showed him that she thought she was better than him, telling him all about her job, asking him about his and then not showing him any respect for what he did. And the men in her circle are different to him. They tried to engage him in conversations about football or music or drink, things he doesn’t like to talk about. He thinks they think a lot of themselves, that they all have that air of confidence, the confidence of people who think they’re going somewhere. He tried to get on with them, but just didn’t like them, especially that cocky one with the posh voice, who once went out with her. He remembers their conversation, how the guy tried to put him down.

‘Did you meet at uni?’

‘No.’

‘Where then?’

‘She came to my work.’

‘Oh, okay. What line are you in?’

‘What line?’

‘What do you do?’

‘She needed her tyres checked.’

‘Is that your business?’

‘I work there.’

‘You’re a mechanic?’

‘I know about cars.’

‘How fascinating.’

She argued with him when he said he didn’t want to see her friends, told him to give them a chance. He didn’t believe that would make a difference and anyway they had disrespected him. She told him she wasn’t going to stop seeing her friends.

‘You’re being unreasonable,’ she said and he got angry and threw a glass against the wall.

In the early days she had told him she loved him and he often told her he loved her. Now he wonders what made him say that. Did he say that because he thought that’s what she wanted to hear, that it would keep her close. He doesn’t know now if he loves her or not. Then why did he do what he did to her? Surely that’s a sign that he loves her.

He walks over to the fridge, opens the door and the light of the fridge illuminates the room with a dull glow. There’s some vanilla ice-cream left in the ice-box. She had bought it for his kids the last time they were over. They looked at her like she was some kind of beautiful angel, with her long curly hair and the loving way she spoke to them. She told him she loved his kids, they told him they loved her. They were going to be sad not to see her anymore. Why would she want to throw all of that away?

He sits back on the bed, scraping scraps of vanilla ice-cream from the tub with a teaspoon and he thinks about his father and how he had once owned an ice-cream van, but was always having trouble with it. The ice-cream machine kept breaking down, kids would be served runny ice cream and their parents would argue and refuse to pay. How his father could never quite master the making of a Mr. Whippy, it just never looked right. How he didn’t keep the chocolate flakes cool enough in the summer. Then he disappeared, just wasn’t there one day. His mother told him his father was unhappy and had gone away to see if he could be happy somewhere else, and he never saw him again.

His mother liked her from the start, said she was the best girlfriend he had ever had. That she wanted to see him married before she died, that she was sick now, didn’t breathe too well, so wanted to see him settled and happy with the best girlfriend he had ever had. She wouldn’t be happy now that she wasn’t going to see her again and he wasn’t going to marry her or become settled and happy before she died.

He remembers that weekend away on the coast. They took the kids and she bought ice-creams for them and the kids, as usual, had looked at her as though she was some kind of angel, looking up at her with wide-eyed happy faces as they hung on to her arms, wanting to hold her hands all the time as they walked along the promenade and down onto the beach in the sunshine among the crowds of people getting pink and swimming and laughing and eating ice-creams. He doesn’t like the idea of making them sad, but life, you know, well it’s tough and they need to learn that angels don’t exist, that none of that stuff is real. They need to get real. That’s how he would prepare them for life, by making them get real. That’s what a good father would do, not like his father, who couldn’t even make a Mr. Whippy look right and who was unhappy and who went somewhere else to see if he could be happy there.

He had been surprised how easy it was to smash a windscreen and he had liked the sound of the glass breaking, like gunshots or short explosions. It must have woken the neighbours. If he heard a windscreen being broken like that outside his window he would have looked out, the way he did when the plane tree was struck by lightning. It was her dad’s birthday and she said she was going there to celebrate, that’s where she was going to be and that’s why she wasn’t going to be with him. So he went there with the baton, saw her car parked outside their house. He strokes the shaft of the baton lying on the bed beside him, impressed at how powerful a weapon it is, how it could inflict real damage to someone’s head, that it was classed as an offensive weapon to anyone who owned one, except the police, of course. They’re allowed to batter you with it. He should have chucked it in the canal in case the neighbours saw him, but he likes it too much. It’s a thing of value, of worth, a prized possession. Like she had been.

It's a hot night and he can feel cold droplets of sweat drip from his armpits, and he suddenly feels too tired to undress and shower. He had expended a lot of energy after all and should probably sleep. All that emotion is tiring. Anger is draining, he knows that, he had felt that feeling of being so tired before, after fighting, after training, after fucking, but anger is the most tiring thing of all. Anyway, he should keep his clothes on in case he has to move quickly. He better even keep his trainers on.

He lies down on his back and puts the baton near his right hand. He feels his eyes closing and thinks that’s okay, he needs to sleep, to recover his strength. He thinks of her, how he loves her smile, how he loved the way she used to touch him and run her hands over his fit body. How they could really laugh together. The best girlfriend he’s ever had, his mother’s right. He shouldn’t have done what he did, but she needed to know how much he loves her and that no one could love her the way he did. How easily her defiant look had become one of fear. He’d never seen a woman look so frightened. He was sorry he made her feel that, but she needs to know, to understand. He understands that love is power and he had shown her that power, the power he had over her, in those minutes when she looked so frightened. His eyes close, flickering back open then closing again until he finally sleeps.

He thinks it’s the plane tee cracking and screeching and splintering with the sound he had heard the night before, but doesn’t understand how that could be happening again. Maybe it’s collapsing into the road, the beast finally defeated and accepting its fate, that its time on Earth is over. He hears footsteps on the stairs, the shouts of an advancing army beating weapons on their shields. As the door to his room crashes open with a violence he has never encountered before he takes hold of the baton by his side and tries to stand up.