Under the Ice

Fingers pressed to the ice, raw and burning. I don't care. I want to see. Mummy will be so impressed when she finds me here, she won't even think to tell me what a bad boy I've been. It's the perfect hiding-place: cold and dark, peeking out on a grey world where blurry people-shapes come and go and don't notice me watching. The ice changes everything: I can only see the sky in patches, full of big grey clouds promising snow, and the bare tree branches look like black lines of paint, pointing nowhere. When the sun comes it makes everything above me sparkle, and when it gets dark I try and guess which lights are stars and which ones are reflections. I like it here. I'm glad it's taken mummy so long to find me.

I was scared at first. I'd seen them moving under the ice, the shadow-people with pleading faces, beckoning and leading me towards the middle of the lake. I knew I shouldn't go there, mummy said so, but the ice felt so thick and strong at first, and I wanted to know what they were trying to tell me. I felt something shift under my feet, felt something pushing, tilting the sheet of ice that I was standing on. Then there was a shout, and a sound like a shot, and suddenly I was standing on nothing. The cold knocked the breath out of me as I lashed out with my arms, trying to get rid of the things that I felt wrapping round them, pulling me down. I remember the taste of fear, the water flooding into my mouth as I screamed for help. Then moments of black bitter panic as it filled my eyes and ears, when all I could see was a vague glow high above me, and the shadow-people looking on, welcoming me with open arms and grasping hands. I struggled again, weakly, trying to push them away as a dull ache spread through me, as the coldness came into my bones. Cold, too cold to fight, too cold to think. I felt a burning pain growing in my chest as the water got into my lungs...

Then silence. Silence, and the soft mud of the bottom, covered with rubbish and thick slimy weeds. The water I sucked into my lungs stopped burning, and I felt a dead weight float away from me as I kicked my legs, as I swam for the jagged hole in the ice. But the shadow-people held me back, running their clammy hands over my body, whispering promises in sad, smothered voices. I felt sorry for them somehow; they seemed so lonely, and they only wanted me to stay and play. So I stayed, drifting with them in a kind of slow dance, thinking how much mummy would love to see this secret place that I had discovered. All had to was wait for her to come looking, wait patiently and quietly like I have been for so long, like I am now. Hide and seek is my favourite game, me and mummy play it all the time. She'll know what to do. Soon I'll hear her calling, see the surprise on her face when she spots me here. Then I can show her my secret place, under the ice...

* * *

I always said I'd never come back here, not after what happened. Too many memories, fragments of the happiness which was shattered, images of his face in my mind. And yet here I am, eyes streaming in the bitter wind, arms wrapped tight around me against the all-engulfing cold. January, when the world is all curled in on itself, when the frost sparkles on the stiff grass and the sky is a sleepy grey. And today is the very day, the day which all the sleeping pills and drink can't make me forget, the day my world fell apart. If James knew I was here he'd be so worried. He'd put his arms around me and insist I came home at once, he'd treat me like something small and fragile and try to distract me with kisses. But his wide brown eyes just go blind when he doesn't know how to make me feel better, he can't understand that there is a part of me which he can never touch or own, a part reserved for my little boy. James was my saviour at first, when I was crazy with grief and used to wander out in the cold at night, bottle in hand and no idea where I was going. He was always the one who came looking for me, caught me up in an embrace even when I was wild with anger, let me struggle and beat my fists against him until I was worn out enough just to collapse into his arms. For that I love him completely, love him for raising me from the ashes and giving me a new life. But today is a day for solitude, to return to the place where it all happened and replay in my mind what had happened. I knew James would never understand or allow this. So I sneaked out, left him a note full of reassuring lies, and came here to walk by the lake and remember my baby, remember the day he was stolen from me.

That day, a year ago today, had dawned so beautifully. The sun came up behind pastel pink clouds, smearing them orange as it crept over the horizon. I was up early, busying myself with all the usual morning tasks, but I paused in the middle of the previous night's washing up to stare out of the window at the waking world. A thick frost held the garden in stiff, icy silence, broken only by the boisterous little sparrows scraping for food in the cold. Poised on the garden fence like a tabby gargoyle, next door's cat watched the birds in mute, threatening fascination, waiting for a chance to spring. And high above, a plane like an arrow-head left a glistening furrow in the sky while seagulls swooped unaware through the cloudy depths. A perfect winter morning, lacking only the thin blanket of snow which the heavy sky seemed to promise. I had to wake Tommy.

