Splintered Ice E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After his mother walks out on him and his father, Jed loses himself. When he saves a man from drowning in the local park, a series of dangerous events is set in motion.

Love, fear, hate, violence - who can he trust, and who does he really know? This journey only has one destination.

Splintered Ice is an intriguing story of suspense, mystery and horror, where the unexpected abounds in a twisted series of incidents guaranteed to keep the pages turning long into the night.

Leseprobe

Splintered Ice

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2016 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For those who matter, have always mattered, and always will. This is for you, for you know the truth…and the truth is not so very different from this.

1

Cold, like bitter iced fingers ran along his spine.

The nightmare was real. Terrifyingly real. He didn't wake up from it until the world he knew appeared no longer recognisable, but one turned upside down.

Jed knew he should respond more positively, allowing some of the sun's warmth to percolate inside him and rise to the surface. This required effort, but somehow he never quite managed it, often forcing himself to smile regardless of the weight that hung like a yoke around him. Others turned away, avoiding his stare; no one ever stopped him to say 'hello' or ask how he was. Not that he cared. It was something he had come to terms with, accepted. His days were all like this one, inside and out. Heavy, black clouds, threatening to break but never doing so, bearing down on him, cloaking him in depression. And this particular day, as he came around the corner, the wind pinching at his face, he saw the people and groaned.

He usually reacted this way and shunned company. Ever since Mum had left.

He remembered the day as clear as those rare ones when the sun broke through. He'd come home from school, not feeling too well. The usual routine meant he stayed for school dinners, not that he ate very much of them. Slop, that's all it was. Slop followed by cake smothered in pink custard. Craig Watson, big fat cheesy face beaming like a buffoon, brainless, piling up his plate by taking everyone else's. God, he could put that stuff away! That particular day Jed had stood up to him, sick of his antics, sick of him. “Give us your dinner,” grumbled Watson, voice like a constipated buffalo – which he must have been, given the amount of slop he shovelled into his ever-open gob. The others pressed against the dinner table, obediently did his bidding, staring down at the meagre scraps Watson had allowed them to keep, with all the grace of a nightclub bouncer. “No,” said Jed. They'd all blinked at that, especially Miles, Jed's friend. Reaching over, he touched Jed's arm, trying to calm him. But Jed fumed inside, too far gone to notice, the limit reached. Watson looked as though he'd been yanked back by a winch, his whole body becoming stiff, head jerking, mouth dropping open. Sixteen years of age, grossly over-weight, Watson was a formidable bully. Despite being almost two years younger than Jed, he looked considerably older. Feared throughout the school. Nobody said 'no' to Craig Watson. But Jed had. And the whole world waited to see what would happen next.

Jed shoved back his chair, the bottom of the legs scraping across the bare floor, and he climbed to his feet.

“Pick it up!” Roared Mr Malone from the far end of the hall. Mr Malone used to be a professional rugby player, about a thousand years ago. But he looked more like a football now, the glory days long gone, as wide as he was tall, puffed up and red-faced, as if he were going to burst at any minute. But Jed liked him, thought him decent, in a gruff sort of way. Malone didn't take much messing from the kids, but very rarely paid any attention to what they got up to. A dinner monitor, not a teacher, just a poor old pensioner trying to earn a few extra bob to pay for his cats' upkeep. Apparently, so Jed heard, Malone owned lots of cats. But no one else. No wife, no family. Just the cats. And this job. Jed liked him and felt sorry for him and he thought, with no evidence to support his view, that Mr Malone liked him too. But it didn't look that way at that moment as Jed stood there, simmering quietly. “I've told you a thousand times,” screeched Malone over the collective buzz of the dining hall, “not to scrape those things across the floor – to pick the damn things up! And what are you doing standing up anyway?”

“Don't feel well,” said Jed, as quick as a flash. He glanced down at Watson, who glared at him. No longer the buffalo, he was now the predator, eyes narrowed into slits.

“I'm going to get you, Meres.”

“In your dreams, Watson.”

“Yeah, well it'll be your worst nightmare when I've finished with you.”

“Jed, just leave it, yeah?” Miles said. Always the protector.

