Twisted Winter

To Sue, Dru, the LJ crew,
Frances O'Sullivan, Ruthie too.

Introduction
Catherine Butler

DARK
Katherine Langrish

The Party
Susan Cooper

The Gates
Liz Williams

Flawless
Frances Hardinge

Losers
Frances Thomas

A Dog is for Life
Catherine Butler

Home for the Holidays
Rhiannon Lassiter

About the Contributors

Catherine Butler

Winter has always been the proper time for telling ghostly tales. At this season Earth turns its face from the Sun, brooding on its own dark thoughts like a scolded child. If it slumbers, its dreams will not be easy.

In former days, when the winter hearth was both heat and light, the family would gather there to share stories. With the darkness lapping at their feet they told of ghosts and night hags, buccas and bogles, long-fingered lurkers in the reedy ditch. In
speaking of such terrors they hoped perhaps to exile them to the realm of the unreal. That is a border the demons are always patrolling; its fences need constant repair.

Today, cocooned in light and glass, we smile at our superstitious ancestors. We have gone so far beyond them. Our windows do not whistle, the carpet is soft, our beds are warm and dry. The screens around which we gather, as they once gathered round the hearth, give us more than mere light. What need now of winter stories? We have physics to tell us what is possible. Psychology pins our nightmares like dead moths.

Yet… if we no longer fear the dark, why do we flood our rooms with manmade light? Why do we insist on music, chatter, anything rather than silence? Why this tinsel parade of distractions? What is it distracting us
from
?

THUNK!

As I ask myself these questions, the lights fail. The TV and computer screens go blank, and the fridge in the next room shudders to silence. Drawing back the
curtain I see the night sky prickled with stars. The streetlamps too are dead.

“Just a power cut,” I say out loud, although I am alone. “The lights will be back in a minute.”

There is silence still, and nothing to fill it but the wail of a car alarm in the next street, and the sullen dreams of winter Earth.

Groping my way to the kitchen I fumble some candles and a matchbox. Dim shadows swoop across the room as I make fire. Just then there is a crash on the ceiling above my head, and at the same moment a pale and eyeless face presses itself against the window glass. The candle gutters in my shaking hand.

It takes only a moment for reason to step in. The crash is the clothes rack toppling over yet again, it assures me. The face is a blowsy summer rose, still hanging on the bush outside. It's perfectly explicable, says Officer Reason. Move along now, nothing to see. Reason is quickly on the scene – but fear is quicker, and I'm still looking back over my shoulder as I'm hustled away.

Soon the electricity returns, and the television flickers into life. The wheels of the world start turning.
Music beats and voices bleat. Advertisements shiver their feathers like peacocks.

Somehow, though, I cannot settle back into the distracted life. I leave the bright screen, lift the latch that keeps the dark out, and thrust my face into the snowy air. In the street I see the stealthy prints of cats and birds, and other creatures that I cannot name. The stars that prickled in the winter sky are still there, somewhere, beyond the orange streetlights. A few flakes of snow land on my cheek and nose. I hear the garden foxes screaming.

Shall we join them?

Katherine Langrish

I'm not afraid of the dark. It's streetlights I don't like, especially those glaring orange sodium lights. Have you noticed how strange they make people look, on the street at night? How their faces go pale and bloodless, and their clothes turn a dark, dirty grey, no matter what colour they really are? Have you noticed how hard it is even to see people – because the streetlights make them the same no-colour as everything else – as if they aren't really there at all, just moving shadows?

There's no such thing as colour. All those bright reds and blues and greens we see in daytime are only wavelengths. What shows up under the orange streetlights is just as real as what you see in daylight.

Maybe more real.

The year I turned eleven, the year I started at Larkhill Road Comprehensive – which I still secretly thought of as ‘the big school' – was the year Mum caved in and got me a dog. She didn't
say
she got Chips to make up for Dad walking out on us, but I knew she had. I'd been begging for a dog for ages. I argued that it would be easy to exercise him: the park was only ten minutes away, and even closer, halfway down the hill, we had the old cemetery; lots of people walked their dogs in there. But she always said, “Dogs need company, Tim, and we're out all day, it wouldn't be fair.” And I could see her point. It made me sad but I could see it, because the sort of dog I wanted –
longed for
– would have been a
big
dog. A big
muscular
dog you could wrestle and run with, Labrador-size, or maybe a bull terrier or even an Alsatian. There was no way a dog like that could be left at home for hours at a time.

I hated my first term at Larkhill. We got split up into different classes, and all my old friends seemed to find loads of new mates, and I got left out. Maybe I didn't try. I was missing Dad – and hating him for leaving us – and hating Mum quite often too, for not being, I don't know,
prettier
, or
nicer
to him or something, so that he'd have stayed. It was scary, how much hating I was doing. It left me exhausted and miserable. I didn't know myself any more. I didn't know who any of us were, now we weren't all together, like we used to be. I sat by myself on the school bus, and if anyone
had
to sit beside me they'd twist round and talk to their mates across the aisle while I stared out of the window. I might as well have been invisible.

