Local writer Alan Dawson, who is being the #madeinmansfield positive poetry initiative, has written this short story, Footsteps in the Snow, for Mansfield and Ashfield News Journal readers. He writes:

During the Victorian times, short ghost stories were popular and were read to friends and family around a blazing fire by candlelight after dark – especially at Christmas time. Because of the television and the internet, short stories are not normally seen as entertainment that we can share with others nowadays.

Why not try to evoke the feeling from a Victorian age and read my modern short story, Footsteps in the Snow, as a family/ friends in a darkened room with the wind and snow blowing against the windows and doors… who will read it for the others?

Alan Dawson

Footsteps in the Snow

To be heard, you also need to listen…

Frederick Street stands in the suburbs of M_______, a short valley of tall red-brick buildings with wrought iron gates at the Eastern end and a gatehouse at the Western end, to keep out unwanted traffic and uninvited footfall. The imposing dwellings were once mills, where hundreds of workers earned a pittance producing hosiery for the flourishing markets of the 19th and 20th Century. Now high-ceilinged luxury apartments arrogantly stare out at each-other from oversized windows across a wide cobbled road with top of the range motors parked in neat rows at either side of the cobbles. Hearsay has it that the dimensions of the Northern block, Oliphant House, was built to the dimensions of Noah’s Ark.

Tomo turns off the overhead light and puts his feet up in the warm Gatehouse; oblivious to the snowstorm that is beginning to stir outside – it is difficult to stay awake on the night shift, especially when you have a belly-full of ale from an afternoon session in the Brown Cow. He reposes back into his chair with his cap pushed forward over his eyes listening to Stormzy through his headphones before dropping into a deep slumber. Even when the inside of the double-glazed hut is suddenly illuminated by the headlights of a black Audi Q8 as it parks up, he does not stir. The CCTV cameras alone watch as the car door slowly opens and outsteps the driver into the shadows – a tall man in his late 30s, wearing a dark well-cut suit. The first flutters of mid-December snow begin to settle on his broad shoulders as he walks away from the car with his head bowed and his lapels turned up against his cheeks.

***
Paul Thompson’s (Tomo) predecessor, Malcolm Smith, a conscientious man in his early 60s, became victim to a misunderstanding that cost him his livelihood three weeks before Christmas. Smith, unlike his young replacement, preferred to patrol the cobbles rather than sit in the gatehouse. He made sure that everyone was sent off in a morning with a touch of his peak and was welcomed back with the same gesture whatever the weather.
‘Good morning, Sir… Madam…’ he would say – usually to no response other than a curt nod if he was lucky.

Smith was unfortunate to have inadvertently upset Victoria Holmwood-Smith MBE, a formidable businesswoman who had recently been made CEO of a multi-national pharmaceutical company before the age of 40. Holmwood-Smith was not the most sociable of individuals at the best of times – especially not when she was suffering jetlag from her numerous flights to and from the United States.

That unfortunate evening, Holmwood-Smith lifted her suitcase out from the boot of her Porsche without acknowledging the aged security man as he hovered anxiously nearby to assist her. She left the suitcase behind the car and walked across the cobbles, wobbling slightly in her Jimmy Choo heels, to the main entrance of Oliphant House before disappearing inside. As it was, Smith would have normally picked up her suitcase and carried it to her door after her, but his walkie-talkie sparked into life before he could do this.

‘Malcolm are you there?’ crackled a familiar voice – it was Bert Dalton, a retired police officer who worked security on a nearby retail park. ‘I’ve just seen a gang of youths coming your way – keep your eye out, duck.’

Smith thought it best to check to see if the gate was locked and he made his way towards it. Before he reached it, he could see a familiar figure leaning against the gate with her skeleton face pushing through the bars. ‘What you up to, Fiona?’ he asked with warmth.

‘Hey up, Malcolm,’ she replied as she pushed her dirty hand through a greasy mop of brown hair – although she was of an age before the grey would start flecking through her curls, her body was already that of a crone aged 40 years her senior, such was her hardship.
It took Smith a while to persuade her to move on. He watched with pity as she pushed her battered shopping trolley down the hill towards the town – with £10 of his hard-earned money stuffed between her many layers of tattered clothing – he would not be able to afford Deb’s Diner for his breakfast now.

***
‘Is that all right for you, Victor?’ Victoria said to the older man as she refilled his glass generously with Chateau Lynch-Bages.
‘Is this the 2017?’ he asked as he lifted the glass up to the light.
‘Of course,’ she replied as she toyed with her lobster frittata.
‘This is delicious,’ mumbled Victor as he greedily filled his jowls… bits of lobster meat smeared his blue lips and greying beard.
Kenneth, Virginia’s eight-year-old son, popped his head around the door of the dining room, ‘Hello Judge Dredd,’ he said in a mechanical tone before giggling.
The man smiled without any humour: ‘Didn’t we decide that you weren’t going to call me that anymore, Kenneth?’
‘What is it, darling? Do you want some more biscuits?’ asked his mother as she pushed her fingers affectionally through his blonde curls.
‘Can I have what you are eating?’
‘But you don’t like lobster.’
‘I’ve never tried it.’
‘Can you run along back to your room? Victor and I have things we need to talk about.’
‘Okay, mum’ said the boy lightly as he skipped out of the room.
‘Marie will bring you a sandwich,’ she called after him without raising her voice.
‘He reminds me of his father.’
‘He’s not a bit like his father.’
‘Have you heard from Daniel? I hear he’s out.’
‘He wouldn’t dare show his face around here, beside I’ve got a restraining order – you were extremely helpful with that, do you remember?’
Victor coughed uncomfortably as Marie walked hesitantly into the dining room.
‘Virginia,’ she said softy as she absentmindedly adjusted one of the baubles on the Christmas Tree.
‘What is it?’ snapped back her employer.
‘The CCTV man is on the phone; he will only talk to you – should I put him through?’
Virginia took in a sharp intake of air through her flared nostrils – Marie took that as a no and left.

