by Adam Carter
He fell backwards in the snow and wished he had gone wide after all. Whatever it meant.
“Billy! Billy, are you all right?”
He opened his eyes to find Sally crouched beside him, concern to her eyes. Brian was doing the manly thing of retrieving the ball and Billy wished Sally would just leave him alone. He sat up grumpily, trying to ignore the sting in his face. His face was, of course, about the only thing not covered with several layers. The snowstorm this year had been incredible and in some areas there was over a metre coating the ground. They lived in a small community and, since they had been hit so hard, it meant there was no traffic coming in or going out; and anyone who decided to walk was taking their life into their own hands, especially since the next village was fifty thousand miles away. Or something like that. The only way the snow affected Billy, though, was that it meant the school had closed. Normally that would not have happened, but there were so many families snowed in, it meant even some of the teachers could not make it to work. Besides which, the heating had given out.
Billy, Brian and Sally had spent the morning in the fields, doing whatever they could to keep warm in the snow. The fields were great during the winter. If they tried to enter the fields at any other time of year, they were chased away and their parents were always told. But in the winter no one cared. There were no crops being harvested, nothing being sprayed or weeded or anything like that. With so much snow covering the fields, there was no chance of the farmers doing anything at all with them, and most of the farmers did not mind the children running across their lands.
“Billy, are you all right?”
Billy said something unkind and instantly regretted it. But his nose was hurting and he was trying not to cry, so most of his concentration was on that. Thankfully in this part of the field the snow was only half a metre in most places, but that was still high enough for a nine-year-old to get lost in.
“I got the ball,” Brian called, pleased he had managed to locate it.
Billy trudged over to him, running whenever he could. There was a trail they had been following, where the snow was more easily traversable, but they had left it in order to play their game. “We should get back to the trail,” Billy said.
“Scared of a little snow, Billy?”
“No,” Billy replied defensively. “But I think Sally is.”
“I’m not,” Sally said. Billy had not realised she was so close behind him. “Come on: Billy’s in the middle now.”
“How am I in the middle?”
“Brian got the ball you dropped.”
“I didn’t drop it.”
“Well you didn’t catch it when I threw it.”
Billy thought about that. Technically, Sally was right. But having the ball smack him in the face did not really qualify as dropping it, either. He grumbled something, knowing it was an argument he was not going to win, and Brian and Sally ran to either side, keeping him between them.
Billy had no idea why they had to have invited a girl to begin with.
Brian threw the ball quickly, before Billy was ready, and it sailed over his head. Sally tried to catch it, but at the last moment she cringed and she fumbled the catch. Billy was there in an instant, diving through the snow and finding the ball before she could pick it up. He was freezing now, but he had the ball, which meant Sally was back to being in the middle. He did not know why he was so insistent on that, but it was an odd matter of principle for him.
Tossing the ball high, he watched it arc down into the waiting hands of Brian. A perfect catch. That was the way it should have been.
Brian began jumping around, expending a lot of energy as he pretended to throw the ball, making Sally jump each time for a phantom missile. Billy wondered why he was trying to impress her so much and it was starting to get on his nerves. Deciding for some reason Brian was prolonging throwing the thing, Billy looked about the field. It was a great, flat terrain of whiteness, looking smooth and cold and inviting. There were trees in the distance and he knew there was a brook nearby which he had been told never to play around. There was also something else in the field, however, not too far away. At first he thought it was a person, standing very still and watching them. Then he realised the person was dressed in a white gown, so it had to be a snowman.
It was while he was thinking these things that the ball hit him again in the face.
“That’s not funny,” he said when he saw Brian was laughing hysterically. Sally looked concerned again, and Billy wished she would just leave him alone. “And I’m fed up with this game.”
“So what do you want to do instead?” Brian asked. “There’s nothing else around here but snow, so we could throw that I guess.”
Billy did not fancy having more things thrown in his face, especially if they were cold, wet and made of ice. “There’s a snowman over there. I’m going to go check it out.”
“A snowman?” Brian whined. “But they’re for kids, Billy.”
Billy ignored him. “You coming, Sally?”
“Sure, Billy.”
Brian’s humour dropped off slightly and he said he would come with them. By that point, Billy was not even that bothered what Brian did.
The snowman, it turned out, was quite big. It was taller than even Brian, and was large, as though the snowman had eaten too many snow pies. He had a carrot for a nose, two buttons for eyes and a row of small stones for a smiling mouth. There was neither hat nor scarf, nor was he wearing any gloves. Indeed, he looked a very sorry fellow, although still seemed to remain happy.
“What a rubbish snowman,” Brian said.
“I’d like to see you build one this big,” Billy said.
“I wouldn’t want to build a stupid snowman.” Brian kicked at the mound making up the snowman’s shins.
“Stop that,” Sally said. “That’s not nice.”
“It’s just a pile of snow, Sally.”
“Snowmen have feelings as well, you know.”
Brian seemed taken aback. “No they don’t. They’re just snow.”
“They’re men too.”
