Splintered Ice Read online

  That evening, the police called round. Jed had a lump in his throat as soon as he opened the door and saw the uniformed constable standing there. His heartbeat thumped so madly he felt light-headed, sweat breaking out on his forehead. The policeman frowned, obviously noticing Jed's discomfort, but Jed needn't have worried. They hadn't come for him. Watson wasn't going to say anything to anyone. 'Fell down the steps on the way home, Mum.' That's what he'd say, or something similar. The unspoken rule governed. Simple. It was just the way things were, the rule of the street, how it would always be. The unwritten code of honour. You never grassed-up your mates…even those who smashed your face in. No, the police called round because Dad had asked them to find Mum. “It's all right, Jed.” Dad stood next to him in the hallway, beckoning the policeman to come inside. “I called them this afternoon.” He'd done that whilst Jed was out at school, flooring Watson and shutting the big oaf up for the rest of his natural. They'd found her.

  “She's in a caravan, Mr Meres.”

  “A caravan? Where?”

  “I can't really tell you that, sir. Sorry.”

  “What the hell do you mean you can't tell me? She's my wife, for God's sake!”

  “I know that, sir. I spoke to her, asked her if she was coming home.”

  “And?”

  The policeman looked from Dad to Jed and back again. “Sorry, sir. She said 'no'.”

  “Was she all right?”

  Both the policeman and Dad turned to Jed as he asked the question. Dad looked horror-struck, as if accusing his son of taking sides. Perhaps he was, or playing the diplomat, Jed didn't know which, and he didn't really care either way. Didn't Dad realize that she was Jed's mum, that he had feelings for her? Anger might have consumed Dad, even hatred, but Jed just wanted to understand it all. He still cared.

  “She seemed fine.”

  After the policeman left, Dad shuffled back to the kitchen, like a little old man. The years had suddenly multiplied across his whole body, crushing him, laying waste his spirit. Jed followed him, thinking the cold surroundings sharpened his Dad's senses, made him realize that none of it was a dream. It might have been that, or it might have been that he wanted to be alone. Jed didn't know and he didn't have the strength, or the courage to ask.

  With nothing coming from Dad, Jed went to his room and tried to sleep. That night was the worst of his life, thinking of his mum in some tiny, cramped caravan, stirring soup on a Calor Gas stove. She'd given up the family home for that? It didn't make sense, none of it.

  Sleep came in short batches every night for the next two weeks, punctuated with visions of his mum, his dad. He found some photographs of them both. He hadn't been looking; maybe his dad had left them out. They were on the coffee-table in the lounge, just tossed there. Some snaps of them both on a weekend at Conway. Only last year. Dad looking happy, a bit like a little boy; big cheesy grin. Unaware. Blissfully ignorant. Mum her usual glamorous self, even on a windy day in North Wales. Jed kept looking at his dad. Clad in a long raincoat, trying to protect himself from the biting wind, but failing miserably. He didn't look like his dad at all, really, not how he thought of him. With a sudden jolt of realisation, Jed could see how much his dad had aged. Funny how he'd never noticed before, but then, when you're with someone every day of your life, do you actually see such things? The photograph made him see again, with fresh eyes, and he was shocked at how old Dad seemed; how everyone else must see him. An old man, fragile, well into the autumn of his years.

  Jed had cried. For the first time since Mum had left, clutching the photographs tightly in his hands, he let it gush out of him, not caring. It didn't make him feel any better, but it made him feel a little less guilty. Just a little.

  And now, here he was, walking into town on that Saturday. The first time he'd been out of the house since school suspended him for three days. The rest of the time he'd taken as sick. He couldn't face any of it. Watson didn't bother him, but Phillips did. The man had appeared physically shocked by the assault and Jed knew he would never stop mentioning it, would forever confront Jed in the corridors, berating him for 'bringing the school down.' Questions would follow, and not just from school. Everyone. No doubt they all knew, the neighbours; being a small town, gossip soon got round. It would be best to steer well clear, so he kept his head down low, sat in his room, listening to music, reading, trying to rid his mind of the conflicting emotions invading his thoughts. He adopted a scorched-earth policy, retreating, finding solace in novels, the books he'd bought but never read. Now he consumed them voraciously and he believed he had made it through. Jed didn't want to knock anyone else out, and now he felt calmer, more in control. At last his confidence returned and he felt able to step outside again.

