N (2011) Christmas is for the Kids

  CHRISTMAS IS FOR THE KIDS

  PETER JAMES

  PAN BOOKS

  First published 2011 by Macmillan

  This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

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  ISBN 978-0-230-76438-5 EPUB

  Copyright © Peter James/Really Scary Books Ltd 2011

  The right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  Christmas is for the Kids

  Peter James

  Kate saw him standing at the Tesco checkout and presumed he was with his mother. The store was quiet. It was Christmas Eve, the last hour of shopping.

  The doors opened and a loop of tinsel swayed in the draught. ‘Silent Night’ echoed around the darkening car park. The queue moved forward and the boy tugged his stacked trolley. The woman in front of him was stuffing her purchases into her carrier bag, and Kate realized then that he was on his own. His head barely reached the top of the trolley, and he had to stretch to reach the lower packages.

  He looked about six. Floppy blond hair, freckles, a snub nose, wearing a quilted jacket, jeans and trainers. Something seemed wrong about his being here alone.

  She watched him unload two twelve-packs of Coke; sweets and chocolate bars; more fizzy drinks in lurid colours; ice cream; burgers; frozen chips. What kind of a mother did he have? Too busy or disinterested to cook anything but junk and convenience foods?

  She’d never let her kids eat this garbage. Never. When she had kids . . . Or, as she worried increasingly, if. She felt a pang of sadness. Christmas was for kids, not for lonely adults. She’d split up with Neil in February. For ten months she had been on her own and there was no one on the horizon.

  The child paid cash from a wad of notes, then began packing his groceries. By the time she had entered her credit card PIN, he had already left.

  A fleck of sleet tickled her face as she unlocked her car, but there was no forecast of a white Christmas. The engine turned sluggishly and clattered into life, and she revved hard for some moments before driving off. As she pulled on to the main road she noticed the tiny figure of the kid struggling under the weight of his packages.

  She stopped.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘It’s OK – I only live just—’ At that moment one of his bags broke and several cans clattered onto the ground; a bottle of ketchup smashed.

  Kate got out to help him. ‘Come on – you can’t manage all these! I’ll run you home.’

  ‘I don’t ought . . .’ He looked scared of something and her concern about him deepened. She loaded his groceries into the boot and he climbed, subdued, into the front seat.

  She drove about a mile, and was passing a row of new houses behind a developer’s hoarding, when he said:

  ‘There!’

  She turned onto a tree-lined track that went up a slight incline, past a sign warning: WORKS ENTRANCE. HARD HAT AREA.

  ‘Does your mummy often send you out shopping alone?’ she asked, the beam of the headlights falling away into darkness. The track felt enclosed, as if the trees formed a tunnel.

  ‘I’m getting a computer for Christmas,’ he said after some moments, ignoring her question.

  After half a mile, a solitary detached Edwardian house came into view. It looked in poor condition, and what she could see of the grounds appeared neglected.

  ‘Are you going to come in?’ he said as she pulled up. She wanted to, very much; wanted to give his parents a piece of her mind.

  ‘I’ll help you with your shopping.’

  He turned imploringly to Kate and she could see again that he was frightened.

  ‘Would you like to stay with us?’

  ‘Stay with you?’ She felt a sudden prick of anxiety, the boy’s fear transmitting to her. Her curiosity about his parents was increasing. ‘I’ll come in with you.’ She smiled at him. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Daniel Hogarth. What’s yours?’

  ‘Kate Robinson.’

  He ran up to the front door and knocked loudly. A girl of about seven with black hair in a velvet band opened it indignantly.

  ‘We’re not deaf you know,’ she said.

  The boy whispered and she looked at Kate. Kate lugged a couple of bags out of the boot and the two children carried the rest.

  There was a huge Christmas tree in the hall that rose up the stairwell; it was beautifully decorated, with real candles which were flickering and guttering in the draughts, and the base was surrounded by finely wrapped presents. There was a smell of wood smoke that made Kate nostalgic for her own childhood.

  She followed the children into the kitchen, with a pine table at which a girl of about five, in a pinafore, and a boy about the same age, in a striped jersey and jeans, sat – the girl reading, the boy furiously pressing the keys of a small electronic game.

  ‘This is my brother, Luke, and my other sister, Amy,’ Daniel said. Then he pointed to the girl with the velvet hairband. ‘And this is Lucy.’ He looked at Kate solemnly. ‘You will stay with us for Christmas, won’t you?’

  Kate laughed, then realized the boy was serious. ‘It’s sweet of you, but I don’t think your mummy and daddy would like that!’

