As the weather gets colder, a thaw begins at home. Each afternoon when I get in, Mum comes out of the shop, props open the inner door in case anyone calls, and makes hot chocolate with marshmallows. Every day we stand there like two people in a waiting room, while she asks what’s gone on in my day. She wants to know if I’m in the school play or if there’s going to be a carol service. She asks would I like to have a party, so she can meet my friends. ‘Especially Joe,’ she smiles, inviting me to share my secrets. I say nothing, just sip the sweet chocolate and tip the marshmallows onto my tongue until she gives up and goes away. Funny thing is – day by day I feel something melt inside me, until one day I answer her properly. I talk to her about nothing – just funny things that happened with Raven and Joe – but I watch her smile come quicker and more easily. When she goes to wash up, I want to call her back so I can tell her more. Sometimes I can’t work myself out at all.
Tonight Dad keeps the thaw going over dinner. He’s all cosy in a new woolly jumper and his face is relaxed like a kid after a hot bath. He wants to make plans for Christmas. He wants so much for us all to be happy that he chip chips away at the glacier that imprisons me, until I begin to see him – still distorted by layers of injury and ice – a little clearer each time.
‘We could go to a show,’ he says, ‘or maybe even on a weekend shopping break – abroad somewhere?’
I look at him and don’t know what to say. His face is so eager. He wants me to be pleased so much it’s almost coming out of his ears. Then, in a flash, I remember that he wouldn’t want to take me anywhere if he knew what I’d done – that I helped to kill Sam. Especially if he knew that I’m glad. Glad he’s not here any more.
Mum sees the silence between us and almost as if she’s desperate to fill it, she throws the local paper onto the table. ‘Look at that,’ she says. ‘Ben dropped it in for me to show you, so think before you go wandering about on your own while you’re off school.’
‘Ben wouldn’t bother if you didn’t talk behind my back,’ I snap, but I take the paper anyway, feeling a surge of panic jet through my arms and legs.
There’s been another attack. A girl of seventeen, hit over the head on her way home from college. I look at her picture and I’m strangely relieved to see how little she looks like me. The paper says she didn’t see who did it, but that she could smell him. I wonder what the smell was.
I feel unsettled all week; not ready yet for this new atmosphere; not ready to let go and forget. By Saturday I’m desperate to get away. My nerves are back and I want to be with friends, but there’s no answer from Ben and Matt’s when I knock, or from Joe’s phone. Nothing from Raven either. As ever, I end up by the sea, thinking how pathetic it is that my most reliable mate should be a tramp.
Tonight we sit on the high seat above The Mansion. It’s freezing, but the lights down the promenade are somehow brighter for it, all laid out like a huge amusement arcade. The wind carries a burst of music as we eat warm doughnuts and Banks swigs from a little glass bottle. It’s seldom the same stuff. Sometimes it looks like water and sometimes it’s yellow. I don’t ask what it is.
He seemed nervous when I turned up – staring around, then taking my arm and staggering us up the path to the top, right past his secret alcove.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t we go in there?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not today.’
‘What are you scared of?’ I ask him now. ‘Is it him?’
Banks takes a long swallow from his bottle and says nothing. Down below we can hear Alec weaving around the forecourt, shouting about God and Christmas.
His voice is like metal dragged over glass; a harsh contrast to the carol singers in the shopping precinct.
‘He’s best left alone,’ Banks says. ‘He doesn’ like you.’
I think carefully and then I ask him. ‘If you knew he was going to hurt me – or anyone – what would you do?’
Banks smiles as if I’m being stupid again. ‘Hurt you?’ he says. ‘No. He wouldn’ do that.’
‘Do you know where he goes? Always?’
‘You think I’m married to him?’
‘I think you know more than you’re saying.’
Alec is laughing like a demon now and shouting, ‘Merry Crapmus, Merry Shopmus!’ until something in the darkness smashes and he falls silent.
‘He’s right about one thing,’ Banks says. ‘Christmas is crap.’
I bite into a doughnut and pass him the bag. ‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘Does it matter? It’s not crap for people who believe, and everyone else just makes it an excuse to have some fun.’
Banks coughs from deep down in his chest and turns a white face towards me. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Debt is real fun. It’s pagan, anyway; replaced an old date. I bet it was okay then – lotsa fires and rituals and eating and drinking.’
His eyes look very green today, but watery; the brows fluttering anxiously above them. He’s cold and looks sick. ‘I wish you could come home with me,’ I say. ‘For Christmas. I just don’t think my parents would—’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Banks interrupts. ‘But thanks. That’s nice of you. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll go to the Sally Army,’ he says. ‘They do dinner. They give you a present too.’
‘I saw them in town today,’ I say. ‘The Salvation Army.’
I had been coming out of the last shop before going home, when I heard music. There was this group of people in dark uniforms like soldiers; the women in funny hats and sensible shoes. They played instruments, with music stuck on the top of tiny stands, and even though it wasn’t the sort I like, I stopped to listen. It’d seemed strange in the middle of all that rushing and spending to find that little pool of stillness and the brass playing slow, soft notes. ‘God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…’
‘They had a collecting tin,’ I say. ‘For you maybe!’
‘Support the lonely this Christmas?’ Banks says. ‘I know it. ’Cept I’m not lonely.’
‘Aren’t you? I am.’
The wind gusts up suddenly in an angry blast and we both shiver and shrink into our coats. Banks coughs again and our cold fingers touch. I close mine round his and look at him. He’s gazing straight out to sea with his chin down in his collar, while his chest shakes with silent coughing and his fingers grip with each spasm. He looks really young now – younger than the stubble and his rough lifestyle have painted over. Something about the yellow light coming down from the road above takes out the harsh lines and grime. I shut my eyes, but Banks shifts suddenly. He lets go of my hand, and when I look up I see Alec walking towards us, holding out a bottle.
‘Hey mate,’ Banks says. ‘I was about to come down.’ He gets up and walks over, keeping his body between the madman and me. I don’t need to be told. I turn to creep off down the slope furthest away from them, but not before Alec sees me. He doesn’t speak, just stares at me; his whole body poised as if to give chase.
‘Leave her,’ Banks says.
Alec halts, then steps forward again like a dog barely under control. ‘She owes me,’ he says. ‘I gave him one and he didn’t come back. I did what she wanted to do, didn’t I, girl?’
He looks me in the eye and grins and then he growls ‘Stoner Sam. I gave him one and you should say thank you!’
A thrill runs through me. What does he mean? I glance at Banks but he’s looking down at his feet and saying nothing. I turn from them both and walk away, my mind closing round Alec’s words like a fist.
The path down is a long gullet of darkness and I’m glad when I reach the promenade. There’s a low, heavy moon hanging over the water, circled by an icy ring. I watch it as I walk, while in my mind a new plan forms. I concentrate on it, perhaps to avoid thinking about anything else. It’s a crazy idea, but I think I’ll do it.