scenarios. Which meant that Peter was pretty much on suicide watch, though no one would put it like that. Silly really – he didn’t have the energy for anything like that at the moment, though God knows it had crossed his mind enough times. Ash chattered on and Peter grunted and smiled, but he might as well have been talking Mandarin. Peter didn’t give a toss what he was saying.
‘Shall we go back in?’
Ash really didn’t look like he was enjoying his fag so Peter put him out of his misery. They stepped back inside to join the festive fray. The meal had been cleared away and the board games were out now. There was no escaping this one, so Peter settled down for more slow torture. He tried his best to be jolly but his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere across town Ben Holland’s fiancée was having a black Christmas, hating the life – hating the man – who had killed her love just weeks before their wedding. How could she carry on? How could any of them carry on?
Peter smiled and rolled the dice, but inside he was dying. It’s hard to enjoy Christmas when you’ve got blood on your hands.
33
The smell of spice was intoxicating and Helen breathed it in deeply. The one element of Christmas that Helen positively enjoyed was her defiant swimming against the tide. She’d never liked turkey and thought Christmas pudding was one of the most unpleasant things she’d ever tasted. She took the view that if you don’t like the festive season, then you should embrace your feelings and go the other way. So whilst others fought in toy shops and spent £80 on a free-range bird, Helen chose a different path, going as far in the opposite direction as she could. And her takeaway from Mumraj Tandoori on Christmas Day was the highlight of her annual rebellion.
‘Murgh Zafrani, Peshwari Nan, Aloo Gobi, Pilau rice and two poppadoms with extra chopped coriander on the side,’ Zameer Khan rattled off as he packed Helen’s order. He was a local fixture, having run his popular restaurant for over twenty years.
‘Perfect.’
‘Tell you what, because it’s Christmas and that, I’ll throw in a couple of After Eights as well. How’s that sound?’
‘My hero,’ said Helen scooping up her takeaway and smiling her thanks.
It was a large order and Helen always ended up eating leftovers on Boxing Day, but one of the joys of Christmas Day was spreading out this Indian feast on the kitchen table and slowly, deliberately loading up her plate with it. Clutching her haul, Helen headed back into her flat. Inside there were no decorations or cards – in fact the only new additions to the flat were the case files on Amy and Peter’s abduction that Helen had brought home to review. She had spent most of the night poring over them without a break and she suddenly realized she was starving. She cranked up the oven and turned to get a plate to heat up. As she did so her arm caught the takeaway bag, brushing it off the work surface. It hit the quarry tile floor at speed and the flimsy cardboard containers burst open, scattering pungent food everywhere.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
Helen had only cleaned it this morning and the lemon of the floor cleaner merged with the Indian oils to produce an acrid and unpleasant odour. Helen stared at it for a moment in shock, then suddenly tears were pricking her eyes. She was furious and upset and wanted to stamp on the stupid shit, but she just about managed to rein in her violence, fleeing to the bathroom instead.
Lighting a cigarette, Helen sat on the cold rim of the bath. She was angry with herself for her over-reaction and drew hard on the cigarette. Usually the nicotine was soothing, but today it just tasted bitter. She threw the cigarette into the toilet in disgust, watching its spark die out in the water. It was a fitting image for her state of mind. Every year she thumbed her nose at Christmas and every year it punched her in the face. Swirls of dark feelings swam round her now like evil
‘Shall we go back in?’
Ash really didn’t look like he was enjoying his fag so Peter put him out of his misery. They stepped back inside to join the festive fray. The meal had been cleared away and the board games were out now. There was no escaping this one, so Peter settled down for more slow torture. He tried his best to be jolly but his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere across town Ben Holland’s fiancée was having a black Christmas, hating the life – hating the man – who had killed her love just weeks before their wedding. How could she carry on? How could any of them carry on?
Peter smiled and rolled the dice, but inside he was dying. It’s hard to enjoy Christmas when you’ve got blood on your hands.
33
The smell of spice was intoxicating and Helen breathed it in deeply. The one element of Christmas that Helen positively enjoyed was her defiant swimming against the tide. She’d never liked turkey and thought Christmas pudding was one of the most unpleasant things she’d ever tasted. She took the view that if you don’t like the festive season, then you should embrace your feelings and go the other way. So whilst others fought in toy shops and spent £80 on a free-range bird, Helen chose a different path, going as far in the opposite direction as she could. And her takeaway from Mumraj Tandoori on Christmas Day was the highlight of her annual rebellion.
‘Murgh Zafrani, Peshwari Nan, Aloo Gobi, Pilau rice and two poppadoms with extra chopped coriander on the side,’ Zameer Khan rattled off as he packed Helen’s order. He was a local fixture, having run his popular restaurant for over twenty years.
‘Perfect.’
‘Tell you what, because it’s Christmas and that, I’ll throw in a couple of After Eights as well. How’s that sound?’
‘My hero,’ said Helen scooping up her takeaway and smiling her thanks.
It was a large order and Helen always ended up eating leftovers on Boxing Day, but one of the joys of Christmas Day was spreading out this Indian feast on the kitchen table and slowly, deliberately loading up her plate with it. Clutching her haul, Helen headed back into her flat. Inside there were no decorations or cards – in fact the only new additions to the flat were the case files on Amy and Peter’s abduction that Helen had brought home to review. She had spent most of the night poring over them without a break and she suddenly realized she was starving. She cranked up the oven and turned to get a plate to heat up. As she did so her arm caught the takeaway bag, brushing it off the work surface. It hit the quarry tile floor at speed and the flimsy cardboard containers burst open, scattering pungent food everywhere.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
Helen had only cleaned it this morning and the lemon of the floor cleaner merged with the Indian oils to produce an acrid and unpleasant odour. Helen stared at it for a moment in shock, then suddenly tears were pricking her eyes. She was furious and upset and wanted to stamp on the stupid shit, but she just about managed to rein in her violence, fleeing to the bathroom instead.
Lighting a cigarette, Helen sat on the cold rim of the bath. She was angry with herself for her over-reaction and drew hard on the cigarette. Usually the nicotine was soothing, but today it just tasted bitter. She threw the cigarette into the toilet in disgust, watching its spark die out in the water. It was a fitting image for her state of mind. Every year she thumbed her nose at Christmas and every year it punched her in the face. Swirls of dark feelings swam round her now like evil
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