Splintered Ice

2

2Fractured thoughts lay strewn across his subconscious as Mrs Roberts questioned him, relentlessly. This was not what he wanted. He would have liked to have spent an hour or so in Bookland, browsing through the books, finding comfort in the thought of going home and sitting next to a roaring fire, curled up and cosy with a good book. Hard Times perhaps, which seemed to fit the bill and reflected his own dark mood. But she wouldn't let that happen, not Mrs Roberts, not now. She wanted to know everything and she had him, a fish on her line, and slowly drew him in towards the landing net. “I never suspected anything, well not at first you understand, but then she was always off out, wasn't she? I mean, she only learned to drive two years ago, makes you think that doesn't it, her having the freedom to go where she pleased. All falls into place when you think about it, not that I ever did of course because, like I said, I never suspected. Not at the time, you understand. Not at the time. Well, you wouldn't…” And so it went on, a tirade of meaningless sentences, all jumbled up and delivered at a machine-g*n rate. Jed stopped listening after a few seconds, drawn more to the stumps of her blackened, bombed-out teeth than to the words that fell out of her wide mouth, spattering him like tiny nails or pins. Anything metallic really. Anything that hurt.

He'd never really liked Mrs Roberts. Neither had Dad. She used to call him Mr Meres, as if the use of his Christian name was anathema to her. Always called mum Doris though. Doris. God, Jed hated that name. Mum wasn't a Doris, anymore than he was a Sebastian. But that's what he was, Sebastian Jethroe Meres. Who in their right mind would call their child that? Thank goodness some enlightened soul nicknamed him 'Jed' when he was barely six months old. The name had stuck and that was what he had become. But Dad had remained Mr Meres and Mum Doris. Even though a horrible name that didn't suit her at all, she would forever be known as Doris.

“Of course, I've always seen Doris as one of my closest friends and I'm actually quite hurt, you know, by all of this.”

“What?” The last sentence had brought him out of his daydreaming. She felt hurt? “Why do you feel hurt, Mrs Roberts? None of this has got anything to do with you.”

“Well of course it has – she's my friend. That's what I mean when I say I'm hurt; because she should have told me, let me into her confidence.” What, so the whole flaming world could know about it? Jed didn't say anymore, just nodded his head, shrugged, then exhaled. “So you'll let me know as soon as you hear anything?” Jed nodded again. “That's a promise now, isn't it?”

“Of course, Mrs Roberts. Goodbye, Mrs Roberts.”

He moved away just as she prepared to launch herself into another soliloquy and he took some small delight in registering her obvious displeasure at him not wanting to listen to her anymore.

He couldn't shake the fact that her words had had an effect upon him. That mention of his mum deciding to take up driving lessons, to have passed her test, then spending more and more time going out in the little car she had bought herself. At the time he had thought of it as quite exciting. The family had never owned a car before. They could look forward to Sunday afternoon drives out into the country now, picnics and visits to interesting places, no longer having to rely on the vagaries of the local transport system. But as the weeks went by none of it had happened. Every weekend Jed would feel the build up of expectation, and every weekend he would be disappointed. Mum always seemed to be going somewhere else. Nipping out to the shops, taking her friends to the tombola…it all made sense now. Mum was having an affair.

Strange how things that are happening right under your nose go unnoticed, he mused. It never entered Jed's head to consider his mum could be seeing another man. Mums don't do that sort of thing; they stay at home and cook dinners and wash school uniforms. They don't carry on behind your dad's back. That sort of stuff was for television dramas and cheap, unbelievable romance novels. Never in real life, never in the safe and secure bosom of the home.

He crossed over the road and wandered down towards the park. The shops soon petered out and he took some time to lean over the railings and stare at the cricket pitch. The season would be starting soon. It seemed too cold to be standing around in white trousers and shirt, waiting for something to happen. But spring was almost here, despite the fact that a tingle of frost nipped at his cheeks. New beginnings. For his mum too, by all accounts.

The park was empty, apart from a few birds scampering across the footpath looking for titbits. They didn't even bother to move as he sauntered past. He wished he'd brought a thicker coat, the blue sky having lured him into a false sense of security. Down here, away from the press of houses and shops, it had grown bitter and he hunched his shoulders up, pulling his thin denim jacket closer, trying to rustle up some protection from the cold. He gripped the collar with his right hand, pinching the two sides together, head down, watching his feet as he followed the sloping pathway which led to the lake.