Creeping into his room, I reached out a hand to gently shake his shoulder, but his serene expression held me back. I stepped back, smiling down at him, his face a picture of warm contentment framed by tousled golden locks. Watching him sleep always made me remember why I carried on loving him from day to day, how I managed to put up with his boundless energy and obstinacy, his sudden tantrums. Watching him sleep made me forget all the times he drove me crazy and focus on the special times we had together, when he was all giggles and mischief charging around with me in the garden, or calm and sleepy nearing bedtime, cuddling up and falling asleep on my shoulder. He was his father's son, no doubt about it. He'd inherited his energy and his quick temper, his every mood reflected perfectly in his deep blue eyes. And in the end he broke my heart as surely as his father did, leaving me so soon and without warning, leaving me alone.

Alone as I am now, walking through the park, not wanting to admit to myself where I'm going. Alone in spite of James' kind incomprehension and his efforts to save me from myself. No-one can save me from this, the guilt which forces me to make this pilgrimage. I brought Tommy here, after all. What happened to him was my fault, no matter what anyone says. And it had seemed like such a good idea on that day, a year ago, just to drop everything and go for a walk in the park. Tommy had loved the idea straight away. It was one of his favourite places. In summer I used to take him out almost every day, to enjoy the sunshine and sit by the lake. He loved the lake. He could sit there for hours, sailing sticks and throwing stones, watching the ripples distort his reflection. Sometimes he would just stare into the water, watching the play of sunlight and shadow on the bottom, muttering in a conspiratory voice and then waiting in silence as if he expected the shadows to reply. I always watched over him, hawk-eyed, when he played this game, in case his curiosity led him too close to the water's edge. The lake was much deeper than it looked, and anything could have been lurking at the bottom.

Often to distract him from this game, I'd get him to play hide and seek. I would close my eyes and start counting, and he would run and find a hiding place nearby. He knew so many; his 'secret places', he called them. He could have stayed hidden for hours if I hadn't cheated, if I hadn't open my eyes as soon as I heard his footsteps running away...

I can see the lake now. I knew I shouldn't have come here. Too many memories, all flooding in at once. At least there is no-one here now, no-one to accuse me with their eyes and offer worthless sympathy with their tongue. There had been a crowd that day, all jostling and shouting and getting in the way, trying to keep me back from the terrible scene at the water's edge... No, don't remember that yet. Think about how it happened, see those last few hours replayed again in your mind, before the madness started, before everything went wrong...

It was biting cold as we walked through the park. Frost still clung to everything, and the paths were treacherous with ice. And still there were plenty of people around, mothers with their children, men walking dogs, people just enjoying the calm, cold beauty of a January morning. Tommy's little gloved hand clung to mine as he sauntered along beside me, humming cheerfully out of tune. A robin landed on the path in front of us, and he stopped in his tracks.
"Look, mummy," he exclaimed, pointing at the startled bird, which flitted to a bush at a safe distance and regarded us with beady-eyed curiosity, "Robin!"
I smiled down at him, and he gave me cheeky grin, before letting go of my hand and tottering towards the bush where the bird was trying unsuccessfully to hide. Startled, it hopped from one branch to another before eventually taking flight. Tommy sent his mocking laughter after it in a cloud of steam, and returned to my side.

We walked slowly through the frozen world, watching our breath rise in glorious plumes of smoke like the long sighs of dragons, which we pretended to be for a while, chasing each other along the path. There was an enchantment in the bitter wind, something old and brooding and unfamiliar, and it made me shiver in spite of myself. Winter always felt like that to me: rich and strange, shrouding everything in frost and snow until you weren't even sure of your way home, making the world seem ancient and magical and sad somehow. I trusted winter back then. I used to think that the cold made everything safe, that at this time of year all danger was locked in sleep, awaiting the spring thaw. I know better now. Winter is an old god; he still demands his sacrifices.

By the time we reached the lake I was beginning to tire of Tommy's endless enthusiasm for every new sight. It delighted me that he was so full of life and curiosity, but I just couldn't match this cheerfulness for long. Life had left its marks on me, as difficult to hide as the bruises Tommy's father used to leave, and some days I just felt so worn and tired when I saw that spark in Tommy's eyes and new that one day it would go out, that he would grow up and the world would leave its marks on him too.

