A Cold Season (18 page)

‘Whatever do you mean?’

He squinted, pushing his face towards hers. ‘You’d be best to get t’ bairn out for a while,’ he said. ‘It allus comes in like this, when he wants it.’ He nodded at the snow. It was almost featureless again, covering old footprints, softening everything.

‘He?’

Bert tutted up at the sky.

‘Bert, are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I’d say come to church,’ he said.
Chuch
. ‘But it’s too
late for that. Priest’ll not get here now, not for a while yet, I shouldn’t think.’

‘No.’ Cass paused. ‘I heard there’s a tree down on the road.’

‘A tree?’ He tossed his head. ‘A tree, is it? Well, it might look like a tree. Same as t’ other way might look like the road’s cracked and fallen in. Aye, that’s what it’ll look like, all reet.’

Cass took a step back and glanced at the door. Ben’s face was pressed up against the glass, partly obscured by mist. As she watched, his hand pressed into it, clearing a space. ‘Bert, I don’t think— I mean—’

‘You ’ave to go – aye, I don’t doubt it. He’s started already, ’an’t he?’

‘Goodbye, Bert.’

The old man’s hand shot out and caught Cass’ arm. His fingers shook and Cass realised he was freezing. ‘Bert, let go of me,’ she said gently.

‘I’m getting out,’ he said, his grip tight, ‘tomorrer or the next day, walking o’er tops to Moorfoot. If you want I could phone someone for you. ’appen I’ll rent one o’ them buggies from one o’ the farms. I can ’elp you. I don’t suppose the lad’ll leave now.’

Cass stared at him, remembered Ben sitting with his back to the witch stones, refusing to move.
I don’t suppose the lad’ll leave now
.

‘If you want me t’ phone anyone for you, you know where I am,’ Bert said. His eyes went distant, staring up at the white sky. Snowflakes settled on his scalp, on his
face. He let go of Cass and yanked at Captain’s lead, started dragging the dog towards the lane.

‘Bert, wait. I want to know what you mean.’

There was a bang behind her and Ben was walking through the snow towards them. He was wearing that same scowl.

Captain stopped dead, a growl rising in the back of his throat.

‘Ben, stay there.’ Cass gestured for her son to stop, but he kept on coming.

Captain settled back on his haunches then jerked forward, snapping his lead taut.

Bert looked down at him. ‘It’s not ’im as needs to be on a lead,’ he said.

‘How dare you?’ Cass stepped in front of Ben. ‘How dare you say that? Your dog attacked my son.’

Captain moved back, pushing against Bert’s legs, the growl turning into a whine.

‘I’m going,’ said Bert, dragging him away up the hill. He called back over his shoulder as he went, ‘You know where I am.’

Cass stared after him, then dropped to Ben’s side. ‘Did he scare you? Don’t take any notice, Ben, he’s just a strange old man, but I don’t want you going anywhere near him, do you hear?’ She looked into his eyes. They were hard, frozen, shining back the blank sky.

‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, his voice monotone.

‘What did you say?’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘Ben, will you look at me?’ Cass found herself wishing for Theo Remick. He would know what to do.

I don’t suppose the lad’ll leave now
, Bert had said.

‘I’m not going.’ Ben turned and Cass’ fingers slipped on his coat. He ran back to the door, fumbled with the entry panel, hit it with one curled fist and then ran round the side of the building.

‘Where are you going?’ Cass followed, her feet slipping on the ice beneath the snow. She saw a flash of Ben’s coat as he rounded the corner; he was heading for the place where the digger stood abandoned. The millpond.

‘Ben,’ she called, but when she turned the corner there was no sign of him. The embankment that led towards the millpond was a fresh white sheet, nothing to show where they had walked only the day before. The path round the back of the mill was different: snow had drifted deeply against the back of the building, but it was churned with fresh footprints. Ben had circled the mill. Or headed back to the empty apartment and its open windows.

Cass followed, the blood rushing in her ears. Other than the footprints, there was no trace of her son. As she passed the ground-floor apartments she caught glimpses of dark interiors, but nothing moved inside. She saw no sign of rats.

An empty window yawned at Cass’ side and she jumped even though she’d been looking for it.