  The children at the table turned towards her. ‘Please don’t leave us,’ the little girl, Amy, said.

  ‘Please don’t go,’ Luke said. Tears filled his eyes.

  ‘Please don’t leave us,’ Daniel said. ‘We won’t have Christmas if you do. Please stay and let us have Christmas.’

  The kids looked clean, well-nourished, no bruises. And yet there was an overwhelming sadness in their faces. Kate fixed her stare on Amy, her heart heaving for them. ‘Where are your mummy and daddy?’

  Amy looked silently at the floor.

  Kate’s imagination went wild for a moment. Were their parents dead, somewhere in the house and the kids too afraid to tell her?

  Shivers as hard as needles suddenly crawled down her skin. She began walking back towards the front door. Daniel ran along beside her and tugged her hand. She opened the door and noticed to her surprise that it was snowing outside: fat, heavy flakes were settling on the drive.

  ‘Kate – if you stayed with us, maybe we could have Christmas after all.’

  ‘What do you mean, Daniel?’

  ‘We’ll never get to open our presents if you go.’

  She looked into his frightened eyes and patted his cheek tenderly. ‘I . . . I’ll be right back, OK?’

  ‘It only works if you stay,’ he said, forlorn.

  ‘What only works?’

  He shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘I won’t be long, I promise!’

  T
earfully he closed the door. She climbed back into her car and turned the ignition key. Nothing happened. She tried again, then again, but the battery was dead. Exasperated, she got out, then noticed to her surprise that all the lights in the house had gone off. Sharp prickles of fear again raked her skin, harder than before. Had the children tampered with her car?

  She swallowed, the grip of fear tightening around her. Then she started walking quickly away, down the drive, her leather shoes inadequate, slipping on the settling snow and turning her head back to stare at the darkness every few moments.

  The tunnel of trees seemed to be closing in around her and she broke into a run, her heart pounding, her chest feeling it was about to burst. Just a prank, she thought. Just a prank. But it wasn’t just a prank, she knew.

  Headlights crossed ahead of her. The main road. Kate ran faster, past the developer’s hoarding and out into the road. Police. Need to call the police. She ran along the pavement. There was a phone box ahead and she dived into it, then saw to her dismay that it had been gutted by vandals.

  She ran on towards the town centre, crossed a busy street then another. A car coming towards her had a Perspex panel on its roof. A police car.

  She leapt out in front of it, flapping her arms frantically. It pulled up and the driver wound down his window.

  ‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please, I think there’s something very wrong . . . children very frightened . . . I–’

  There was a WPC in the passenger seat and Kate was aware she was looking at her oddly.

  ‘Could you calm down and give us a little more detail?’ the driver said.

  Kate explained, trying to gather her breath. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said. ‘Just a feeling I have.’

  ‘OK, jump in the back, we’ll go and take a look.’

  The WPC spoke into her radio and the car accelerated.

  ‘Turn right up this track,’ Kate said.

  ‘There’s nothing up here – this is all part of the development site,’ the driver said.

  ‘No, there’s a house at the top – you must know it. A big Edwardian house,’ Kate replied.

  ‘Only house up there is the Hogarth place.’

  ‘Yes! Daniel Hogarth! That’s right,’ Kate said, remembering his name.

  As they drove up through the tunnel of trees she frowned. There was no snow on the ground yet it had been settling only minutes ago. Then the house came into view. It was still in darkness. The dull paintwork of her car glinted in the headlights. Then she gasped in shock as they neared the house and she could see it more clearly.

  It had been gutted by fire.

  The roof was gone completely and half of the walls had collapsed leaving the charred rooms open to the elements. Pipes and wiring hung out like entrails. Kate swallowed, her heart crashing wildly inside her chest. ‘I . . . I . . . I came here . . . I . . . I went in . . . I–’

  ‘Happened five years ago,’ the driver said, halting the car. The WPC turned to face her. ‘The parents were separated. The father was up north. The mother must have had some kind of breakdown – bought them all their presents, gave them a wad of cash then left them home alone, instructed them not to speak to anyone, and went off to Switzerland with a boyfriend. Some time on Christmas Eve, while the kids were asleep, the house caught fire and they were all killed. The mother committed suicide after she was arrested.’

  Kate sat in numb silence and stared at the blackened shell where only a short while ago she had stood in the warm kitchen and smelled wood smoke and seen a tree surrounded by presents. Odd thoughts strayed through her mind.

  She wondered if, had she stayed, the snow would have continued falling and the kids would have got to open their presents. And she resolved that, next year, she would go back to the supermarket. If Daniel was there again, she would accept his invitation to stay.

