The Family Game(49)

I clutch the torch tight and flick it on.

The space around me bursts into vision, the terracotta of floor tiles and, three feet ahead of me, the thick Evergreen stick, a rod about a foot long. I dive for it and as I do, I hear the rush of movement behind me. I fumble the stick into my hand as I spin around and point my flashlight back at the massive form rushing towards me. I dodge and scramble desperately up to my feet, the Evergreen branch firmly in my grasp, but he does not stop. He ploughs into me, his dank fur pushing me back against the basement wall. The wind is knocked out of me and my torch clatters to the floor. I look up at the dim figure pinning me to the wall, its wet mouth inches from mine. It studies me, now it has me pinned, its head tilting as if it were trying to work something out. I try to call out the word Evergreen, its wood held tight in my hand, but, like in a nightmare, the word does not come.

The creature, still so real, even at this proximity, forces a wet hand over my mouth. I think again of who is in that suit and the nature of what is happening suddenly changes.

Is it Robert pressing me hard against the wall? Is it Edward? Is he trying to scare me? Humiliate me? Paralysed by anxiety and confusion and the sheer strength of him, I cannot do anything but let him continue. His breath is hot on my neck as his free hand traces lasciviously down the side of my body to where my hand hangs, gripping the evergreen branch firmly. The nature of the situation changes again to something threateningly sexual, bordering on assault. It is only when his claw-like fingers reach my thigh, wet with toddler piss, that my paralysis is broken. My anger bursts its banks as I think of the night I have had. The night Billy has had. I am incandescently angry – at this family, at this game, at all of this bullshit.

I summon all of my strength, pull back and slam my elbow as hard as physically possible directly into the creature’s face, not caring who is in the suit, and not caring about the consequences. The creature howls and reels back, releasing me. I choke in a lungful of air and I yell with every ounce of anger I possess. ‘EVERGREEN.’

Instantly, all the lights blast on. Throughout the house, around me and above, I hear the sound of doors electronically unlocking.

It’s over. The game’s over. I won. But my anger is not replaced by triumph. If anything, it hardens into something denser.

Around the corridor, I hear a door open and the gentle hubbub of the party, and laughter carries along to me.

I hear Fiona before I see her. ‘We have a winner. Good job, Harriet!’ She appears around the corner smiling with an excited round of applause. ‘That was fantastic.’

A medic appears, moving past her to attend to the prone creature on the floor behind me. He hoists it up to sitting and gently helps to remove its mask.

The man inside it is finally revealed, but he is no one I have ever seen before. He takes a glug from the water bottle the medic offers him and wipes the moisture from his sweat-stung eyes. I try to make sense of who he is but can’t. He’s in his late twenties, hair slicked to his tanned skin with sweat from the heavy suit. His red eyes squint up into the light, his breathing still snagging from exertion and my blow to his head. I feel sick with guilt. And yet whoever he is ruined my night, felt me up and scared me half to death.

‘How are you, Mikhail?’ Fiona asks him cheerfully. He looks up and flashes a handsome if exhausted smile punctuated by an athletic double thumbs up. ‘Remarkable performance again, Mikhail,’ she continues. ‘Best yet.’ I get the impression from Fiona’s tone and volume that Mikhail doesn’t speak much English.

‘We hire a motion capture performer every year,’ she tells me, taking my arm in hers and leading me away from him. ‘To be Krampus. Mikhail is a special effect CGI performer. He’s done Krampus for us for two years running now. He’s a phenomenal find; we’re very lucky to have him.’

I let her lead me, dazed, up the basement stairs into the bright light of the hall, my anger morphing into bald incredulity now. The house around us is alive once more with the sound of children, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. I stare at Fiona as she leads me to a ground-floor toilet and starts to dab a wet flannel onto my damp, piss-covered trousers. I stare at her, dumbfounded.

‘I always tell Billy to go before things start but he never listens,’ she says ruefully.

I stop her hand mid-dab and she looks up at me.

‘What the absolute hell was that game, Fiona? You think that was okay?’

Fiona looks at me, confused for a second, then touches my forehead. ‘Why? Do you not feel well? Was it too much?’ she asks. ‘For the baby?’

‘Are you fucking kidding me? It was too much for me. Why the hell didn’t you explain it to me? Why didn’t anyone?’

Her gaze flits to the bathroom door and then back to me, conflicted. ‘Because that’s part of the game,’ she tells me, her tone low. ‘You’re not supposed to tell new family members how to play; they have to find it out, like everyone else. It’s a test. Of character. Of working together, as a team, one generation with the next. Teamwork.’ She smiles. ‘And you won. You should be happy.’ Her tone is tight now, slightly irritated, as if she’d laid on the whole evening for me and this was all the thanks she’d got.

‘And what about Billy? Weren’t you worried about him?’ I ask, and a question falls into place. ‘Wait, how did you know he wet himself? Were you watching us?’