Billy did not like to agree with Brian, especially not today, but he had a point.
“Stop kicking him,” Sally whined, which of course made Brian kick the thing again. Billy could see the snowman was fairly strong. It did not offer resistance as such, but nor did it flake away. It had likely been standing for several days and parts of it had turned to ice.
Billy could see Sally was growing a little distraught and felt perhaps Brian was going a little too far. “Leave it off, Brian,” he said. “Come on, don’t upset her.”
“What do you care?” Brian asked, kicking again. “Thought you didn’t want a girl tagging along anyway.”
“What’s wrong with you, Brian? You’ve gone weird all of a sudden.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Billy. Just kicking a snowman.”
Billy knew Brian was being mean; he just didn’t know why. It had something to do with Sally, that much was obvious. It probably had something to do with how much attention Sally was paying Billy instead of Brian. Billy had no idea what that mattered to Brian: he certainly didn’t even want her attention himself. But Brian was being a jerk and making girls cry was never acceptable.
“Brian, stop it.”
“Make me, Billy.”
“Just stop making Sally cry.”
Brian pushed him. It was not a punch, just a shove, but it was enough to make Billy shove him back. His face was hurting, he was cold, and he didn’t like the fact Sally was crying. Brian seemed shocked at first that Billy had fought back. For a single moment Billy felt proud for having stuck up for Sally; then Brian launched himself at him and all Billy felt was the pain of having Brian’s fists in his face. He could hear Sally screaming and realised he and Brian were on the floor, rolling around in the snow, landing punches whenever they could, but mainly just clinging to each other as they struggled to stay on top.
What seemed like moments later they were apart and Billy pulled himsel
f back to his feet. He wasn’t breathing hard, but his heart was racing and his blood warmed him as it shot through his veins. He reached out for something to steady him as he rose and discovered he was standing next to the snowman. Looking into the cold, happy face, Billy wished he could say he had been fighting over the snowman and not Sally. But he would not have said it aloud because he knew it wasn’t true.
With a roar, Brian charged him and there was nothing Billy could do to stop the mad dash. Brian ran into him, encircling his waist with his arms, and the two of them crashed through the snowman, a flurry of snow exploding everywhere, great chunks of ice sluicing down into the freshly fallen snow.
Sally began screaming; properly screaming. Lying in a heap on the floor, Billy and Brian had no idea why. At first Billy thought one of them had been seriously hurt, that maybe one of them had broken a bone or something. But Billy didn’t feel as though he had broken anything and he could see his own confusion mirrored upon Brian’s face so could not believe he had broken any bones either.
Then he realised Sally wasn’t looking at either of them, but at what remained of the snowman. She was screaming because the snowman had been killed. Maybe, Billy thought in that moment, Brian had been right after all. Maybe Sally was just a head case.
Billy opened his mouth to console her. Whatever he would say, it would only be to make her feel better, but all he was thinking was that he could really have done without this. He was already resolved to not bring her out with them next time. It could go back to being just him and Brian, like it always was. There was no need to have some silly girl tag along, screaming at every silly little thing.
Before he could say anything, however, he noticed Brian was also staring at the snowman, and Billy glanced to it, wondering what all the fuss was about. The snowman had come apart. Its head was lying split in two, the mouth of stones lost in the snow, a dull orange stick jutting out to mark where its nose had come to a rest. Within the body of the snowman there was a man, an actual man. He was hunched over, lying now on the ground; his hands were behind his back and securely tied to some form of pole. There had been a man inside the snowman; a real man.
Then Billy saw the man’s face, frozen by the cold, the blood clinging to his face like icicles. There was a gaping hole in his temple where pieces of bone jutted out, while his eyes were staring out from a perfectly preserved expression.
And Billy and Brian began to scream as well.
CHAPTER TWO
“Here you go, John.”
John Stoker looked at the box with a mixture of amusement, happiness and horror. Amusement because he wondered how many more such boxes they had in the attic; happiness because it pleased his wife to have found it; and horror at the thought of having to deal with it. “You do realise, Brenda, we’re going to have to take it all down again at the end. And taking it all down’s never as much fun as putting it up to begin with.”
John Stoker had always liked Christmas, but had never understood why his wife had to go so overboard with the decorations. Before retirement, Stoker had found his workload lessened this time of year. Christmas was all about domestics: arguments about turkeys, Christmas trees and so forth. There were very few violent robberies or murders at Christmas, which showed even bad people tended to have families who cared about them. Snow was good as well. It was like rain in that criminals did not like to go out in it. Hot, sunny days brought out villains like flying ants, but foul weather kept them huddled at home.
Retirement had been good to the Stokers. Brenda had flourished and, while her hair was turning quickly white and her wrinkles were becoming more pronounced, she veritably beamed with happiness each day. Moving from the city had been the perfect salve for her, and Stoker was pleased to see her so happy. As for Stoker himself, he had finally allowed himself to relax. His short hair was still mainly black, but he had let his thick beard grow out, and that was turning a pleasant shade of grey. Physically, he retained the strength and stamina he had always possessed in his youth, although his stomach had filled out very quickly and he was always meaning to do something about that.
