The Devil in the Snow

by Sarah Armstrong

  She checked her watch. Quarter to nine. If Cerys wasn’t back by nine, something terrible had definitely happened. She slowly walked back, not stepping on the cracks in the pavements just in case. She paused outside Amy’s house. She would check on her later. When Cerys was back.

  She went around the alley and in through the back door. She had gone past anger now. She clasped her hands together and sat at the table facing the clock. The movement of the fake French hands on the crackle-faked old clock, which Maynard hated, became visible as she stilled herself. The clock showed nine o’clock and she pushed her body away from the chair with both hands. She felt her head start to pound as she made her way to the front room. She almost knocked on the door, and then turned the handle.

  Maynard was sitting at his desk, his back to the door. He didn’t move but stayed with his head lowered towards his lap.

  ‘What haven’t you told me?’ she asked him.

  He sighed and looked at her from the corner of his eye. ‘She left in a car.’

  Shona’s hands flew to her stomach, squeezed the flesh between her fingers. ‘A car.’

  ‘I thought it was just an older boy from school. She doesn’t have any chance to breathe, Shona. I thought she deserved to have a bit of freedom.’

  ‘A car.’ Shona started to register the pain her fingers were causing and tried to relax her grip a little. ‘You let her go off in someone’s, some random person’s car?’

  Maynard turned, one hand on the back of the desk chair. ‘She can’t talk to you about boys, can she? I didn’t know he had a car but she said, as you were going to be late, would it be all right, just for half an hour. That’s all.’

  He was so calm. He was enjoying this chance to tell her how awful she was.

  ‘So why aren’t you worried?’

  ‘I am worried, just not hysterical.’

  Shona leaned back against the door jamb, and placed her hands behind her hips. Maynard stared with his eyebrows lowered but she knew that look. It was guilt masquerading as fury.

  ‘It’s all your fault.’ His voice was getting louder. ‘If you’d just let her out now and then, she wouldn’t have to creep around behind your back, would she? If it was any kind of normal relationship, she could have asked you. You won’t even let her dye her hair.’

  ‘She’s fourteen.’ Shona’s whisper stopped him. ‘You have been conniving behind my back, letting her sneak out, and what else? Buying her the odd bottle of vodka or a packet of fags?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Just letting your fourteen-year-old daughter go off with a complete stranger who’s old enough to drive, that’s entirely different. Of course. Have you got any idea what people are capable of?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. You’re obsessed with dangerous people prowling the streets. Some boys are just boys who might be interested in your daughter. It’s completely normal.’

  Shona had stopped listening. What if it really was her fault?

  ‘Have you phoned the police?’ she asked.

  He seemed to register the fear in her voice, seemed to spot a suggestion that the guilt may be hers after all. He shook his head. ‘I’ll do that now.’

  ‘I’m going out to look for her again. Did you see him at all? Any idea of his age, what kind of car?’

  He shook his head again and pressed the buttons on the phone, calling one of those directory numbers instead of just looking in the phone book. Not an emergency, then, just a normal enquiry. She slammed the front door behind her. Jude was there but she forced herself to run away, back towards the school.

  Now that the school was closed there was no light to allow her to judge distances. She started to shout Cerys’ name, trying to identify any shifting in the darkness, her ears alert for any reluctant reply. She headed towards the other two local schools. The path became narrower as she passed between the schools and then widened out into dimly lit car parks. She went on towards the houses and then turned left. Bluebottle Grove. She had never ventured further into it than a dirt path between steep banks, but there was more to it than that.

  She took a few steps down the path but couldn’t see anything. The feeble orange lights from the streets around didn’t penetrate further than fifty metres. She called again and again. Someone in a neighbouring house shouted at her to shut up so she shouted louder. She was shaking and her voice was starting to crack. She wasn’t going to find anything down there and she was scared to be proved both wrong and right. She had to go back to Maynard but didn’t want to be proved wrong or right there either. She walked back to the car park and through the fields surrounding and dividing the schools. By the time she had turned back into her street she could see the police car parked outside. She felt her knees go and she scraped her hand on a wall trying to hold herself up. When she hit the ground, she stayed there, one knee raised and the other growing a painful bruise where it rested on the pavement.

  They could have found her and brought her home. She would be angry, humiliated and sorry.

  They could be asking Maynard for all the details of the car, what she had said, finding the best photo to take with them.

  They could have found her. They could have not been able to bring her home. They could be telling him right now and asking if they could phone anybody. She pushed herself up from the ground and turned back towards the main road. She arrived at Rob’s house without really thinking about it.

  She knocked again. The same man as before answered, now in his dressing gown and without the bottle.

  ‘He’s still out,’ he said, before she asked. ‘He doesn’t always come back, you know, if he gets lucky.’ He smiled nastily at her.

  She turned away and this time wouldn’t turn back.

