Shoulders by Colin Campbell - written version
SHOULDERS
“Of course I don’t hate Christmas. I just hate Christmas time.”
Shoulders guided the patrol car between the orphanage gates, headlights scything across the drive, and prepared to drop his partner off to deal with the burglary. A string of coloured lights shone through the office window and a Christmas tree stood in the porch. He was slipping into his favourite subject.
“Same as I don’t hate burglars. Just the ones I catch.”
Powell laughed.
“That’s not what I heard. I heard you hate the ones that get away even more.”
“Technical point. I’ll catch ‘em one day. Then I’ll hate ‘em twice.”
Shoulders O’Brien wasn’t someone you’d want hating you once never mind twice. His bullet head, tiny ears, and GI haircut were only part of his fearsome makeup. If he charged you down with those shoulders you’d stay down and he charged his prisoners down whenever possible. He worked on the theory that once the scroaty-knacker was in custody the worst the courts would do was give him probation, community service, or a fine that was so pisspotical it beggared belief. Being arrested by Shoulders evened the balance.
“I hope you catch this one. Who’d burgle an orphanage on Christmas Eve?”
“Lots of shit happens on Christmas Eve. It’s just Wednesday night around here.”
The dashboard clock ticked over to ten-thirty. The night was young and already Shoulders was sick of being told it was Christmas Eve. Next thing they’d be telling him it was going to snow before the night was over and they could all enjoy a White Christmas. Big deal. Just meant he wouldn’t be able to get his car out at the end of the shift. At least on Christmas Day you got double time and travelling expenses. Now that was something to crow about. Shoulders pulled up at reception but kept the engine running.
“Don’t forget to take the pick-out glass inside for SOCO.”
Powell looked surprised.
“Aren’t you coming in? Might get a drink and pull a cracker.”
“Last time you thought you’d pull a cracker she weighed twenty stone.”
“Yeh, but that was a nursing home. Night-staff all weigh twenty stone at nursing homes. This is an orphanage. Come on. It’s Christmas Eve.”
“No. It’s Wednesday night. And I’ve got some patrolling to do.”
“Going to snow later. You don’t want to get stuck in a snowdrift.”
“And you don’t want to leave the pick-out glass in the garden. You know SOCO don’t work after ten. Can’t find their way in the dark.”
Powell got out, fished a burglary pack from the glove compartment, and pulled the collar round his neck. White mist bloomed round his head with each breath. He stamped his feet.
“Sure does feel like snow. Can feel my chestnuts freezing up.”
“Well, don’t roast them too close to the fire. Injury on duty forms don’t cover it.”
Shoulders swung the car round, slamming the door shut. He paused at the gate, debating whether to turn right towards town or left along Bagman Lane. It was too early for the festive domestics so he turned left towards Barker Knott Woods. He could check for burnt out cars and pick Powell up on the way back. It should be nice and quiet down there, and there wouldn’t be a Christmas tree in sight.
∗
It started snowing before he crossed the beck, not the fine powdery stuff but great big furry flakes of blizzard snow. Shoulders could tell it was going to settle, which was more than his heart was going to do. The onset of Christmas Day loomed large on the horizon and no matter how much he tried to forget the past, Christmas Day always brought it back. And now it was going to snow into the bargain.
He concentrated on the swish of flakes caught in the headlights like startled rabbits but that only depressed him. Flicking to full-beam picked out even more so he dropped to sidelights and the flakes disappeared. So did most of the road. The ditch vanished, as did the hedgerow. Shoulders’ entire world became the dashboard lights and a patch of battered tarmac six feet in front of the car. The road was straight but he slowed down anyway.
He distracted himself with thoughts of the motorway. His shoulders might be broad but it was the hard shoulder he was named after. He’d been taking a distraught mother to the hospital after her husband and son had been killed in an accident. It was teatime and the motorway was packed with rush hour traffic. As they approached the contra flow system movement came to a halt. All three lanes were closed out with stationary vehicles.
Never one to hang back from coming forward he swung onto the hard shoulder, banged his blue lights and siren on, then sped past the mishmash of seething drivers. Halfway along the stalled section of motorway a traffic sergeant sat picking his nose and wondering how he could further his career when Shoulders hurtled past. His eyes kerchinged as if he’d won the lottery. He quickly jotted down the patrol car’s number and began composing the report in his head.
Two days later Shoulders was suspended from driving and the rest of the shift vowed to wear their stab vests in the canteen in case they got stabbed in the back at mealtime. Nobody asked the woman if Shoulders had been speeding and in fact she thanked him for the prompt service. She’d suffered enough without having to sit in a traffic jam while she grieved for her loss. Back at the station a legend was born and the hard shoulder slammer became Shoulders, a man before his time.
