Twisted Winter (8 page)

Brad brushed down his soaking hair, now feeling as if it was turning to ice. His fleece was soaking and covered with bits of weed, and stained down the
front where he'd thrown up. He could smell his own sick.

He turned to look at the water, expecting to see thick ice, and the hole where he'd fallen.

But there was no thick ice, only a thin wrinkled skin on the surface, unbroken. No girl's face, no open mouth, no waving hair.

Only, as he slowly tried to pull himself together, and make his way, trembling and shaking up the hill, dragging his school bag, he was sure he could hear the sound of someone, or something, laughing at him.

Catherine Butler

“Every misfortune is an opportunity in disguise,” said Lucy Wilkes.

That's Lucy all over. She's bright and bonnie and bounce-back optimistic, like a rubber ball that misses the lampshade and hits you in the eye on the rebound. We've been friends for years, but I'm glad I don't sit next to her in every class.

When Lucy's cat Fudge was killed last October she was upset, of course, but even while she was reaching for the Kleenex she was thinking how to turn the situation to her advantage. From that day on she started pestering her parents for a dog, quietly but persistently. She's an expert at that.

“It will – it
might
– help put the bad memories behind me,” she'd tell them, her voice just shy of a whimper.

By late November they looked about ready to give in, and I don't blame them. Of course they wanted to make it right. What parent wouldn't, after what happened to poor Fudge? It had taken days just to get the blood stains out of the lawn.

In a way I admired Lucy, but I was a little sickened, too. It wasn't just that she seemed a bit quick to forget Fudge (even if he was a scraggy old mog who spent twenty hours of every day asleep on the sofa). More important, wanting a dog had been my idea, my
thing
, and now Lucy was taking it over. It didn't help that the chances of my parents buying
me
a dog were nil. When I mentioned it at breakfast one morning – weeks before copy-cat Lucy – they swung into their double-act as if they'd been rehearsing.

“It would need walking every day,” was Dad's opening move.

“It would be alone in the house,” said Mum.

“The vet's bills!” exclaimed Dad, looking to heaven.

“I'd walk it! I'd look after it! I'd save all my pocket money!” I told them. “I always keep my promises, you know that!” But whatever promises I made they were ready with more objections, a never-ending supply.

So, when I was at Lucy's after school that day, and her mum started dropping hints about how Christmas was coming up, and Lucy shot me a smug look across her fish and chips – well, of course I felt hard done by. And when she went on about it afterwards, wondering what name to choose and whether she'd like a terrier or a spaniel better – well, of course there was going to be a row. And after that – Okay, it was childish to refuse her dad's offer of a lift home, but I had my dignity to think of. I turned on my heel, and set off into the November evening alone.

It was only eight o'clock, and the walk was along a well-lit road, but I felt foolish as soon as I turned the corner from Lucy's. The sky was cloudless, and that made me feel more exposed, somehow, there in the empty street. I quickened my pace a little. A big
moon bobbed along the sports centre roof as I passed. The moon is always bigger in winter, I've noticed. It comes into its kingdom then. It has fancy titles, too: the butter-yellow Harvest Moon; the Hunter's Moon, wakeful and unblinking; and last of all the famished Wolf Moon, gnawing at the year's end.

Last time I'd walked from Lucy's, a few weeks earlier, the fat moon of harvest had been shining. It occurred to me now with a shudder that it must have been the very night when Fudge –

I did my best to stop the thought in its tracks. I didn't like to imagine what I might have been sharing the streets with, the night Lucy's cat died.

“Wait up, Nell!”

I jumped, at the male voice behind me. But it was only my big brother Adam, running to catch up. I'd not recognized him in the dark.

Not that Adam looked exactly safe, with his hoodie and trainers. More like somebody's nightmare of a modern teenager.

“You shouldn't be on your own in the dark. It's dangerous. There's people like me about.”

Had he read my mind? I was glad he'd turned up, anyway.

