The Red Judge (2 page)

The front door downstairs closed with a bang. Footsteps rang out on the hall floor and I knew they had to be Cary's. We both did. My mother turned away and I was immediately forgotten.

‘Darling, we're up here,' she called, as her grade ‘A' daughter's footsteps started up the stairs.

I waited for Cary to make her entrance, trying not to feel jealous, because I liked her, I really did. She couldn't help it if she was clever, and made my parents happy and was a credit to the Fitztalbot name. Her footsteps reached the top of the stairs and headed for the double drawing-room doors. My heart started pounding, but I couldn't have said why. Suddenly I felt frightened – and it wasn't the sort of late-night horror movie fear that I normally enjoyed. Not the sort I courted for the thrill of it. This was something else.

‘Welcome home …' my mother called, before the doors had even opened.

She moved towards them, but I moved away. Something was missing on the tree, I decided. Something wasn't quite right. I reached into the box and found a final bauble. I knew I shouldn't touch it, but I'd picked it up before I could stop myself, and then the doors flew open and Cary appeared. She was brightly spotlit, but I couldn't at first figure out why.

Nor could I figure out if she really was Cary! The voice that greeted us was hers, but how could my sister be this shocking person in army boots tied up with string, a black lace dress hanging like a rag, a face studded with chains and rings, eyes circled heavily in black, a coot-bald head with not a golden curl in sight and a light bulb, complete with battery-pack, superglued to the top of her head?

I dropped the bauble, which shattered into pieces.

‘Really, Zed – you're so clumsy! Now look what you've done!' my sister's light, laughing, all-too-familiar voice said.

I gawped at Cary, my expression frozen. My mother gawped as well, as if she couldn't work out how this uncouth person had got into her house. You could see that she hadn't got it yet. See she didn't understand. Then Cary smiled the way she always used to do, every day when she came home from school.

‘What's on the menu, Mum?' she said. ‘It sounds as though they're busy in the kitchen. I'm so hungry I could eat an ox.'

Then, finally, our mother got it. Every hint of colour drained out of her face, and she had to grip the nearest chair. ‘Cary?' she said. ‘Oh my God, oh Cary,
no
!'

There was something terrible in her voice – something I'd never heard in her before, not even when I'd got myself expelled from school. I said ‘No' as well, but there was a hint of a thrill about it, I'm ashamed to admit. For where was our princess now – the perfect daughter with the straight ‘A' grades, who played the violin, sang like a bird, rowed for the
county and always won? Where had she gone – and what were the Fitztalbots going to say when they arrived for their party?

And what would our father say?

Our mother sucked in her breath, as if trying to gather strength. Cary turned from her to me. There was triumph in her eyes as if she'd proved something.
What d'you think
? her eyes seemed to say.
I bet you never thought I'd got it in me to do a thing like this!

And she was right. I stared at Cary, struck dumb, not knowing what to do. Should I laugh or cry? Cary did a little twirl, holding out the edges of her black lace dress. Our mother started weeping, tearlessly and furious.

‘I don't
believe
it! Your beautiful hair! Your lovely face! Oh my God! Have you gone mad, or something?
What have you done?
'

Her voice grew louder as the words came out. Her eyes were popping and her face turning purple. I began to wonder if she was having a heart attack. Cary must have thought so too, because her bold smile puckered into a frown. You'd have thought she would have expected something like this, but she looked as if it was only just dawning on her that she'd gone too far. For a clever girl, it was amazing how dumb she could sometimes be.

‘Don't take it so hard,' she said. ‘Look, I'm sorry. I should have warned you. Please don't cry. It's not as bad as it might seem. My hair'll grow. The studs'll all come out. Even the light bulb will come off eventually. It was only meant as a bit of fun. A fairy-light for Christmas – that sort of thing. A decorated face, to go with your decorated tree. I did it for a laugh.'

‘A laugh!' my mother spluttered. ‘
A laugh?
You'll laugh, my girl, when your father finds out what you've done!'

