Eeny Meeny

32

Should they cancel Christmas? It had been Sarah’s first question to Peter once she’d got him home from hospital. She didn’t ask about his health – she could see he was making slow but steady progress – nor did she want to talk about what had happened. Nobody wanted to talk about that. But she did want to know what to do about Christmas. Would Peter like to have it at theirs as normal, with the usual assortment of cousins and parents? A kind of life-goes-on, we’re-glad-you’re-alive Christmas. Or did they want to acknowledge that life had suddenly become very dark and that there was no cause for celebration?

In the end, they’d decided to carry on as normal. Every fibre of Peter’s being wanted to avoid friends and relatives. He couldn’t stand their solicitous cooing and the unasked questions that filled their heads. But the thought of being alone with Sarah at Christmas was even more terrifying. Every second he was left alone was a second in which dark thoughts and darker memories could start to proliferate. He must keep his mind occupied, focus on the good things, even if it was all so much hypocrisy, tedium and anxiety.

At first, he’d been tempted to hate his wife. She was clearly at sea, unsure how to handle her killer husband. She couldn’t compute what had happened, so fluttered around doing a million small things to show that she cared – all of which were entirely pointless. And yet as the days passed, Peter realized that he loved her for all her small kindnesses and because she clearly didn’t blame him for what had happened. He managed a smile when he realized she had banned crackers this year. She had no clear idea what had happened in that hellhole, but she felt instinctively that her husband would not like loud bangs this year. She was right and for that – and many other things – Peter was grateful.

The gang turned up as usual and my God they were jolly. They skipped past the uniformed policemen guarding the front door as if they weren’t there, positively oozing Christmas cheer in a way that was both manic and forced. Lots of booze was given and received as if everyone had collectively decided they needed a stiff drink. The presents just kept on coming as if a moment’s pause in proceedings might prove fatal. The piles of unwrapped gifts grew until they threatened to take over the room.

Suddenly Peter felt claustrophobic. He got up abruptly and slipped from the room. Heading into the kitchen he tried to unlock the back door, but was all fingers and thumbs. Cursing, he eventually managed it and then strode out into the freezing garden. The cool air soothed him and he decided to have a cigarette. Since returning from hospital he’d resumed the habit he’d kicked several years ago and of course no one had dared comment. A small victory.

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 towards 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 here 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 over-anxious 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 knows 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 fag 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 the 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.