rattling the tiles on the roof like drumming from a distant pageant. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying, over and over, the fateful day on which his parents had been killed, as he analysed and relived each tiny event leading up to the moment of the explosion, changing them slightly each time as he imagined what he might have done to prevent their deaths.
I should never, never have left her. If only he had stayed with his mother in the kitchen. Why had he left her alone when he’d gone to Drake? He should have clung on to her, not letting her out of his sight. No! Dad! Stop! Chester could have stopped his father from going down the approach tunnel to his mother, rugby-tackling him if necessary. If he had, his father would most probably be alive today, and perhaps his mother too. Chester’s version of the day became ever more fanciful until he was confronting Danforth in the tunnel, emptying a full magazine into the traitor as his Sten bucked in his hands.
‘Take that, you stinking BASTARD!’ Chester would growl behind his teeth, coming out of his open-eyed dream, drenched in sweat and his fists clenched with hatred for the man who had slaughtered his parents. He’d never wanted to hurt and kill someone so much, perhaps even more than the Rebecca twins and the Styx themselves. Although, when he thought about it, Martha wasn’t far off the top of his hate list for what she’d put him through.
And even if Chester desperately needed to go downstairs, perhaps because he was thirsty and wanted some water, he would remain where he was, not caring that he was so uncomfortable. In any case, Old Wilkie often kept vigil during the night in a chair by the front door, armed with his shotgun incase the Styx decided to turn up. As depressed as he was, Chester was reluctant to have his brains blown out over the cottage walls as he blundered into the man. It would all be too much bother.
Then, much to his surprise, Chester found that he was beginning to crave human company, although at a distance. He found that it made him feel a little better to be around Stephanie and Old Wilkie, even though he would feign interest in his book so that he had an excuse not to talk to either of them.
This lack of communication with Stephanie and Old Wilkie made life rather difficult in the confines of the cramped cottage, where they were completely cut off from the outside world. They’d had the most miserable Christmas lunch Chester could have imagined, sitting for the most part in silence around the meal Old Wilkie had gone to such lengths to prepare. All it did for Chester was summon the memories of Christmases past with his parents. Unable to control his emotions, he’d used a bad headache as an excuse to leave the table, even before Old Wilkie had brought the Christmas pudding out.
‘Pawns, whatever,’ Stephanie now said with a shake of the head, snatching the queen from the board to admire it. ‘These guys are the business because they can move in every direction and as many squares as you want. And they’re more powerful than all the others, including the stuffy old kings, who are only good for running away and losing you the game. I mean why can’t you play with all queens? The game would be so, like, better.’
‘But then it wouldn’t be chess,’ Chester reasoned. He started a sigh but morphed it into a humming sound, as if hewas giving serious consideration to her suggestion, because he didn’t want to upset the girl. He couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting anyone; he still felt so torn up and bruised inside that he shied away from anything unpleasant. And watching her try to learn the game had brought home how much he missed Will, his longstanding opponent. ‘You can’t go completely changing the game, but there are other ways to play it,’ he added.
Stephanie folded her arms in front of her chest and pulled a sulky face, but Chester could tell it wasn’t genuine. ‘Maybe you should have a go at playing by my
I should never, never have left her. If only he had stayed with his mother in the kitchen. Why had he left her alone when he’d gone to Drake? He should have clung on to her, not letting her out of his sight. No! Dad! Stop! Chester could have stopped his father from going down the approach tunnel to his mother, rugby-tackling him if necessary. If he had, his father would most probably be alive today, and perhaps his mother too. Chester’s version of the day became ever more fanciful until he was confronting Danforth in the tunnel, emptying a full magazine into the traitor as his Sten bucked in his hands.
‘Take that, you stinking BASTARD!’ Chester would growl behind his teeth, coming out of his open-eyed dream, drenched in sweat and his fists clenched with hatred for the man who had slaughtered his parents. He’d never wanted to hurt and kill someone so much, perhaps even more than the Rebecca twins and the Styx themselves. Although, when he thought about it, Martha wasn’t far off the top of his hate list for what she’d put him through.
And even if Chester desperately needed to go downstairs, perhaps because he was thirsty and wanted some water, he would remain where he was, not caring that he was so uncomfortable. In any case, Old Wilkie often kept vigil during the night in a chair by the front door, armed with his shotgun incase the Styx decided to turn up. As depressed as he was, Chester was reluctant to have his brains blown out over the cottage walls as he blundered into the man. It would all be too much bother.
Then, much to his surprise, Chester found that he was beginning to crave human company, although at a distance. He found that it made him feel a little better to be around Stephanie and Old Wilkie, even though he would feign interest in his book so that he had an excuse not to talk to either of them.
This lack of communication with Stephanie and Old Wilkie made life rather difficult in the confines of the cramped cottage, where they were completely cut off from the outside world. They’d had the most miserable Christmas lunch Chester could have imagined, sitting for the most part in silence around the meal Old Wilkie had gone to such lengths to prepare. All it did for Chester was summon the memories of Christmases past with his parents. Unable to control his emotions, he’d used a bad headache as an excuse to leave the table, even before Old Wilkie had brought the Christmas pudding out.
‘Pawns, whatever,’ Stephanie now said with a shake of the head, snatching the queen from the board to admire it. ‘These guys are the business because they can move in every direction and as many squares as you want. And they’re more powerful than all the others, including the stuffy old kings, who are only good for running away and losing you the game. I mean why can’t you play with all queens? The game would be so, like, better.’
‘But then it wouldn’t be chess,’ Chester reasoned. He started a sigh but morphed it into a humming sound, as if hewas giving serious consideration to her suggestion, because he didn’t want to upset the girl. He couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting anyone; he still felt so torn up and bruised inside that he shied away from anything unpleasant. And watching her try to learn the game had brought home how much he missed Will, his longstanding opponent. ‘You can’t go completely changing the game, but there are other ways to play it,’ he added.
Stephanie folded her arms in front of her chest and pulled a sulky face, but Chester could tell it wasn’t genuine. ‘Maybe you should have a go at playing by my
Similar Books