At the mention of our father, my sister's face tightened like a drum. Everybody in the household knew that our father was completely lacking in any sense of humour. There was only black and white with him, never any shades of grey. Only ever right and wrong.

And this was definitely going to be wrong.

‘Maybe I could hide in my room until the party's over,' Cary said, looking at our mother and pleading with her eyes. ‘You could pretend that my train was delayed, then break it to him gently when everybody's gone.'

My mother stared at Cary as if she was even madder than she'd first thought. ‘You don't seriously think
I'm
going to tell your father what you've done?' she said. ‘You do your own dirty work, my girl. You face this on your own. There's nothing,
nothing
, that I'm prepared to do to make it any easier!'

She swept from the room, gathering what remained of her composure and passing Cary without another glance. We heard her sobbing on the stairs. Her special night was ruined, and probably the whole of Christmas too. Not knowing what else to do, I took her up a glass of hot milk with brandy in it, and some migraine pills. My mother took them from me, but she didn't thank me. I don't think she even really saw me.

I left her crying in bed, and went downstairs to find Cary crying too, sitting on the window seat, looking like a sad clown who'd got the jokes all wrong. ‘I've been an idiot,' she said. ‘I know I have. I somehow
thought I'd get away with it, but now I'm back, I can't imagine why. I've been a fool. But then I never would have done it if it wasn't for you.
I only did it because you bet me to!
'

This, unfortunately, was true. I sat on the window seat by Cary's side, staring into the darkness and trying to take in what I had done. It had all happened weeks ago, and I'd almost forgotten it until today. Now I cursed the evening when I'd picked up the phone, and it had been my sister on the line, going on about her new college life. She'd told me all about the exciting places that she'd been to, and the music in the clubs and the wacky clothes that people wore.

On and on she'd gone, as if she'd seen it all and I was just some baby-brother hick from sleepy Pengwern. Some of her new college friends had body piercings and tattoos, and she was thinking of having something done too. One of them even had a stuffed albatross superglued to the top of his head. I said he sounded like an idiot, but Cary was impressed.

‘He's one of fashion's foot-soldiers,' she'd said. ‘I admire him. I really do. Imagine being brave enough to go out looking like that!'

‘I wouldn't call it brave,' I'd said. ‘I'd call it stupid. All your friends are stupid, and so are you for going round with them. I mean,
an albatross
! Nobody in their right mind would do a thing like that.'

Cary hadn't hesitated. ‘I would,' she'd said.

I hadn't hesitated either. ‘Ten pounds says you wouldn't,' I'd said.

‘
You're on!
' Cary had said.

And now she'd won. I'd thought that she was joking, but here she was, sitting next to me on the
window seat, her hand outstretched, waiting to collect.

‘You old stirrer, you. You've really done it this time, haven't you? You've really got me into trouble!' she said. ‘Come on. It's payback time. The least that you can do is give me what you owe!'

I left the room, saying that I was going for the remains of my Christmas present money. But, no sooner were the doors shut behind me, than I fled. I knew that it was cowardly of me, but all I could think about was getting out before our father came home. Upstairs my mother was crying, and downstairs my sister's ugly, sad face was a testimony to what a terrible person I was. This was my fault and mine alone. Once the dust had settled, I was going to have to take the blame for it – but I wasn't ready yet.

I left the house and headed up Swan Hill, telling myself that I wasn't coming home until everybody had gone to bed. Christmas shoppers streamed past me, laden with their purchases, weary but happy. I had been like them only a few short hours ago, but now I pushed my way between them with only one thing on my mind – looking for somewhere to hide.

But Cary didn't let me get away as easily as that! Before I even reached the top of Swan Hill, I heard her voice behind me. She yelled at me to come back and, when I turned round, I saw her charging after me, light bulb and all.

Other people turned as well, and I pushed my way between them and cut down through a network of alleys, hoping that she wouldn't know them as well as me. She was a High Street girl, after all, not a spray-can troublemaker who spent half his life
skulking down alleys.

