The Ice Marathon
~ A Novella from Seesaw - Volume II ~
By Rosen Trevithick
Edition 1.0.6
Copyright Rosen Trevithick, 2012.
http://www.rosentrevithick.co.uk
With many thanks to Dr Alice Whiteley.
Also, thanks to TextMender Editing Services.
http://www.textmender.com
Prologue
I pulled on my tights and glossed my lips, determined to look my best for when they brought him back to me. My turquoise dress was my favourite; it contrasted with my red hair and had a fun shininess to its texture. At only eighteen days old, he wouldn’t notice the makeup, but I knew it was there – symbolic of my rapid recovery and my newfound strength.
The air outside was bitter. It was icy but with neither the saving grace of snow nor a crisp blue sky. But I didn’t care – not today. My baby boy was coming home and that was all that mattered.
I’d been separated from him for four days. They had been the hardest four days of my life, but in another very wonderful way, they had been the easiest. As I lay in bed feeling that my world was closing in on me, feeling hopeless and beyond help, something tied me to the surface like being roped to a buoy as I plummeted to the seabed. No matter how low I felt, there was always Joseph pulling me back to the surface.
Now that I had a baby, I could no longer allow the depressive spells to eat weeks of my life. Somehow, that tiny little boy who could do nothing for himself was stronger than that powerful illness – the disease that I once thought capable of crushing anything.
To my delight, the worst of the dark mood passed in just three days, and here I was a further day down the line, ready to get on with my life with Joseph.
My watch said nine thirty-one and twenty-two seconds. They were eighty-two seconds late. I couldn’t thank his paternal grandparents enough for looking after my little boy during a terrible time, but that time had passed and I was aching to have my son back at home where he belonged. Hell, I was aching just to see his little face even for a moment. Had he changed much in four days? Was he lifting his head yet? How much had I missed?
Instantly, I felt guilty. How could I have missed a second? He was so young, so tiny … He needed his mother. But then I remembered how desperately ill I’d been, how close I had been to suicide. I owed it to him to stay alive, whatever it took, even if it meant handing him over to somebody else. Far better to give him up for four days than risk giving up on him forever, no matter how much it hurt me to be separated from him.
The doorbell rang. I sprang out of my seat before it had finished chiming. I stumbled as I rushed to the door. I scanned the frosted glass as I hurried down the hall. I threw open the front door. A rush of cold air stung my face.
The short, but solid figure of Joseph’s grandfather blocked the doorway – his arms empty.
“Gerald?” I uttered, my eyes hunting for my baby boy. “Where’s Joseph?”
“Can I come in?” He looked stern.
“Where’s Joseph?” I demanded.
He repeated, “Can I come in?”
I felt panic rising up through my body, one shivering nerve after another. “Where is Joseph?”
Chapter 1
The chilling February nights aggravated my social conscience – a killer hiding in plain sight. The colder the night, the harder it was to go home. Even though I’d worked for Shelter for five years, the February nights always filled me with cynicism and disgust.
With my bottle-green scarf wrapped tightly around me, I locked the door to the building and began the journey home. Yellow streetlights wore halos as they illuminated the bitter fog around them. The ground had already started to freeze; the gravel had that extra crunch when I stepped.
“Don’t take your work home, Emma,” I told myself, “or you won’t come back tomorrow.”
I heard my stomach grumble. I’d had a minor tummy upset for the last three days and a nice meal was just what I needed. If I were lucky, Nicky would have cooked. Yes, dinner, perhaps a DVD, then bed for me tonight. I liked being thirty; it eased the suspicion that staying in on a Friday night made me a tragic social leper. Besides, it had been a long day. With every step, I felt myself unwind a little more; the walk to the train station usually helped to ease the transition from work to home mode.
That was when I saw a familiar face peering out from a doorway – gaunt and tired, but beautiful nonetheless. Wisps of her honey-blonde hair swirled from her hood, her cheeks were pink from the cold and her green eyes looked pale and sunken. Tina. I looked down at her winter coat and flask. My heart sank. Not again; not at this time of year. She saw me and smiled.
“Tina, are you sleeping rough again?”
She looked at the ground. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be daft, there’s no need to apologise. Just tell me what happened.” I perched myself on the step beside her. The cold burnt through my jeans, smarting my buttocks.
“I didn’t like the man,” she said, in her usual, sweet, melodic tones; as if her homelessness were a minor niggle.
“What man?” I demanded.
“The man at the B&B.”
“The B&B was run by a man?” I was livid. I’d expressly advised that Tina be placed in a female-only residence.
“No, he was just in the room next to me.”
“There shouldn’t have been any men there at all! I’m sorry, Tina; I’ll call the council first thing.”
“What are they going to do on a Saturday?” she sighed, rhetorically.
“Find you a new place, if I have anything to do with it.”
“I’m fine. It’s warming up now.”
“It’s the beginning of February and Tina, you’re pregnant!”
She shrugged and stood up. “I don’t mean to be rude, Emma, but I’ve gotta go.”
“Go where?”