He looked up to catch sight of a lone fisherman on the far side of the lake, cocooned in a one-piece rain-suit. Green and hideous. He stirred at Jed's approach, the grip on the fishing rod barely shifting at all. Jed slowed, eying him with an intense curiosity. Why would anyone be fishing on such a day as this? The man – for it was a man, despite a great wide hood concealing his face – had broken a hole in the thin ice covering the lake's surface and through it had expertly dropped his line into the depths. Jed recalled someone telling him carp and roach were in there, but he wasn't sure. He'd only dabbled in angling himself, catching the bus down to the Shropshire Union canal twice in his entire life. He'd enjoyed it, sitting there on the bank, gazing out across the dappled water. But that was at least two years ago. Now, looking at the angler, he felt that he'd like to have a go again, but not today. Today was far too cold. Shaking his head slightly, Jed turned to continue his way around the lake, away from the man.

A loud cry pulled him up short – the cry of victory. Jed turned, half smiling, to see the man getting to his feet, the line taut, rod bending alarmingly. One hell of a fish must be on the end of it, Jed thought and watched, an eager witness to the battle to come.

But then something terrible happened, something Jed would never have believed possible. The man slipped, the weight of the fish pulling him towards the water's edge. He could have stopped himself, of course, but he must have lost his footing on the ice that lay black and shiny on the little path. His next cry was not one of triumph, but one of utter horror. The fish darted viciously to the side, taking the man by surprise and, desperate to find some sense of grip, feet doing a little dance, he slipped and fell. Rooted to the spot through disbelief, Jed wanted to shout out, tell him to let go; he could have let go of the rod; he should have let go, but he didn't. Perhaps it was expensive, his best one, his trusty weapon of war. Whatever the reason, the man clung on and pitched forward towards the surface of the lake.

Everything went into slow motion from that point.

The thin ice cracked and splintered as the man hit it, face down, with a tremendous slap, like that of a flat hand smacking down upon a tabletop. For one ghastly moment, the man lay there, spread-eagled, floating, not moving.

Knowing he had to do something, Jed forced himself to move and took a few tentative steps forward. Fearful that any sudden movement might break the fragile ice completely, he took his time, and watched the ice slowly begin to give way, cracks like spokes from a wheel, spreading out in all directions. An awful groan like a loud, bored yawn, then the ice shattered completely and the man plunged into the depths.

All at once, the water boiled as the man fought frantically, arms and legs flapping, panic setting in as the he desperately tried to keep himself afloat. Jed believed the lake to be bottomless and as he stepped closer, mouth hanging open, he felt sure it must be true. The angler floundered, pulled relentlessly under, the cold water dragging him down, freezing his limbs, escape impossible.

Debating only briefly whether he should to the man's aid, he waded into the icy, murky water, gasping as the cold hit him, snatching his breath away. But he was surprised to find that his feet could touch the bottom.

But of the man, there was no sign. With water at such a low temperature, he could be dead within seconds. Stooping down, Jed used his arms to dredge around, trying to find the body. But he had completely disappeared, the water thick and impenetrable with dirt and w**d. So much w**d. How could anyone fish in this? So black, so cold. There was nothing else for it, so he took a breath and plunged his face down into the blackness.

A pair of stark white hands erupted from the water and grabbed him, pulling him under. Jed, embroiled in a flurry of seething, writhing tentacles, gripping him around the neck with a strength that was frightening, did his best to pull away, but those arms, they were like steal, fingers digging into his flesh. Struggling, he fought back, lungs screaming, heartbeat pounding in his temples, eyes bulging. Pushing down on a clump of large rocks, he hauled himself upwards with all his strength, every sinew straining, and freed himself from the freezing water. Spluttering and coughing, gulping in the air, he clutched at the hands still clawing at his throat and dragged himself backwards, bringing the angler with him.

Reaching the bank, Jed fell, the sheer momentum ripping away the man's hands, and Jed lay there, stunned and breathless, looking up at the gloriously blue sky, thanking God he was free. Senses blurred, except for the pain where fingernails had raked through skin, he sat up and tenderly felt his throat. The cuts, probably deep ones at that, stung like hell where the water had hit them. But that was as nothing compared to the intense cold spreading through him, biting deep, solidifying his arms and legs.

Looking down he saw the lower part of his legs, still in the water. He saw them, but he couldn't feel them. And next to him, breathing hard like a floundering fish out of water, lay the man, eyes wide, water drooling from his blue-lipped mouth. Veins bulged from his skin, mapping out a fine irregular needlework pattern across his face. But he lived. Despite the cold, Jed experienced almost euphoric relief. Both of them were alive.