Jed smirked. He didn't feel particularly brave, more that he had woken up. The night before he'd heard his parents arguing. They always argued, so nothing unusual in that, but this sounded different. On another level. Dad had stomped out of the house, slamming the door behind him, and he never did that. Mum had stayed in the living room, television on low, and from his room Jed could hear the sobs. He listened to her padding across the hall, picking up the 'phone. She talked rapidly, in a whisper. He knew he shouldn't, and he felt guilty doing so, but he crept over to his door, pressed his ear against the crack, and listened. He couldn't make out most of what she said, but there were lots of, 'It's not going to be easy…as long as we've got one another…you've been so good…I know, I know, but…all right…please, just a little while longer…'. What did it all mean? Something stirred inside him, a sudden lurching in the pit of his stomach. Ominous, like a premonition of something…something massive. So he'd gone back to his bed and slumped down, looking at the ceiling, feeling like everything had begun to close in. Stifling him. Nothing could change the fact Mum and Dad had drifted…anything they had long gone. Mum and Dad. For how much longer could he put those two words together and conjure up any meaning? Did anything have any meaning if they weren't going to be a family anymore? Because he suspected this was going to happen. The end. And it churned him up inside, making him angry, tying his stomach in knots and he rolled over, brought his knees up to his chest, and gnawed at his lips. Why? That was the question that burned – why?

So school and that day with Watson, they were like nothing. Little bits of trivia that had come along to test him. And he had decided to take the test full on, meet it, steel against steel. “You can try, Watson. But I tell you this,” Jed leaned forward, grinning, “by the time you've filled your guts up with all this,” he waved his hand over the other dinner plates, “you'll be so full of shit you won't be able to move…and I'll kick your fat, stinking head in.” And with that, to the disbelief of everyone, Jed took up his plate of sponge and pink custard, and ladled it onto Watson's stack of beef-stew-slop.

The table gave a collective gasp, all of them stunned, especially Watson, who sat there, gaping in disbelief. Jed span on his heels and marched out. Malone followed and Jed pulled up, looking at him. The man's eyes had something like respect twinkling within them and Jed gave him a little nod, “I'm going to go home, Mr Malone. Sleep it off.”

But when he got home, the house greeted him still and silent. Jed stood in the hallway for a moment, sensing something, something which didn't feel quite right. More than the usual atmosphere of nobody being home. Empty. Cold, unfriendly, any homeliness stripped away, like wallpaper replaced by something flat and lifeless. And charmless. No soul. Just a building, a house, not a home.

Moving quickly, anxious now, he went into the kitchen, the usual hub of the house. Everything looked tidy, almost too tidy, he thought. He ran a finger across the tabletop. Clean. He pressed the finger to his nose, breathed in the disinfectant. Like a hospital. Clinical. Now, into the living room. All the clutter gone, magazines and books neatly stacked, coffee-mugs and plates put away. It reminded him of one of those show-homes Mum and Dad used to drag him round to some years before. Very nice, but not real. A place in which you walked around on pins, afraid that you might spill something, or misplace a cushion and undo the careful fabric of the sanitised furnishing.

Jed ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst into his parents' bedroom, ripping open the doors to his Mum's wardrobe. He stopped, hardly able to breathe. No clothes. Drawers, the same. Make-up, perfumes, hair dryer, straighteners, the everyday necessities of the modern woman, all gone. Decks swept clean.

Dropping down on the corner of the bed, he sat there for a long time, just staring into space, not daring to admit what he knew to be true. She'd left. Gone. That phone call, that had to be the key. But to whom had she been speaking, he had no idea. Jed racked his brains, thinking of her old friends. Men. He dismissed each and everyone. When he looked up and caught his reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall opposite, he saw staring back at him a young man, vulnerable all of a sudden. He didn't like what he saw and he straightened up, the anger rising. He knew he would find out who had stolen her. And when he did…

No…no, he had to think about this. Be realistic. If she had left, then life had suddenly become bleaker. All at once, he felt trapped, useless, unable to do anything. For all his bravado, how could he find out who the man was? Life wasn't a movie. He had to get real, accept it, try and live through it. And prepare himself for what Dad would do. He glanced at his wristwatch. Dad would be home in a little under four hours. Jed groaned at the prospect of his dad's reaction.

The hours dragged by. Jed spent most of the time sat in the lounge gazing at the clock as the hands crawled slowly around.