Snow that had fallen inside was grey where it had met the dust. Cass jumped onto the windowsill and swung her feet over; they met the boards with a hollow sound.
The apartment smelled of rot and damp, and something else too: the acrid tang of rats.

It took a moment for Cass’ eyes to adjust. There was no sign of grey bodies, and no sign of Ben except wet footprints.

There was something on the floor, though, half-buried in the dust. She knew what it was and bent to retrieve it. The doll was dirtier, the fabric more faded, but she could see where a T-shirt and shorts had been drawn onto the figure. Then she saw the other doll: dirty wool for hair, a face scrawled onto the cloth. She bent and picked it up, wrinkling her nose.

The doll’s mouth had been crossed out, over and over again, with fresh black ink, and there was a hole through the body which looked as if it had been chewed by small, sharp teeth. The fabric was darkened at the edges.

There was something inside the hole. Cass poked a finger into the fabric and felt it, dry and smooth and rounded. She couldn’t prise it out until she bent the doll back on itself and managed to ease the object free. A blue-grey shape appeared, then shattered, spurting liquid across her hand. Cass threw the thing down and stepped back. She sensed something behind her: Ben, standing there, his eyes shadowed, his gaze impassive.

‘I can’t get in,’ he said. ‘Mummy, let me in – I can’t go. I
can’t
.’ His face crumpled and he began to cry.

Cass stared. She wanted to hug him, and yet she couldn’t move.

The doll lay on the floor, the shattered object bleeding from it, forming globules in the dust. All she could think
was that the rats would come; they would fight over this prize, lap at the fluid, gnaw on the doll until its face and hair and everything else was gone.
An egg
, she thought.
It was an egg
.

Ben’s wails grew louder. ‘Mummy, let me in,’ he cried, ‘Mummy,
please
. I can’t. I can’t.’ As he lashed out at her she grabbed his arms, and abruptly Ben stopped crying.

His face twisted in anger and he opened his eyes wide and spat in her face. ‘I’m not leaving,’ he said.

Cass felt Ben’s forehead as she settled him down on the sofa. She wished she had some milk she could warm for him, a little boy’s drink, but all she had was water. She sat next to him while he drank, sipping from the glass and pulling a face. ‘Sally would—’ he started, then shot a glance at her and looked away. ‘I want my game,’ he said.

Cass bit her lip. Sally would have all the right things, she knew; she would know all the right things to say. Mr Remick, he’d know what to do too. ‘How about you have a break from the game,’ she suggested. ‘How about you draw me a picture?’

Ben narrowed his eyes, but after a moment he nodded, and Cass got out the coloured pencils and paper. She wondered what he would draw – another soldier, perhaps, spurting with blood. The teacher had said Ben hadn’t drawn anything else like it, not since the first time, but if her son was in some way disturbed, perhaps Cass would be able to tell from the things he drew.

She went into the kitchen and sorted through their
remaining food, glancing through the open door from time to time. Her son was bent over the paper, his arm wrapped around it, shielding his picture. He kept tossing his head, flicking his fringe back. She should cut it. She should give him good things to drink. Make his tea. Make him smile, make him laugh – make him a normal boy, not one who glared and spat at her. Now his face was pale, but it was pinched in concentration, not in hatred or that horrible blankness. His hand flicked forward and back, a blue pencil gripped tight in his fist. The tip of his tongue poked out and the corners of his mouth creased. He was enjoying himself.

Cass pulled the door closed and looked at the food, wondering what they could eat. There were no potatoes or pasta – but there were dried noodles, and beans. The carton of eggs was on the counter. She flicked open the top, half-expecting a spurt of gelatinous fluid, but only two smooth brown eggs sat there.

Cass found the tin opener. They could have them with beans. She set a pan on the hob and the bubbling sound was familiar, domestic.

‘Lunch is ready, love,’ she said, nudging the door open with her foot and carrying the plates through. The smell filled the room. Ben looked up, smiling. There was something in his eyes.

‘Did you do a good picture?’

He stood, took the paper from the table and held it behind his back. Smiled again, showing his dimples. Cass set down the plates and tousled his hair. ‘Good boy. Are you going to show me?’

Ben slipped into the chair next to hers and Cass passed him a knife and fork. Ben didn’t take them, just sat, smiling at her, until she put them down. Then he put the paper on the table and smoothed it out.