His smile faded when he remembered the child’s age. Two years old, the same as… Shoulders switched his attention again. The snowflakes were bigger, intruding even without the headlights on. The six feet of tarmac was now six feet of driven snow. It drifted up the hedgerow, burying the moor posts. Somewhere to the right the ditch beckoned but its pull wasn’t as strong as the past. Despite himself he remembered the Christmas of ninety-two, the smoke filled semi, and the charred face of Tommy Ladderbank.
∗
When his mind struggled back to the present it wasn’t so much snowing as blitzing it down. Massive white bombs hammered the car, beating the windscreen wipers into submission and obliterating the road. Turning the headlights on blasted him with a skyfield of white so he flicked them off again. Christmas Eve clung on by a thread as the clock ticked over towards midnight. Tommy tried to drag Shoulders back where he didn’t want to go but the policeman had seen enough and put his foot down.
Without thinking he sped into the future to escape the past. The wheels bit, then skidded sideways, proving that you can’t outdistance something that’s inside you and you can’t outpace your own destiny. The boulder in the road was a snowy white hump until the patrol car hit it. One wheel bounced up, throwing the car where there was no hard shoulder. The brakes were useless. There was nothing for them to bite.
The ditch sucked him in, flipping the car on its roof and smashing the wing mirrors. Shoulders head-butted the windscreen, something he’d once done to three prisoners and a bus conductor, and was out cold. All around him the silent night closed in, smothering the ticking metal and spinning wheels, and burying the car beneath a blanket of white.
∗
“Useless batteries.”
Shoulders was conscious again and his head hurt like a squashed toe. His radio refused to transmit, the battery light blinking red like a one-man Christmas decoration. Press the button as much as he liked and all he got was a blank stare from the display.
“Imbecilic arse-wiping batteries.”
The world was upside down and he turned the interior light on to see which way was up. His head didn’t help, making him feel as if he was upside down anyway, and dried blood obscured his sight. The light jabbed red-hot pokers between his eyes and he shielded them with one hand. The dashboard clock blinked 00:00. He turned his hand to look at his watch but it was broken. How long he’d been here he didn’t know. The car looked like a miniature version of The Poseidon Adventure, hand-mikes and seatbelts hanging from a floor that was now the ceiling. Shoulders lay hunched against the roof, miraculously right side up.
Panic wasn’t in his nature but there was brief flurry when the doors wouldn’t open. The windows were caked with snow, turning the patrol car into an igloo with single glazing. The windscreen glowed an eerie white as the headlights blasted back from the ditch but failed to penetrate the packed snow.
Shoulders’ size nine boot kicked the back window out and it was panic over. Swirling white demons plastered the interior immediately, the cold night air sucking the breath out of him. Before crawling out the back he grabbed his anti-stab gloves and mini-maglite then, as an afterthought, the PSU balaclava from the glove compartment. Once he was on his feet he took stock.
The first thing that struck him was that Powell had been right about the snowdrift, only Shoulders wasn’t stuck in one, his car had become one. The ditch was completely filled in and only the rear wheels and the exhaust pipe suggested there was a car under the snow at all. The front of the car shone white beneath the snow, the only light on the darkened country lane. A makeshift tunnel led from the back window and the night was filled with howling wind and dancing snowflakes.
He quickly pulled the balaclava over his head, put the gloves on then whipped the fluorescent hood over the top and tied it tight. Eyes and nose were the only parts of his face exposed to the elements and that was too much. The wind was freezing and already his runny nose was becoming an icicle. With no radio to call for help it was time to hoof it back the way he’d come, using the hedgerow as a guide. The moor-posts had disappeared hours ago. He leaned into the wind and set off.
The going was tougher than he expected, the snow two feet deep already, and he had to force his legs forward. Keeping his head bowed against the stinging snow he pared his bodily functions down to bare minimum. Face for seeing and breathing, feet for walking. Everything else he shut down for the winter. Except his memory. No matter how hard he tried little Tommy Ladderbank crawled out of the woodwork. Christmas Eve. The night before Christmas. A night when all good boys should be tucked up in bed.
Well, little Tommy had been tucked up in bed and that was his downfall. If he’d sneaked downstairs to look at his presents like Shoulders used to do he would still be alive. As it was, when the tree lights fused and started the fire Tommy was fast asleep, curled up in the same position Shoulders found him in three hours later. The ground floor was gutted but the landing and bedrooms were just smoke-damaged. Shoulders checked upstairs with his maglite, finding the budgie cage first. The budgie was toes up on the sandpaper, a scorched length of millet hanging over it like a sprig of kiss-me-deadly mistletoe. Tommy was in the second bedroom.
