Billy Christmas Page 7

  “What happened, Billy?” said his mother. “Who burned the fence down?”

  “It was rotten, Mum,” said Billy, not quite meeting her eyes. “It had to come down.”

  “Rotten?”

  Katherine turned the corner at pace.

  “I don’t think it was rotten. It was quite new,” said his mother, struggling to find a parental tone.

  “It had to come down,” said Billy, getting cross at being questioned, and even more aware of people in cars staring at them both. Neighbours from across the street were showing worrying signs of popping over to check that everything was all right. Katherine had started to slow down, her eyes widening at the scene that greeted her. Billy shot her a pleading look as he wheeled his bike away from the house.

  “I’ll explain later, Mum.”

  He hopped onto his saddle and started pumping the pedals, hoping his mother would cope with the neighbours on her own. He had no idea how he was going to explain this later, but without a task to concern himself with, he had all day to ponder the question.

  * * *

  Katherine cycled with Billy along the river path.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Billy had fallen into a sombre mood. It was unfair that he should be made to feel like some naughty child after all the effort he had put in this year. He knew that legally he was the minor, but hadn’t he earned any credit for keeping himself and his mother afloat?

  “Things are a bit tense at home.”

  “What happened to the fence?”

  “Do you mind if I tell you after Christmas?”

  Katherine looked over the river. “You’ll have to be quick. We’re leaving between Christmas and New Year.”

  Billy felt as though he had been kicked in the guts. He couldn’t find the words to respond. Between Christmas and New Year?

  “About yesterday?” said Katherine. “I think this is probably going to be hard enough for both of us. Let’s just try and be friends, OK?”

  Billy nodded in silent agreement, the whitening knuckles on his handlebars telling a different story. He longed for a task to distract him from this dismal day.

  * * *

  School reverted to the typical. Typical identikit classes, with typical unpleasant breaks skirting typical abuse from the usual suspects, typical concern at his mood from teachers who aimed for him only to bumble quietly through classes as his fellow pupils did. There was not even the prospect of cycling home with Katherine, who was staying after school for hockey practice. Why practice now? Wasn’t she about to leave all her teams? He stopped himself here. She was at practice for the same reason that he needed a task: to be distracted. At least he had the hope of his distractions, his tasks, taking him somewhere better. Between them both, it was Katherine, constant and stable, who was at the mercy of larger forces. With that thought, he burst the bubble of his bad mood and got on with his day.

  Arriving back at home, he could see why his mother had been shocked. Piles of ash lay where the fence had been, and light wisps of smoke continued to rise up. A gentle breeze had carried away the upper layer of light greys, leaving the deeper charcoal colours to contrast with the thinning snow on the lawn. The other houses on his street looked picturesque and seasonal whilst his home looked broken and a little sad. Thinking back to the morning, he realised that his mother hadn’t even raised her voice. What would he tell her now?

  He walked into the kitchen to be greeted by the smell of cooking. Real cooking. His mother was hovering over the stove, all elbows and pans. Billy grinned; he liked to think he got his height from his father, but his elbows were undeniably from her. His mother looked up and returned the smile.

  “I thought I’d give Jamie Oliver a run for his money.”

  “That could mean quite a lot of running, Mum, he’s loaded.”

  As pleased as he was to see her in good form, could he enjoy this meal knowing she might sink back to her grieving self at any moment?

  The smell of the food allowed his stomach to get in on the debate, and he surrendered. They sat at the table, enjoyed the meal and spoke without mentioning the fence.

  December 19th

  NOT WANTING TO REPEAT THE mistake of the previous night, Billy made sure he was awake and in the living room for midnight. He waited, looking through the front window onto the lawn, with his dressing gown arms ending at his elbows. It was a brighter night, and he could see the patches on the lawn where the snow had seeped away into the grass—just odd patches, as if a mole had been raising hills. Beyond the garden, he could see that the lights were on in the bungalow opposite, and more, that figures seemed to be peering through its window. He spun around and switched off the small sidelight he’d been using each night. Had they seen him burn the fence down? Surely they weren’t tuning in to see what happened next? Perhaps the house on fire this time?

  Well, if they wanted to look out they would need to turn their own light off, he thought, scraping around for reassurance. A burning fence was one thing to explain, a walking talking tree quite another.

  “Good evening.”

  The Tree made Billy jump, his attention snapped back to the room and he clenched his fists to calm himself.

  “My apologies, I thought you were waiting for me,” said the Tree.

  “No problem. Just excuse me while I restart my heart.”

  “Aha, a joke. We’ve had precious few of those between us.”

  “It’s been that kind of year.”

  The Tree was looking magnificent. Where the lights had once swamped its branches, it was hard now to see any of the wire between the lights; where before the needles were short and thin, they were now long and thick; and where once Billy had looked down on the Tree, it now topped him by over three feet.

  “I understand. Agnes would tell me jokes. I should like to hear another before I’m gone.”

  “I can never remember them.”

  “I’m told the ruder the joke, the easier it is to remember,” said the Tree.

  Billy looked up at the Tree thoughtfully. Its eyes were now just above his own, a pair of blinking branches looking back at him.