Before I could stand, she was already some paces away. I pulled myself up as quickly as I could. “Tina, wait!” She had already disappeared around a corner. I hurried after her, my feet skidding on the frozen pavement. The street was cluttered with business people striding toward their cars. The crowds swallowed Tina up like a hungry swamp. “Where are you?” I muttered. I found myself revolving on the spot as I scanned the crossroads. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I yelled, “Where are you?”
* * *
Ah! The welcoming warmth of home. It wouldn’t be long before I could once again feel my face. The aroma of spaghetti bolognaise wafted through my nostrils – a pleasant reminder that I had a nose.
As soon as I saw the tablecloth, I remembered – oh no – it was dinner party night. How could I have forgotten? It was usual for Nicky’s dinner parties to be preceded by feelings of dread.
She was in the kitchen wearing a purple dress, cut to accentuate her ample bosom and underplay her slightly ample stomach. Chopsticks pinned her wavy, chestnut hair, maximising the impact of her strong cheekbones. Her brown eyes looked even larger than usual, thanks to generous lashings of eyeliner. She looked gorgeous.
“You’re late,” she scolded.
“I’ve had a hellish day.”
“Well quick, get changed, Simon will be here any moment.”
“Oh no, Nicky, you didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
“Invite another one of Dave’s friends so that you could set me up!”
She looked up guiltily, raising her thick, groomed brows, and whistled through her red painted lips.
“Not today! Nicky, I’ve had a hellish day – really awful. I’ve been walking round the streets for the last hour looking for …” I was going to say Tina but then I remember confidentiality. “It’s just been dreadful.”
“This should perk you up then,” she s
ung.
I looked at her and managed a weak smile. Then I caught a glimpse of my flannel shirt and grey work trousers reflected in the mirror. I looked like a lumberjack elephant. Could I really be bothered to change? The last thing I felt like was getting to know a stranger, but Nicky had obviously been to a great deal of effort and the bolognaise smelt heavenly. “Okay, fine. But he’d better not be another Tory.”
* * *
“Darko the Duck is not in love with Larry the Lion!” I scoffed.
“Yes he is!” insisted The Date (this variety was known as Simon). He had one of those ‘trust me’ faces that I’d learnt never to trust – handsome features with a square jaw, an improbably straight nose and stupidly-sparkly, ice-blue eyes. A template good-looker and he knew it. Already he was annoying me.
“They’re puppets!” I pointed out. “They don’t have sex drives.”
“This isn’t about sex, it’s about true love!”
Nicky and Dave chuckled. In contrast to Nicky, her boyfriend was somewhat casually groomed. His messy toast-coloured hair hung down the sides of his face, still debating whether to be curly or straight. His retro ‘Jarvis Cocker’ glasses were damaged in one corner and hung crookedly on his face.
“They’re puppets!” I repeated.
“So what, does Kermit not love Miss Piggy?”
I thought about it. I couldn’t bring myself to renounce Kermit’s froggy affections, even to win an argument with this infuriating man. I poured myself a second glass of wine and then pointed out, “It’s a kid’s show!”
“So is The Muppets.”
“Not exclusively.”
“Adults can watch Larry the Lion.”
“Not unless they’re on acid. Besides, one’s a lion and one’s a duck. How would that even work?”
“You’ve got no imagination,” he said, with a little smile. He had one of those deep, commanding voices. The sort that appends every sentence with, “You know I’m right.”
“I’ve got no imagination?” I jeered. “Um, no! I can totally imagine a duck and a lion doing it.” Can I really? “It’s just that Darko the Duck is not gay.”
“Why? Because he doesn’t fit your stereotypical idea of what a gay duck would look like?”
“Um, no! I don’t make prejudicial judgments about anybody’s sexuality – aquatic birds included. Tell him, Nicky!”
Nicky just shrugged, looking deeply amused. I appeared to be the only one genuinely worked up about this, and that just wound me up even more. It wasn’t the cartoon love that bothered me; it was this man coming into our house and speaking as if every word that came out of his mouth was the undisputable truth. Already something about Simon Moran was rubbing me up the wrong way. He just seemed so certain in his convictions, no matter how ludicrous. His smug manner chafed my brain. I topped up my wine.
“I just know, that in this case, the duck ain’t gay!” Why was I yelling?
“So,” Nicky cut in quickly. “What do you do for a living, Emma?”
“You know what I do for a living. We’re best friends.”
“Yes, but Simon doesn’t.”
I glared at her. Had I known much earlier that she was planning on setting me up again, I would have gone out for dinner. I didn’t have any money, but I’d have sooner eaten a discarded kebab than sit through this.
But instead, I was sitting here wearing a low cut emerald-green top. I’d scrunched my long red hair with a little mousse, encouraging it to fall in loose curls on my shoulders; I was even sporting contact lenses that enhanced the turquoise of my eyes. I looked just like somebody who may want to be in this predicament, but trust me, I did not.
I was even wearing a figure-enhancing teddy, with a poppered crotch, that made my lady bits work to flatten my tummy. To think I was sacrificing crotch comfort to look slender for this twonk.