When Shoulders pushed the door open he knew someone was in there. Time concertinaed, folding in on itself and making the journey across the bedroom floor feel like walking through treacle. Two smoke-blackened Wallace and Grommet posters hung on the wall and a selection of Star Wars figures did battle on the chest of drawers. A Hotwheels track and half a dozen cars were scattered on the floor beside the bed. The tiny hump in the blankets stopped Shoulders dead in his tracks.
At first he hoped it was just the bedding scruffed up as the child escaped but then he remembered the Fire Chief saying nobody had got out from upstairs. The parents were being treated in the ambulance for smoke inhalation and hadn’t been able to speak. No. The bedroom was virgin territory. Shoulders’ maglite cut through the smoke and a shaky hand reached out for the blanket. His fingers wouldn’t grip and he had to flex the hand to get the circulation flowing. He pulled the bedding back slowly and choked back a cry when he saw the smudged face of the sleeping boy who wasn’t asleep at all.
Footsteps in the snow. Concentrate on the footsteps in the snow. One leg at a time he forged a single-track through snow that was already knee deep. The footprints came in an out of focus and he tried to get his bearings with the hedgerow. This time panic did climb up his throat. Squinting into the darkness he couldn’t see anything. The hedgerow had gone.
∗
The night howled around him and Shoulders had no idea where he was. Whichever way he turned there was only the solid white snowfield broken by a single line of footprints. His eyes adjusted to the gloom but even then the blizzard meant he could only see twenty feet in front of him. The fluorescent coat was caked with snow, turning him into a snowman with a limp. It was the limp that worried him. The cold was eating at the knife wound he’d received as an early Christmas present two years ago. Three months off work had repaired the damage but his muscles cramped up whenever a cold snap hit. If it got any colder the leg would seize up altogether, then he would never get out of the snow.
Glancing back his eyes began playing tricks on him, splitting the tracks into two separate trails. Trudging onwards his mind told him that every footstep produced a mirror image three feet to his left. He shook his head clear but the extra set of prints was still there. Sharp pain flared up his leg and the knee almost buckled. He tried to massage some feeling into the thigh but he couldn’t bend his fingers. The anti-stab gloves were encased in ice and thumping them together brought no feeling at all. He was light-headed, the snowfield tilting in front of him. One more shake of the head and there was only one set of footprints again.
The leg settled into a constant cramp of pain but at least that meant he could feel the muscles working. He forged ahead, ignoring the footprints and fixing his eyes on the limits of his vision. Tommy Ladderbank whispered something to him but his mind was too far gone to listen. In the distance a light came on and then went off again. A surge of energy burst through his body. A light. Something to aim for. It was either a car further along the road or a house. Shoulders tried to click the torch on but his fingers were solid blocks of numbness.
The light came on again and this time he could see that it was a door opening and closing. A warm glow spread into the blizzard in staccato bursts then was cut off. He ignored the pain in his leg and made one last effort to push on. The door drew nearer and with each step he saw more of the warm interior. A wooden ladder. A dirt floor. And a well-stocked hayloft. It was a barn, the front door banging in the wind. Half an hour later he collapsed through the opening and said a silent prayer.
∗
The pain was excruciating but at least that meant his circulation was returning. He didn’t know how long it took but eventually he sat up and looked around. The door had stopped banging, now firmly closed. It kept the warmth in. A lantern hung overhead, painting the barn in shades of orange and yellow. Light glinted off horse brasses in the corner and for a moment they looked like baubles on a Christmas tree.
He remembered his father saying that warm air rose while cold air sank and decided that the warmest place in the house would be the loft. His father told him lots of things but it was his mother who tried to instil religion into the devout atheist. For her, Christmas was not so much about Santa Claus and Christmas presents as the birth of Christ. Shoulders preferred the Christmas presents and his father agreed, stacking them neatly beneath the Christmas tree. The tree lights glinted on the wrapping paper and the sight of them on Christmas morning was the best part of the day.
He climbed the ladder. Halfway up he was surprised to hear a bird chirruping. A flutter of wings sounded just over the lip of the hayloft. It was definitely warmer up here and he began to sweat. When he clambered over the top he had to lean against a bale of hay to catch his breath. The budgie cage looked completely out of place. It stood next a low stack of bales that formed a kind of balcony rail overlooking the barn floor. The configuration triggered a memory that Shoulders pushed back in its drawer.