It never occurred to me that it could all be over so soon. He was so full of life, crunching his way through the last of the autumn leaves made crisp by the frost, and running back to me to tell me all about his little adventures. He was invincible, and then he was gone, and who can I blame for it but myself? I'd brought him to the lake in the hope that I could have some peace and quiet for a few moments, just sit on the park bench and be alone with the thoughts that had picked that moment to force their way into my mind. Dark thoughts, memories of Tommy's father. I sat down and shooed Tommy away to play, watching as he clambered down the bank and approached the water's edge.
"Don't go too close," I called after him.

The surface of the lake was thickly frozen over. Here and there brittle bulrush stems poked out from the ice's stranglehold, dancing jerkily in the wind. Tommy continued to advance, slowly, testing his footing, until he was within a footstep of the glinting ice. Then he knelt down and lowered his face almost to the level of the water, as if watching something. Every so often he would murmur to himself, and then cock his head as if waiting for a reply. It was entertaining at first, then disconcerting. What game could he be playing? I called him back from the edge of the lake, my voice ringing uncertainly in the still air, and saw him hesitate for a moment, staring quizzically down at the ice near his feet. Then he came trotting back loyally across the stiff grass, laughing gleefully as he blew out a lungful of steam, and clambered onto the bench beside me.
"Let's play hide-and-seek," he suggested, looking up at me expectantly.
"It's too cold," I told him, hoping he'd give up on the idea and amuse himself, so I could have a few more minutes. I loved him to death, but I didn't have the energy to be his playmate twenty-four hours a day.

It was the look on his face that finally persuaded me to play, against my better judgement. Something in those wide, pleading blue eyes that made it impossible for me to refuse.
"Oh, alright then," I conceded, watching his eyes light up. Reaching up, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then scrambled off the bench and stood before me.
"And no cheating this time," he warned, "You have to close your eyes". I smiled at him then. How very like his father, to be the sweetest creature in the world when he got his own way. Obligingly I closed my eyes, and listened to his scampering footsteps fade into the distance...

There's a thick crust of ice on the lake today as before, shimmering in the sunlight. I can almost see why...why it happened. There's something treacherously enticing about the way it glistens, like jewels of dew on a spider's web. A cold, bitter beauty in the drowsy stillness of winter, a fairy-light to lead a child astray. There's always room at Titania's court for a lost little boy with an angel's face and golden hair, whose mother only closed her eyes for a second before he went scampering off...

But no: all the stories that I tell myself can't take away the simple fact of what happened. It would be so sweet to pass the blame, to accuse anything, even the sharp glitter of the ice for being so irresistible, to pretend something other than my own carelessness stole my child from me. But I know it isn't true. Weary, worn out suddenly by the sheer weight of memories that now crowd into my mind, I sit down on a nearby bench, perhaps the very same one that I sat on that day, and allow a great wave of numb horror to sweep over me at last. James was right: I wasn't ready for this. It is as if the pain had just lain in wait for me here, unchanged through all the madness of the last year, knowing I would return to relive that terrible moment. As if echoes of that day still lingered, carried back and forth on the still air like that sickening crack, like that scream. Closing my eyes, I surrender to it all, allowing myself at last to be transported back to that moment...

Counting slowly in my head. Tommy's footsteps had faded, he was out of my reach. A few stolen seconds of peace, the icy breeze ruffling my hair, the birds singing softly, sleepily, and I relished the stillness, the peace, thinking nothing could possibly go wrong. Eleven, twelve, thirteen... The silence was split in half by a sound like the report of a shotgun. And I knew, I knew what had happened before I opened my eyes. Somewhere, near the water's edge, a woman screamed, a banshee-wail which should have come from my own lips, but I was numb, cold, rigid with terror, desperately grasping at the one belief that could keep me sane: this isn't happening, this could've have happened to me, not Tommy...

I kept my eyes tight closed, and pushed my fingers into my ears so I couldn't hear the growing commotion on the lake-shore, like a child believing that if I shut my eyes and pretended hard enough, everything would be alright. But I had to see, had to know that Tommy was safe, that all my fears were groundless and that he was running up the bank to fling his arms round me and reassure me with kisses. And so, reluctantly, I opened my eyes again...

There was a hole in the ice, jagged and gaping, and the truth of what had happened was just too huge and awful for me to grasp. Surely the gathering crowd couldn't be shouting about my boy; surely all those worried faces couldn't be looking for him? But I understood better than I wanted to believe, and my legs started running before I could hold myself back as a choked cry escaped my lips, running, running towards the lake...