  Peter James

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  An excerpt from Peter James’ new standalone thriller, Perfect People, follows here.

  1

  Late on an April afternoon, thirty nautical miles east of Cape Cod, a wind-blown young couple with luggage and worried faces are standing on the helicopter deck of a converted cruise liner, gripping the handrail.

  Both of them know it is too late for doubts.

  The Serendipity Rose is forty years old, her dents and cracks and rivets caked in paint like make-up on an old tart’s face. As she ploughs through the freshening sea, a Panamanian flag of convenience crackling from her stern, her single yellow funnel trails a ribbon of smoke that is shredded in seconds by the wind. Making just sufficient way to keep the stabilizers working, she’s not in any hurry, she’s not heading towards any destination. She’s just meandering around safely beyond the twelve-nautical-mile limit of the territorial waters of the United States. Safely beyond the reaches of US federal law.

  John Klaesson, in a fleece-lined jacket, chinos and leather yachting shoes, is in his mid-thirties and has about him the rugged air of a mountaineer or an explorer, rather than the academic he is. Six feet tall, lean and strong with short blond hair and gentle blue eyes behind small oval glasses, he has a good-looking, serious face, with resolute Nordic features and a light Californian tan.

  His wife, Naomi, concentrating to keep her balance, is huddled up in a long camel coat over a jumper, jeans and crêpe-soled black suede boots. Her fair hair is styled in a fashionable mid-length blowsy cut, the tangled strands batting over her attractive face accentuating the slight tomboy look she has about her, although her complexion is considerably paler at the moment than normal.

  Yards above their heads the helicopter that has just delivered them hovers, haemorrhaging oily fumes into the mad air, dragging its shadow across the superstructure of the ship like some big empty sack. And that’s how John’s feeling right now; like he’s been tipped out of a sack. Head bowed against the din and the maelstrom, he puts out an arm, steadies his wife, grips her slender frame beneath the softness of her camel coat, feeling close to her, desperately close and protective.

  And responsible.

  The wind is blowing so hard he has to breathe in snatched gulps, the salt misting his glasses, the fumes parching his mouth and throat already arid with nerves. Strands of Naomi’s hair flail his face, hard as whipcords. The deck drops away beneath him, then a moment later is rising, pressing up on his feet like an elevator floor, heaving his stomach up against his rib cage.

  Through the thrashing of the rotors above him he can hear a scuffing noise. This is the first time he’s been in a helicopter and after an hour of pitching and yawing through an Atlantic depression he’s not keen to repeat the experience; he’s feeling the queasiness you get from a bad funfair ride that swivels your brain one way on its axis, and your internal organs another. The fumes aren’t helping, either. Nor is the strong reek of paint and boat varnish, and the deck vibrating beneath his feet.

  Naomi’s arm curls around his waist, squeezing him through the thick lining of his leather jacket. He has a pretty good idea what’s going through her mind, because it’s sure as hell going through his. This uncomfortable feeling of finality. Up until now it has all been just an idea, something they could walk away from at any point. But not any more. Looking at her he thinks, I love you so much, Naomi darling. You’re so brave. I think sometimes you are a lot braver than I am.

  The chopper slips sideways, the roar of the engine increasing, belly light winking, then it angles steeply away and clatters across the water, climbing sharply, abandoning them. For some moments John watches it, then his eyes drop towards the foaming grey ocean hissing with seahorses, stretching far off towards an indistinct horizon.

  ‘OK? Follow me, please.’


  Ahead of them, the polite, very serious-looking Filipino in a white jumpsuit who came out to greet them and to take their bags is holding a door open.

  Stepping over the lip of the companionway, they follow him inside and the door slams shut on the elements behind them. In the sudden quiet they see a chart of the ocean in a frame on the wall, feel the sudden warmth, smell the reek of paint and varnish even stronger in here. The floor thrums beneath them. Naomi squeezes John’s hand. She’s a lousy sailor, always has been – she gets sick on boating ponds – and today she can take nothing for it. No pills, no medication, she’s going to have to tough this one out. John squeezes back, trying to comfort her, and trying to comfort himself.

  Are we doing the right thing?

  It’s a question he has asked himself a thousand times. He’s going to go on asking it for many years. All he can do is keep convincing Naomi and himself that yes, it is the right thing. That’s all. Doing the right thing.

  Really we are.

  Perfect People

  The new standalone thriller from Peter James

  Buy the ebook on Kindle, iBooks or Kobo.

 

 

  Peter James, N (2011) Christmas is for the Kids

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