He walked across the landing and through a gap in the bales. The walls of hay gave way to a clearing on the other side, a patch of dust-strewn floorboards scattered with straw and feathers. That wasn’t all that was scattered on the floor. Half a dozen Hotwheels cars lay at the foot of a tumbled stack. Shoulders crossed the floor, surprised to find that someone had pinned a Wallace and Grommet poster on the wall and left half a dozen Star Wars figures on a shelf. He paused in mid-stride.
He wasn’t surprised at where he was, just didn’t understand why he was there now. The smoke-damaged bedroom had been reproduced exactly using bales of hay like building blocks. The tumbled stack in the corner formed Tommy Ladderbank’s bed and Shoulders moved towards it. There was a hump in the straw. Shoulders’ breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes not wanting to see again what he knew he must see. His hand reached out against his will, fingers that were now warm preparing to draw back the blankets. His heart pounded in his ears.
There was something wrong with the picture his mind had created and his fingers stopped short of the folds. Next to the bales of hay was a bedside table he recognised, but not from Tommy’s bedroom. It stood beside the bed that his mother had tucked him into every night. Her favourite picture leaned against the lamp, a framed print of “Footprints in the Sand.” God told the traveller that the footprints beside him showed that God walked with him during life’s trials. The traveller complained that when his life hit rock bottom there was only one set of tracks and God laughed. “That’s because they are my footprints. When you needed me most I carried you.”
Shoulders felt a moment of sadness at the loss of his mother. His father too. This bedroom that could not be a bedroom was a mixture of his own and young Tommy’s, reminding him of all the good times he’d had as a child. When he pulled the covers back the sleeping face of Tommy Ladderbank looked content and at peace. The skin was clean, with no sign of scorching. He could have been asleep and Shoulders felt like waking him. He touched the boy’s arm and… Tommy sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“It’s alright.”
Shoulders jerked back, shock thumping his heart with a sledgehammer.
“I wasn’t asleep. It’s Christmas Eve. I can’t sleep.”
Shoulders sat at the bottom of the bed, hands shaking. He suddenly felt cold again. The boy sitting up in bed looked wide-awake, eyes keen as mustard. They saw things that Shoulders hadn’t even considered. Things his mind had hidden since the Christmas of ninety-two. Tommy looked him in the eye.
“It’s not your fault. You couldn’t do anything. I was looking forward to Christmas Day and opening my presents but it wasn’t anyone’s fault that the tree lights fused. My dad felt worse about it than you but he had my brother to think about. It took five years to help him enjoy Christmas again. He does now. In the morning he’ll open his presents and think about me. But he’ll still celebrate. And he’ll still be happy. You should be too.”
“What have I got to be happy about? I’ve no kids.”
“There’s lots of kids. Some with no family. Help them enjoy Christmas.”
Shoulders sagged forward, looking at his mother’s print. There was too much baggage in his heart to push it aside now. The stress-counsellors tried and failed back in ninety-two. His faith had failed too; the faith his mother tried to slip in by the side door, leaving the framed print beside his bed every night. The birth of Christ? Or Santa Claus? Shoulders chose Santa Claus. But Father Christmas couldn’t help when Shoulders’ heart was broken. Tommy sat up against his pillows.
“If my dad can get over it you can. You’ve just got to try. There’s no way forward without burying the past. Bury it tonight.”
Shoulders looked at Tommy and smiled.
“You’ve got an old head on your shoulders.”
“And you’ve got broad shoulders. Carry this and move on.”
Shoulders nodded then looked at the ceiling. Sparkly stardust fell from the beams, swirling in the draft from the door. It was banging again. He felt tired and cold and very, very old, but somehow happier for having this little chat with Tommy Ladderbank. The stardust got heavier, dancing around the dark void of the hayloft. A bright light shone from the middle and the loft faded as he concentrated on it. The star seemed to urge him forward and without thinking he struck out across the snow towards it.
The star changed colour and began to flash on and off. Snow blasted his face and he couldn’t feel his hands and feet. The blue flashing light lit the snowfield. Shoulders looked down, watching the single track of footprints trail him as he forced one leg in front of the other. Somewhere in the back of his mind voices called his name. After a few minutes they solidified, coming not from inside but ahead of him. Then he saw the silhouette against the lights and Powell shouted to his colleagues.
“He’s over here.”
Shoulders trudged out of the field like a drunken snowman, eager hands helping him into the warmth of the orphanage. It was two o’clock in the morning. As the porch door closed behind them the Christmas tree jingled and the string of coloured lights swayed.
“Told you about the snowdrift,” Powell said.
Shoulders’ teeth were chattering but he managed a reply.
“And Merry Christmas to you.”
