The two men trudge through the freshly settled snow, silhouettes in a world of black and white, and hazy sodium light. Snow underfoot, snow overhead. Stephen is in a long overcoat Bogdan found at the back of his cupboard, a woollen hat, gloves, two scarves and a pair of hiking boots. Bogdan himself is, in a rare display of weakness, wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt.
The paths are slippery, so Bogdan holds Stephen’s hand. His torch plays across the white grass, looking for Snowy. Looking for the swish of a tail, the glint in the eyes, the tips of those ears.
Stephen stops and looks over to his right. They are probably forty or so yards from the flat now. In front of the flowerbed is a small mound, just a bump really, nothing to it. But Stephen lets go of Bogdan’s hand and clambers up the slope towards it. Bogdan swings the torch to illuminate the ground in front of Stephen. Stephen kneels and places his hand on the top of the mound. Bogdan catches up to him, and sees what Stephen sees. The fox in the snow, silent and lifeless. The tips of his snowy ears sunk into the whiteness.
Stephen looks at Bogdan and nods. ‘Dead. Heart gave out, I’d guess; he looks peaceful.’
‘Poor Snowy,’ says Bogdan, and kneels beside Stephen. Stephen is brushing freshly fallen crystals from Snowy’s fur.
Stephen looks back towards his own window. ‘On his way to see me, I suppose. On his way to say goodbye, and didn’t make it.’
‘We don’t always get to say goodbye,’ says Bogdan.
‘No,’ says Stephen. ‘It’s pure luck when you do. Sorry, Snowy old pal.’
Bogdan nods, stroking Snowy’s fur. ‘Are you sad?’
Stephen is playing with Snowy’s ear. ‘We would look at each other, through the window, and both know we weren’t long for this world. That’s what drew us together. I’m not well, did you know that?’
‘You’re OK,’ says Bogdan. ‘Will Elizabeth be sad?’
‘Remind me, again?’
‘Your wife. Will she be sad?’
‘I expect so,’ says Stephen. ‘Do you know her? Is she the type to get sad?’
‘Not really,’ says Bogdan. ‘But this will make her sad, I think.’
Stephen stands, brushes the snow from the knees of his trousers. ‘What do you think? Funeral with full military honours?’
Bogdan nods again.
Stephen tests the ground with the tip of his boot. ‘You much of a digger? You look like you might be.’
‘I have dug a few holes, yes,’ says Bogdan.
‘This soil’s a bugger in winter though,’ says Stephen. ‘Like breaking tarmac.’
‘Where will we keep him till morning?’
‘He’ll be safe here,’ says Stephen. ‘No predators out in this weather. But turn him to face my window, so I know he can see me.’
Bogdan gently moves Snowy’s body. He rests Snowy’s head on his paws, facing in the direction of Stephen and Elizabeth’s flat.
Stephen bends, and pats Snowy’s head. ‘Safe now, old chum. Out of the cold soon, and no more sleeping with one eye open. It was lovely knowing you.’
Bogdan puts his hand on Stephen’s shoulder and gently squeezes.
Chris and Donna had asked if they could chat to Jason. Asked very politely, fair’s fair, and Ron hadn’t thought it was a terrible idea. Ron asked Jason, Jason didn’t see why not, and so here they all are, bright and early on a Monday morning.
Ron loves coming to his son’s house. The whole basement is a den. He’s got a pool table, a jukebox, a bar, his gym stuff. It makes Ron proud.
The big money had come from boxing, and Jason had been no fool. Hadn’t spent it all like some of them. Even so, there had been a few years when Ron could see his boy was beginning to struggle. No more pay days, no work. But he’d buckled down, built a lovely career for himself on the reality shows, bit of punditry, even the odd bit of acting, and the money started coming back in. Jason was a grafter, and nothing made Ron more proud than that. Seems to be settling down too.
Ron is currently sitting on a jet-black sofa with Chris and Donna. Right at this moment they are all watching Jason shadow-boxing on a rug in the middle of the room. He has asked them to be silent for a couple of minutes, so that is what they are doing. Ron hates being silent. Jason is keeping up a running commentary as he boxes.
‘Jason Ritchie with the jab, trying to rattle Tony Weir, but it’s not getting through. Tony Weir, this resilient man, forty-five years of age, has come out of nowhere to fight for the Middleweight Championship of the World. And what a fight he’s putting up. Weir throws a big right hand at Jason Ritchie. Ritchie dips out of the way, what a fight between these two great boxers. And there’s the bell …’
Jason stops boxing, drapes a towel around his shoulders and bends down over a laptop set up on his bar. He looks straight into the laptop camera.