I glanced at Nicky’s dangling earrings – new, I supposed. These setups were primarily for her benefit. She’d been with Dave for eight years now – half of her adult life – and I knew she missed the thrill of the chase. So, instead, she perpetually arranged dates for me. They were always dinner dates where she was the host. She never gave me a man’s number and let us sort ourselves out.
Dave, as loyal as ever, played his part. He may have been wearing ripped jeans and odd socks, but he did wear the blue shirt Nicky had ironed for him, even though it was rather optimistically sized. Still, when the buttons were at risk of flying off, it did stop her shouting at him for slouching.
I wondered if Simon had known what he was walking into. The crisp white shirt suggested that he did and judging by the look of his tush when he went to the bathroom, those were his best jeans. What a disappointment I must be – a woman who challenged him. With a swagger like that, I doubt people stood up to him often.
“Emma is also in housing,” explained Nicky.
Simon’s interest was pricked. “Are you an estate agent too?”
“Oh God no! I work for Shelter.”
“Oh, the homelessness charity?”
“Nah! The horror movie,” I said. It was supposed to be a joke but came out more sarcastically then I meant it to.
Nicky leapt up. “Emma, a word.”
“What?”
“In the kitchen.”
“I’m fine here.”
“In. The. Kitchen.” Then she hummed a little tune to try to sound casual.
I weighed things up. Nicky was a good friend and the flat was a lovely place to live – certainly nicer than anywhere I could afford on my own. It would be wise to attend the summit. Besides, I was used to Nicky’s pep talks in the kitchen and well-practised at pretending to take life lessons from her.
The kitchen was cream with wooden units and beige worktops. Occasional tiles had safari animals on them, which matched Nicky’s crockery. The telling off took place in front of a giraffe eating a tree.
Nicky looked at me through her stern, enormous brown eyes. I felt well and truly ticked off. Can I go now?
“What was that?” she asked, significantly lowering the pitch of her voice.
“What was what?”
“You’re doing what you always do when you like somebody.”
“What?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “I do not like that man.”
“Then why are you being defensive every time he opens his mouth?”
“Nicky,” I said sternly, “Darko the Duck is not in love with that frigging lion.”
“It’s hardly worth falling out over.”
“We’re not falling out!” I laughed. Then, I quickly added, “The duck isn’t gay though.”
“So you don’t like him?”
“I’ve had a horrendous day; I wouldn’t like Joseph Fiennes if Dave brought him to dinner.”
“Well, that’s a shame, because he thinks you’re ‘hot stuff’.”
“Hot what?” I sneered. I was slightly surprised. I assumed that somebody with such clichéd hunkiness would have clichéd taste. I grabbed a handful of my hair and inspected it – yep, definitely still ginger. I looked down at my body – definitely still a size 14. “When did he say that?”
“He texted Dave under the table.”
“You are kidding me?” I sneered.
“What? That’s sweet.”
“No, it’s pathetic.”
“Please make an effort, Emma, he seems like a really nice chap to me.” Then she nudged me in the ribs, “I’d do him.”
I rolled my eyes.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt me to be nice to our guest. I do pride myself on being a polite person and that means being nice even to irksome, square-headed morons, and even on days when I felt like crap. I remembered why I felt like crap. I felt foolish for being wound up about an unsuitable blind date when Tina was out on the streets somewhere, pregnant and with nowhere to spend the freezing night.
Darko the Duck was just a puppet, and no matter how wrong Simon might be, it wasn’t worth taking offence over and it certainly wasn’t a just reason to be rude.
“Fine, I’ll put the highly improbable duck-lion crush behind me.”
Nicky marched me back to the dinner table, where Dave and Simon appeared to be stuck into a riveting conversation about the housing market.
“Nothing is selling at the moment,” complained Simon. “It’s terrible really, some people need to move for work or family reasons and they just can’t sell.”
“That sounds like a horrible situation to be in,” I said, sympathetically.
Nicky nodded at me, as if to say ‘Much better’.
Then I added, “Still, at least they have somewhere to live.”
Nicky moved my wine glass slightly further away from me.
I grabbed it back.
“True,” agreed Simon. “It’s just sad to see so many places empty when so many others are desperate to move.”
“Well, if there are so many empty places, couldn’t estate agents do more to help the homeless?” I asked, feeling a little excited at the prospect of bringing about some form of great social change. Emma and Si – they started off on the wrong foot but ending up fixing an entire city’s homelessness problem …
“Well …” then he trailed off, looking thoughtful.
“I mean, I can think of dozens of people who are rough sleeping tonight. If you opened up just one or two empty homes, we could shelter every one of them.”
He looked at me with a little smile. For a moment, I thought he was impressed, but then he quickly added, “I wish it were that simple.”
“It could be.”
“But it isn’t, though, is it?”
“Why not?”
“Well, those homes belong to clients.”
“Have you tried asking your clients if they would mind helping to save lives?”
Nicky interjected with a cautionary, “Emma …”
“Admittedly, I haven’t, but …”
A low, slow voice chipped in. “Did you see the game on Sunday, mate?”
Simon kept looking at me. “You make a compelling point, but I’m not sure that clients would be as amenable as you think. For a start, there is a great deal of mistrust when it comes to homeless people …”
The Ice Marathon Page 1