For the first time in years he meant it too.
“Of course I don’t hate Christmas. I just hate Christmas time.”
Shoulders guided the patrol car between the orphanage gates, headlights scything across the drive, and prepared to drop his partner off to deal with the burglary. A string of coloured lights shone through the office window and a Christmas tree stood in the porch. He was slipping into his favourite subject.
“Same as I don’t hate burglars. Just the ones I catch.”
Powell laughed.
“That’s not what I heard. I heard you hate the ones that get away even more.”
“Technical point. I’ll catch ‘em one day. Then I’ll hate ‘em twice.”
Shoulders O’Brien wasn’t someone you’d want hating you once never mind twice. His bullet head, tiny ears, and GI haircut were only part of his fearsome makeup. If he charged you down with those shoulders you’d stay down and he charged his prisoners down whenever possible. He worked on the theory that once the scroaty-knacker was in custody the worst the courts would do was give him probation, community service, or a fine that was so pisspotical it beggared belief. Being arrested by Shoulders evened the balance.
“I hope you catch this one. Who’d burgle an orphanage on Christmas Eve?”
“Lots of shit happens on Christmas Eve. It’s just Wednesday night around here.”
The dashboard clock ticked over to ten-thirty. The night was young and already Shoulders was sick of being told it was Christmas Eve. Next thing they’d be telling him it was going to snow before the night was over and they could all enjoy a White Christmas. Big deal. Just meant he wouldn’t be able to get his car out at the end of the shift. At least on Christmas Day you got double time and travelling expenses. Now that was something to crow about. Shoulders pulled up at reception but kept the engine running.
“Don’t forget to take the pick-out glass inside for SOCO.”
Powell looked surprised.
“Aren’t you coming in? Might get a drink and pull a cracker.”
“Last time you thought you’d pull a cracker she weighed twenty stone.”
“Yeh, but that was a nursing home. Night-staff all weigh twenty stone at nursing homes. This is an orphanage. Come on. It’s Christmas Eve.”
“No. It’s Wednesday night. And I’ve got some patrolling to do.”
“Going to snow later. You don’t want to get stuck in a snowdrift.”
“And you don’t want to leave the pick-out glass in the garden. You know SOCO don’t work after ten. Can’t find their way in the dark.”
Powell got out, fished a burglary pack from the glove compartment, and pulled the collar round his neck. White mist bloomed round his head with each breath. He stamped his feet.
“Sure does feel like snow. Can feel my chestnuts freezing up.”
“Well, don’t roast them too close to the fire. Injury on duty forms don’t cover it.”
Shoulders swung the car round, slamming the door shut. He paused at the gate, debating whether to turn right towards town or left along Bagman Lane. It was too early for the festive domestics so he turned left towards Barker Knott Woods. He could check for burnt out cars and pick Powell up on the way back. It should be nice and quiet down there, and there wouldn’t be a Christmas tree in sight.
∗
It started snowing before he crossed the beck, not the fine powdery stuff but great big furry flakes of blizzard snow. Shoulders could tell it was going to settle, which was more than his heart was going to do. The onset of Christmas Day loomed large on the horizon and no matter how much he tried to forget the past, Christmas Day always brought it back. And now it was going to snow into the bargain.
He concentrated on the swish of flakes caught in the headlights like startled rabbits but that only depressed him. Flicking to full-beam picked out even more so he dropped to sidelights and the flakes disappeared. So did most of the road. The ditch vanished, as did the hedgerow. Shoulders’ entire world became the dashboard lights and a patch of battered tarmac six feet in front of the car. The road was straight but he slowed down anyway.
He distracted himself with thoughts of the motorway. His shoulders might be broad but it was the hard shoulder he was named after. He’d been taking a distraught mother to the hospital after her husband and son had been killed in an accident. It was teatime and the motorway was packed with rush hour traffic. As they approached the contra flow system movement came to a halt. All three lanes were closed out with stationary vehicles.
Never one to hang back from coming forward he swung onto the hard shoulder, banged his blue lights and siren on, then sped past the mishmash of seething drivers. Halfway along the stalled section of motorway a traffic sergeant sat picking his nose and wondering how he could further his career when Shoulders hurtled past. His eyes kerchinged as if he’d won the lottery. He quickly jotted down the patrol car’s number and began composing the report in his head.
Two days later Shoulders was suspended from driving and the rest of the shift vowed to wear their stab vests in the canteen in case they got stabbed in the back at mealtime. Nobody asked the woman if Shoulders had been speeding and in fact she thanked him for the prompt service. She’d suffered enough without having to sit in a traffic jam while she grieved for her loss. Back at the station a legend was born and the hard shoulder slammer became Shoulders, a man before his time.