  “Do you think this is your last visit?”

  “I don’t know that for certain, any more than you would know whether tomorrow is your last day,” said the Tree. “I feel old though, Billy, old age is creeping into my core. I used to have a good memory for the centuries I’d seen. But as the world has sped up, as it has over the last four centuries, I feel less sure of the things I have seen. They are slipping away from me like the memory of a dream when you wake in the morning.”

  “But you look in such great shape,” said Billy. “You look amazing.”

  “Smoke and mirrors, Billy,” said the Tree. “With perhaps a little more in reserve. There is still much to do.”

  The Tree hopped out of the bucket, and Billy shot a look over the road. The lights had gone out. Had they gone to bed or made it easier to see across the street?

  “You must focus, Billy. You have your part in this.”

  The stern tone sharpened his mind. The neighbours could think what they liked. With the Tree in such resplendent health, a green light seemed to spark out of the needles. Billy felt his forearms tingle. Looking down, he could see that the hairs were standing up as though a strong source of static was in the room. The Tree bowed, and Billy looked up to see the four connected gold rings being offered. As he reached forward, the hairs on his arm leant towards the Tree and began to vibrate, making his skin itch. He snatched at the rings. There was a loud crackle and a jolt made his muscles clench at once as though he’d held an electric fence.

  “Ow!” said Billy. “What is it doing?”

  The Tree remained silent, though Billy read concern on its face. The tight clench of his right fist gradually subsided. He was able to open his hand, which now felt as though it had a bad case of pins and needles. To his horror, he found his fingers locked together: somehow the four rings had slipped over them and were now fixed benea
th his knuckles. He could feel the rings tightening on his digits, and started to fear they would continue to close until squeezing them clean off.

  “What is this?” Billy turned to the Tree with real fear now. “It’s hurting.”

  “Is it really hurting?”

  He paused for a moment. “No. I suppose not.”

  “You’ve never seen this device before?”

  “No.”

  “Is the twenty-first century a much calmer place, I wonder?” said the Tree. “Do the police still patrol here unarmed?”

  “Well yes,” said Billy, thinking this didn’t really explain life in the twenty-first century, or answer his question for that matter. “It’s a bit more complicated than that though.”

  The Tree nodded. “’Twas ever thus. At least I think so…”

  “Can you please tell me what I have on my hand?” said Billy, trying to conceal his panic.

  “Certainly. You have on your hand what was known in common parlance as a knuckleduster,” said the Tree.

  Billy stared at the Tree. Was his next task an early spring clean?

  The Tree drew closer, speaking quietly and deliberately. “It is a weapon. Your next task is to smite your enemy.”

  Billy looked at the object on his fingers. What had been perfect circles now had raised ridges along the outer side. As he formed a fist, the ridges defined themselves, rising to form weighty studs. This was a knuckleduster with added magical attitude. Whoever was on the wrong side of this would not forget the encounter. Billy flexed his fist uncertainly.

  “To smite means to…”

  “I know what smite means,” said Billy. “You mean for me to have a fight.”

  “Not I, it is the task,” said the Tree, still speaking in low tones. “And smite implies to win a fight. I am sorry.”

  He looked up, surprised at the gentle words coming from the Tree.

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “This task appears to be very much against your nature,” said the Tree. “I suspect provoking a fight will feel quite unnatural for you.”

  Billy knew that he could make a good account of himself if required, but he’d only ever needed to defend himself. Even in the thick of a real fight, no matter how angry he’d get, he would take steps to avoid seriously hurting an opponent. He would use the leverage of his long limbs to pin them down until the fury left them, or at least until a prefect arrived.

  “I might not have to provoke it very much,” said Billy.

  “They must make life difficult for you.”

  “Well yes, but what with home it doesn’t matter that much.”

  The Tree nodded. “See out the dark days, Billy.”

  It hopped back into the bucket and fell still and silent.

  Robert Lock had sprung into Billy’s mind as soon as the task had been uttered. His face, leering from the top of the bike shed, taunted Billy, daring him to take up this challenge. With Robert’s relentless abuse, a big fight between them had probably been inevitable anyway. No matter the circumstances, Billy still hated causing people pain. Simply by being clumsy, he’d inadvertently caused a number of injuries to friends over the years. As a child, riding his rocking horse too hard, he had toppled the wooden beast over itself, throwing him to the floor, bashing his knees and jaw. His friend Michael had been sitting in front of the horse, waiting patiently for his turn. The horse hit him so hard in the mouth that his teeth had plunged through his upper lip, scarring him permanently. Billy had sat shivering in the corner whilst his father patched Michael up before taking him off to the hospital. All afternoon he’d remained in the corner, both there and not there. He’d still been in the corner when Michael’s mother called around to make sure Billy understood the consequences of his carelessness.

  “He’s learnt this lesson well enough,” said his mother before going into full diplomatic mode. Her hugs had brought him back later that afternoon. He had learned there wasn’t much he hated more in this world than causing another person pain. Michael had never spoken to Billy again.

