Lanterns

It started like all good stories do, with an unfortunately timed meeting at a memorial for his brother who drowned in the river.

Part of that memorial was currently clasped in my arms.

I wasn’t stealing them. In my mind, they were haphazardly left on the street as I walked to my mum’s car after a day of futile Christmas shopping. Just there, on the street, with no discernible owner to be seen. A very handy present which, to me, had been sent by the universe just in time for Christmas. My mum always wanted lanterns by the front door, I would have been a fool to look past this bounty bestowed by the Heavens. Some might say, a Christmas miracle! I definitely wasn’t stealing them.

You can imagine my surprise and delight, when in our kitchen that Christmas Eve over dinner preparation, she told us of the beautiful memorial by the river near her office. A memorial full of wreaths, and candles, and lanterns in honour of the poor people who died in the river that year. “Lanterns,” I said, “what sort of lanterns?”, casually concentrating on cutting crosses into a mound of brussels-sprouts.

“A handful of those really nice white ones with candles in them”, came the reply. A tiny prickle of heat was creeping up my neck and threatening to burst forth into a guilty sweat on my forehead. Trying to divert my brain, I focussed my energies on the work in hand, as if I was trying to absolve myself of any wrongdoing by cutting the most pious and holy crosses into the never-ending pile of vegetables.

I still wanted Santa to arrive to the house in the night, so I had no option but to come clean. I won’t share the details of the ensuing conversation when I surprised her with the contents of the boot of her car, as I don’t want to paint a bad picture of my mother. Lets just say that I was glad she was slowing down these days, for I would still bear the imprint of her hand on my bum to this day.

I was manhandled out the door into the artic conditions and told in no uncertain terms to return my loot. I was already roasting from the oppressive heat of the pre-Christmas kitchen, not to mention the burning shame of my transgression, so stepping out into the December night was a relief for a few moments. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and let my eyes adjust to the dark before quickly becoming nervous.

The back of our house in the day light is a gorgeous place. Beautiful wild trees, and heather, and ivy climbing over stone walls a century old. Little rustles here and there in the undergrowth, mice and birds heading back to their families from their scavenger hunts. The back of our house in the dead of night is another story. Those beautiful trees turn into shadowed hiding grounds for ghosts and spirits of benign and malignant nature. The heather and ivy is a breeding ground of a multitude of nocturnal hobgoblins and malicious fairies. Those rustles in the undergrowth are no longer cute, but unnerving and predatory. That barn owl that screeches past is now a Banshee screaming to take another passenger aboard the River Styx.

The drive to town was uneventful. For that I was glad, as I was still on edge from banshee owls hawking their wares and I didn't think I could cope with anything else unexpected. The town was quieter than I've ever seen. All the shops were shut and their lights turned out. Pubs, usually heaving with happy punters were dark and quiet. The Christmas lights strung above the streets were swaying in the winter wind with no one around to enjoy them. No one on the streets. Everyone at home in warm houses and terrible television. Everyone but me. I pulled up near, but not too near in case anyone recognised her car, my mother's workplace. Casually glancing around to make sure there was no one nearby, I stepped out into the night only to quickly retreat when the breeze from the river nearly cut me in two. I had to psyche myself up for a do-over, and brace myself for the five minute walk to the drop off spot. Walking in my hitherto "Indoors Only" snow slippers was proving treacherous. Five minutes is a long time walking in the cold carrying four large lanterns. So glad there was no one around to...

There was someone around to... Poised at the riverside. Hands clutching the railing as he looked out over the black and angry river. Standing at the very point I was hoping to reach. Shamefully, my first thought wasn't what I would do if he jumped. It was what would I do if he didn't. What if he turns around and sees me with an armful of pilfered memorial lanterns that I definitely didn't steal. A couple of options ran through my head as I stood there in the cold. I never got a chance to complete my assessment of the situation, he beat me to the punch while I dithered.

"Are those the lanterns?"

"I wasn't stealing them"

"I never said you were"

Fuck.

