What Happens at Christmas

by Evonne Wareham

  Still slightly dazed, Lori followed his retreating back and a deluge of instructions out of the cottage door.

  Chapter Eleven

  21 December, Afternoon

  The return to consciousness was slow and painful. This time he felt really sick, but the hood had gone.

  Probably because Mr Right and Lefty had gone too.

  Drew squinted around. This was the hut. He was sitting, slumped rather, on what seemed to be a low bench against the wall. Light was filtering in from a narrow row of cobweb-covered windows, just under the roof. High over his head. The corners of the structure were deep in shadow. From the faint, lingering odour of motor oil, he guessed the place was normally used to store small machinery and tools. There was no machinery here now.

  Perfect for storing an unwanted best-selling author.

  Instinctively, Drew shivered. It wasn’t particularly cold, just dank and gloomy, but the thin jacket of his suit wasn’t going to be much use when night fell and the temperature dropped.

  You have to be out of here by then. He pushed himself up from the bench to investigate a thin line of light on the opposite wall, that seemed to indicate a door – and then came to a painful, clanking halt as his left arm pulled, jerking him back. Where his watch should have been was a narrow metal cuff, anchoring him to the wall with a business-like length of chain.

  ‘Fuck!’

  He stepped forward, carefully. Sideways on, with his left arm stretched back and his right stretched forward, he was a few inches short of the door. With another curse, he subsided back onto the bench. Something under the bench clanked as his foot hit it. He peered down. Great. They’d left him a metal bucket. No prizes for guessing what that was for …

  Carefully he felt along the bench. In the darkest corner his questing hands encountered a large paper bag that rustled as he lifted it. Gingerly he extracted a little of the contents, sniffed, then tried a bite. Some sort of trail mix. Nuts and dried fruit. Tucked right against the wall were a box of energy bars, a carboy of water and what seemed to be a small thermos flask. He unscrewed the top and sniffed again. Coffee. Wondering if it was laced with anything – from choice, a good slug of whisky – he took a mouthful. Lukewarm, stewed and bitter. It tasted like heaven. And it was warm. The damp chill was getting to him. Gut instinct told him that the coffee was neither doped nor poisoned. That isn’t how this thing is going down. He drank it, and felt immediately better.

  More exploring, to the length of the chain in the other direction, yielded nothing else. He flopped back down on the bench. From the look of the fragile winter light coming through the windows it was at least midday, maybe later. They’d taken his watch and emptied his pockets – no phone, money, keys, Swiss Army knife. He wondered, briefly, if someone was right now riding his customised Harley. Or raiding his Chelsea flat.

  But that wasn’t how this thing was playing out either, unless Mr Right or Lefty was indulging in a bit of private enterprise.

  Someone has been clever, setting this up – especially the coffee.

  The necessities of life, and a pot to pee in – plenty for a few hours of hostage experience for a writer known for research on the stupid side of realism.

  Except this isn’t research, and I don’t think it’s meant to end in a few hours. Unless I’ve pissed someone off, big time, and this is a spot of revenge, it only has one end.

  When he was found – God, when – it was going to look like a crazy accident. A tragic breakdown in communication over the Christmas break that left Andrew Vitruvius trapped in his wooden prison, instead of being picked up by a support crew. There were holes in it, but it was just plausible enough for doubt. His reputation would be enough to swing it.

  Hoist with your own petard, you stupid tosser.

  No one was coming to the rescue and somehow he didn’t think Mr Right and Lefty were going to be raising any alarms and putting their hands up as the ones who’d dumped him here.

  He had to find a way out of this bloody hut.

  Oh, and figure out who might just possibly want you dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  21 December, late afternoon

  The barn was beautiful, with high windows, bright rugs, big squashy sofas in autumn colours, throws of soft Welsh wool and a mountain of cushions.

  And fabulous views over the hills of the Brecon Beacons, just dipping into a hazy twilight. Later there would be stars.

  It was already getting dark. They explored the house in the fading light. Lori got the wood burner in the kitchen going more easily than she expected, with the logs stacked in a carrier beside it, before dragging what they would need for the night out of the car. Misty was crooning to Griff, still incarcerated in his basket and beginning to get restive. Lori straightened up from hefting a rucksack out of the back of the car, which was parked on the gravelled area in front of the barn. The place looked magical, with lights from the oil lamps that were dotted around twinkling inside it, visible through the uncurtained windows.

  Very Christmassy. And that’s how it’s going to stay. No way am I pushing my luck and tangling with that generator tonight.

  They would make do with the lamps and candles and the glow from the wood-burning stove. And probably a lot of giggling. She found bedding in a large linen press on the landing and after a few moments thought, made up the twin beds in the larger of the two bedrooms on the mezzanine level over the main room. If Misty woke in the night, disoriented, she would be nearby, and Griff wouldn’t have to patrol the corridor, deciding whose bed to sleep on, if they shared the room.

