The Ways of Paradox by Narya

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Away, Away

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Despite the late night, I was awake early on Sunday. Automatically I reached for the box of cigarettes I kept on my bedside table, but my hand touched only empty space. I rolled onto my back and groaned. My limbs felt twitchy and restless, like I needed to kick or push against something; my throat tickled as though I was starting a cold, and I longed for the familiar bitter taste of smoke in my mouth.

You don't need one, I told myself. Stop thinking like a junkie.

But I did need to get up and do something. I left the others sleeping and took myself off to West Sands – a change from my usual loop around the harbour. 

On The Scores the redbrick towers of Hamilton Hall peered longingly out of mist and shadow, its darkened windows seeming to search for the students that once slept, ate, worked and loved in its depths. There were rumours of it being turned into a luxury hotel for golfers. I hoped they were wrong.

Down the cliff path to my right the seals were splashing about in their play pool outside the aquarium. I smiled a little as one of the pups dived under the water and bobbed up nose to nose with its playmate. A seagull resting on the surface of the pool took wing at the babies' antics, squawking and flapping with fierce indignation, while the pups barked joyfully at this new entertainment. I wondered if their sensitive ears could hear the calls of their wild cousins in the Eden Estuary two miles away.

The tide was out and the rising sun was burning away the last wisps of fog. West Sands stretched before me, almost empty, shining in the pale light. The sea had left soft wavy trails across the beach, like some goddess of the deep had surfaced overnight and dragged languid fingers through the golden grains. A few early risers were out jogging in the surf, and stalks of coarse grass bobbed left and right on the dunes that sloped down to the Old Course. I scanned for golfers, but the manicured green was deserted. 

Halfway out to the estuary I turned back to face the town that was slowly becoming my home. The smooth curve of the coastline swept inwards towards the golfing links, presided over by the stern Victorian grandeur of the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse. Gothic Hamilton sat at its shoulder, and the modern glass cube of The Seafood Restaurant nestled against the cliffs at its foot, the morning sun glinting sharply on its polished angles. Further along The Scores the mist had curled back to reveal the medieval spires of the University, the castle's squat square remains, and the jagged outline of the cathedral. The wind lifted and carried back the song of the bells from St. Salvator's Chapel, calling the town to Sunday worship. I felt a pang of regret as I realised my academic gown was back at the flat. I couldn't go to church in jeans, wellingtons and a battered cagoul – and suddenly I did desperately want to go, not because I felt the pull of some higher power, but something called out to me, a need to belong, like a bolt of electricity magnetising a garden nail. I wanted to slip into the oddball, genteel community and stay there forever, safe from a world I couldn't bear the thought of returning to. 

Pirates had been a beginning, I thought, trudging back along the beach – a reclamation of an old hobby, a rediscovery of part of myself. I'd even started to hope that, after a term of spending most of my time with my cousin and his friends, I'd managed to make a friend of my own. The edges of my mood cooled. I wondered how accurate Harrison and I had been with our guesses last night, and whether for Mark my comments had touched on some traumatic memories of war.

Heading back into town, I used the small alleyways to cut around the gaggles of students and staff in academic dress. Most wore undergraduate scarlet, but there were a fair few in the blacks and navies and purples of various postgraduate disciplines. I slipped through the library grounds (empty on a Sunday), then across North Street to the familiar wynd of whitewashed cottages. 

A stone mouse washing its whiskers sat at the bottom of the steps to Mark's front door. On impulse, I bent and touched its head for luck.

There was no answer when I knocked. Guiltily I wondered if he might still be in bed – but no, the chapel bells were even louder from here. Sunday lie-ins seemed an unlikely prospect on this street. He had to be out.

Or deliberately not answering.

The bells faded and the organ yawned into life, the resonant chords of 'O Come, O Come, Emmanuel' curling around the old stone buildings, oddly mournful for a carol of redemption and joy.

The first day of Advent...

A deep ache blossomed under my ribcage at the thought of Mark's smiles in the practice room, the delight he'd seemed to take in that ridiculous arrangement of 'Jingle Bells', his wickedly joyful performance as the Pirate King – and then the taut, cold neutrality of the previous night.

I tried the door one more time, then touched my pocket, but I had nothing to write a note with. Hopeful rather than expectant, I drifted past Taste on my way home, where I'd bumped into him having coffee the week before last. The table we'd sat at, though, was occupied by a pair of chattering first years I vaguely recognised from the School of English, and he was nowhere else to be seen.