Finally I emerged into the main town square, where a crowd was thronging round the town's main Christmas tree, and a band was playing carols. Only a few hours ago I'd been like these busy people, buying in a panic. But now that panic faded into insignificance. I couldn't imagine what I'd been worried about. A few stupid family presents – what did they count for?

I cut across the square, pushing my way between the crowds. ‘Hey Zed, you rat –
wait for me!
' my sister called.

I turned round, and there she was, still behind me. The crowds parted to let her through, and everybody stared, just as they had done on Swan Hill. Cary was getting closer all the time, shouting for all to hear that I was a stinking pig and a filthy traitor.

‘We're both in this together,' she yelled. ‘You come home with me,
right now
!'

Later I was to wish I'd listened to her. Then my story would have turned out differently, and so would hers. But I was the sort of boy who always had to turn a little drama into World War Three. So I carried on regardless, promising myself that when I reached the shops on Pride Hill, I'd shake Cary off for good.

It was a stupid thing to do. But something got into me, and I was determined not to give up without a fight. Suddenly it was like those games of hide-and-seek we'd played when we were little. She'd been the older one, and cleverer by far, but I'd been the one who ran rings round her and always won.

Now I told myself that I could do it again. I cut across the High Street without stopping to look left
into the oncoming traffic. And Cary ran behind me, without looking either, as if following me exactly was all part of the game. I reached the middle of the road and a small black car bore down upon me. For a split second, I froze, not knowing what to do. And, in that split second, the car swerved to avoid me –
and hit my sister instead
.

It missed me by a shaver, but it got Cary like a bull catching a matador in its horns. It's a sight I'll never forget. One moment she was right behind me in the road, then the small black car was going one way and Cary the other, flying straight into a bookshop window that shattered into pieces.

It all happened so quickly. Everybody screamed, and the traffic on the road screeched to a halt. A crowd started gathering, but the only person that I recognised was our father. His collar was turned up against the cold, and he held a black umbrella over his head. Under one arm was tucked a bag of Christmas goodies and, under the other, a bottle of champagne. Maybe they were gifts from grateful clients, or maybe he'd bought them to celebrate Cary's return.

Either way, we'd never enjoy them now – and neither would anybody else. The goodies fell from my father's hand, never to be seen again, and the bottle smashed all over the pavement. But he didn't notice. He was too shocked. His face was white as if, like me, he'd seen the whole tragedy unfolding.

Which meant that, like me too, he knew who was to blame.

On ordinary days, Rowley's Riverlife Museum closes at five-thirty, but on late-night Christmas shopping evenings, it stays open like everything else in Pengwern, and the last visitors don't leave its museum shop until seven-thirty. Then the sales assistant closes it down, and the coffee shop too, and the curator goes round the whole building, pulling down blinds and drawing curtains. She shuts all the doors behind her, then moves through the building to the entrance hall where she sets the burglar alarm. The front door stands open and, in the time it takes her to nip into the cloakroom to pick up her handbag, anyone could slip in.

I know this for a fact, because that's what I did the night of Cary's accident. I tiptoed past without her noticing, and got myself locked in. It was a crazy thing to do, but seemed to make sense at the time. I'd been wandering round for hours, and it had started raining and I was soaked to the skin. I couldn't go home for fear of all the trouble I'd be in, and was even more
frightened of going to the hospital.

So, needing somewhere warm where I could dry off – and somewhere dark, too, where I could bury myself away – I slipped in past the curator. She shut the door behind me, double-locking it from outside. Then her shoes went tapping down the cobbles, and I had what I wanted.

I was alone. Silence fell, along with all the darkness I could ever ask for. Immediately, I realised what a stupid thing I'd done. What if Cary called for me from her hospital bed, and nobody could find me? What if she died in the night, and I was stuck here unable to say goodbye? I imagined everybody around her bed – all the Fitztalbots silently blaming me for what I'd done to her. I had made things even worse – what a fool I was!