  Lori hauled some more bags and boxes inside, before concluding that the rest could wait until morning. It was too dark now to see clearly. She unpacked what they would need for a simple meal. Rolls, cooked ham, some Christmas pickles, a large bag of salt and vinegar crisps, apples and a chunk of Victoria sponge that Mike’s mam had sent over with Misty, after feeding her lunch. Lori had grabbed a sausage roll in the village, on route to explain in person to the owners of the B&B why she was cancelling her booking. Thankfully they seemed relieved not to be having Christmas guests. Now she was starving.

  Released from his basket, Griff had clearly decided his humans were currently a bauble short of a Christmas tree and had retreated to the highest beam he could find, spreading himself out like a basking leopard, only yellow eyes and a vague shape visible in the darkness.

  Lori laid out the food and lit a couple of candles, placing them carefully in holders on the table. The stove was already sending warmth stealing into the corners of the barn.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ she called to Misty, who was settling her favourite toy rabbit on one of the sofas. ‘Let’s eat.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  21 December, evening

  By the time light began to fade from the windows Drew had given up the faint hope that this was all someone’s idea of a joke, and that the cavalry would be coming over the hill any moment. He hadn’t managed to find a way out of the hut, or figure out who wanted him damaged – perhaps irrevocably.

  This is not going well.

  The bruises supplied by Mr Right and Lefty were aching, and his muscles were sore and beginning to stiffen. He’d eaten some of the trail mix, although he really wasn’t that hungry, and drunk some of the water. He’d explored every part of the hut he could reach and found no weak spots anywhere. He’d tried yelling and then banging on the wall, just for a change of pace. For a heart-stopping moment there had been a noise outside the hut. Drew held his breath until the noise resolved into snuffling and rustling. Not human. He’d yelled again, just in case it was a dog, with an owner nearby, but when he paused to listen the noises had stopped completely. He’d probably scared whatever it was away.

  He’d gone methodically over the cuff and the chain and the fastening that anchored it to one of the support struts of the building. Without anything to pick or prise at the metal he’d simply scraped and torn his fingertips bloody. Crouching, then lying on the floor of the hut, to
the extent of the chain, he’d located a heavy cotton dust sheet piled in a corner and laboriously inched it towards him with his feet, until he could grasp it and pull it in. It felt sticky to the touch and reeked of mildew, but it would keep off some of the night chill.

  Now the hut was pitch black.

  He fought a flicker of panic, deep in his chest. He had food, he had water and he wasn’t out in the elements. His head was throbbing, but he forced himself to concentrate.

  Why? Why the hell are you here?

  If this was someone’s idea of a clever stunt – that no one thought to tell you about – he’d surely have been picked up by now, so he could more or less rule that out. If it was revenge, then maybe after one night they’d be satisfied. Whoever they were. If someone wanted him dead, it was a chancy way to go about it. But a damned clever one. The hut had been prepared. Not very comfortable, but not life-threatening.

  Yet.

  It was the twenty-first of December – with Christmas just around the corner – when workplaces shut down while the country celebrated. The odds against anyone coming close to his prison were lengthened considerably just by that simple fact. He shifted uneasily on the bench, trying to remember statistics for deaths involving exposure and thirst. He was reasonably young, healthy and fit, with survival skills.

  ‘You can do this. You’ve spent nights out in worse conditions than this.’

  He rolled himself into the dust sheet, resting his aching head on his shoulder, as best he could.

  You’ve done this before, sure. But then you knew when and how it was going to end.

  Chapter Fourteen

  22 December, Afternoon

  After visiting the generator in the morning, in its little house behind the kitchen, Lori decided she still wasn’t going to tangle with it. The wood-burning stove took care of everything but the lights and the fridge, and they could manage without both. Milk, butter and cheese were keeping cool in the unheated laundry-cum-boot room on the north side of the kitchen, and she would improvise with vegetables and using the stores in the nearest village as a pantry. The envelope with Lark’s present – a crystal figurine of a ballerina that was so not Lori – had proved to contain a hefty cheque, rather than the expected Christmas card. Guilt money.

  This time, instead of folding it up to return it later, Lori had cashed it straight away at the bank in Abergavenny and taken her niece on a mini spending spree. A local budget shop had contributed tinsel and streamers, balloons and four large bags of LED fairy lights, which were now twinkling away merrily around the barn. She’d topped up the lighting with a couple more battery lamps and an industrial supply of batteries. They’d found a potted Christmas tree in the corner of the local florist, just a little taller than Misty and, ambling around the stalls in the market, some colourful carved wooden ornaments to decorate it. They’d made a great find in a charity shop – a windup radio – that would also charge Lori’s phone. Not that there was much of a signal in this area of the Beacons. Some cosy new Christmas Eve pyjamas, a pair of stripy wellington boots for Misty and three different kinds of hot chocolate, a small iced cake, some mince pies and a box of dates had been added to the haul. They’d had to go back to the car twice to deposit their swag. Lori had sneaked a couple of Bailey’s miniatures into her basket in the supermarket. And she’d surreptitiously assembled some small presents to go in a stocking for Misty. She had a pair of oversize bedsocks in her rucksack. One of those would do. They’d ended up in a local child-friendly pub for an early Christmas dinner. Turkey, with all the trimmings.