Later, I told myself. Another time.

***

But November dwindled into December with no sign of Mark anywhere in St Andrews. I tried his house a couple of times, but the lights were never on and nobody came to the door.

“Maybe he's gone home for Christmas?” Harrison suggested as we sat around the table one lunchtime.

“Bit early,” Theo responded. His mouth was full of his latest bread-based creation – an anchovy and camembert toastie.

I didn't say anything. As far as I knew, Mark hadn't mentioned his family – or lack of one – to the others.

I threw myself into my work, catching up on the backlog from my module on contextualising Modernist literature, and getting a head start on next semester's topic, contemporary literary theory. In between, we began to prepare for Christmas – shopping, planning which events to attend, and decorating the flat. Rosie bought a balding, lopsided fir tree on deep discount from the garden centre; I sent the boys to scour the charity shops for cheap decorations, and spent my evenings making gingerbread, chocolate truffles and berry-infused vodka.

The daylight hours grew shorter. Courses finished. Deadlines passed. I went to a postgraduate cheese and wine evening, telling myself it would be a useful networking event, but secretly hoping that I might bump into Mark. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't there, and I couldn't blame him – the red wine was oddly sweet, as though they'd mixed it with Ribena, and the cheese was processed and soapy and stuck to my teeth.

“Still, I managed to meet the country's foremost scholar on TS Eliot,” I shrugged, recounting the evening to the others over a glass of (much better quality) wine.

“Not a dead loss, then,” Harrison smiled.

“No, not entirely. Although the thing was so hideous overall that I nearly gave in and bought a packet of cigarettes from the garage on my way back.”

That confession gave rise to an irate chorus of “No!” and “Don't!”

“Come on, you've managed two whole weeks.” Harrison squeezed my arm. “The first month is the worst, so you're halfway through the hardest part.”

I groaned. “It's like waking up every morning with an itch I can't scratch. And I keep getting headaches.”

“You're only thinking about it because you're bored, with Pirates finishing,” Rosie said sagely. “You need to distract yourself.”

Rosie's idea of a distraction was learning to knit. She dragged me into the craft shop on Market Street and bought a bright pink Teach Yourself book, along with several balls of wool and half their stock of knitting needles.

“We can learn together,” she beamed. “It'll be fun. We can make scarves and gloves and things and sell them on Etsy.”

Knitting, however, turned out not to be my strong suit, and Rosie wasn't much better. 

“Why does it keep going all boggly?” she asked, staring sadly at her knotted mess of a scarf.

The night before we left for Christmas, Theo decided to cook for us all. We'd investigated the possibility of a full turkey dinner, but decided it was too expensive and complicated to chance it in our tiny student kitchen. Instead we settled on spaghetti bolognese – but after a few minutes we heard a panicked yelp from the kitchen.

“Help! Fire!”

“What?”

I shot out of the living room to find Theo flapping at a pan of spaghetti with a teatowel. The spaghetti strands clearly hadn't been in for long; they stood upright in the pan, and fierce orange flames burned at their tips.

“Oh, Jesus, Theo...”

I rinsed another teatowel under the cold tap and threw it over the pan. Harrison limped through, took one look and started laughing. 

“What the hell did you do?” I asked once the flames were out.

“I didn't do anything!” Theo gestured at the stove. “It was the gas; all of a sudden it started sputtering, then the flames shot up the side of the pan and the pasta caught fire.”

“The gas is broken?” That dampened Harrison's laughing fit. He gave the cooker an anxious glance. “Should we...I don't know...unplug it or something?”

“You don't unplug gas. And anyway, it'll be a problem with the appliance, not the supply.” I checked the dials to make sure everything was switched off and we weren't all going to be poisoned in our beds. I couldn't see anything obviously wrong, but I wasn't about to start fiddling about with it and risk another towering inferno. “I'll call the landlord tomorrow from the car. We should get him to fix the latch too, while we're away.”

“What about dinner?” Theo looked forlornly at the charred remnants of spaghetti. “I could go out and get some more pasta.”

I shook my head. “No; if the cooker's not working properly I don't want to use it.”

“Takeaway it is, then,” said Harrison cheerfully. “I'll fetch the menus.”