  This year had left its mark on Billy, but he hadn’t forgotten that old lesson. Now he was going to have to provoke and prevail, inflicting more, perhaps permanent, scars on another. However much Robert’s cruel behaviour might justify this action, Billy did not relish the task and he struggled to find sleep.

  * * *

  Nothing Katherine said on the cycle to school managed to shake him from his mood. Billy was sure that everyone at school would hear about the fight, and he wasn’t sure how she would react to his provoking it. In the end, an awkward silence fell between them, which he felt sad about too. He didn’t want Katherine to think he was sulking about her asking that they just remain friends. With her imminent departure, this seemed sensible anyhow. It was going to be hard enough losing her to the Gulf as it was.

  Arriving at school, Billy looked at the kids milling about before registration. Robert didn’t have a bike, so there was no easy way to see if he had turned up yet. Often he was late for registration, with the smell of cigarettes thick on his clothes. The pronounced lump of the knuckles in the outer pocket of Billy’s rucksack was making him quite self-conscious. If he was caught with the weapon, he was certain he’d be suspended, perhaps even expelled.

  Before he slept he’d taken a closer look at the knuckleduster. Wherever you prodded it the thing was as solid as steel, but when he gripped it, the stud-like appendages would appear. Deeper, in the palm of his hand, the knuckleduster broadened to steady itself. He could also feel a sort of ratcheting mechanism occasionally ticking within it; there was more to this device than he had found so far. Eventually, he’d placed it on the blade of the axe. Should anyone want to attack the house now, they had better be prepared for the consequences. This was a long way from a comforting thought.

  Robert turned up a few minutes late, but sporting a black eye which looked so fresh and angry that their tutor, Mr. Rowe, who was usually very calm, gasped in shock.

  “What happened, Robert?”

  Robert paused, and looked at him whilst waiting for the class to fall silent. He drew back a wide grin, revealing a gap where one of his upper front teeth had been. Billy saw that blood had flown through tiny, ruptured veins in one eye, turning the white area quite red. “I walked into a door, sir.”

  Mr. Rowe looked both cross and sad. “A door?”

  “Yeah, but you should see the state of it.”

  This raised a healthy giggle from the class. Robert waded through the desks to his chair. Sitting down, he looked over at Billy and smiled. It was so neutral Billy couldn’t tell whether it was ironic or a random act of communication. Billy looked down; Robert had been through hell and back, how could he possibly smite him now?

  The question dogged him throughout the morning. Despite his cocky reaction, Robert had clearly been in a brutal fight. Thinking about it, Billy realised he didn’t know much about Robert at all. There were no brothers or sisters he knew of, no one had ever seen a parent. It was strange now that he thought of it: one of the most notorious but actually little-known people at school.

  Then he stopped this train of thought. He was on a quest. He must restore his father to his home. He turned his mind to the kind of conversations children on the playground, particularly younger children, were more familiar having with Robert Lock. The screams, the pleading and the disbelief that despite these pleas the pain was going to continue. Girls, boys, dinner ladies too afraid of a brick through their kitchen windows—all were prey to his psychotic episodes. Billy started to feel on firmer ground; the task had a purpose, perhaps even a heroic quality. Not one person had stood up to Robert, not in a meaningful way. Not in a way that he would find hard to forget, perhaps for many years to come.

  Billy slipped his hand into the outer pocket of his rucksack. The knuckleduster jumped onto his fingers, coiling and adjusting for size. He pumped his fist and ran the raised studs against the pocket lining. Robert was going down.

  With the decision made, and
his courage teetering on stilts, Billy brought the event forward to lunchtime. He had wanted to do this after school to attract less attention, but some deep instinct was telling him it had to happen now. Not blind to his long-held fear of authority or the potential of having a visit from social services, he was also beginning to believe that the Tree was his best, and probably only, shot at returning to a normal life. He had to follow these tasks through. Besides, Saul was having an amazing effect on his mother. She might even be able to stand up to an inspection from a social worker. There had to be worse homes than his, didn’t there?

  He filed out of the maths class, paying close attention to where Robert was headed. As usual, he had a collection of mates, and kids who wanted to be considered his mates, and as usual they formed a circle around him whilst he got his first cigarette of the break under way. Billy leant awkwardly against a wall, knuckleduster now in his coat pocket, waiting for a moment to make his move.

  “What’s on your mind, Billy?”

  He turned sharply to face Katherine. He was usually delighted when she initiated conversation, but of all moments, not now.

  “Nothing.”

  “Please don’t lie to me. You’re not very good at it, and I don’t like it.”

  Over Katherine’s shoulder, he could see Robert’s entourage begin to fade. This was when they headed to the tuck shop to stock up on sweets for the afternoon, the moment Billy had been waiting for.

  “I’m not lying, I…”

  “Billy. I still want to be your friend. Is this because I’m going away?”

  Robert had bent down to do a shoelace up. His mob had moved on to the tuck shop queue where they were pushing other kids roughly out of their place in the line. This was as good as it was going to get.

  “This has nothing to do with that. I still love…” said Billy, before putting the brakes on, before remembering he had a smiting to deliver. “I mean, we’re still friends. But I have to go now.”