“It's only just gone eight,” I grumbled.

“You're the boss. But let's walk together, yeah?”

His phone rang almost at once, and he moved a few paces ahead. “What's up?” he said, and fell into a muttered conversation that sounded like a conspiracy even to me.

That was the trouble with Adam. He really
had
been a bad lad, once. A couple of years ago he'd been part of a gang, and he'd begun to drift away from me, Mum and Dad, into a very dark place. A bit of vandalism here, a fight there, carrying a few messages, babysitting a package or two. Eventually, he went too far. I remember the night that policewoman came round to the house. Adam had spat in the custody sergeant's face, she told Mum and Dad.

“He's a got a vicious streak, that one. You ought to muzzle him.”

We didn't talk about it afterwards, because we knew it couldn't be true – even though we also knew it
was
. Mum's an accountant, Dad works in marketing, and Adam was a well brought up boy on course for eight GCSEs. Surely he wasn't the type to take pot shots at pets with an air rifle, or key the new cars in the showroom forecourt? He must have been misled,
my parents decided. There was an appearance at the Youth Court, with Adam every inch the respectable citizen in his tie and white shirt, full of scripted remorse. It must have done the trick, because he got no more than a fine and a few weekends helping out in the local park. We all did our best to forget about it. My parents moved Adam to a different school, and it was there he discovered his love for competitive running.

Mum and Dad were delighted, especially when he started winning trophies. A much better use for all that teenage energy, they agreed. The old Adam had been left in the dust.

But I couldn't relax. Adam was a good big brother – he looked out for me – but I didn't exactly trust him. Or rather – it's just that, seeing him move round the room you could sense the muscles under his skin, spring-loaded and powerful, and it was like watching a rider try to control a horse that's too strong for him. You never knew when he was going to buck – or bolt – or bite.

* * *

It must have been a fox that killed Fudge, Lucy's mum had said. There'd been bite marks on the body. But what kind of fox takes a cat's head clean off and leaves its body neatly spread-eagled on the lawn?

A fox with thumbs and eight fingers, that's what.

* * *

Adam walked me back to our house that night, but he didn't stay. His mate on the phone was calling him away, Adam wouldn't say where.

“Tell Mum not to wait up,” he told me. “I'll be back by midnight.”

He had college next morning, so I had a good idea how that would go down. Mum did wait up, of course, and Adam didn't come home till well after twelve, of course. I heard them rowing downstairs.

“I told you, I was watching a movie at Dexy's!” Adam shouted. “His uncle was with us! Phone him now, if you don't believe me.” I could pretty much hear him thrusting the phone at her. “He's on speed dial!”

He knew she would never phone at that time of night – and by morning, what would be the point? I
heard her and Dad talking in bed later, though. Mum was crying – the kind of half-quiet weeping that's louder because you're trying to hide it.

It's hard to say when I first knew something was badly wrong. Part of me guessed long before I could face it head on. Dark thoughts were gathering at the window, tap-tap-tap, and in the end I had to let them in.

Let's just say that I'd been waiting up for Adam too.

* * *

The next morning I was out of bed early. It was still dark when I let myself into the garden. The frost was so sharp I mistook it for snow. I left my footprints in the grass as I walked to the spot where Adam had vaulted the fence the night before. He could have walked up the path like any normal person, but he'd erupted with a yelp, over the fence and onto the lawn. I'd seen it clearly from my window. He'd looked as if he'd been running, but that wasn't necessarily suspicious. After all, running was what he did best.

I moved to the rose bush near the shed, wary of the thorns. That was where he'd thrown something the night before – carelessly, like a toy he'd grown tired of. A round object, about the size of a cricket ball.

It didn't take long to find it, frosted and tangled with the woody stems of the roses. I didn't want to pick it up, but I made myself.

It had been part of a tabby cat, once. The markings were still visible beneath the gloops of frozen blood and spit. A little stub of ear poked up, and the jaw hung loose. I don't know what had become of the body – perhaps it was spread-eagled on a lawn somewhere? – but there was no doubt that Adam had come home last night carrying a severed head.

