Authors: Rosen Trevithick
The Ice Marathon
The Ice Marathon
~ A Novella from
Seesaw - Volume II
~
By Rosen
Trevithick
Edition
1.0.6
Copyright
Rosen Trevithick, 2012.
http://www.rosentrevithick.co.uk
With
many thanks to Dr Alice Whiteley.
Also,
thanks to TextMender Editing Services.
Prologue
I pulled on my tights and glossed my lips, determined to
look my best for when they brought him back to me. My turquoise dress was my
favourite; it contrasted with my red hair and had a fun shininess to its
texture. At only eighteen days old, he wouldn’t notice the makeup, but
I
knew it was there – symbolic of my rapid recovery and my newfound strength.
The air outside was bitter. It was icy but with neither the
saving grace of snow nor a crisp blue sky. But I didn’t care – not today. My
baby boy was coming home and that was all that mattered.
I’d been separated from him for four days. They had been the
hardest four days of my life, but in another very wonderful way, they had been
the easiest. As I lay in bed feeling that my world was closing in on me,
feeling hopeless and beyond help, something tied me to the surface like being
roped to a buoy as I plummeted to the seabed. No matter how low I felt, there
was always Joseph pulling me back to the surface.
Now that I had a baby, I could no longer allow the
depressive spells to eat weeks of my life. Somehow, that tiny little boy who
could do nothing for himself was stronger than that powerful illness – the
disease that I once thought capable of crushing anything.
To my delight, the worst of the dark mood passed in just
three days, and here I was a further day down the line, ready to get on with my
life with Joseph.
My watch said nine thirty-one and twenty-two seconds. They
were eighty-two seconds late. I couldn’t thank his paternal grandparents enough
for looking after my little boy during a terrible time, but that time had
passed and I was aching to have my son back at home where he belonged. Hell, I
was aching just to see his little face even for a moment. Had he changed much
in four days? Was he lifting his head yet? How much had I missed?
Instantly, I felt guilty. How could I have missed a second?
He was so young, so tiny … He needed his mother. But then I remembered how
desperately ill I’d been, how close I had been to suicide. I owed it to him to
stay alive, whatever it took, even if it meant handing him over to somebody
else. Far better to give him up for four days than risk giving up on him
forever, no matter how much it hurt me to be separated from him.
The doorbell rang. I sprang out of my seat before it had
finished chiming. I stumbled as I rushed to the door. I scanned the frosted
glass as I hurried down the hall. I threw open the front door. A rush of cold
air stung my face.
The short, but solid figure of Joseph’s grandfather blocked
the doorway – his arms empty.
“Gerald?” I uttered, my eyes hunting for my baby boy.
“Where’s Joseph?”
“Can I come in?” He looked stern.
“Where’s Joseph?” I demanded.
He repeated, “Can I come in?”
I felt panic rising up through my body, one shivering nerve
after another. “
Where is Joseph?
”
Chapter 1
The chilling February nights aggravated my social conscience
– a killer hiding in plain sight. The colder the night, the harder it was to go
home. Even though I’d worked for Shelter for five years, the February nights
always filled me with cynicism and disgust.
With my bottle-green scarf wrapped tightly around me, I
locked the door to the building and began the journey home. Yellow streetlights
wore halos as they illuminated the bitter fog around them. The ground had
already started to freeze; the gravel had that extra crunch when I stepped.
“Don’t take your work home, Emma,” I told myself, “or you
won’t come back tomorrow.”
I heard my stomach grumble. I’d had a minor tummy upset for
the last three days and a nice meal was just what I needed. If I were lucky,
Nicky would have cooked. Yes, dinner, perhaps a DVD, then bed for me tonight. I
liked being thirty; it eased the suspicion that staying in on a Friday night
made me a tragic social leper. Besides, it had been a long day. With every
step, I felt myself unwind a little more; the walk to the train station usually
helped to ease the transition from work to home mode.
That was when I saw a familiar face peering out from a
doorway – gaunt and tired, but beautiful nonetheless. Wisps of her honey-blonde
hair swirled from her hood, her cheeks were pink from the cold and her green
eyes looked pale and sunken. Tina. I looked down at her winter coat and flask.
My heart sank.
Not again; not at
this
time of year.
She saw me
and smiled.
“Tina, are you sleeping rough again?”
She looked at the ground. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be daft, there’s no need to apologise. Just tell me
what happened.” I perched myself on the step beside her. The cold burnt through
my jeans, smarting my buttocks.
“I didn’t like the man,” she said, in her usual, sweet,
melodic tones; as if her homelessness were a minor niggle.
“What man?” I demanded.
“The man at the B&B.”
“The B&B was run by a man?” I was livid. I’d expressly
advised that Tina be placed in a female-only residence.
“No, he was just in the room next to me.”
“There shouldn’t have been any men there at all! I’m sorry, Tina;
I’ll call the council first thing.”
“What are they going to do on a Saturday?” she sighed,
rhetorically.
“Find you a new place, if I have anything to do with it.”
“I’m fine. It’s warming up now.”
“It’s the beginning of February and Tina, you’re
pregnant
!”
She shrugged and stood up. “I don’t mean to be rude, Emma,
but I’ve gotta go.”
“Go where?”
Before I could stand, she was already some paces away. I
pulled myself up as quickly as I could. “Tina, wait!” She had already
disappeared around a corner. I hurried after her, my feet skidding on the
frozen pavement. The street was cluttered with business people striding toward
their cars. The crowds swallowed Tina up like a hungry swamp. “Where are you?”
I muttered. I found myself revolving on the spot as I scanned the crossroads. I
couldn’t see her anywhere. I yelled, “Where are you?”