Too late. I'm at the shore of the lake, looking out over the ice that seems so stable here, and thins to a mere film in the centre. At least there is no-one here now to see the tears in my eyes, to try and comfort me. There had been a crowd by the time I reached this spot on that day, all pushing and shoving, trying to get a glimpse of the action, like people who slow down to gawk at a car-crash. No-one even noticed me at first as I began to weave my way through them, my lips parted in a low, terrible moan, my eyes too dry, too numb for tears. It was only as I drew close to the commotion at the water's edge that someone blocked my path. Wide brown eyes, now so familiar to me, looked into mine with that fearful sympathy that is the first warning of horrors to come.
"Are you the mother?" came a voice, the tone telling me it needed no answer, the look of compassion in those eyes, eyes that I could sink in forever if I ever allowed myself to.
But I wouldn't stop moving towards the water's edge. I had to see. More voices surrounded me. A hand gripped my arm, holding me back. Stop her, lead her away, don't let her see what they're dragging out of the lake...

Too late. My eyes had already found what was left of my son. That stiff, bluish, contorted thing that lay glassy-eyed in a pool of dirty water, golden hair matted with leathery weeds, tiny hand outstretched in a pleading gesture as someone tried in vain to restore life to the little creature. Not real, the way he stared vacantly at nothing with a pale half-smile on his bloodless face. Not my Tommy. Please. I tried to go to him, but a man held me back as the crowd merged and covered the scene from view. Then comforting lies; there's still time, there still might be some life left in that stiff little body, there might be something that the doctors can do. I knew they were lying. It was too late. And at last, when it became clear that there was no way the ambulance would get there in time, the final lie: that he'd died peacefully, that it hadn't been painful, that it wasn't my fault, that I shouldn't blame myself. My brown-eyed friend shed a tear that just wouldn't come to my eyes as he led me further away, as he made me sit down and put a consoling arm around my shoulder. Nothing more anyone could do.

It seemed years passed before they let me see the body again. The crowd had not dispersed, but swept around the scene like carrion birds, watching a paramedic making the finishing touches as the rest of the ambulance crew stood uselessly by. They'd managed to twist the grotesquely contorted limbs into a semblance of peace, and even brushed the clinging weeds out of the golden hair, but it still wasn't my Tommy, that empty shell lain out with tiny hands clasped on its breast, its eyes now closed as if in a gentle sleep. It wasn't real. I approached it nonetheless, and kissed its clammy forehead as if in blessing, then watched as it was lifted into the ambulance and driven away. There was something faintly repulsive in the way it had seemed so calm, so softly at ease as it lay on the hard ground. Not my Tommy, not my son.

Finally the crowd began to disperse, giving me looks of sympathy before going about their business. My brown-eyed friend lingered at a respectful distance, leaving me to sit in silence, staring out at the dark, cold mouth in the lake that had swallowed my son and spewed out that twisted horror. Surely it couldn't be true, he couldn't really be lost to me? Surely if I waited long enough he would get tired of hiding and come running out to find me instead? I waited and waited, oblivious to the cold, expecting every moment to hear his footsteps running towards me and feel his arms around my neck. I waited for hours, but still he did not come, and after a while the light began to fade. The stranger, who I realised must have waited with me all that time, reached out a hand to me then, and I took it, allowing myself to be led, cold and stiff and exhausted, back to my empty house.

Even now, a year later, it is hard to believe that he's really gone. Senseless, that such a sweet child should be so alive and then stolen away so suddenly. There is no way to make it right. But it is over, past, even if the pain of it hits me sometimes like a blow in the face and leaves me gasping for air, clawing at nothing. He is gone, and I must carry on living. Best now just to lay it to rest for another year, like the flowers I've brought to lay at the side of the lake. Say one last prayer in mourning for the child I lost, then lay the pain to rest.

Tentatively I approach the water's edge, flowers in hand, so many memories, ready to let go and return to James and the new life I've built for myself out of the ashes. It's what Tommy would want, I tell myself. He always loved to see me smile. Bending down, I place the flowers right on the very lip of the lake, where they laid out his body, where the crowd trailed past in respectful silence. I watch my reflection moving in the ice, blurred and unidentifiable in the frozen mist, seemingly moving of its own volition. It almost makes me smile, the way the ice distorts everything: my face, the bare branches of trees above my head, the swoop of birds in the fathomless grey sky. As if it had some magic of its own.