Mum did not wait up the next night, or the night after that. But I did. I saw the Hunter's Moon rise and prowl across the sky, breaking cover from the thin clouds. I saw the lawn turn ghostly as the night frost bit. And I saw Adam return in the small hours both times – never by the front gate, always prickling with energy, always streaked with dark. When I slept, I dreamed of sharp teeth and matted hair.

I could not face another night like that.

It was already getting dark when I walked into his
room without knocking. That was a crime in itself, of course. Teenage boys' rooms were private; you never knew what you were going to find.

Adam was eating a ham and ketchup sandwich, messily. “What do you want, Nell?”

“Mum asked me to bring your plate down, if you've finished with it,” I improvised. “How's the training?”

“Good.” He licked his fingers clean. “Been going for some long runs.”

I sat on the bed, and said in what I hoped was a casual voice, “You shouldn't overdo it. You're not getting enough sleep.”

He scowled. “I sleep just fine.”

“You got in at three this morning. You kept it quiet, but I heard.”

“What if I did? What's it to you, Nell?” Suddenly he was hostile and suspicious. Ketchup was leaking from the sandwich as he gripped it. Disgusting.

“I'm just worried about you,” I said weakly.

“Thanks, but when I need a babysitter I'll let you know. All right?”

That
was
ketchup, wasn't it?

“See you later, Nell.” He reached for his headphones.

I yelped out: “What happened to Lucy's cat?”

I hadn't meant to ask out of the blue like that, but the words jumped off my tongue.

He looked startled for a moment, but then he gazed back at me very steadily: “What did you say?”

“Can you swear you had nothing to do with what happened to her cat? Or the others since then? Have you and your mates been playing some kind of sick game?”

“I've no idea what you're talking about,” he said, almost lazily, as if he didn't expect to be believed and was past caring.

“I thought you were over all that stuff. Killing cats and squirrels. You're better than that.”

“Yeah, right, I'm
so
much better than that.”

“Of course you are! You ran four hundred metres in less than fifty seconds last summer. You're the best in the school! You should take some pride in yourself.” I must have sounded like our mother. “There's no point in denying it, Adam. I saw you drop this in the garden.” I set what was left of the tabby's head on his plate, next to what was left of the sandwich. “Do you really think it's a laugh to catch somebody's pet and set a Staffy on it?”

“It wasn't a Staffy,” he said quietly, gazing at the cat.

“I don't care what breed it was! You still had a dog ripping a cat to pieces!”

His voice was low and hollow, without expression: “Listen, Nell. It – wasn't a dog.”

It took a few seconds for those words to sink it. I realised then how hard I'd been hoping I was wrong. Hoping against hope that it
was
a dog.

He saw my expression, then looked away, disgusted. “But you don't need to worry your head about it. You're a girl.”

Now,
that
was offensive. “I can understand anything you can, you pig!”

“That's not what I mean! Girls aren't affected. It's not your problem.”

“I
am
affected, Adam. I'm scared stiff! Hadn't you noticed?”

“Okay, Scooby Doo. So, what exactly are you scared of? What do you
think
is going on?”

A horrified embarrassment clamped my mouth shut.
You can't unsay it, once it's said
. Outside, the Hunter's Moon had risen. I stared it full in the face, and it stared back at me.

“What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

“Last night,” I began, as steadily as I could, “you sneaked back into your room by climbing on the shed roof and in through the window, the way you used to when you were… wild. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, at first. Your face – ”

“What about my face?” His voice was low in the throat.

“Not just your face. The blood was everywhere. All over your hands and shirt. That Gorillaz T you wear all the time? That was drenched. Where is it now, Adam? Not in the wash – I've checked.”

“I'm not into Gorillaz any more.”

“So where did that blood come from? And don't change the subject. You can't hide the truth from me for ever.”