* * *
Ah! The welcoming warmth of home. It wouldn’t be long before
I could once again feel my face. The aroma of spaghetti bolognaise wafted
through my nostrils – a pleasant reminder that I had a nose.
As soon as I saw the tablecloth, I remembered –
oh no
– it was dinner party night. How could I have forgotten? It was usual for
Nicky’s dinner parties to be preceded by feelings of dread.
She was in the kitchen wearing a purple dress, cut to
accentuate her ample bosom and underplay her slightly ample stomach. Chopsticks
pinned her wavy, chestnut hair, maximising the impact of her strong cheekbones.
Her brown eyes looked even larger than usual, thanks to generous lashings of
eyeliner. She looked gorgeous.
“You’re late,” she scolded.
“I’ve had a hellish day.”
“Well quick, get changed, Simon will be here any moment.”
“Oh no, Nicky, you didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
“Invite another one of Dave’s friends so that you could set
me up!”
She looked up guiltily, raising her thick, groomed brows,
and whistled through her red painted lips.
“Not today! Nicky, I’ve had a hellish day – really awful.
I’ve been walking round the streets for the last hour looking for …” I was
going to say Tina but then I remember confidentiality. “It’s just been
dreadful.”
“This should perk you up then,” she sung.
I looked at her and managed a weak smile. Then I caught a
glimpse of my flannel shirt and grey work trousers reflected in the mirror. I
looked like a lumberjack elephant. Could I really be bothered to change? The
last thing I felt like was getting to know a stranger, but Nicky had obviously
been to a great deal of effort and the bolognaise smelt heavenly. “Okay, fine.
But he’d better not be another Tory.”
* * *
“Darko the Duck is
not
in love with Larry the Lion!”
I scoffed.
“Yes he is!” insisted The Date (this variety was known as
Simon). He had one of those ‘trust me’ faces that I’d learnt never to trust –
handsome features with a square jaw, an improbably straight nose and
stupidly-sparkly, ice-blue eyes. A template good-looker
and
he knew it.
Already he was annoying me.
“They’re puppets!” I pointed out. “They don’t have sex
drives.”
“This isn’t about sex, it’s about true love!”
Nicky and Dave chuckled. In contrast to Nicky, her boyfriend
was somewhat casually groomed. His messy toast-coloured hair hung down the
sides of his face, still debating whether to be curly or straight. His retro
‘Jarvis Cocker’ glasses were damaged in one corner and hung crookedly on his
face.
“They’re puppets!” I repeated.
“So what, does Kermit not love Miss Piggy?”
I thought about it. I couldn’t bring myself to renounce
Kermit’s froggy affections, even to win an argument with this infuriating man.
I poured myself a second glass of wine and then pointed out, “It’s a kid’s
show!”
“So is
The Muppets
.”
“Not exclusively.”
“Adults can watch
Larry the Lion
.”
“Not unless they’re on acid. Besides, one’s a lion and one’s
a duck. How would that even work?”
“You’ve got no imagination,” he said, with a little smile.
He had one of those deep, commanding voices. The sort that appends every
sentence with, “You know I’m right.”
“I’ve got no imagination?” I jeered. “Um, no! I can totally
imagine a duck and a lion doing it.”
Can I really?
“It’s just that Darko
the Duck is not gay.”
“Why? Because he doesn’t fit your stereotypical idea of what
a gay duck would look like?”
“Um, no! I don’t make prejudicial judgments about anybody’s
sexuality – aquatic birds included. Tell him, Nicky!”
Nicky just shrugged, looking deeply amused. I appeared to be
the only one genuinely worked up about this, and that just wound me up even
more. It wasn’t the cartoon love that bothered me; it was this man coming into
our house and speaking as if every word that came out of his mouth was the
undisputable truth. Already something about Simon Moran was rubbing me up the
wrong way. He just seemed so certain in his convictions, no matter how
ludicrous. His smug manner chafed my brain. I topped up my wine.
“I just know, that in this case, the duck ain’t gay!” Why
was I yelling?
“So,” Nicky cut in quickly. “What do you do for a living,
Emma?”
“You know what I do for a living. We’re best friends.”
“Yes, but Simon doesn’t.”
I glared at her. Had I known much earlier that she was
planning on setting me up
again
, I would have gone out for dinner. I
didn’t have any money, but I’d have sooner eaten a discarded kebab than sit
through this.
But instead, I was sitting here wearing a low cut
emerald-green top. I’d scrunched my long red hair with a little mousse,
encouraging it to fall in loose curls on my shoulders; I was even sporting
contact lenses that enhanced the turquoise of my eyes. I looked just like
somebody who may want to be in this predicament, but trust me, I did not.
I was even wearing a figure-enhancing teddy, with a poppered
crotch, that made my lady bits work to flatten my tummy. To think I was
sacrificing crotch comfort to look slender for this twonk.
I glanced at Nicky’s dangling earrings – new, I supposed.
These setups were primarily for her benefit. She’d been with Dave for eight
years now – half of her adult life – and I knew she missed the thrill of the
chase. So, instead, she perpetually arranged dates for me. They were always
dinner dates where she was the host. She never gave me a man’s number and let
us sort ourselves out.
Dave, as loyal as ever, played his part. He may have been
wearing ripped jeans and odd socks, but he did wear the blue shirt Nicky had
ironed for him, even though it was rather optimistically sized. Still, when the
buttons were at risk of flying off, it did stop her shouting at him for
slouching.
I wondered if Simon had known what he was walking into. The
crisp white shirt suggested that he did and judging by the look of his tush
when he went to the bathroom, those were his best jeans. What a disappointment
I must be – a woman who challenged him. With a swagger like that, I doubt
people stood up to him often.
“Emma is also in housing,” explained Nicky.