She talked such a good game that for a second Helen was buoyed up by her words. But as she biked home that false confidence started to evaporate. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow and the whole of Southampton was seized by the festive spirit. It was as if there had been a collective decision to ignore the lurid headlines in the Evening News in favour of out-and-out celebration instead. Salvation Army bands pumped out seasonal tunes, gaudy lights flashed happily above the shops and you could see excited smiles on the faces of kids everywhere. But Helen didn’t feel any Christmas cheer. The whole thing seemed like a gaudy and inappropriate pageant to her. Out there somewhere was a killer who killed without conscience and never left a trace. Was she busy stalking her next victims right now? Were they already imprisoned and begging for mercy? Helen had never felt so lost. There seemed no solid ground in this case, no safe assumptions. More blood would be spilt and for now all Helen could do was wait and see who would be next.
It’s funny the things you remember, isn’t it? Why does that reindeer stick in my mind? He was pretty crummy even for that time, a mangy felt reindeer with whacked-out eyes. He looked as if he was dead. But I couldn’t stop staring at him as we waited in the long queue. Perhaps I’m drawn to hopelessness. Or maybe not. You can overanalyse these things.
It was Xmas and for once life was ok. Dad had done a flit – did he have another family to be with at Christmas? I never found out – so it was just the girls at home. Mum was drinking, but I’d worked out a plan to keep her from getting too wasted. To save her legs, I’d offer to get the booze myself. I’d hop down to the corner shop, pick up a few cans, but get something solid too. Bread, crisps, whatever. When I got back I’d sit with Mum whilst she drank. I think she felt a bit awkward drinking in front of me and without Dad there to egg her on she cut back on the booze little by little, until she was hardly drinking at all. I was never close to her, but we were ok that Christmas. Which is why she took us to the shopping mall.
Muzak, cheap decorations and the smell of fear. As far as the eye could see parents were panicking, boxed into a corner by a festival that had come round too quickly yet again. Our shopping list was short – very short – but it still took a long time. Making sure the security guard in BHS was otherwise engaged before Mum stuffed clothes and tacky costume jewellery up our jumpers. Our ‘treat’ was to go and see Santa afterwards. Given that the guy who did it was a teacher at the local Catholic school, the treat was probably all his.