His smile faded when he remembered the child’s age. Two years old, the same as… Shoulders switched his attention again. The snowflakes were bigger, intruding even without the headlights on. The six feet of tarmac was now six feet of driven snow. It drifted up the hedgerow, burying the moor posts. Somewhere to the right the ditch beckoned but its pull wasn’t as strong as the past. Despite himself he remembered the Christmas of ninety-two, the smoke filled semi, and the charred face of Tommy Ladderbank.
∗
When his mind struggled back to the present it wasn’t so much snowing as blitzing it down. Massive white bombs hammered the car, beating the windscreen wipers into submission and obliterating the road. Turning the headlights on blasted him with a skyfield of white so he flicked them off again. Christmas Eve clung on by a thread as the clock ticked over towards midnight. Tommy tried to drag Shoulders back where he didn’t want to go but the policeman had seen enough and put his foot down.
Without thinking he sped into the future to escape the past. The wheels bit, then skidded sideways, proving that you can’t outdistance something that’s inside you and you can’t outpace your own destiny. The boulder in the road was a snowy white hump until the patrol car hit it. One wheel bounced up, throwing the car where there was no hard shoulder. The brakes were useless. There was nothing for them to bite.
The ditch sucked him in, flipping the car on its roof and smashing the wing mirrors. Shoulders head-butted the windscreen, something he’d once done to three prisoners and a bus conductor, and was out cold. All around him the silent night closed in, smothering the ticking metal and spinning wheels, and burying the car beneath a blanket of white.
∗
“Useless batteries.”
Shoulders was conscious again and his head hurt like a squashed toe. His radio refused to transmit, the battery light blinking red like a one-man Christmas decoration. Press the button as much as he liked and all he got was a blank stare from the display.
“Imbecilic arse-wiping batteries.”
The world was upside down and he turned the interior light on to see which way was up. His head didn’t help, making him feel as if he was upside down anyway, and dried blood obscured his sight. The light jabbed red-hot pokers between his eyes and he shielded them with one hand. The dashboard clock blinked 00:00. He turned his hand to look at his watch but it was broken. How long he’d been here he didn’t know. The car looked like a miniature version of The Poseidon Adventure, hand-mikes and seatbelts hanging from a floor that was now the ceiling. Shoulders lay hunched against the roof, miraculously right side up.
Panic wasn’t in his nature but there was brief flurry when the doors wouldn’t open. The windows were caked with snow, turning the patrol car into an igloo with single glazing. The windscreen glowed an eerie white as the headlights blasted back from the ditch but failed to penetrate the packed snow.
Shoulders’ size nine boot kicked the back window out and it was panic over. Swirling white demons plastered the interior immediately, the cold night air sucking the breath out of him. Before crawling out the back he grabbed his anti-stab gloves and mini-maglite then, as an afterthought, the PSU balaclava from the glove compartment. Once he was on his feet he took stock.
The first thing that struck him was that Powell had been right about the snowdrift, only Shoulders wasn’t stuck in one, his car had become one. The ditch was completely filled in and only the rear wheels and the exhaust pipe suggested there was a car under the snow at all. The front of the car shone white beneath the snow, the only light on the darkened country lane. A makeshift tunnel led from the back window and the night was filled with howling wind and dancing snowflakes.
He quickly pulled the balaclava over his head, put the gloves on then whipped the fluorescent hood over the top and tied it tight. Eyes and nose were the only parts of his face exposed to the elements and that was too much. The wind was freezing and already his runny nose was becoming an icicle. With no radio to call for help it was time to hoof it back the way he’d come, using the hedgerow as a guide. The moor-posts had disappeared hours ago. He leaned into the wind and set off.
The going was tougher than he expected, the snow two feet deep already, and he had to force his legs forward. Keeping his head bowed against the stinging snow he pared his bodily functions down to bare minimum. Face for seeing and breathing, feet for walking. Everything else he shut down for the winter. Except his memory. No matter how hard he tried little Tommy Ladderbank crawled out of the woodwork. Christmas Eve. The night before Christmas. A night when all good boys should be tucked up in bed.
Well, little Tommy had been tucked up in bed and that was his downfall. If he’d sneaked downstairs to look at his presents like Shoulders used to do he would still be alive. As it was, when the tree lights fused and started the fire Tommy was fast asleep, curled up in the same position Shoulders found him in three hours later. The ground floor was gutted but the landing and bedrooms were just smoke-damaged. Shoulders checked upstairs with his maglite, finding the budgie cage first. The budgie was toes up on the sandpaper, a scorched length of millet hanging over it like a sprig of kiss-me-deadly mistletoe. Tommy was in the second bedroom.