  Now Lori was sipping hot chocolate and watching the sunset from the Cwtch, a reading nook in the gallery at mezzanine level towards the front of the barn, with a fabulous view. Misty was sitting on the floor, leaning on a stool and deeply engrossed in filling in a complicated scene in her Christmas colouring book, lit by one of the new lamps, her face intense, and with the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth.

  The sun was going down in a blaze of pink and red, with ribbons of dark purple cloud streaking across the sky. Lori settled herself more comfortably in the low-slung leather seat, her mind on a knotty problem she had hit in the plot of the current work-in-progress. She couldn’t help a low-pitched sigh. This week had been set aside as precious writing time, holed up in the guesthouse, away from the day job. She had not intended to spend it babysitting her niece. She would probably get a little writing done, once Misty was in bed, but nothing like the amount she’d planned. At this rate she was never going to achieve the dream of getting published.

  This afternoon they’d enjoyed a short ramble through the woods on the hill behind the barn and then decorated the tree. Griff had prowled all round it, then graciously condescended to leave it alone, preferring his perch on the beam. Lori was hoping that he’d remain in a tolerant frame of mind.

  Lori looked over at her niece, still intent on her colouring. Lark was missing all this. Precious time with her daughter that could never be retrieved; but Lori knew her sister well enough to realise she wouldn’t change. After the holidays something would have to be done. They would be at the barn now until after Christmas, rather than returning to the cottage on Christmas Eve, as she’d planned to do when she was staying at the guesthouse. The cleaning up and painting she’d scheduled for Christmas Day would have to wait.

  She made a face into the dregs of her hot chocolate. She was going to make it a good Christmas for Misty, even if they were kind of camping out.

  They’d drawn up a sign and hung it outside the barn, so Father Christmas would know that they were there. Christmas lunch was probably going to be fancy pasta from her parents’ Christmas hamper, with a sauce out of a jar, but she was pretty sure Misty wouldn’t care. And they had crackers and a proper Christmas pudding. All in all Misty was an easy-going child, considering the way she’d been brought up so far, but it couldn’t go on.

  Lori looked down at Misty’s bent head. None of this was her niece’s fault.

  The sun had finished its light show and darkness was setting in. Lori shivered slightly, putting down her mug as Misty looked up with a beaming smile, colouring complete. She held it out to be admired.

  ‘It’s lovely.’ And it was. Neatly, if imaginatively, coloured and nearly all within the lines. ‘And now I think it’s time we went down and gave Griff his tea.’

  They’d had fun today, and would have more tomorrow.

  He’d experienced worse cold than this. When he’d made the trip to the Artic Circle the weather had been biting.

  But then you had proper equipment, and the chance of hot food.

  He’d managed to sleep for most of the night, huddled in the dust sheet, and spent the day again exploring his prison, wrestling with the cuff and chain and occasionally shouting in the hope of attracting attention. His throat was sore and when he tried it, his voice had turned husky. There had been another heart-stopping moment when he’d heard noises from outside, but again they’d come to nothing. He’d thought, at one point, that he made out the sound of a car engine, very faint and distant, but then that too had died.

  Now the light was fading and he was facing another night in captivity.

  And no nearer to figuring out who was behind all this.

  And even less idea why.

  Chapter Fifteen

  23 December, Evening

  ‘I’ve had a nice day, Auntie Lori.’ Misty let out a contented sigh that turned into a yawn halfway through.

  ‘It was a nice day, wasn’t it?’ Lori snuggled her niece closer to her on the sofa. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, pet.’

  One of the local farms had set up a reindeer walk, through a small coppice, complete with elves and live reindeer. After exploring that, they’d spent the afternoon in the village hall, for a screening of Christmas cartoons that had gone down a storm with the audience of tinies and frazzled mums, a few of whom had certainly rested their eyes during the show.

  They’d driven home by what had immediately become Misty’
s favourite route, which they’d found when Lori had turned off too soon the day before. A short cut that would probably be impassable after heavy rain by anything less than a four-wheel drive, it cut through a wooded area with mature trees on one side and a small stand of birches on the other, their trunks and branches pale and ethereal in the winter sun.

  Today, fired up by the elves and reindeer, Misty had wanted to get out and hunt for evidence of fairy inhabitants, but Lori had managed to persuade her against it. The road was little used, not much more than a track. To Lori it felt slightly creepy.

  And it had been getting dark.

  She’d diverted Misty with promises of a slice of chocolate cake with her tea. They’d eaten by the light of the fire, beside the Christmas tree, with carols playing on the radio and Griff stretched out on the rug, purring like a traction engine.

  Or a cat full of best tuna.

  Now Misty was sleepily watching the flames in the fire, listening as Lori spun a bedtime story full of elves and reindeer and purring cats.

  Lori thought again how much her sister was missing.

  Another night.

  His beard was growing, getting to the itchy stage, which was a small irritation to take his mind off the bigger ones. The dust sheet was doing a good job – he shuddered to think how it would have been if he hadn’t located it, folded in the corner. He didn’t even notice the mouldy smell now. But it didn’t stop the cold settling into his bones and making his fingers and toes ache. He was sick of the taste and texture of the trail mix and the energy bars and the level of water in the carboy was going down. Tomorrow he would have to start rationing himself.