After an indecent amount of crispy belly pork, sweetcorn fritters and papaya salad, we watched It's A Wonderful Life and drank the rest of the whisky that Mark had left in the flat. Even Rosie was persuaded into having a tiny drop.

“To Mark – wherever he's buggered off to.” Theo raised his glass. “Thank you for the best bottle of single malt I've ever had in my life.”

“To us,” Harrison added, “and a successful first semester as flatmates.”

“I'll drink to that.” I clinked my glass against his. “Although let's go easy on the melodrama next term. No more broken limbs.”

Harrison smiled sheepishly.

“I can't believe when we come back it'll be exam time again.” Rosie looked soulful. “Does it ever end?”

“In two and a half years, when we graduate,” grinned Theo.

“Don't wish it away.” My chest tightened at the thought of how excited I'd been to leave UCL, supposedly free at last, and the rapid, grasping sense of panic that I'd actually got it horribly wrong, that I didn't want the life I'd been taught to aim for since I was twelve years old.

“Speaking of away.” Harrison sipped his whisky. “Claire, what time do we need to leave in the morning?”

“Eight. Definitely not much after.”

He looked at his watch and pulled a face. “Then sadly I think it's bedtime.” After a last lingering sniff, he swallowed his final precious mouthful of whisky. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”

***

I set my alarm for six – not because I wasn't packed, but because I had a card to write.

I'd spotted it in the gift and trinket shop near Tesco – the same place Mark had found that garish fake tattoo. As Christmas cards went, it was unexceptional. It didn't fold out into a 3D snowflake, play a tinny version of 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas' or have a flashing red lightbulb in place of Rudolph's nose. It was a simple scene in black and white and gold – rolling hills under distant stars, with tiny shepherds and stick-limbed sheep staring up at the sky. The picture didn't show what they were pointing at, but on the ground was the faint metallic outline of an angel's silhouette, and the crests of the hills glowed with a soft light that could not have come from the stars.

Dear Mark. I paused and sucked the end of my pen. I'd put off writing it because I wasn't sure I wanted to send it; I'd kept hoping I might see him, but he'd vanished like the ghost Harrison had compared him to. In the end I'd decided to get up and do it because I doubted he'd gone home for Christmas, and for some reason I couldn't bear the thought of him alone, thinking that I hadn't cared enough to try and speak to him.

I'm heading home today – sorry I haven't managed to catch you. There; that would tell him I'd tried, but not that I'd spent weeks scanning the town for his face. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas, and thank you again for Pirates. I hesitated again before adding, I still owe you a drink!

Suitcase wheels rattled across the cobblestones below – someone else going home for the holidays. I checked my watch. I needed to wrap this up, but I wasn't sure how. I couldn't sign it 'With love from.' We barely knew each other. 

In the end I settled for optimistic neutrality.

See you in the New Year. Claire.

I'd considered adding an apology for that night in the Whey Pat, but I wasn't exactly sure what to apologise for, and anyway, a Christmas card didn't seem like the place. I licked the envelope, sealed it, and wriggled into my coat.

The morning air stung my eyes. It was still dark, and fuzzy frosting clung to the cobbles. I slipped a little in my sneakers, steadied myself, and slowed my pace. One leg injury in the family was plenty to be going on with.

It wasn't even half past six, so I didn't knock on Mark's door. I slipped the card through his letterbox and padded away down the steps. I was almost at the turning back onto Market Street when I heard the slide and thunk of a Yale lock, and the creak of an old handle. 

“Claire.”

Surprise and pleasure jolted in my stomach. “Hi.” The cold and the stone magnified my voice. Anyone trying to sleep through a hangover wouldn't thank me for shouting down the street, so I headed back towards the open door and added more softly, “Did I wake you?”

A small, swift shake of the head. I believed him; he was fully dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and his eyes had a dark, sunken look I hadn't seen there before. I swallowed. I'd spent all the time I'd known Mark admiring him – his good looks, his talent, his charm and self-possession – but at that moment I longed to hold him as I still sometimes held Harrison, and protect him from whatever lay behind that haunted stare.

But he smiled as I climbed the stairs, even if it was a tired shadow of its usual dazzling blaze.

“I'm sorry it's so early.” I nodded at the envelope in his hands. “I just wanted to drop that off before I go.”

He turned it over in his hands. “May I open it?”