Then the sound of the key. Dad had come home, at his usual time. He'd gone upstairs without a word, as usual. Jed waited, staring at his hands. He could hear the stomping of feet, imagining his dad sitting down, pulling off his boots, taking off his shirt, getting ready for a shower. Then the opening of the wardrobe and the stunned silence. Jed put his face in his hands. Hell had come to visit.

Dad had come down, heavy footed, and when Jed saw his face a surge of real fear raced through him. He'd never seen his dad's face so dark, so filled with barely contained fury. “I've got some bad news,” Dad began, voice low, unsteady, close to breaking.

“I think I know, Dad,” Jed mumbled.

For a moment, it looked as if Dad would explode. He wrestled with himself, face twisting into a horrible scowl. “Well, you knew a damn sight more than I bloody did!” He went out, slamming the door behind him.

After a moment, spent trying to quieten his booming heart, Jed gathered up what little courage he had, and went out to find his dad in the kitchen. “What are you going to do?”

Dad busied himself at the sink, washing a plate. A clean plate, taken down from the rack. Jed realized that his dad was in shock, doing things mechanically, without thinking. Jed wanted to reach over and put his arm around him. His dad, strong, dependable, just an ordinary bloke really. But his dad nevertheless. And special for that. But Jed couldn't. There had always been a barrier between them, a reluctance to show affection. It was just the way they were, and the habits of half a lifetime could not be broken, even when tragedy had struck.

“I'm going to have my tea,” Dad said and that was the end of the conversation.

They hardly said a word all night and later, as he lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling, Jed could hear his dad in the next room, crying. It had to be the most awful sound he had ever heard. It grew so bad that he turned over, pulling his pillow over his head to muffle the noise. But it didn't work. He could still hear that mournful sound and it stayed with him all through the night.

The next day his dad did not go to work. Jed couldn't remember a time when his dad had taken a day off from his job. Jed sat in the kitchen, playing with his breakfast, thinking back to when he had been a little boy. He longed for those wonderful days when he'd help Dad get the bike out of the shed, that big heavy, green policeman's bike, and run down with him, pretending to push him along the road until he couldn't do it any longer, all the breath gone out of him. And he'd stand there, waving his arm so hard he thought it would fall off. Dad, turning the corner, raising his arm in response. Just the once. Jed let the spoon clatter against the still full bowl of cereal, put his fist in his mouth and tried to keep the tears at bay. He'd been young then, maybe seven. They were close in those days, him and his dad, before the clouds gathered and changed Jed into an unfeeling, uncaring, super-cool teenager who didn't give a moment's thought to anyone else. Not ever. Until now.

Mum leaving had rekindled all of his old feelings. He wished he were seven again. He wished the past would return and life would be good again. Warm and safe and together.

His stomach lurched once more and he pushed the untouched breakfast cereal away. School beckoned. And Craig Watson.

As soon as Jed walked through the school gates, he saw Watson standing there, a few of his cronies gathered around, faces split wide grins, anxious for the fun to begin. Watson gave them a knowing glance then stepped in front of Jed. “Lunch time, Meres. Up at the park. We'll finish this.”

But Jed wasn't going to wait until lunchtime. Not that lunch time, not any lunch. He'd had enough and he knew of only one way to silence the big fat drip. Jed simply moved up close to the big slob and, without a word, butted him full in the face, his forehead connecting with Watson's nose like a hammer against a piece of wood. Jed felt the crack before he heard it, not that he could have heard much anyway with Watson screaming like a stuck pig. The big bully fell to the ground, a great lump of lard, floundering, hands pressed against his face, the blood spurting through his fingers.

Someone grabbed Jed by the shoulder and hauled him away. No one moved, no one spoke. Jed looked at them as someone frog-marched him into the main school building and he felt a little stirring of happiness inside. No one could find any words, all of them shocked, and he liked that. He'd shut the whole lot up.

Jed stood before the Headteacher. Mr Phillips, as hard as they came, leaned back in his seat, chewing furiously at his bottom lip. Reminded Jed of an old World War Two fighter pilot, great handle-bar moustache, very 'far-back' voice, but he had the build of an all-in-wrestler. Everyone feared Phillips, but not Jed. Not now. He knew he'd changed, from the moment he'd opened his eyes that morning. Something had happened. A new resolve to confront, everyone and everything. Past caring, he didn't flinch, even when the cane cracked against his backside. He didn't feel it, not the first one, not the sixth. Standing up, all he wanted was to go home, close his bedroom door and forget about the world and everything in it. Just spend the time with his dad. His dear, old dad, whom he'd left that morning sitting at the kitchen table, face in his hands, crying like a little boy.