  She used her key to open the front door and one of the two police officers guided her into the front room. She remembered thinking that they weren’t wearing their hats and this was probably a bad sign. Maynard was sitting on the Victorian sofa, arm over the back of it. Someone had made him a cup of coffee and placed it on his £3,000 occasional table without a coaster. A second one appeared for her and she was pleased that it would have two marks on it, seared into the delicate rosewood as sharply as a brand. Maynard was far too busy talking to notice.

  The policewoman sat and the policeman stood behind her.

  ‘So, even though it’s completely out of character, you don’t see any reason for concern.’

  ‘No.’ Maynard made a half-laugh. ‘She’s fourteen, it seems quite normal to me after there have been so many arguments.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Maynard turned to Shona.

  ‘It was a few weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Cerys wanted to be allowed out later but I refused.’

  ‘And what time should she be back?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘And at the weekend?’

  ‘Half five.’

  The policewoman raised her eyebrows before scribbling her notes.

  Maynard said, ‘There was another bigger argument, wasn’t there? About you sleeping around.’

  Shona flushed. ‘Not exactly. She—’

  ‘That’s what she told me. It’s no wonder she wanted to leave after what she’s been through.’

  The policewoman said, ‘So, if you’re not worried, sir, why did you phone us?’

  ‘My wife insisted.’ He shrugged apologetically and reached for his coffee. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ He lifted both mugs up and examined the blanched wood. ‘You are going to have to make a record of this, officer. This is criminal damage and I will be requiring compensation.’

  ‘But, you didn’t mention—’

  He stood up, looking for somewhere else to put them. ‘Only a total moron would put a hot drink on a wooden table.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t think your tone is appropriate.’

  The policewoman was standing now too, the policeman fingering his radio. Shona kept her eyes on the table. There was something wrong with this sit
uation. The only emotion he’d shown all evening was about the table. He had to know something else, know where she was.

  When they had finished, Shona stood up. Her stomach felt as if her fingers were still pinching, but much deeper inside now. Her breathing was quick and shallow but it was familiar. She looked away from the serious faces in front of her.

  ‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’

  Shona was sure that the woman had already said that but she wasn’t thinking about anyone else. She didn’t care who else knew or how they found out.

  She wasn’t shaking any more, she thought, as she picked up the precious items from the shelves, the tiny fragile antiques acquired by fleecing ignorant traders, and hurled them at Maynard’s bowed head. The Elizabethan wine glass smashed on the wall behind him and he turned his head to the noise. The seventeenth-century waffle maker, for pressing designs into the communion bread, caught him solidly on the temple. He looked at her then, all right.

  ‘Where is she?’ she shouted.

  The policeman held one of Shona’s arms behind her while the policewoman prised her fingers away from a silver wine taster in the shape of a vine leaf. Shona could see her determined face grow in frustration as Shona’s fingers were peeled off and clamped back on again. Finally free, the policewoman threw the silver to the ground.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ shouted Maynard, picking it up. ‘Just because she’s gone crazy doesn’t mean that you can be disrespectful too!’

  The police officers, clearly only prepared to sympathise and leave, looked at each other in disbelief.

  ‘We appreciate that, sir. Can you calm down?’

  ‘You let her attack me!’ Maynard pointed at Shona and started shouting at her. ‘I don’t know where she is, you stupid cow! You’re the one who’s driven her away!’

  The policewoman stood in front of Maynard to prevent him advancing, fists raised and blood dribbling from the wound on his temple.

  Shona spat at him. ‘You’ve killed her! I had two daughters and you killed both of them, you fucking bastard!’

  The policeman kept his hold on Shona who stood perfectly still, waiting for him to release her so she could kick over the Jacobean cabinet.

  ‘You’re not leaving her here,’ said Maynard. ‘I want her arrested for assault.’

  ‘Tonight?’ gasped the policewoman. ‘I think we all need to calm down. You’re both in shock.’ She appealed to them both with an expression of pity. ‘I’m sure that explains a lot of what’s just gone on.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Maynard said. ‘Arrest her or I’ll have your fucking badges.’

  She looked at her partner. Shona could feel the tension increase on her arms as he shrugged.

  ‘Let’s go outside, Madam,’ he said.

  Shona opened the front door and sat on the wall outside the front room window. She could hear murmurs from within, Maynard louder than the police officer. He was pointing at the table.

  ‘Can you describe your daughter for me?’

  Shona took a breath and focused on him. ‘Fourteen, brown hair, quite long now. She’s slim, hates her knees. I can get you a photo when I’m allowed back in.’

  ‘Why do you think she might have run away?’

  ‘We have argued,’ Shona said. ‘But it wasn’t anything major. Teenagers push the boundaries. That’s what they’re there for.’

  ‘And is it just you and Mr Marks that live here?’

  ‘No, my son as well. Jude. He’s five. He’s not Maynard’s child.’

  ‘But you are the parents of—’ he checked his notes ‘—Cerys?’

  Shona nodded. He raised his eyebrows and scribbled for a minute.

  ‘Christ,’ Shona said. ‘She’s gone. I waited to see who she would choose and it wasn’t me.’

  ‘We’ll find her, Mrs Marks. Teenagers quite often haven’t gone far. We’ll get a list of friends and talk to the school.’