  But as he'd come round the corner and strolled along the road he could see the little gaggle of people and he groaned inside. Most of them simply brushed by, but there were some who stopped and stared. And then Mrs Roberts stepped up. Jed knew the moment he long dreaded had now arrived. All of his calmness, his quiet mind, pulled away, to reveal him again for who he really was – a frightened, confused teenager with no mum and a shattered, broken dad. Before he could say anything, Mrs Roberts turned on him, like a terrier, the accusations flying. God, how he hated it all.

  2

  Fractured thoughts lay strewn across his subconscious as Mrs Roberts questioned him, relentlessly. This was not what he wanted. He would have liked to have spent an hour or so in Bookland, browsing through the books, finding comfort in the thought of going home and sitting next to a roaring fire, curled up and cosy with a good book. Hard Times perhaps, which seemed to fit the bill and reflected his own dark mood. But she wouldn't let that happen, not Mrs Roberts, not now. She wanted to know everything and she had him, a fish on her line, and slowly drew him in towards the landing net. “I never suspected anything, well not at first you understand, but then she was always off out, wasn't she? I mean, she only learned to drive two years ago, makes you think that doesn't it, her having the freedom to go where she pleased. All falls into place when you think about it, not that I ever did of course because, like I said, I never suspected. Not at the time, you understand. Not at the time. Well, you wouldn't…” And so it went on, a tirade of meaningless sentences, all jumbled up and delivered at a machine-gun rate. Jed stopped listening after a few seconds, drawn more to the stumps of her blackened, bombed-out teeth than to the words that fell out of her wide mouth, spattering him like tiny nails or pins. Anything metallic really. Anything that hurt.

  He'd never really liked Mrs Roberts. Neither had Dad. She used to call him Mr Meres, as if the use of his Christian name was anathema to her. Always called mum Doris though. Doris. God, Jed hated that name. Mum wasn't a Doris, anymore than he was a Sebastian. But that's what he was, Sebastian Jethroe Meres. Who in their right mind would call their child that? Thank goodness some enlightened soul nicknamed him 'Jed' when he was barely six months old. The name had stuck and that was what he had become. But Dad had remained Mr Meres and Mum Doris. Even though a horrible name that didn't suit her at all, she would forever be known as Doris.

  “Of course, I've always seen Doris as one of my closest friends and I'm actually quite hurt, you know, by all of this.”

  “What?” The last sentence had brought him out of his daydreaming. She felt hurt? “Why do you feel hurt, Mrs Roberts? None of this has got anything to do with you.”

  “Well of course it has – she's my friend. That's what I mean when I say I'm hurt; because she should have told me, let me into her confidence.” What, so the whole flaming world could know about it? Jed didn't say anymore, just nodded his head, shrugged, then exhaled. “So you'll let me know as soon as you hear anything?” Jed nodded again. “That's a promise now, isn't it?”

  “Of course, Mrs Roberts. Goodbye, Mrs Roberts.”

  He moved away just as she prepared to launch herself into another soliloquy and he took some small delight in registering her obvious displeasure at him not wanting to listen
to her anymore.

  He couldn't shake the fact that her words had had an effect upon him. That mention of his mum deciding to take up driving lessons, to have passed her test, then spending more and more time going out in the little car she had bought herself. At the time he had thought of it as quite exciting. The family had never owned a car before. They could look forward to Sunday afternoon drives out into the country now, picnics and visits to interesting places, no longer having to rely on the vagaries of the local transport system. But as the weeks went by none of it had happened. Every weekend Jed would feel the build up of expectation, and every weekend he would be disappointed. Mum always seemed to be going somewhere else. Nipping out to the shops, taking her friends to the tombola…it all made sense now. Mum was having an affair.