When Shoulders pushed the door open he knew someone was in there. Time concertinaed, folding in on itself and making the journey across the bedroom floor feel like walking through treacle. Two smoke-blackened Wallace and Grommet posters hung on the wall and a selection of Star Wars figures did battle on the chest of drawers. A Hotwheels track and half a dozen cars were scattered on the floor beside the bed. The tiny hump in the blankets stopped Shoulders dead in his tracks.
At first he hoped it was just the bedding scruffed up as the child escaped but then he remembered the Fire Chief saying nobody had got out from upstairs. The parents were being treated in the ambulance for smoke inhalation and hadn’t been able to speak. No. The bedroom was virgin territory. Shoulders’ maglite cut through the smoke and a shaky hand reached out for the blanket. His fingers wouldn’t grip and he had to flex the hand to get the circulation flowing. He pulled the bedding back slowly and choked back a cry when he saw the smudged face of the sleeping boy who wasn’t asleep at all.
Footsteps in the snow. Concentrate on the footsteps in the snow. One leg at a time he forged a single-track through snow that was already knee deep. The footprints came in an out of focus and he tried to get his bearings with the hedgerow. This time panic did climb up his throat. Squinting into the darkness he couldn’t see anything. The hedgerow had gone.
∗
The night howled around him and Shoulders had no idea where he was. Whichever way he turned there was only the solid white snowfield broken by a single line of footprints. His eyes adjusted to the gloom but even then the blizzard meant he could only see twenty feet in front of him. The fluorescent coat was caked with snow, turning him into a snowman with a limp. It was the limp that worried him. The cold was eating at the knife wound he’d received as an early Christmas present two years ago. Three months off work had repaired the damage but his muscles cramped up whenever a cold snap hit. If it got any colder the leg would seize up altogether, then he would never get out of the snow.
Glancing back his eyes began playing tricks on him, splitting the tracks into two separate trails. Trudging onwards his mind told him that every footstep produced a mirror image three feet to his left. He shook his head clear but the extra set of prints was still there. Sharp pain flared up his leg and the knee almost buckled. He tried to massage some feeling into the thigh but he couldn’t bend his fingers. The anti-stab gloves were encased in ice and thumping them together brought no feeling at all. He was light-headed, the snowfield tilting in front of him. One more shake of the head and there was only one set of footprints again.
The leg settled into a constant cramp of pain but at least that meant he could feel the muscles working. He forged ahead, ignoring the footprints and fixing his eyes on the limits of his vision. Tommy Ladderbank whispered something to him but his mind was too far gone to listen. In the distance a light came on and then went off again. A surge of energy burst through his body. A light. Something to aim for. It was either a car further along the road or a house. Shoulders tried to click the torch on but his fingers were solid blocks of numbness.
The light came on again and this time he could see that it was a door opening and closing. A warm glow spread into the blizzard in staccato bursts then was cut off. He ignored the pain in his leg and made one last effort to push on. The door drew nearer and with each step he saw more of the warm interior. A wooden ladder. A dirt floor. And a well-stocked hayloft. It was a barn, the front door banging in the wind. Half an hour later he collapsed through the opening and said a silent prayer.
∗
The pain was excruciating but at least that meant his circulation was returning. He didn’t know how long it took but eventually he sat up and looked around. The door had stopped banging, now firmly closed. It kept the warmth in. A lantern hung overhead, painting the barn in shades of orange and yellow. Light glinted off horse brasses in the corner and for a moment they looked like baubles on a Christmas tree.
He remembered his father saying that warm air rose while cold air sank and decided that the warmest place in the house would be the loft. His father told him lots of things but it was his mother who tried to instil religion into the devout atheist. For her, Christmas was not so much about Santa Claus and Christmas presents as the birth of Christ. Shoulders preferred the Christmas presents and his father agreed, stacking them neatly beneath the Christmas tree. The tree lights glinted on the wrapping paper and the sight of them on Christmas morning was the best part of the day.
He climbed the ladder. Halfway up he was surprised to hear a bird chirruping. A flutter of wings sounded just over the lip of the hayloft. It was definitely warmer up here and he began to sweat. When he clambered over the top he had to lean against a bale of hay to catch his breath. The budgie cage looked completely out of place. It stood next a low stack of bales that formed a kind of balcony rail overlooking the barn floor. The configuration triggered a memory that Shoulders pushed back in its drawer.