But I wasn't. Being unhappy gets you noticed in the wrong way by the wrong people. Miles Bennett was the worst. He was in Year Ten, he was twice my size, he smoked and swore and shouted at the girls, he travelled on the same bus as me every day and got off at the same stop, and he was the one who started calling me Timid.

“Hey, Timid!” he'd say. “You stink. I can smell you from here. It's the stink of fear, isn't it? You scared of
me, huh? You scared?” Then he'd grab my bag and empty it out on the floor, or chuck it to his friends at the back of the coach where I couldn't get it. I didn't tell Mum. If Dad had been at home I might have told him – I might – but not Mum. I just couldn't.

She knew I was miserable, though, because one afternoon towards the end of October, just before Hallowe'en, she was waiting for me when I got home. She flung open the front door and said, “Surprise!” And there, peeping out from behind her legs, was a small spaniel with a speckled white coat, dark brown ears and a patch on his back. I stopped dead.

“What's this?” I said.

“It's a dog,” said Mum, laughing but looking edgy. “Isn't he sweet?”

“You said I couldn't have one.”

“I changed my mind. He's a rescue dog. I thought, well, if I walk him in the morning and you walk him after school… Go on – say something to him.”

“What's his name?” I said, gulping. At last I had a dog! But she'd chosen him without me, and he wasn't the sort of dog I'd wanted. Bitter disappointment was flooding my veins.

“He's called Chips,” said Mum, watching my face, “but you can change it if you like.”

I didn't want to change his name, I wanted to change
him
. I called, “Chips, Chips,” and held out my hand. The dog crept forward, tail tucked between his legs, and rolled over submissively. He didn't seem to have any spirit.

“Here's his lead,” said Mum. “And look, a dog whistle! If you want to let him off, you can call him back with this.” I took it and blew. No sound came out, but Chips sat up as if someone had kicked him.

“It's too high for humans to hear,” said Mum. “Why don't you take him for a little walk?” I could see I'd have to. I clipped the lead to his collar and Mum handed me a small roll of poop bags. “You may have to clean up after him. I got you these.”

She'd thought of
everything
.

“Yay,” I said. “Thanks, Ma. Great present!” That misfired. It was meant to sound ironic, but it came out plain nasty.

Mum's face went stiff. For an awful second I thought she would cry. Then she just looked tired. “I've given you a
dog
, Tim. You claimed you wanted one, and now you've got one. Maybe he's not what
you imagined, but he's the right size for us, and he's a lovely little fellow. Go on, take him out and get to know him.”

I set off sullenly down the road, Chips scuttling at my heels. Every time a car went past, he flinched. When a bus rolled by, he leaped across in front of me and nearly tripped me up.

“Stupid dog!” I yanked his lead, and he shrank down and cowered. I was being horrible, but I couldn't help it. I'd wanted a
big
dog, I'd wanted to
choose him myself
, and I'd never have picked a dog like Chips in a thousand years.

With Chips dodging about on the end of the lead, we went down the hill past the rusty railings of the old Victorian cemetery. I stopped at the iron gates and looked down the long path between the yew trees, wondering whether to go in. It would be the quickest place to take him. And, for the first time, Chips showed some interest. He pulled on the lead and whined softly, flicking his tail as if the dark and the quiet appealed to him. Perhaps he was a country dog. Perhaps he wasn't used to city streets.

I took a few steps in. But… it was after five o'clock, the sun had set. On the road behind me the streetlights
were already coming on, with a pale barley-sugar glow. The cemetery was full of gathering dusk. There was nobody about. Far down the path, a tall obelisk stood out black against the twilight. Gravestones lined each side, inscribed in curly lettering with names and dates.
In Memoriam… In Loving Memory… Departed This Life…
Close to the gate was a tall pointed headstone bearing a single word.

I'd seen it before. I'd often wondered about it. Now – well, now I didn't feel like wondering. I spun around, pulling Chips away. I'd changed my mind. We'd go to the park instead. But when I got to the bottom of the hill, Miles and two of his mates were hanging around the bus stop.

I knew what would happen. If I glanced at them it'd be, “What you looking at?” If I pretended not to see them, it'd be, “Are you ignoring me?” They'd kick my ankles, jostle me into the road, spit on me. I was afraid of them.

If only Mum had given me a big dog! I'd have been all right then. I could have walked straight past and they wouldn't have dared to bother me. But all I had was Chips. He was a coward, and so was I. I turned to slink away, and Chips chose that moment,
that very moment
, to squat down. I tugged frantically at his lead, but he resisted, and by then it was too late. Miles and his friends surrounded me, grinning.

“What's this, Timid, got a little
doggie
?”

“Oops, look what he's done!”

“Don't blame the dog, Timid, we know it was you.”

“Let's see you clean it up. Go on!”

I fumbled one-handed for the poop bags, tore one off, dropping the rest of the roll, and one of Miles' friends kicked it into the road where it snaked out, unrolling as it went. As I bent to clean up, Miles grabbed the lead and jerked Chips away from me. “Pick up the poop, Timid –
I'll
walk the doggie!”

Chips cringed and cowered, just as he'd done when
I'd
jerked the lead a few minutes ago, and all of a sudden I was hot with shame and hatred. Chips didn't deserve this – not from either of us.