  Strange how things that are happening right under your nose go unnoticed, he mused. It never entered Jed's head to consider his mum could be seeing another man. Mums don't do that sort of thing; they stay at home and cook dinners and wash school uniforms. They don't carry on behind your dad's back. That sort of stuff was for television dramas and cheap, unbelievable romance novels. Never in real life, never in the safe and secure bosom of the home.

  He crossed over the road and wandered down towards the park. The shops soon petered out and he took some time to lean over the railings and stare at the cricket pitch. The season would be starting soon. It seemed too cold to be standing around in white trousers and shirt, waiting for something to happen. But spring was almost here, despite the fact that a tingle of frost nipped at his cheeks. New beginnings. For his mum too, by all accounts.

  The park was empty, apart from a few birds scampering across the footpath looking for titbits. They didn't even bother to move as he sauntered past. He wished he'd brought a thicker coat, the blue sky having lured him into a false sense of security. Down here, away from the press of houses and shops, it had grown bitter and he hunched his shoulders up, pulling his thin denim jacket closer, trying to rustle up some protection from the cold. He gripped the collar with his right hand, pinching the two sides together, head down, watching his feet as he followed the sloping pathway which led to the lake.

  He looked up to catch sight of a lone fisherman on the far side of the lake, cocooned in a one-piece rain-suit. Green and hideous. He stirred at Jed's approach, the grip on the fishing rod barely shifting at all. Jed slowed, eying him with an intense curiosity. Why would anyone be fishing on such a day as this? The man – for it was a man, despite a great wide hood concealing his face – had broken a hole in the thin ice covering the lake's surface and through it had expertly dropped his line into the depths. Jed recalled someone telling him carp and roach were in there, but he wasn't sure. He'd only dabbled in angling himself, catching the bus down to the Shropshire Union canal twice in his entire life. He'd enjoyed it, sitting there on the bank, gazing out across the dappled water. But that was at least two years ago. Now, looking at the angler, he felt that he'd like to have a go again, but not today. Today was far too cold. Shaking his head slightly, Jed turned to continue his way around the lake, away from the man.

  A loud cry pulled him up short – the cry of victory. Jed turned, half smiling, to see the man getting to his feet, the line taut, rod bending alarmingly. One hell of a fish must be on the end of it, Jed thought and watched, an eager witness to the battle to come.

  But then something terrible happened, something Jed would never have believed possible. The man slipped, the weight of the fish pulling him towards the water's edge. He could have stopped himself, of course, but he must have lost his footing on the ice that lay black and shiny on the little path. His next cry was not one of triumph, but one of utter horror. The fish darted viciously to the side, taking the man by surprise and, desperate to find some sense of grip, feet doing a little dance, he slipped and fell. Rooted to the spot through disbelief, Jed wanted to shout out, tell him to let go; he could have let go of the rod; he should have let go, but he didn't. Perhaps it was expensive, his best one, his trusty weapon of war. Whatever the reason, the man clung on and pitched forward towards the surface of the lake.

  Everything went into slow motion from that point.

  The thin ice cracked and splintered as the man hit it, face down, with a tremendous slap, like that of a flat hand smacking down upon a tabletop. For one ghastly moment, the man lay there, spread-eagled, floating, not moving.

  Knowing he had to do something, Jed forced himself to move and took a few tentative steps forward. Fearful that any sudden movement might break the fragile ice completely, he took his time, and watched the ice slowly begin to give way, cracks like spokes from a wheel, spreading out in all directions. An awful groan like a loud, bored yawn, then the ice shattered completely and the man plunged into the depths.

  All at once, the water boiled as the man fought frantically, arms and legs flapping, panic setting in as the he desperately tried to keep himself afloat. Jed believed the lake to be bottomless and as he stepped closer, mouth hanging open, he felt sure it must be true. The angler floundered, pulled relentlessly under, the cold water dragging him down, freezing his limbs, escape impossible.

  Debating only briefly whether he should to the man's aid, he waded into the icy, murky water, gasping as the cold hit him, snatching his breath away. But he was surprised to find that his feet could touch the bottom.