As I watch, a shape seems to form in the grey-blue world under the ice. At first I assume it is only my reflection, brought to the foreground by a trick of the light. But the shape begins to move while I remain motionless, rising, growing more distinct as it nears the sheet of ice. Panic rises in me, thick in my throat as I watch, unable to look away. There is something there, under the ice, something rising with deliberate, menacing grace, and despite my efforts I cannot make it out. I want to run suddenly, but I can't move, fascination rooting me to the spot like the sudden paralysis of a nightmare. And as I watch, the shape becomes clearer, features emerging from the greenish gloom, though the detail is maddeningly vague through the ice. I lean closer, trying to make it out, and suddenly find myself looking into sapphire eyes that are all too familiar. Jumping back, my heart skipping through my veins, I struggle hard to keep myself sane. I know the face looking up at me, the face pressed to the ice with a bemused half-smile, the face that I last saw painted and peaceful and utterly lost to me. No, God no. This isn't happening.

But I can't look away, though a dark haze gathers at the edge of my vision and I feel myself shaking, feel every part of me electrified, longing to run. Those eyes are so cold, full of accusations for which I don't have any answers: why did you take so long to find me, mummy? I thought you'd forgotten about me. I've been waiting for you for ages... I catch a reprimanding glint in eyes that I know cannot really be there looking up at me, and I know I am guilty, and I am afraid. A scream rises in my throat, but it is strangled by fear as that icy gaze holds me fast. Tommy!

A mischievous smile, a rush of colour that could almost be his waterlogged coat, his little hand beckoning for me to follow, and the shape is gone, drifting rapidly away from the shore. No, please, don't let this be real, don't let this be happening. But I know I have no choice as I take a hesitant step forward, as I tiptoe down onto the frozen surface of the lake. It seems the ice is full of shadows now, wheeling and dancing beneath my feet, watching me gleefully, urging me on. In a trance I follow their whirling lead, slowly at first, testing my footing, shuddering at the thought of falling through the thin crust into their dank arms below. But their dance grows more frantic, forcing me to go faster, just barely managing to keep my balance as I struggle to keep up with their rushing advance. It seems I can hear their voices, just on the cusp of hearing, whispering of the horrors that happened to them years ago. Snatches of music seem to echo in my ears, music for the lost ones, a waltz for the forgotten who never fade away. And they have Tommy, hidden away for all this time, waiting for me to come and find him again. He must be so cold under there, fingers pressed to the ice as he watches the world from his hiding place. So very cold...

Snow has begun to fall, each tentative snowflake spiralling down to rest on the ice all around me. Something soothing and faintly eerie in its slow descent, in the way it entangles itself in my hair, slowly covering it like a delicate shroud. The wind is bitter and biting out here, striding over the lake unimpeded by trees, but I'm beyond shivering. Have to keep going, have to reach the centre. Tommy's waiting for me. The shadows seem nearer now, and their dance is slowing to a sedate minuet as the sense of urgency drains from their movements. Every so often one will pause, watching me with an expectant air before returning to the great writhing mass. The shore seems so far away, lost in that world I left behind, when I thought Tommy was lost to me and I had nothing left. I know better now. Won't be long before I surprise him in his secret place, before I go down and take him in my arms and just hold him, hold him close until all the pain of believing I'd lost him has been dissolved and drained away. I'll never leave him alone again, never close my eyes, never let go of his little hand. We'll be safe together, him and me, away from the pain and the lies and the winter world of broken promises. Safe.

The ice is so thin here, water has begun to spill over its surface, washing it clean so it gleams like crystal in the grey light. I have reached the centre of the lake. Looking down, I search the twisting chaos of shadows for his face, knowing he must be there, and smile as my gaze meets his. Those eyes again, unfathomable, glinting with mischief as they hold me in their spell. Then the ice begins to crack...

The perfect hiding-place. Tommy was right. The world looks so different now, warped by our frozen window and the murky water that surrounds us. His little hand holds mine tightly, cold, so cold it makes me hold him closer. How the shadow-people stare, envious that we should be so happy. But it is peaceful here; only the melancholy lapping of water on ice disturbs the silence with its delicate music. We drift with the current as the shadows twist and stir the waving weeds, safe, together. James will understand why I'm not coming home. Perhaps he'll come looking, warm brown eyes full of concern as he searches all the usual places and finds nothing. It's a shame I never explained to him that it was all just a game, a game of hide-and-seek. I hope he knows how to play. I hope he sees our smiling faces, and understands that there never was anything to be afraid of after all. I hope he decides to join us here. I want to share all this with him, our sanctuary, our hidden vantage, our secret place, under the ice...