  Shona looked back through the window. Maynard was calmer now, showing the policewoman something on his phone. Now she was the one who looked angry.

  She came to the front door and the policeman followed her into the hall. Shona watched Maynard. He was listening to them, his mobile in one hand and on his face a smile he couldn’t quite suppress.

  They both came outside.

  The policewoman said, ‘This is a legal matter, not a police one, Mrs Marks. Your husband has shown me evidence that Cerys left of her own volition and has every right to do so.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘He doesn’t think she’s in any danger and we are going to send someone round to talk to her now.’

  ‘But she’s my daughter. I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘You need to speak to your husband. This has become a custody matter and we need to talk to your daughter.’

  Shona, wide-eyed, took a step back towards the house.

  ‘You’re not going to be talking tonight, though. I’m afraid you need to come with us. It will let everyone calm down, won’t it? Maybe a solicitor would be a good idea.’

  Shona tried to move away and realised that the woman had hold of her arm. ‘My son. I can’t leave him on his own.’

  ‘He isn’t on his own.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I can’t leave Jude with him.’ She turned back to the window. Maynard was smiling out at her. He pulled the curtains and she heard him lock his door. ‘He won’t look after him, he hates him. It isn’t his child.’

  ‘Are you saying he isn’t a fit guardian?’

  ‘Not for Jude. He’s locked himself in his room. Maynard has, I mean. Go and check. We have to bring Jude with us.’

  The officers exchanged a look and the man went back to the house and knocked on the door. Shona felt her head pushed down as she got into the back seat and she waited. Jude would see her arrested, in a police car. Jude would be taken away from her. Maynard had the best of reasons to keep her away from the house now that she’d attacked him in front of the police. She would lose the house, but she couldn’t lose Jude.

  Greta

  My brother made it to the wedding, which I never expected. Within a year he had started his first prison sentence, but that was after.

  He got on well with Larry. He got on very well with Larry. They were always hiding out in the backyard, smoking and talking – London art, London artists, London parties, London men.

  In the pub, after the wedding, I watched them standing at the bar, laughing loudly, just them two, not looking at me at all. My brother’s glass was always empty, and Larry’s always full.

  Larry wasn’t shy any more. He didn’t stutter.

  I smoothed down my dress, sat with my mother and wondered why none of his family could travel for the wedding. 11th of January 1962. In later years, I would discover that, thirteen minutes into that date, in Peru, an avalanche buried a village and killed four thousand people. Sounds like a coincidence to most people, I expect.

  Our honeymoon was abroad, the only time I’ve ever needed a passport although I’ve always kept one ready, for running. It’s like a talisman now, despite where it took me then.

  Larry arranged the trip with my mother. She adored him, even though she never wanted me to marry, and even though he insisted on a registry office wedding which she had always said didn’t count. She wanted to wave us off at the airport, she had never seen a plane, but he borrowed a car and drove us himself.

  I felt so sophisticated, just one of twenty people privileged to board the plane with its giant silver propellers. I was wearing clothes I’d bought specially. Well, the cerise fitted jacket with three large matching buttons was bought. My mother had made the buttercup knee-length pencil skirt and matching blouse. I had the same hairstyle as for the wedding, a chin-length contour cut which swept up either side of my face into two large curls. I was happier having my hair done than I was standing next to Larry, but the plane distracted me and I resolved to be a good wife and enjoy what he had arranged.

  We arriv
ed in Paris on the 18th of January and Larry seemed happy, if slightly tense. He looked around a lot and fidgeted with his buttons. I had the impression he was waiting for something, and it wasn’t me. Our hotel was in Montmartre, and I’d have happily stayed in those cool, tight streets but he was always heading down to the wide boulevards, the open squares and the people.

  We sat in cafés and bars outside Saint-Chappelle and Notre Dame, but never went inside them. He barely spoke but watched the drift of airy, composed women who never looked quite straight at him, and echoed the ever watchful men posed with one hand holding a cigarette and the other in their pocket. Larry looked like a local, carnivorous, with one eye closed against the smoke from his cigarette. I tried to copy the women, dispassionately flinging their wrists to the sky but I felt stiff. Larry laughed at me and I stopped. I discovered he could speak French, picking up foul slang I supposed, guessing from the reactions of the women he tried his statements out on.

  He drank strong coffee in tiny cups. I always seemed to end up with soup bowls of milky coffee that I was too scared to pick up. I had my going away suit and one spare blouse to rinse in the sink with my stockings. Larry took me by the elbow, directed me into shops but I was bewildered by the handwritten Francs. Their uncommonly fashioned sevens I read as ones, the comma which marked some kind of division of numbers. I couldn’t translate it into pounds, never mind shillings. He picked up one item after another and I shook my head. I was starting to feel that everything, this honeymoon, my clothes, was a debt to be repaid.

  Outside Notre Dame he said, ‘I have to make a visit about half an hour away, a bidonville. Do you want to visit some of these churches you’ve been so desperate to see while I’m busy?’