A soldier stood in the centre of the picture. He wore desert camouflage, swirls of khaki and beige. He had straw-coloured hair and was tall, much taller than the other person in the picture. Cass knew this because Pete – and it had to be Pete – had one arm stretched out at his side and had hold of the other person, a woman, by her long black hair. Her breasts hung outside a dress of brilliant blue. Her feet dangled above the yellow desert floor. She had sienna skin and brown eyes and a wide black opening for a mouth. Cass could see that she was screaming.

The soldier, though, wore a broad smile.

‘He sexed her, Mummy,’ said Ben. Cass turned to see that Ben was smiling too. ‘He sexed her.’

She lashed out, slapping her son across his cheek. His skin reddened at once as she cried out, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!’ She pushed the drawing away with one hand, reaching out for her son with the other. ‘Ben, I didn’t
mean
to—’

He was holding his hand to his cheek and she could see each breath as it was sucked into his mouth and hissed out again. His eyes were screwed up in anger. He grabbed his fork from the table and held it out in his fist.

‘Ben.’

He jabbed at her with it and Cass jerked back, knocking into her chair. He did it again, and the tines flashed silver
in front of her eyes. He got up and stumbled away, fleeing from the room.

Cass heard his door slam. She picked up the drawing from the floor: her husband’s fist, wrapped in the woman’s hair, the wide black opening of her mouth.
He sexed her
.

She slumped into her chair and put her hands over her eyes. Her breath wouldn’t come. She felt the tears as they began to ooze between her fingers.

EIGHTEEN

The footsteps and scuffles Cass heard coming from the hall didn’t sound real. She pictured all of the doors out there, doors with no one behind them, all of them opening at once and neighbours she had never seen stepping out.

Then she heard quick, smothered laughter. She reluctantly got to her feet as she heard a knock, followed by another smothered laugh. She folded Ben’s drawing and shoved it into her pocket.

When she opened the door there were four boys standing on the threshold. They didn’t meet her eye. One of them stepped forward: Damon.

‘Good evening. We wondered if Ben is coming out to play.’ His words were too polite, full of sarcasm.

One of the boys laughed and another dug him in the ribs.

Cass heard a sound behind her and knew that Ben was standing at her back. She didn’t want to look at him. Her hand went to her pocket.

‘We’re going to play by the river and not fall in,’ said Damon. ‘Mum said not to.’ His mouth twitched.

Weariness settled on Cass’ shoulders and when Ben pushed past her, pulling on his coat, she didn’t try to stop him.

‘Bye. See you later.’ Damon’s voice was bright.

Cass didn’t answer. She closed the door after her son, went into the lounge and slumped into the sofa. Its curves settled around her.
Pete
, she thought.
Pete
. Yet it wasn’t Pete’s face she saw, but Theo Remick’s, his clear, intelligent eyes, his lips pressing down on hers.

She should have told Ben what time to be back. Damon was only a couple of years older, but he was much more assured than Ben: a natural leader. She couldn’t imagine Sally letting her son go out to play without telling him what time to be home. The boys would drop Ben off on the way.

Cass sighed. Things would be different tomorrow. If Ben were feeling happier, more like himself, he could go to Sally’s. And she could go to Theo Remick’s.

She was asleep on the sofa, her head crooked on her arm, when she heard the door bang. She glanced at the clock. It was well after nine, far later than she would have liked, but Ben was home now. It didn’t matter. She was so very, very tired.

Water ran in the bathroom sink; the toilet flushed. Then water ran again, for a long time. Cass should call out to him, see how he was, but somehow she did not.

The bathroom door banged, then his bedroom door.

She should go and see her son, but she lacked the
energy to get up. She didn’t even know where he had been. Ben had done that awful drawing, and instead of asking him why, calmly, sensibly, she had lashed out at him. And now she hadn’t even seen him come in.

It occurred to her that she didn’t even know it was Ben in there at all. It could be one of the other boys huddled beneath his sheets; that hard-eyed Damon, perhaps, playing a trick.

She pulled the drawing from her pocket and a sudden pain stabbed behind her eyes. How could he have done that? It looked like his work – but surely her sweet child couldn’t have done it, certainly not alone.

And Pete. Her husband. Surely he couldn’t have done it either.

Cass ran a hand over her eyes and went to see her son.