I grinned. “Well, I never think there's much point waiting for Christmas Day – not with cards. Better to get them up and enjoy them while you can.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and a little of the familiar silver light sparked in their depths. As he sliced open the envelope and read the card, I pretended to be extremely interested in the landlord of The Central lifting crates of Crabbie's into his store room, but I kept one eye on Mark's expression. I couldn't read all of the emotions that ghosted across his face, but I did catch a quick shadow of a laugh. 

“Thank you.” From him, the two words had a weight and sincerity that they so often lacked in others' mouths. A small crease appeared between his brows. “I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you; I wasn't expecting...”

“Don't apologise.” My stomach curled inwards; I hadn't meant to embarrass him. “Anyway, you've already given me something.”

“Oh?”

I rolled up my sleeve, and the crease between his eyebrows deepened. 

“I don't understand.”

“It's a nicotine patch.” I tugged my coat back down over my arm. Even after just a few seconds in the December air, my skin was frigid. “Plenty of people have tried to get me to quit; I suppose when you told me off outside the Union that night, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I did not tell you off.”

“Well, whatever it was, I was sick of being nagged. I'm three weeks clean and counting.”

“Congratulations.” Again, it was spoken with such intensity that I couldn't doubt he meant it.

The wind was picking up again. The hiss and rumble of the sea deepened, and I gasped and wrapped my arms across my body. 

“I'm so sorry.” He stepped back from the doorway. “Come inside, you must be frozen.”

“I can't – but thank you.” I hoped I sounded as sincere as he did when I said it. “I have to get going. It's a long drive back down south.”

He nodded, half-closing the door against the cold and stepping out onto the top of the stairs. “You're leaving now?”

Was that regret? I couldn't tell. More likely wishful thinking. “Soon – if Harrison has managed to drag himself out of bed.”

“How's his leg?”

“Mending. He can put a little weight on it now, but the cast needs to stay on until the New Year.”

“I'm glad he's getting better.” He gazed over the top of my head. We couldn't see the sea from here, but his eyes were fixed in that direction. “Claire – when we were in the pub after the show...”

“I know I said something – although I'm still not sure what.” I tilted my head. I hadn't expected him to bring it up. “I'm sorry, if that helps.”

“There's no need for you to be. I shouldn't have left so abruptly, but the conversation...it stirred some memories I'd prefer were left buried.”

I nodded, slowly. “You did what you needed to. I can understand that.” I held my hand out to him. “Friends?”

Mark looked startled, as though he'd never heard the word before in his life. I'd intended it to sound light hearted, but it came out somehow plaintive and pathetic, like Harrison or Theo apologising for one of their harebrained scheme gone awry. Nevertheless he took my hand in his and squeezed it gently. 

“Give my best to the others,” he said as he let go.

“Will do.” I tucked my hand into my coat pocket. I felt like it might float off by itself if I didn't fasten it into something.

“And drive carefully.”

“As if I'd do anything else in this weather. Anyway, I don't think the Bilberry can go much above sixty miles an hour.”

“The Bilberry?”

“My car. Long story.” I gave him a mischievous grin. “I'll explain next semester, when we go for that drink.” 

He smiled again, but there was something lost and empty about it, and he didn't reply. 

Carefully, hesitantly, I touched the fingertips of my free hand against the top of his wrist. “Take care, OK?”

He tensed at the contact. He looked down at my hand, then back up, and he stared at me like he had in the pub, like he was looking past my skin and hair and clothes at parts of me I wasn't even sure existed. His eyes were gentle enough, but if I didn't focus too hard it seemed like something stirred behind them – something white and ancient, like fire on the blade of a sword...

I blinked and it was gone. The air in my mouth tasted of petrichor and lightning. My knees felt hollow and the back of my throat was dry.

“Merry Christmas, Claire.”

The world settled at the sound of his voice. “Merry Christmas.” I inhaled the steadying smell of saltwater and stone, and turned to leave. “I'll see you in the New Year.”

***

When I got back to the flat Rosie was in the kitchen, peeling and slicing kiwi fruit, melon and bananas. 

“You're spoiling us.” I hugged her from behind. Her silky hair tickled my cheek and smelled of lilies.

“I was going to make French toast, but I don't want to set the kitchen on fire.”

“Probably wise. Is Harrison up?”

She nodded. “Even Theo's awake.”

