book, but he sensed that something far older — so old that the fleeting thought of it stopped his breath — was watching him. He didn't know how long he crouched in front of the mirror, unaware of resting his weight on his knuckles on the dressing-table. As he leaned inadvertently closer his breath whitened the mirror, which sparkled as if the stars around the silhouette of his head were settling on the glass. He felt as if he himself was only an illusion that would flicker for an instant in the vast darkness, as if he was gazing through himself deep into the dark. He was afraid to move, but if he didn't he would see what was watching him out of the lightless depths.
Someone was calling his name. The voice was too distant to reach him, but it was distracting him. It was his aunt who was calling him, standing at the foot of the stairs and raising her voice to be heard over the music at the end of the comedy show. She must be wondering why he had stayed so long in his room, though as far as he was concerned no time at all had passed. When he didn't answer, she would come to find him.
She would find him in the dark, gazing entranced at himself, and it would kill her. His running away to Stargrave almost had, and he was sure that she would find the sight of him as he was now at least as dismaying. The thought made him squirm with concern for her, scraping his knuckles on the rough wood. The inane music finished its scurrying, and he heard her start up the stairs, calling anxiously to him.
A surge of panic stiffened his arms and flung him away from the mirror. He gulped a breath and flailed at the light-switch. "I'm here, Auntie," he stammered. "I was only resting." Then, terrified of what she might be able to see, he forced himself to turn to the mirror.
There was nothing to see but his own face and the photograph, nothing in his eyes except bewilderment and fading panic, nothing secretive about the faces in the photograph. Whatever had made him see what he'd seen, surely it had gone back into the dark. "I'm coming now, Auntie," he called, managing to keep his voice steady. When he heard her stop and eventually descend the stairs, he let out a shaky breath. He went downstairs as soon as he was able to conceal his nervousness, vowing that Christmas would mean everything to him that it meant to her. He mustn't ever see anything like that again, please God, for her sake.
EIGHT
Mabel Broadbent was locking her shop on Christmas Eve when the newsagent's daughter ran up, looking so crestfallen that Mabel asked what she'd wanted to buy. "Only some blue thread," Anita said as if the smallness of her purchase was an open-sesame. "I nearly finished sewing something that said Happy Christmas to my mam."
Mabel had to take pity on her. She reopened the shop long enough to sort out a reel of the blue which matched the sample Anita had wound around her forefinger, and told her to bring the money after Christmas; the day's takings were already banked. The little girl stuffed the reel into her pocket and stood on tiptoe to give Mabel a clumsy kiss that smelled of chocolate. "Have a lovely Christmas, Miss Broadbent," she gabbled.
"I've just started, love. You have one too," Mabel said as the child dashed across the square and up the hill. By the time she had locked the shop she was alone. Without the market stalls which sprouted weekly around the eroded stone cross, the town square sounded hollow. Wrapping her scarf more snugly about her neck and burrowing her hands into her gloves, Mabel gave the unlit shop a last appraisal — she would change the display of balls of wool and knitting patterns on New Year's Eve as usual — before strolling home.
The sun had sunk beyond the moors. Above Stargrave and the gloomy mass of Sterling Forest, a jade sky exhibited the carving of the jagged gritstone ridge. On Market Street, the main road through the square, most of the shops scattered among terraces of cottages on the northward stretch and
Someone was calling his name. The voice was too distant to reach him, but it was distracting him. It was his aunt who was calling him, standing at the foot of the stairs and raising her voice to be heard over the music at the end of the comedy show. She must be wondering why he had stayed so long in his room, though as far as he was concerned no time at all had passed. When he didn't answer, she would come to find him.
She would find him in the dark, gazing entranced at himself, and it would kill her. His running away to Stargrave almost had, and he was sure that she would find the sight of him as he was now at least as dismaying. The thought made him squirm with concern for her, scraping his knuckles on the rough wood. The inane music finished its scurrying, and he heard her start up the stairs, calling anxiously to him.
A surge of panic stiffened his arms and flung him away from the mirror. He gulped a breath and flailed at the light-switch. "I'm here, Auntie," he stammered. "I was only resting." Then, terrified of what she might be able to see, he forced himself to turn to the mirror.
There was nothing to see but his own face and the photograph, nothing in his eyes except bewilderment and fading panic, nothing secretive about the faces in the photograph. Whatever had made him see what he'd seen, surely it had gone back into the dark. "I'm coming now, Auntie," he called, managing to keep his voice steady. When he heard her stop and eventually descend the stairs, he let out a shaky breath. He went downstairs as soon as he was able to conceal his nervousness, vowing that Christmas would mean everything to him that it meant to her. He mustn't ever see anything like that again, please God, for her sake.
EIGHT
Mabel Broadbent was locking her shop on Christmas Eve when the newsagent's daughter ran up, looking so crestfallen that Mabel asked what she'd wanted to buy. "Only some blue thread," Anita said as if the smallness of her purchase was an open-sesame. "I nearly finished sewing something that said Happy Christmas to my mam."
Mabel had to take pity on her. She reopened the shop long enough to sort out a reel of the blue which matched the sample Anita had wound around her forefinger, and told her to bring the money after Christmas; the day's takings were already banked. The little girl stuffed the reel into her pocket and stood on tiptoe to give Mabel a clumsy kiss that smelled of chocolate. "Have a lovely Christmas, Miss Broadbent," she gabbled.
"I've just started, love. You have one too," Mabel said as the child dashed across the square and up the hill. By the time she had locked the shop she was alone. Without the market stalls which sprouted weekly around the eroded stone cross, the town square sounded hollow. Wrapping her scarf more snugly about her neck and burrowing her hands into her gloves, Mabel gave the unlit shop a last appraisal — she would change the display of balls of wool and knitting patterns on New Year's Eve as usual — before strolling home.
The sun had sunk beyond the moors. Above Stargrave and the gloomy mass of Sterling Forest, a jade sky exhibited the carving of the jagged gritstone ridge. On Market Street, the main road through the square, most of the shops scattered among terraces of cottages on the northward stretch and
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