In Trouble
“Do you know what a snowflake tastes like?”
I shook my head.
“Hmmm, well I guess I don’t either. But years ago, I once flew to Oslo on SAS. And written on the side of the plane were those exact words. Couldn’t work out why, but maybe the Norwegians have different eating habits to us. What do you think?”
I just sat there and grunted, not saying anything in reply.
My uncommunicative nature didn’t stop him and on he went. “I mean you’ve got to admire the Norwegians, haven’t you?
They must have been the world’s first mercenaries, terrorising everywhere they went. All those years ago, coming over here, raping and pillaging.”
I wondered about this, thinking these people were probably Viking, but then again, maybe Viking and Norwegian are one and the same thing. But I didn’t air my thoughts, I simply raised my eyebrows in astonishment.
He was talkative now. “Fucking amazing, really. How they ever made it from there to here, I have no idea. I mean, on a boat?
And out in the open. God, it would have been freezing.”
Well, not if they came over in the summer, I thought, and anyway, who knows, maybe the clothes they wore were fully waterproofed and fleece lined.
But again, I kept my counsel and simply sat there and listened.
“Isn’t it strange?” he carried on, returning back to the point in question. “I’m surprised that you haven’t tasted a snowflake.
I mean, think about it. When it snows, what happens?”
He looked at me for an answer and when none was forthcoming, he carried on. “You get snow all over you, soaking into your shoes, wetting your coat and landing on your hands and face. And what do you do?”
Again, the glance in my direction. “You lick it off your lips. I bet you’ve done that a thousand times and never given it a thought. Why would you? Why would you even bother to worry about the taste of a snowflake? It’s ice, isn’t it? Frozen water, no taste at all. But they say all snowflakes are unique. So if they are all unique, maybe they all have a different taste?”
He looked at me as I glanced up with no real emotion on my face. As he did, something seemed to change in his eyes and his tone hardened. “But then again, I suppose you don’t care about the finer things in life, do you? So if you’ve never thought about what a snowflake tastes like,” he took a step towards me, “I imagine you’ve never thought about what real fear tastes like, have you?”
And with that, without any warning, he kicked me. Not a gentle kick, but one aimed directly at my kidneys. His shining Oxfords left the faintest of polish marks against my shirt. I fell over and coughed desperately. The pain was excruciating and I then began to know what he meant. I had no idea what he would do with me.
It was then that I tasted it. A strange taste I had never experienced before. It seemed to come from the back of my throat and fill my mouth. Yet there was nothing there, no bile, no saliva, no vomit, simply a taste. It was metallic and bitter, acrid and unpleasant.
This was fear.
He looked at me again and hauled me to a sitting position. Leaning close he asked, “Taste it yet?
Copyright © James Lancaster (2019)
The right of James Lancaster to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788789059 (Paperback) ISBN 9781788789066 (Hardback) ISBN 9781788789073 (E-Book)
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
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James Lancaster 
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