“You're a bloody disgrace, Meres!”

He fastened his gaze on Phillips and nodded his head. “Yes sir. Sorry sir.”

“Don't say sorry to me! God help you if Watson decides to press charges, you could end up in court.”

“He won't do that sir.”

“You – who the hell do you think you are, Meres! God Almighty?”

Phillips trembled, close to losing control. It was only Mr Henderson's presence, standing there in the corner as a witness, which prevented the Head from launching an attack of his own on Jed. Jed could see it, the Headteacher gripping the side of his desk, knuckles white, face red. Close to losing it. Henderson led Jed promptly out of the office and pointed him in the direction of the main school gates.

“You'll be hearing from us,” said Henderson. “You're suspended. Your father will receive the official letter in the morning.” And that was that. Jed made his way to the gate and glanced sideways as his old friend came up to him.

Miles, a worried look on his face, said, “Jed…are you going to be all right?”

“I'll be fine. Don't worry.”

“But I am worrying! What's happening to you? What you did to Watson…what's going on?”

“Nothing, mate.” A part of Jed wanted to tell him everything, but he just couldn't. Miles would never understand. And besides, right now Jed had no need of friends, had no need of anyone, except perhaps Dad. “I'll see you around.”

He walked home in a daze, not thinking about anything, the sensations across his backside warming him, a reminder of what had happened. But that was all. When Jed got home, he could see Dad still sat in the kitchen, staring blankly at the walls. He barely glanced up as Jed came up to him. Without a word, Jed went to his room and showered. He needed to get the smell of school out of his skin, wash away the grime of a life he didn't want any more, not at that moment.

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?

“My name is Jonathan,” the man said softly. His other hand covered Jed's, and he patted it. “Jonathan Kepowski. I am Polish, at least my father was. My mother…” he shrugged and smiled, “Who knows. She left us when I was very young. We came to England back in sixty-two. I was ten years old. In all that time, I've never seen you.”

Jed frowned. He heard the man's words, but they meant little to him, except to confuse him still further. Twenty years of age, looking like someone who was sixty? A Polish refugee, who fished in a frozen lake and tried to kill the person who was saving him…His hands felt soft. Not an angler's hands. Not a worker's hands.

“I see you two are getting on fine.” It was the nurse, the same one who had come to check on Jed. She was pretty, as Jed realised as soon as she'd bent over him. Her face. Smooth, defined, beautiful. She smiled when she glanced down and saw Jonathan's hands holding Jed's, a smile that grew wider. “I'll get you boys some tea, shall?”

“That would be very nice, nurse Willis,” said Jonathan, reading the name badge on the young nurse's lapel. “And then, I want you to come and sit here with me and tell me all about yourself.”

Jed gaped at him, then looked at the nurse, half expecting her to brush away the invitation for the inappropriate suggestion it was. “Yes,” she said, “that would be lovely,” and off she went, a skip in her step, Jed following her with his eyes, astonished at her response.

“Very pretty,” said Jonathan, at last releasing Jed's hands and sitting up in bed.

His pyjama top was only loosely buttoned and Jed could see the ghastly hue of the man's skin, the collar bones protruding, the puce coloured nipples. It seemed to confirm all of Jed's suspicions that this was a man close to starvation.

“You mustn't worry about me,” Jonathan said, “a hot cup of tea and a few hours spent with the lovely nurse Willis, and I will be fine.”

Jed didn't know what to say. This man had the air of someone so much older, blessed with a supreme air of confidence that simply didn't fit with his wraith like physique. Jed sat for a long time just staring at the sickly pallor of the man's flesh.

“When we get out of here,” Jonathan said suddenly, “we will get to know one another better. I am going to show my gratitude to you, Jethroe. I am going to let the world know about the service that you have done for me.”

Jed held up his hand, a little embarrassed, then stopped. He felt a chill running down his spine, a knot developing in his stomach. He'd called him Jethroe. No one ever called him that. At school, some of the teachers called him Sebastian, or Seb, but never Jethroe. Jed. Always Jed. But that was when they knew his name. He hadn't had chance to tell Jonathan his name. And even if he had…Jethroe?