“Crikey.” 

“I know.” She sliced a lime in half and squeezed it on the juicer. I inhaled deeply, savouring the sharp, clean smell. “Where did you go?” 

“To drop off Mark's Christmas card.”

Her pretty mouth puckered into a mew of concern. “Did you see him?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Oh!” Her expression cleared into a sunny smile. “Good – I thought we'd offended him that night in the Whey Pat.”

“Not offended, exactly.” I debated whether I should share what Mark had told me about why he'd left, but before I decided, the living room door open.

“Did I hear that right?” Harrison limped into the kitchen. “You've seen Mark?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He sends his best and says merry Christmas.”

Harrison raised his eyebrows. “That's it? Nothing about the other night?”

“I didn't go to interrogate him!”

“What's interrogating who?” yawned Theo as he came down the stairs.

“Claire,” said Harrison, at the same time as Rosie replied, “Mark.”

Theo looked first at Rosie, then at Harrison, blinking muzzily. “What?”

I sighed. “You were actually right the other night, Harrison. He said he was sorry for leaving the way he did, and that the conversation had brought up some bad memories.”

“To do with the war?” Harrison asked.

“He didn't say. Does it matter?”

“What war?” Rosie frowned, opening a packet of blueberries.

“I don't know, exactly. But he told me he was in the military not long after we first met him.”

“Oh.” She tipped the lime juice and blueberries into the bowl of fruit chunks. “Well, that explains the scars.”

“Yeah.” Harrison shivered. “That hand...I don't want to imagine what could do that.”

“Hmm? Oh – sorry – I meant the ones on his stomach.”

“What?” Now I was puzzled. “I didn't see anything on his stomach.” And I'd examined it pretty closely, I admitted, blushing a little at the memory of that rabble-rousing third encore. “Well, except that crazy tattoo.”

“They were lower down.” Rosie was blushing too. “The leggings covered most of them, but I saw them when I was helping him put the transfer on.”

“You've seen him with his trousers off?” Theo's voice leapt up about three octaves.

“Lucky,” smirked Harrison.

Rosie's delicate pink flush deepened into dark coral. “Not all the way off.”

I was torn between irritation, jealousy, amusement and curiosity. The latter won. “What were they like?”

In spite of her reddening cheeks, Rosie gave a wicked smile. “What were what like?”

I took a deep breath and counted to three as Harrison choked and Theo spluttered. “The scars.”

All of them sobered up at that. 

“Kind of jagged,” said Rosie thoughtfully. “And all silvery, like they were really old.”

“Bullet wounds?” asked Harrison.

“No,” Theo answered. “More like someone shot a canon full of broken glass at him.”

I gave him a questioning look.

“We got changed together before the dress rehearsal.” Theo shrugged. “I didn't realise you were all so curious.”

“It's none of our business anyway. He's a person, not a plot point in a soap opera.” I felt slightly ashamed now that I'd asked, remembering the lost, vulnerable look in Mark's eyes earlier. “I'll go and set the table, then we'll be ready when food is – and after that we should get going.”

But the others were still speculating when we sat down.

“It's funny,” said Harrison, pouring maple syrup over his fruit salad. “You say the scars on his stomach look old, but that scar on his hand looks quite recent.”

“Why is that funny?” I reached for the orange juice. “You can get wounded more than once in a war.”

“But they'd still most likely have happened within a few years of each other.”

I made a non-committal noise. “Maybe he was in the forces for a long time.”

“It can't have been that long – how old is he, thirty-two, thirty-three? And he must have at least three degrees if he's doing postdoctoral research; that's seven years of full time study, minimum. Probably much more. And I doubt he was nipping off to fight in the Middle East in between courses.” Harrison swallowed. “Something doesn't add up.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I don't know.” Harrison grinned. “Hey, maybe he's an alien, and different parts of his body heal at different speeds.”

“Don't be stupid.” But almost unwillingly I remembered the fire in his eyes when he'd held my gaze in the pub, the uncanny way he'd seemed to guess my thoughts on occasion, and that tingling, unearthly sense of something strange and ancient in the air outside his house. I shook myself and checked my watch. Now I was the one being stupid. “Come on, Tiny Tim; eat up, then let's get you home for Christmas.”

