Free Dying for Christmas by Tammy Cohen Page A

rose up to greet those croissants and didn’t stop until all that was left on the plate was a smear of grease and a few claggy crumbs.
    Dominic seemed pleased.
    ‘Greedy guts! You’re going to be a tubby little thing by the time this is all over.’
    A flare of hope. So at some point, it would be over?
    He withdrew from his pocket his bunch of keys. He was wearing different clothes today. Black, slim-fitting moleskin trousers and a black cashmere jumper. I wondered when he’d transferred the keys from yesterday’s jeans.
    The key that opened the doors to the balcony had a pink fob. When the heavy metal frame swung open the gust of cold air blowing in was shocking after all those hours cooped up in the heat of that flat. I followed Dominic outside where there was a glass-topped table on a wrought-iron stand and two matching chairs. The river, sparkling in the sunlight, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
    There were cars, small as toys, proceeding over Tower Bridge in the distance, the moving speck of a pedestrian on the opposite bank, evidence of life going on. There were boats dotted all over the surface of the water. I wondered what would happen if I shouted for help down to the motorboat that passed almost underneath us, its five occupants huddled in their high-visibility jackets. But deep inside I knew the wind would just blow my own voice back in my face.
    ‘Usually there’s a lot more to look at.’ Dominic was feeling expansive that morning. ‘Over there’ – he indicated the low converted warehouses on the opposite bank of the river, with the cranes behind them – ‘is normally a hive of activity, but I guess everyone’s holed up at home, it being Boxing Day. You know, I still can’t get over us being here together, like this. Bank holidays can be so lonely without the right person to share them with. Aren’t we lucky to have found each other?’
    I nodded, not able to speak.
    Turning my head away from the bridge in the other direction, I remembered what he’d said before about Execution Dock and, of course, as soon as I’d let that memory back in, the voices were there, but the wind was blowing against them, and they struggled to be heard.
    What if I jumped?
    The thought blew into my mind with the wind and once it was in there, it refused to leave. I pictured myself taking that deep breath, gathering momentum, letting go. I allowed myself to imagine the freedom of falling, dropping further and further away from Dominic and this flat. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face as I fell.
    ‘You’re cold.’
    I heard the strangest thing then, a child’s voice almost echoing his. ‘I’m cold,’ it said. I looked around but there was no one else there. Dominic took my hand and rubbed it between both of his as if trying to start a fire. His fingers disappeared up the sleeve of my jumper, the skin of my arm turning icy where he touched it.
    ‘Goose-bumps Jessica.’ He was so close to me, his breath was warm and damp in my ear. ‘We must get you into a hot bath.’
    He turned to open the door, and as he did so a pleasure cruiser passed underneath us. Without thinking, I raised my arm in a desperate sweep. A child in a yellow anorak was standing between two adults leaning against the rail and looking right up at me. I could almost see the colour of his eyes and the stripes on his gloves. He lifted his arm at the elbow and waved solemnly as the boat disappeared from view.
    I expected to go into the main bathroom where there is a large free-standing bath, but instead Dominic led the way through to the ensuite in the bedroom, where there is only a large walk-in shower – more of a wet room really, with mosaic-tiled walls and floor and several shower nozzles at different heights. The controls are at one end, which is where Dominic stood. His expression, I noticed now, was hard and set.
    ‘Take off your clothes,’ he ordered.
    Immediately I froze. By that stage I’d been sleeping in my