Suddenly Ash was beside him. His eldest nephew.
“Needed a break. Don’t suppose I could bum one of those off you, could I?” he said, gesturing toward Peter’s cigarettes.
“Sure thing, Ash. Knock yourself out,” Peter replied, handing Ash the packet and his lighter.
Peter watched him clumsily lighting his cigarette. Ash wasn’t much of a smoker and he was an even worse actor. Peter knew immediately that Ash had been sent out there to keep an eye on him. At the hospital, the doctors had spent over an hour discussing Peter’s mental state with Sarah, filling her already overanxious mind with a host of nightmare scenarios. Which meant that Peter was pretty much on suicide watch, though no one would put it like that. Silly, really—he didn’t have the energy for anything like that at the moment, though God knew it had crossed his mind enough times. Ash chattered on and Peter grunted and smiled, but he might as well have been talking Mandarin. Peter didn’t give a toss what he was saying.
“Shall we go back in?”
Ash really didn’t look like he was enjoying his cig, so Peter put him out of his misery. They stepped back inside to join the festive fray. The meal had been cleared away and the board games were out now. There was no escaping this one, so Peter settled down for more slow torture. He tried his best to be jolly, but his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere across town Ben Holland’s fiancée was having a black Christmas, hating her life—hating the man who had killed her love just weeks before their wedding. How could she carry on? How could any of them carry on?
Peter smiled and rolled the dice, but inside he was dying. It’s hard to enjoy Christmas when you’ve got blood on your hands.
33
The smell of spice was intoxicating and Helen breathed it in deeply. The one element of Christmas that Helen positively enjoyed was her defiant swimming against the tide. She’d never liked turkey and thought Christmas pudding was one of the most unpleasant things she’d ever tasted. She took the view that if you don’t like the festive season, then you should embrace your feelings and go the other way. So while others fought in toy shops and spent eighty pounds on a free-range bird, Helen chose a different path, going as far in the opposite direction as she could. And her takeaway from Mumraj Tandoori on Christmas Day was the highlight of her annual rebellion.
“Murgh zafrani, Peshwari nan, aloo gobi, pilau rice and two poppadoms with extra chopped coriander on the side,” Zameer Khan rattled off as he packed Helen’s order. He was a local fixture, having run his popular restaurant for over twenty years.
“Perfect.”
“Tell you what. Because it’s Christmas and that, I’ll throw in a couple of After Eights as well. How’s that sound?”
“My hero,” said Helen, scooping up her takeaway and smiling her thanks.
It was a large order and Helen always ended up eating leftovers on Boxing Day, but one of the joys of Christmas Day was spreading out this Indian feast on the kitchen table and slowly, deliberately loading up her plate with it. Clutching her haul, Helen headed back into her flat. Inside, there were no decorations or cards—in fact, the only new additions to the flat were the case files on Amy’s and Peter’s abductions that Helen had brought home to review. She had spent most of the night poring over them without a break and she suddenly realized she was starving. She cranked up the oven and turned to get a plate to heat up. As she did so her arm caught the takeaway bag, brushing it off the work surface. It hit the quarry tile floor at speed and the flimsy cardboard containers burst open, scattering pungent food everywhere.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
Helen had cleaned the floor only that morning and the lemon of the floor cleaner merged with the Indian oils to produce an acrid, unpleasant odor. Helen stared at it for a moment in shock; then suddenly tears were pricking her eyes. She was furious and upset and wanted to stamp on the stupid shit, but she just about managed to rein in her violence, fleeing to the bathroom instead.
Lighting a cigarette, Helen sat on the cold rim of the bath. She was angry with herself for her overreaction and drew hard on the cigarette. Usually the nicotine was soothing, but today it just tasted bitter. She threw the cigarette into the toilet in disgust, watching its spark die out in the water. It was a fitting image for her state of mind. Every year she thumbed her nose at Christmas and every year it punched her in the face. Swirls of dark feelings swam round her now like evil flurries of snow, reminding her that she was unloved and worthless. Slowly these thoughts started to take possession of her, and as the depression began to eat into her brain, she shot a glance at the bathroom cabinet and the razor blades that were discreetly hidden inside.
***
The blade sliced into the turkey, allowing the clear juices to run free. Charlie, paper hat perched on her head, was in her element. She loved everything about Christmas. As soon as the leaves started to fall, Charlie’s excitement began to build. She was always very organized, buying all her presents in October, ordering the turkey in November, so that when December finally came she could enjoy every second of it. The drinks parties, the carol singers, wrapping up presents by the fire, cuddling up in front of a festive movie—it was the highlight of her year.
“Can we open our presents yet?”
Charlie’s niece, Mimi. Impatient as ever.
“Not until after Christmas lunch. You know the rules.”
“But that’sages.”
“It’ll make it all the more exciting when it finally comes.” Charlie wasn’t going to bend on this one—Christmas was all about idiosyncratic family rituals.
“Who you kidding?” Steve interjected. “You’re just delaying the inevitable anticlimax.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Charlie, cuffing her boyfriend. “I put a lot of effort into my Christmas shopping. If you don’t do the same, that’s your lookout.”
“You’ll eat those words later. See if you don’t,” was Steve’s smug reply.
Charlie already knew what she was getting from Steve: lingerie. He’d been dropping hints for some time, and, besides, their sex life was extremely active at the moment. More than anything else, Charlie wanted a baby. She felt it was her time—in truth, it was the one present she really wanted. It hadn’t happened yet, even though they’d been trying for a while, and for the first time Charlie’s anxiety had started to grow. What if there was something wrong with her? The thought of not having a family was awful—she’d always wanted two or three kids at least.
Still, it was Christmas, and not a time for unpleasant thoughts, so Charlie pushed her concerns to the back of her mind. It was Christmas Day, the best day of the year, so as she doled out the Christmas turkey she beamed her biggest smile and did her best to spread as much Christmas cheer as she could.
***
