The Backpacker by John Harris

bitterly cold, sat outside on the balcony that overlooked the street. A low, brooding sky full of snow clouds drifted slowly over the rooftops.
    â€˜The theatre’s just opposite.’ Dudley sat down and pointed to the building across from where we sat. ‘Like, it was right opposite the theatre after all! Shit, we must have been pissed.’
    The Gaiety Theatre was the only theatre in Shimla. A real theatre, I mean, not a cinema, and it stood out like a sore thumb. Its Doric columns and elegant two-storey façade made it look like a high street bank; the only thing missing was a hole-in-the-wall cash dispenser. We had often walked past it in the evening but had never been inside, and had no idea whether or not performances took place there.
    Zed silently poured out our beers and pushed the glasses across the table to us. ‘Cheers.’
    â€˜Cheers.’ I shivered as the cold liquid went down my throat, crossing my arms tightly. It’s freezing,’ I juddered through chattering teeth. ‘Must be below zero, easy.’
    â€˜Easy.’
    â€˜Like, Himalayas,’ Dudley agreed, waving a hand through the air. ‘Bound to be cold.’
    We sat quietly for a moment watching the gentle flurry of people coming and going from the theatre opposite, before Zed broke the silence. ‘You’re quiet tonight John.’
    I shrugged. ‘Thinking.’
    He nodded. ‘About going home, right?’
    â€˜Mmm,’ I picked up my beer. ‘And about that guy, Rick.’
    He ran a hand through his long hair. ‘Wonder what he’s doing now.’
    â€˜That’s just what I was thinking, Zed.’ I hesitated, taking a sip of beer and said, ‘I might carry on. You know, go out to Thailand to meet him instead of going home immediately.’
    Zed seemed a little surprised and raised an eyebrow. ‘He might not even be there. You could have a wasted journey.’
    â€˜Well I’ll know when I get to Delhi.’ Zed frowned so I continued, ‘Before he left we agreed that if he wasn’t staying in Thailand he’d send me a letter telling me that he’d gone home, or whatever, so that I wouldn’t go out there for nothing.’
    â€˜How can he send you a letter, you don’t have an address?’
    â€˜Poste Restante. There’s one in every town. We got the address from my girlfriend’s guidebook before she left.’
    He nodded, deep in thought.
    To tell the truth it hadn’t occurred to me before not to go home, but on the other hand I didn’t want to think about life in dreary old England either. I’d had such a good time over the past few weeks that the thought of going back to a ‘normal’ life made me feel depressed. If Zed could spot a change in me when I was only thinking about going home, then the act of actually going would make me even worse. Sitting on the balcony that night, I think, was the first time since leaving England that I realised how much happier and fulfilled I actually was. I wasn’t thinking about work or careers. I wasn’t even thinking about my fiancée, which was a bit worrying.
    I raised my glass. ‘Here’s to freedom.’
    Zed’s mood worsened over the last few days to the point where he seemed to be in a state of perpetual melancholy. Unable to face his flight back to England, he constantly lost his temper with Dudley, and vented his frustration further on the local tailors, haggling needlessly over clothes that were already at rock-bottom prices.
    I was still torn between going home to England on my pre-booked flight or continuing my travels. I’d agonised over the decision for days and felt like someone teetering on the edge, just waiting to be pushed one way or the other. I needed an excuse not to go back but the odds seemed to weigh up so evenly that I just couldn’t make up my mind which way to turn.
    The problem, however, was resolved when I went to