Reaching into the box, he removed a string of plastic bells and wished they had thought of a better way to store them since the things were now so intertwined it was going to take him all afternoon to unravel. Once Christmas was over he knew he would be so fed up with putting away the decorations he would just throw the things in the box as they were and have to untangle them again next year.
Dealing with annoyances seemed to be what Christmas was all about.
“John, there’s someone at the door.”
Stoker looked up, noticing there was indeed someone making her way down their garden path. The Stoker household was a large bungalow with more than enough room for two people. Their back garden was a haven for wildlife, complete with pond and rockeries, while at the front of their house was a well-tended display of flowers of which Brenda was exceptionally proud. It gave her the opportunity to spend a lot of time outside while being able to gossip with the neighbours even as she tried her best to outdo them. At the moment, of course, everything was covered in snow.
Setting down the line of bells, Stoker went to the front door to open it. The snow was so thick outside the approaching woman would still be several seconds away. As Stoker gave the door a shove, however, it only gave an inch before compacting too much snow directly before it. It was at times like this he wished he had a front door which opened inwards.
“I got it,” said the woman on the other side, and he could see the faint outline of someone shovelling snow with her feet. She had come wearing wellington boots, he noticed, which was an entirely sensible thing to do in the snow.
Between the two of them, they finally managed to get the door open and Stoker greeted the woman with a smile. She was aged somewhere in her late thirties and was wrapped with enough layers to insulate a loft. Her short blonde hair was carefully tucked beneath a woolly hat, her ears framed by furry mufflers. About the only thing visible about the woman were her cheeks, burning bright red in the cold, her sharp blue eyes and her ever-warming smile. Stoker had known Felicity Hart for the eight years he and Brenda had been living in the village. He had watched her develop from a young, keen tadpole to a beautiful, inspiring frog. Not that she would have much appreciated the analogy, but making inappropriate metaphors was all a part of his gardener’s lifestyle.
“Liz, good morning.”
“Morning, John. Ooh, you’re getting into the spirit.”
Stoker smiled, knowing Brenda had decorated the hallway only that morning. “Come on in. Don’t stand on the doorstep all day, it’s freezing.”
“Not by half.”
Stoker stepped aside to allow her inside before closing out the cold once more. Hart was shivering, even through her layers, and Stoker felt a pang of concern. “Brenda, dear. It’s Liz. Could you put the kettle on? I think she needs warming up.”
He took Hart’s coat, but she kept most of her layers. Stoker led her into the living room and sat her by the fire. One of the things Stoker had always wanted was a real fire and living in the bungalow had allowed him to actually realise his dream. There were several pieces of wood already crackling, but he added another just to make Hart feel at home. Home was, after all, where the Hart was. Being a real fire, they had to sit a little farther than they would had it been a replica, but there was nothing like the warmth of a real fire.
Brenda arrived with Hart’s tea and asked her how she was. The two women got along well, but did not speak much. It was always a pleasure to see Hart; but this time there was something in her face Brenda clearly did not like, but was too polite to mention. Brenda said she had some things to do in the kitchen and left them to it.
“I’m sorry,” Hart said as she sipped her tea, her trembling hands clutching the mug tightly. “I don’t mean to intrude, John.”
“It’s never an intrusion, Liz. But you didn’t come just to enjoy my fireplace, did you?”
“No, but I am
enjoying it,” she said with a genuine smile. It was strange how she could keep such a demeanour, but then Stoker supposed this village was a lot different to where he had worked. He had lived his whole life in a big city and had always wanted to retire to a small community, as cut off from the rest of the country as possible. Barrowville was precisely what he had always dreamed of. Once he had managed to get past the somewhat ominous name, he had discovered it was perfect. With a population of one thousand five hundred and seven and most of its area taken by fields, it was small, quiet and peaceful. For eight years he had lived the life he had never been able to find in the big city.
Felicity Hart was the daughter he could have had had he been born in Barrowville. Instead, the big city had taken his only child and left him with his misery. Hart was a detective working for the local constabulary. With such a small community there was a tiny police department, so Hart fulfilled many duties. Primarily she loved investigating things but, with so little crime in Barrowville, most of her time was taken up with domestics.
Today he had the impression Hart had come to him with something more.
“There’s been a murder,” she said, the words sounding strange as they left her mouth. He could see she did not quite believe it herself, as though she thought there was some explanation she had missed.
“Had to happen eventually,” Stoker said. “This your first?”
“Second,” she said, sipping her tea. “My first was a couple of years after you arrived. You remember Holly Tree?”
“Liz, Holly Tree was a horse.”
“A horse which was murdered.”
“What was murdered today then? A cow?”
“A snowman.”
Stoker blinked, wondering whether the cold had addled the woman’s mind. “A snowman?”
Hart seemed to be having trouble organising her thoughts, which was understandable considering she had never really had to think about this sort of thing before. “Some kids found a snowman in Old MacDonald’s field. Turns out there was a man inside.”