  But of the man, there was no sign. With water at such a low temperature, he could be dead within seconds. Stooping down, Jed used his arms to dredge around, trying to find the body. But he had completely disappeared, the water thick and impenetrable with dirt and weed. So much weed. How could anyone fish in this? So black, so cold. There was nothing else for it, so he took a breath and plunged his face down into the blackness.

  A pair of stark white hands erupted from the water and grabbed him, pulling him under. Jed, embroiled in a flurry of seething, writhing tentacles, gripping him around the neck with a strength that was frightening, did his best to pull away, but those arms, they were like steal, fingers digging into his flesh. Struggling, he fought back, lungs screaming, heartbeat pounding in his temples, eyes bulging. Pushing down on a clump of large rocks, he hauled himself upwards with all his strength, every sinew straining, and freed himself from the freezing water. Spluttering and coughing, gulping in the air, he clutched at the hands still clawing at his throat and dragged himself backwards, bringing the angler with him.

  Reaching the bank, Jed fell, the sheer momentum ripping away the man's hands, and Jed lay there, stunned and breathless, looking up at the gloriously blue sky, thanking God he was free. Senses blurred, except for the pain where fingernails had raked through skin, he sat up and tenderly felt his throat. The cuts, probably deep ones at that, stung like hell where the water had hit them. But that was as nothing compared to the intense cold spreading through him, biting deep, solidifying his arms and legs.

  Looking down he saw the lower part of his legs, still in the water. He saw them, but he couldn't feel them. And next to him, breathing hard like a floundering fish out of water, lay the man, eyes wide, water drooling from his blue-lipped mouth. Veins bulged from his skin, mapping out a fine irregular needlework pattern across his face. But he lived. Despite the cold, Jed experienced almost euphoric relief. Both of them were alive.

  3

  Someone must have found them. It might have been five minutes, it might have been five hours, Jed had no way of telling, but when he finally woke up he lay in a warm, bright hospital ward with his dad sitting beside him.

  “Oh thank God,” blurted Dad as soon as Jed's eyes fluttered open. A nurse came running to the bedside, face full of concern, her features softening as she smiled. She took Jed's temperature, checked his chart, then felt his pulse, and all the while Jed watched her, mesmerised. What had happened? How did he get here? “He's going to be all right,” the nurse said to nobody in particular, then bent over the bed, bringing her face very close to Jed's. “You're going to be all right.”

  Later, after drinking
lots of tea and explaining to his dad what had happened, Jed slid out of bed and padded down the ward to where the other person lay; the angler, the one he'd saved. The nurse told him where he could be found.

  Jed stood at the foot of the bed and stared at him. With the bedclothes tucked under his chin, he looked as in a funeral parlour, laid out, awaiting his burial. But he wasn't dead, his breathing deep and regular. As Jed stared, he took in the features of a young man, a few years older than he was. Thin face, sunken cheeks, wide forehead and straight, light brown hair, cut very short, like an inmate of a prison camp.

  Or a concentration camp.

  Yes, that was it. The more Jed stared the more he believed this person had spent time in some dreadful place, starved to become stick-thin. But more than that. Even though he slept, Jed could see the deep lines of worry and fatigue etched into the sallow, parchment like skin. His pulse throbbed in his temple and his Adam's apple, very pointed and prominent, bobbed rhythmically in time with the throb. Jed so engrossed by its movement, didn't notice that the man was awake until he spoke. “It's you.”

  Jed blinked, startled, and looked into huge, saucer-like eyes of the most perfect black. He stepped closer, feeling drawn towards those eyes, unable to resist, not even wanting to. The man reached out his hand and took Jed's own, the softness of the grip so unlike the vice that had almost killed him in the lake. “Thank you.”

  Jed sat down on the little stool beside the bed, with the man continuing to hold his hand and Jed not wanting to pull away. He swallowed hard. “Are you okay?”

  The angler nodded, a thin smile spreading over his face. “I am now,” he said.

  Jed returned the smile, pretending he understood. But he didn't; he didn't understand any of it. He looked down at the man's hand, bony fingers, veins so blue and thick, railway lines under his flesh. He needed a good meal, a hot bath, a roof over his head. Who was he?