***
Kenneth looked down from his bedroom window as the snow fell heavily and began to drift up against the darkened gatehouse. He loved the snow; he remembered how his father and he would throw snowballs at each other in the garden and build snowmen – his mother had not liked that; she complained bitterly when Kenneth came back into the house soaking wet because his father had put snow down the back of his neck – Kenneth had not minded, it was fun.

He knew that his father had been sent to prison. He also knew that his mother had spent two weeks in hospital after the police had carted his father away in handcuffs. He remembered hearing them argue at the top of the stairs:
‘I’ll make sure you never see him again,’ he heard Victoria say before the unmistakable clatter of someone falling down the stairs reached his ears.
He had opened his bedroom door to see his father standing at the top of the stairs – he was stood pale and static with wild eyes staring down towards his wife who was groaning at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Whatever anyone says, Ken, I didn’t push her… you must remember that son.’

***
As Kenneth turned away a snowball thudded into the window behind him. He rushed back to the window to the to see the man in the dark suit waving. Before Kenneth had the chance to call out, the man pushed his forefinger up to his lips. Kenneth waved in glee – he had not felt this happy for a long time. As if he was enjoying a game of Christmas charades, the man acted out unlocking the front door. Kenneth could feel his heart pumping such was his joy, but he knew he had to be calm and unlock the door without anyone hearing – which he did. He mouthed ‘dad’ as the man opened the door slightly. Daniel passed his son a neatly-written note:

Get your coat and come back to me –  don’t let anyone see you or hear you

Daniel watched through the small gap between the slightly opened door and the door jamb as his son made his way quietly upstairs to get his coat. Just as Kenneth had disappeared on to the upper landing, Marie walked into the reception area and shivered as a draught blew through the gap and across her thin shoulders.  She looked towards the door and ventured to shut it. Daniel quickly opened the door and before Marie could shout out, he had grabbed her by the arms and placed his hand roughly over her mouth. He indicated that she should go with him upstairs. Half dragging the terrified young woman up the stairs, he found Kenneth’s bedroom and shut the door behind him. Kenneth was alarmed to see Marie in the fierce clutches of his dad.
‘It’s all right son,’ he said softly as he opened the ensuite bathroom door with his foot and pushed Marie inside. He grabbed the door handle to prevent her escape.

***
‘Did you hear that?’ said Virginia as she placed her coffee cup onto the table.
‘Hear… hear what,’ replied Victor slurring his words.
Virginia leapt up from the table and hurried towards the door. She kicked off her shoes and vaulted two steps at a time up the stairs to be confronted by her ex-husband and son making their way to the stairs from the landing.
‘What are you doing?’ she screamed as she ineffectively tried to pull her son away from the much stronger Daniel.
Daniel cruelly laughed at her ineffectiveness and placed his hand on her forehead; he pushed her backwards down the stairs. She screamed as she tumbled down… she became instantly quiet as her skull hit hard against the reception area tiled floor.
She did not see Daniel run out of the building clutching the wriggling Kenneth by his arm as he went.
‘Dad, dad, stop, stop… you are hurting me… what have you done to mummy?’

***
Virginia roused. Her head hurt and she saw her blood pooled across the cold tiles – she felt a deep gash across her temple as she struggled to stand up. Victor popped his head out of the dining room and looked towards the stairs but could not see her laid on the far side of the stairs.
‘Victor please help me… he’s taken Kenneth, call the police… Victor? Victor?’
Victor shrugged and went back into the dining room.
Virginia made for the door and opened it; it had stopped snowing and she ran out shoeless into the virgin snow calling out for her son. She saw the gatehouse and hastened towards it. She banged hard on the window…

…Tomo woke with a start and fumbled for the light switch. He took a sharp intake of breath when he saw blood smeared down the window and a white-faced woman hysterically beating her bloodied fists against the glass – he could not hear what she was saying due to the effectiveness of the double glazing and headphones. He shut his eyes and opened them again – the blood was still there congealing across the pane, but the woman had gone.

***
Police incident tape sealed off the area from the Northern block entrance to the gatehouse. Thompson was being interviewed whilst sat in the back of a patrol car – his ramblings caused him to be tested for illegal substances when he arrived at the police station.
‘I tell you, there was blood smeared all over the window,’ he repeated.
The police officer sighed heavily. ‘So, what happened? Did the woman come back with a bottle of Mr Muscle and clean it off the window?

Other officers patrolled the street shivering, as others, more fortunate, took witness statements from the residents in front of open fires and log burners. Some had heard a female shouting but when they looked out, they saw no one – CCTV footage was later to confirm this.
Detective Inspector Grant walked backed to his car after observing the scene, he slipped slightly as the dropping temperature had caused the snow to freeze.
‘What do you reckon, sir,’ asked a young police officer as they opened the door to their superior’s car.
‘I’m not sure, Alison, it’s all a bit strange. There are a single footprints in the snow leading up to the gatehouse window and then they stop.’
Grant took off his cap as a stretcher was taken into the ambulance from Oliphant House – the face was covered up by a dark blanket.
‘Poor Mrs Holmwood-Smith,’
‘What about her son?’ continued Alison.
‘We’ve set up roadblocks but nothing as yet.’

The End