Nurse Willis returned, with a tray bearing two cups of steaming tea. Jed reached out and took his, and she sat on the edge of the bed and passed Jonathan's over to him. Smiling, the nurse held Jed's gaze. “I think you should go back to your bed now, there's a good boy.”

Jed stopped in the act of raising the cup to his lips and peered over the rim at Jonathan who winked, then nodded. “We'll talk again tomorrow.”

Getting to his feet, Jed slowly made his way back to his part of the ward, pausing after a few steps to look back to see the nurse pulling the curtains around the bed, creating a little private area for them both. Jed waited, and soon he realized just exactly what Jonathan had meant by Nurse Willis telling him all about herself as the sound of her moans filtered from behind the curtains.

* * *

Jed tried to sleep, but couldn't. The muffled cries from Jonathan's screened off bed drifted across to him, sending his mind into a whirlwind of desire. He pressed the pillow around his head, to block out her moans, but that didn't prevent the images looming up inside his head. He knew what they were doing and it took all of his self control not to each to his own enflamed passion. At one point, he threw himself over onto his stomach, pressing his hardness into the mattress beneath him. It helped, but only slightly. And then, so much later, as she shuffled down the ward, Jed watched her out of half-closed eyes, tucking her blouse into her skirt, readjusting her uniform, trying to press out the creases. But she wasn't doing anything about the grin on her face, or the flush of her cheeks. Then again, she probably didn't want to.

Dad came with a change of clothes and Jed slowly got himself dressed. He didn't see Nurse Willis again; she had presumably gone off duty, and had been replaced by a much older, much more serious lady who patrolled the ward with a sever looking face. Coming away from Jonathan's bed, she looked furious, muttering something caustic under her breath. Jed could guess why she was so upset, and went to go and talk to Jonathan about it. He was surprised, and a little disappointed to find his bed empty. Already discharged, Jonathan had left without saying a word.

“Perhaps he felt a bit embarrassed,” said Jed's dad.

“Embarrassed? Why would he feel embarrassed?”

“I don't know…people do, in extraordinary circumstances.”

“But I saved his life, Dad.”

“Yeah, I know…and I need to talk to you about that.”

During the taxi ride home, Dad told Jed all about the newspaper and local television interest. Apparently, they'd tried to go to the hospital, to interview Jed about what had happened, but the hospital had refused, concerned that Jed might be concussed, or even poisoned.

“Poisoned?” Jed looked worried.

“It was only a precaution – you'd swallowed quite a bit of that water, and it's filthy by all accounts. But not to worry, all the tests came out negative.”

“And so…the newspapers? They really want to interview me?”

“Yeah. You're quite a hero, Jed.”

Quite a hero indeed, as he discovered the following day when he went back to school. Mr Phillips was waiting for him at the school gate, a wide grin on his face, handlebar moustache well waxed. He clamped his arm around Jed's shoulders and gave him a fatherly hug. “Welcome back, Jed, how are you feeling?”

Shocked at the Head's total turnaround, Jed became instantly suspicious. These feelings grew as two more people loomed up behind Phillips, big grins on their faces, camera shutters blinking. Representative of the press and suddenly it all fell into place. Jed could see the front page now, Phillips and Jed together, smiling happily as if they were the closest of buddies. Total crap.

In the Head's office, there were more photographs and an interview. Did you know the person, what made you dive down into the water, didn't the thought of being drowned ever cross your mind, have you ever done anything like this before, would you do it again, what's it like knowing you've saved someone's life?

There followed a special assembly. Jed gaped when he saw his dad sitting there, proud as punch, and next to him some large guy with no hair, black suit, chain around his neck. The Mayor? More photographers, and a television crew, jostled for position, calling out to him to smile, wave, shake the Head's hand. Jed blinked repeatedly as the flashguns went off, and then cringed with embarrassment as the entire school stood up to cheer and applaud. He shuffled around awkwardly on the stage. He wasn't anybody special, never ever thought he would be, happy being just an ordinary, everyday sort of person. He had few ambitions, in fact he rarely thought about what he wanted to do with his life. It was effort enough just getting through the day, one at a time. All of this attention, it was beyond anything he had ever sought. It was beyond painful – death by slow torture.