"I...I heard about the memorial, and it was so lovely that I thought I would check it out for myself" My voice betraying me through cold and confrontation. "They looked dirty so I thought I'd erm...take them home? Yes, take them home and clean them"

God I was good in a crisis. Now, stage two, deflection.

"What are you doing here? It's nearly midnight on Christmas Eve?"

"I could ask you the same thing"

"I asked you first"

Putting the lanterns down, I was overcome with a wave of tiredness mingled with irrational anger. I wanted to go home to mulled wine and family arguments. I didn't want to stand in the cold any more and play verbal tennis with a stranger. If he kept up with this attitude, I might be tempted to add him to the list of lost river souls to round out the year. Summoning all the politeness I could, I bid him a merry Christmas, peace and goodwill to all men and turned to walk away. I could feel his eyes boring holes into my back as I shuffled down the street. Was he crying when he turned around to me? Were they the tears of a sad sack or the tears of a piercing wind hitting his face? And most importantly, was my innate nosiness going to overcome me?

Allowing my nature to get the better of me, I turned back and fought against the wind to reach the memorial spot. I needed to know if he was ok. He clearly wasn't, or else he wouldn't be standing perilously close to a raging river this time of night in deserted town. At least I had the excuse of returning something, not just coming here for a midnight muse. It would be on my mind all Christmas if I didn't ask.

He was still stood facing me as I approached. He hadn't taken his gaze off me since I arrived, nor did he look alarmed as I drew closer to him. Tilting my head always helped me hone in on how someone was feeling. Squinting my eyes always helped me focus. He was not to know this, and his eyes widened as he struggled to understand what I was doing. Me, walking slowly to him, tilted head and squinty of eye staring at him with a questioning look but not actually speaking. I knew he would speak before I did. The excruciating pause would break him before it broke me. I loved a good awkward silence.

"It's our first Christmas without Mark"

Bingo.

"And I'm here coz I can't stand being at home without him. And you're not supposed to be here."

"You weren't supposed to be here either, but here we are"

A futher pause. I broke this time.

"I'm sorry about Mark though. What happened?"

It had all been as simple as a tragic accident. There was no depression he was dealing with. There were no heroics in trying to save someone from the water. He had lost his footing on the scenic route home one evening and disappeared below the current. The fishermen on the bank didn't see him in time. He was only twenty-two. Everyone knew him and everyone liked him. Everyone mourned his death. And everyone except his family had moved on. Life can be like that. The story sounded familiar, like I had heard my parents talking about the accident, but it never fully took root in my head. I felt bad, as I would for anyone who's grieving. I also felt cold And then selfish.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I'd lost all concept of time being out here at night time. I'd also lost all sensation as I tried and failed to take my phone out for a closer look. My numbed fingers fumbled with the device and it dropped from my grip. I wasn't reactive enough to catch it before it bounced off the footpath and slid along the ground towards the gaps in the railings. It paused at the lip, perilously close to falling in. Multiple missed calls from my mum showed on the screen. Another call from her was the vibrating prompt my phone needed to slide that tiny bit more and into the water below. I'm not ashamed to say, I howled. My grief, trivial though it was in comparison to that of Mark's family, was real. Photos, messages, voice notes, long forgotten bank details all lost to the river.

Luckily my howl was drowned out by the police car that had drawn up beside us. Seems like the town wasn't deserted, and someone had phoned the local station to report two people acting strange beside the river. They didn't even bother getting out of the car, we were that little of a threat. Leaning into a police car to talk to them felt like a reversal of power, and I felt like a child having to explain why I was out so late and acting odd by the river. The stern faces of the police stared at me, glanced at my accomplice, and back to me. I couldn't read them, but I sensed they were annoyed at having to leave the warm station more than anything else. Explaining away our presence by coming to say a Christmas prayer for Mark, they sighed a "Right" to signal their acceptance of my excuse.

