Dying for Christmas by Tammy Cohen Page A

way up to my parents’ house, marshalling his righteous anger in case he found me sitting at their kitchen table, right as rain, while at the same time preparing to flip into worry mode in case there was no sign of me. Travis likes to cover every angle.
    I was now convinced Travis would delay calling the police until he’d arrived at my parents’ house. I might turn up there after all, and anyway where else was he going to spend Christmas Day?
    Today was Christmas Day. I struggled to believe it.
    I’m nearly thirty but this would be the first Christmas Day I’d ever spent away from my family. A tear rolled down my cheek as I thought of my brothers arriving and my niece and nephews and the sisters-in-law I’d never really made enough of an effort to get to know. I imagined the hurried exchange of information as they discovered for the first time I was missing – ‘How long?’ ‘But where?’ – and the creeping urgency as they all agreed such behaviour was completely out of character. I thought of how my mum’s hand would shake and my father would fetch some paper to make a list – something practical to keep his thoughts from racing. I imagined them sitting down to dinner while they waited for the police to arrive, just to keep things normal for the kids, and trying to behave like there was nothing really wrong. I imagined my eighteen-month-old nephew George sitting at the table in his clip-on canvas chair, looking from face to face with his huge brown eyes and knowing there was something wrong but not what it was. Would he ask for me, I wondered? ‘Where Jeska?’ he might say. The thought was a fish barb in my flesh. Without thinking I brought my knees up to my chest. The sudden pain on my ankle was intense, and the noise of the chain clanking grated in the air.
    I held my breath.
    ‘I’m guessing you’re awake. Merry Christmas, sweetheart.’
    The voice came from nearby. The bed, I assumed. I tried to picture it from the very rushed impression I’d got last night. Big and iron-framed, covered with a heavy old-fashioned eiderdown.
    I heard the creak of bedsprings. Seconds later, there was a tugging on my ankle. And then there he was, squatting in the doorway of the kennel, his head slightly cocked, beaming at me as if I was an honoured guest.
    ‘Did you sleep all right?’
    Dominic seemed in a very good mood as he busied himself around the kitchen making breakfast. I was sitting on a high stool at the central island that divided the cooking area from the space where the dining table was, watching his hands as they opened up cupboards and drawers. Were there sharp knives in there? I wondered. Or other things I could use as a weapon? As he rifled through kitchen implements, my unquiet mind made nonsensical leaps. I could grate him to death. Or batter him senseless with a plastic spatula.
    Nothing seemed like it could possibly be real. Not the winter sun streaming in through the plate-glass windows, nor the medley of Elvis Christmas songs he had blaring from the speakers in the top corners of the room, nor the Keep Calm and Carry On apron he was wearing over his black shirt and dark jeans, nor the needles stabbing at the inside of my chest.
    ‘I’m making you pancakes, princess. How does that sound? Dripping with maple syrup.’
    How it sounded was disgusting. My stomach still felt weighted down with whatever remnants of last night’s meat hadn’t found their way into the toilet. While the batter was resting in a large glass bowl, thick and pasty, Dominic reached into his pocket and withdrew the set of keys with the different-coloured fobs. Isolating the orange one, he unlocked a drawer and withdrew a gleaming chrome kitchen knife. He didn’t look at me, but he held it up as if checking for cleanliness so it glinted under the down-lighters. I watched him pull a heaped bowl towards him and begin chopping up fruit. Crisp green apples, fresh oranges, juicy strawberries from the fridge. My digestive tract