***

We played cheesy Christmas songs for the first hour of the drive home, then got fed up and switched to Guns'n'Roses as we picked up the motorway south of Edinburgh. Harrison suggested a game of I Spy as we approached Berwick, and got an elbow in the ribs; at Alnwick we paused for a coffee and a browse around the second hand book shop.

“We should have given Theo a lift,” Harrison said absently, flicking through a volume on Icelandic volcanoes. “We're only about fifteen minutes from his house.”

“I don't think 'house' is the right word.”

He laughed. “They're really nice, you know – his family. They're normal people who drive normal cars and shop in normal places. It's not Downton Abbey.”

“Mm.” I ran my fingers down the spine of a book called Unlocking the Mind's Potential. “Well, he wanted to stay on for a few days. It might not hurt anything for him and Rosie to spend some time in the flat together.”

“Playing matchmaker?”

“Not exactly, but they're more likely to sort themselves out if we're not under their feet.” I pulled down the book I'd been considering, and turned it over to read the back cover. “Harrison, can I ask you something a bit mad?”

“Sure.”

“Do you believe in magic?”

He slid his book back onto the shelf and gave me a cheeky smile. “Claire, I hate to tell you this, but Father Christmas isn't real.”

I laughed. “That's not what I meant. I was thinking...maybe more like the stuff in Matilda. Telekinesis, telepathy – mental powers.” I hesitated. “Or ghosts. Things...things outside how we normally perceive the world.”

Harrison looked thoughtful. “I don't think so. If people could really move stuff with their mind, it'd be all over the internet. You wouldn't be able to hush it up even if you wanted to. Same with ghosts. Someone would have proved it by now.”

“You were the one talking about aliens over breakfast!”

“I wasn't being serious.” He gave me a sharp look. “Why are you asking?”

“No reason.” I slotted the book back into place. “Anyway, you're probably right.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

I took a half-hearted swing at him with my book bag.

***

The holidays passed in a lazy, tinselly blur. Our Grandma always stayed with us for a couple of weeks, but this year we were playing host to Harrison and his parents too, as well as Dad's younger sister Fiona and her twins, Amber and Ben.

“It's because we're all one one floor here,” my Mum had explained on the phone. “It'll be easier for Harrison.”

I didn't bother pointing out that after the first couple of days he'd had no problem with the stairs up to our flat in St Andrews. It was fun having everyone under the same roof instead of having to trek about visiting, although it made things a bit of a squash. Grandma, of course, had the spare room; Cyril and Jo, Harrison's parents, pitched camp on the sofa bed in the living room, and Fiona was on an air bed in Dad's office. Harrison and I were supposed to share my room with the twins, but I put my foot down.

“I'm glad.” Harrison unzipped his hold-all and started sorting through his laundry. “They're cute, but it's nice to have our own space.” He looked up. “You're sure you don't mind sharing with me?”

“Of course not. We did it enough when we were little. I just don't want to put up with the twins hissing and whispering and giggling all night when I'm trying to sleep.” I shook out a party dress and smiled at him. “The worst I can expect from you is a bit of snoring.”

“I don't snore!”

“Well anyway, they're better off in the dining room, where nobody can hear them. They can put a sheet over the table and make a den.”

“I do feel bad taking your bed.”

“You're not sleeping on a camp bed with that thing on your leg!”

He grimaced. “I can't wait to get it off. It's driving me mad – and Mum's gone back to treating me like I'm five.”

“She's been worried about you. If that annoys you so much, don't go leaping into the North Sea in the dark.”

“OK, OK, I was an idiot.” He held up his hands. “How many times do I have to say it?”

I grinned. “As many times as it takes.”

Christmas day itself started brightly enough, with Mary Poppins on the TV and delicious, savoury smells stealing through from the kitchen, but by mid-afternoon the twins were whiny from too much sugar, Dad and Cyril were asleep from too much red wine, and Grandma was grumpy from too much noise. I helped Mum tidy the kitchen, then sneaked upstairs with Harrison to watch The Fellowship of the Ring - his choice.

“It isn't very festive,” he apologised.

“It's fine. I think we need a break from being festive.”

We curled up together on the bed and sank into the familiar landscape and the lyrical score. Somehow its pensive nostalgia reminded me of Mark. I wondered how he was doing and whether he had anyone with him, and then as Gandalf and Bilbo embraced outside Bag End I let go of the outside world, and lost myself in Middle-earth as I had so many times before.