Free Twisted Winter by Catherine Butler Page A

the year’s end.
    Last time I’d walked from Lucy’s, a few weeks earlier, the fat moon of harvest had been shining. It occurred to me now with a shudder that it must have been the very night when Fudge –
    I did my best to stop the thought in its tracks. I didn’t like to imagine what I might have been sharing the streets with, the night Lucy’s cat died.
    â€œWait up, Nell!”
    I jumped, at the male voice behind me. But it was only my big brother Adam, running to catch up. I’d not recognized him in the dark.
    Not that Adam looked exactly safe, with his hoodie and trainers. More like somebody’s nightmare of a modern teenager.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be on your own in the dark. It’s dangerous. There’s people like me about.”
    Had he read my mind? I was glad he’d turned up, anyway.
    â€œIt’s only just gone eight,” I grumbled.
    â€œYou’re the boss. But let’s walk together, yeah?”
    His phone rang almost at once, and he moved a few paces ahead. “What’s up?” he said, and fell into a muttered conversation that sounded like a conspiracy even to me.
    That was the trouble with Adam. He really
had
been a bad lad, once. A couple of years ago he’d been part of a gang, and he’d begun to drift away from me, Mum and Dad, into a very dark place. A bit of vandalism here, a fight there, carrying a few messages, babysitting a package or two. Eventually, he went too far. I remember the night that policewoman came round to the house. Adam had spat in the custody sergeant’s face, she told Mum and Dad.
    â€œHe’s a got a vicious streak, that one. You ought to muzzle him.”
    We didn’t talk about it afterwards, because we knew it couldn’t be true – even though we also knew it
was
. Mum’s an accountant, Dad works in marketing, and Adam was a well brought up boy on course for eight GCSEs. Surely he wasn’t the type to take pot shots at pets with an air rifle, or key the new cars in the showroom forecourt? He must have been misled,my parents decided. There was an appearance at the Youth Court, with Adam every inch the respectable citizen in his tie and white shirt, full of scripted remorse. It must have done the trick, because he got no more than a fine and a few weekends helping out in the local park. We all did our best to forget about it. My parents moved Adam to a different school, and it was there he discovered his love for competitive running.
    Mum and Dad were delighted, especially when he started winning trophies. A much better use for all that teenage energy, they agreed. The old Adam had been left in the dust.
    But I couldn’t relax. Adam was a good big brother – he looked out for me – but I didn’t exactly trust him. Or rather – it’s just that, seeing him move round the room you could sense the muscles under his skin, spring-loaded and powerful, and it was like watching a rider try to control a horse that’s too strong for him. You never knew when he was going to buck – or bolt – or bite.
    * * *
    It must have been a fox that killed Fudge, Lucy’s mum had said. There’d been bite marks on the body. But what kind of fox takes a cat’s head clean off and leaves its body neatly spread-eagled on the lawn?
    A fox with thumbs and eight fingers, that’s what.
    * * *
    Adam walked me back to our house that night, but he didn’t stay. His mate on the phone was calling him away, Adam wouldn’t say where.
    â€œTell Mum not to wait up,” he told me. “I’ll be back by midnight.”
    He had college next morning, so I had a good idea how that would go down. Mum did wait up, of course, and Adam didn’t come home till well after twelve, of course. I heard them rowing downstairs.
    â€œI told you, I was watching a movie at Dexy’s!” Adam shouted. “His uncle was with us! Phone him now, if you don’t believe