"We'll get ye home, in the back"

How to explain we were going separate ways without arousing suspicion. Once again, while I dithered through options, he deftly claimed that we lived just down the street, no need for a lift but thanks all the same. The boys in blue didn't need an excuse to wind the window back up and make for the warmth of the barracks.

"How are you getting home"?

"It's grand, I wasn't lying, I do live just down there" pointing to the area my mum's car was parked. Good for you, I thought sourly. We crossed the street away from the river, and walked to the car in silence. Well he walked in silence, I walked with shuffling slipper noises, made all the louder by the quiet of the night. We didn't need to speak, and there was nothing left to say. His flat appeared before the car, so he stopped abruptly to open his front door. No announcement, no "this is me". He nodded at me, I nod back, and inside he goes.

I shuffle-ran to the car, grateful that I had forgotten to lock it, and even grateful that it hadn't been stolen in my absence. Nothing that mother needed to know about! There was no quick route out of town, and I had to driver around the river to set off on the right course to home. Driving along the far side of the river, I noticed the clock on the church showed 1.30am. This was going to take some explaining as to why I was gone so long and why I didn't answer my phone. Ugh! My phone! Grief renewed! Grief turning to anger as I drove further and further away from the river. The cursed river. That flippin' strange man. Those bloody lanterns!

I realised much later, when I was home and eventually in bed that I never even found out his name. Pleasantries were not exchanged. No handshakes and definitely no phone numbers. I also realised that I had been keeping an eye out for him almost subconsciously on festive nights out. A part of me was wondering if what happened, had in fact happened. I didn't tell anyone the full story, not because they wouldn't believe it, but because I didn't quite believe it myself.

----------------------------

"We've no jelly. How on God's green earth can I make trifle without the flippin' jelly"

The flippin' part didn't happen, it was a much more aggressive word she used but again, until you meet my mother, I don't want to judge her. She's a delightful woman, who cares passionately about trifle at Christmas. Jelly being an important component of said trifle. All eyes around the kitchen diverted from hers. Years of diversion training and selective hearing came into play, but once more my failure to react in time meant her gaze landed on me. It was close to midnight and for a consecutive Christmas, I found myself being manhandled out the door into the winter night with very clear instructions.

Being the only one sober, it was now my job to drive into town and find out if the 24-hour shop would be true to its word and be open. The slow drive in the frost felt like it took an age. In reality, I found myself driving under the beam of the street lights in my town in no time at all. Turning down the street towards the river and accidentally stalling the car, I found myself at a curious junction. Right for jelly, left for mysterious river man. The memory of that odd occasion flashed into my mind as clear as if it had happened yesterday. It had been a full year since I was there, but it felt like no time had passed. Risking the wrath of my mother, I chose left. Left from the jelly, left from the dessert that would be the lynchpin of our Christmas dinner. I chose chaos. Left is always chaos.

I don't know what I was expecting to be honest, but a small part of me thought he might have been here. Hoped event. The spot where the memorial had stood last year was empty. Empty of lanterns, empty of people remembering the ones who had passed on, empty of him. I took advantage of being far away from home to smoke in peace without badgering from my dad. It's an ill wind as they say. I settled down on the bench near the railings, listening to the sounds of empty streets and crashing water. The river was high this year from an unusually wet winter, but the rain had kept the cold away, and for once I was wearing sensible clothes.

Lighting up, I took the smoke into my mouth. Held it there and breathed deeply into my lungs. My poor lungs. I really needed to stop, but a family Christmas always went hand in hand with a craving for nicotine. I exhaled, and watched the smoke be taken into the night.

"Come to clean the lanterns have you?"

I turned in my seat and locked eyes with him. He looked different. He looked happier, and fuller in the face. And he was smiling. I realised I had never seen him smile before. It was nice, suited him really. He should have done it more often.

He sat beside me without invitation, spreading his legs wide in a relaxed stance that I would soon come to know so well. He was radiating heat, and it was all I could do not to thread my arm through his and huddle against his warmth.

"My name's Shane. I'm Mark's brother".