He walked across the landing and through a gap in the bales. The walls of hay gave way to a clearing on the other side, a patch of dust-strewn floorboards scattered with straw and feathers. That wasn’t all that was scattered on the floor. Half a dozen Hotwheels cars lay at the foot of a tumbled stack. Shoulders crossed the floor, surprised to find that someone had pinned a Wallace and Grommet poster on the wall and left half a dozen Star Wars figures on a shelf. He paused in mid-stride.
He wasn’t surprised at where he was, just didn’t understand why he was there now. The smoke-damaged bedroom had been reproduced exactly using bales of hay like building blocks. The tumbled stack in the corner formed Tommy Ladderbank’s bed and Shoulders moved towards it. There was a hump in the straw. Shoulders’ breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes not wanting to see again what he knew he must see. His hand reached out against his will, fingers that were now warm preparing to draw back the blankets. His heart pounded in his ears.
There was something wrong with the picture his mind had created and his fingers stopped short of the folds. Next to the bales of hay was a bedside table he recognised, but not from Tommy’s bedroom. It stood beside the bed that his mother had tucked him into every night. Her favourite picture leaned against the lamp, a framed print of “Footprints in the Sand.” God told the traveller that the footprints beside him showed that God walked with him during life’s trials. The traveller complained that when his life hit rock bottom there was only one set of tracks and God laughed. “That’s because they are my footprints. When you needed me most I carried you.”
Shoulders felt a moment of sadness at the loss of his mother. His father too. This bedroom that could not be a bedroom was a mixture of his own and young Tommy’s, reminding him of all the good times he’d had as a child. When he pulled the covers back the sleeping face of Tommy Ladderbank looked content and at peace. The skin was clean, with no sign of scorching. He could have been asleep and Shoulders felt like waking him. He touched the boy’s arm and… Tommy sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“It’s alright.”
Shoulders jerked back, shock thumping his heart with a sledgehammer.
“I wasn’t asleep. It’s Christmas Eve. I can’t sleep.”
Shoulders sat at the bottom of the bed, hands shaking. He suddenly felt cold again. The boy sitting up in bed looked wide-awake, eyes keen as mustard. They saw things that Shoulders hadn’t even considered. Things his mind had hidden since the Christmas of ninety-two. Tommy looked him in the eye.
“It’s not your fault. You couldn’t do anything. I was looking forward to Christmas Day and opening my presents but it wasn’t anyone’s fault that the tree lights fused. My dad felt worse about it than you but he had my brother to think about. It took five years to help him enjoy Christmas again. He does now. In the morning he’ll open his presents and think about me. But he’ll still celebrate. And he’ll still be happy. You should be too.”
“What have I got to be happy about? I’ve no kids.”
“There’s lots of kids. Some with no family. Help them enjoy Christmas.”
Shoulders sagged forward, looking at his mother’s print. There was too much baggage in his heart to push it aside now. The stress-counsellors tried and failed back in ninety-two. His faith had failed too; the faith his mother tried to slip in by the side door, leaving the framed print beside his bed every night. The birth of Christ? Or Santa Claus? Shoulders chose Santa Claus. But Father Christmas couldn’t help when Shoulders’ heart was broken. Tommy sat up against his pillows.
“If my dad can get over it you can. You’ve just got to try. There’s no way forward without burying the past. Bury it tonight.”
Shoulders looked at Tommy and smiled.
“You’ve got an old head on your shoulders.”
“And you’ve got broad shoulders. Carry this and move on.”
Shoulders nodded then looked at the ceiling. Sparkly stardust fell from the beams, swirling in the draft from the door. It was banging again. He felt tired and cold and very, very old, but somehow happier for having this little chat with Tommy Ladderbank. The stardust got heavier, dancing around the dark void of the hayloft. A bright light shone from the middle and the loft faded as he concentrated on it. The star seemed to urge him forward and without thinking he struck out across the snow towards it.
The star changed colour and began to flash on and off. Snow blasted his face and he couldn’t feel his hands and feet. The blue flashing light lit the snowfield. Shoulders looked down, watching the single track of footprints trail him as he forced one leg in front of the other. Somewhere in the back of his mind voices called his name. After a few minutes they solidified, coming not from inside but ahead of him. Then he saw the silhouette against the lights and Powell shouted to his colleagues.
“He’s over here.”
Shoulders trudged out of the field like a drunken snowman, eager hands helping him into the warmth of the orphanage. It was two o’clock in the morning. As the porch door closed behind them the Christmas tree jingled and the string of coloured lights swayed.
“Told you about the snowdrift,” Powell said.
Shoulders’ teeth were chattering but he managed a reply.
“And Merry Christmas to you.”
For the first time in years he meant it too.
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