Free Snow Hill by Mark Sanderson Page A

handkerchief and his hat to protect his sore hands.
    Rime was forming on his hair, eyebrows and eyelashes. It was exhausting and progress was excrutiatingly slow. Iron bands seemed to be tightening round his head. He forced himself to carry on.
    Surely he should have reached the door by now? He could feel claustrophobia creeping up on him. The darkness took on a glutinous quality, glugging into his mouth, trickling into his nostrils, filling his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut. Purple and orange burst out of the black.
    It was becoming increasingly difficult to think. Johnny knew he must not panic. He yelled again, his lips splitting open, the blood shockingly hot.
    The effort sapped what strength he had left. It was no good: he would have to rest for a moment.
    The vibrating hum sent ripples through his bone marrow. It was strangely soothing.
    He was asleep in seconds.
    After her husband’s death, Johnny’s mother, like many other grieving widows of the Great War, had ordered a “spirit photograph”. The simple but expensive process involved super-imposing an image of the dead person on to one of the living. The magic of double exposure thus bridged the gap between this world and the next. A separated couple could be reunited by a mere trick of the light.
    His mother was delighted with the result. A studio portrait of her sitting solemnly on a straight-backed dining chair beside the obligatory aspidistra on a stand had been merged with her favourite from the half-dozen that the same photographer had taken of her husband shortly before he had been shipped to France. The good-looking soldier standing confidently in front of the camera had been transformed into a shadowy figure whose right hand seemed to rest on her left shoulder.
    It was a touching memento from which she derived great comfort and reassurance. Her Edward was still with her. He was looking after her now and always would be.
    The picture was on her bedside table when she died. Johnny brought it home from the hospital and put it back on the mantelpiece where, throughout his childhood, it had given him the creeps. He had not liked the idea that a man he did not know could be watching him every minute of every day. However, the fact that his mother had since joined his father, that the longed-for reunion had finally been achieved, made it impossible for him to put away, let alone throw away, the sinister souvenir.
    Johnny did not believe in ghosts: they were just external manifestations of internal disorder, grief, fear—or, in the case of Ebenezer Scrooge, a guilty conscience. Marley and Christmasses Past, Present and Future were harmless messengers from his own troubled mind.
    And now here he was, suspended between life and death, feeling the big chill, sinking deeper and deeper towards oblivion.
    Johnny knew he ought to fight, to go against the flow, but he did not have the energy to resist. He really could feel himself swaying. It was as if someone had picked him up. Was he back in his father’s arms?
    Someone slapped him across the face, hard. They did it again, harder. He registered the impact but not the pain.
    “Johnny! Snap out of it. Wake up!”
    Whoever it was hit him again.
    “All right, all right.” He opened his eyes. His lasheswere frozen together. Warm thumbs melted the ice. Johnny blinked. It was Matt. “I’m not crying,” said Johnny.
    Matt hauled him to his feet and gave him a bear-hug.
    “Are you okay?” His strength was astonishing.
    “I am now,” said Johnny. However, as soon as Matt let go, his knees buckled.
    Matt, expecting this, was ready to catch him. He lay him down on the floor and roughly rubbed his limbs to increase the circulation.
    “My head hurts,” groaned Johnny. It was as if someone were twisting a knife in his eye. “How did you find me?”
    “There was a tip-off about a burglary planned for tonight. This place is on my beat,” said Matt. “I found the doors open and decided to wait and see what came out. I