Barbie:no probs, good luck escaping that hostage sitchhhhh
Yeah, he probably needs all the luck he can get.Especially given that the weather warnings seem to just keep getting redder.He sends back a thumbs-up emoji, possibly the least convincing way of conveying he’s totally fine.
Before Nash’s brain can run off into an anxiety-induced imagination spiral of whether Christopher could actually feasibly kidnap him, the man himself walks into the kitchen, teas in hand.He sets them down on the counter and brushes his hands together, as though brushing away flour that’s not there.
‘Ready to—’ he begins, but they’re interrupted by a knock on the back door.Christopher lopes off to open it and is greeted once again by Shaz-en-knitwear.
‘Hiya boys.Get your warms on,’ she says, rubbing her mittened hands together.
‘Our what?’asks Christopher.
‘You know, your coats and stuff.’
‘I did not think that’s what you meant,’ Nash says.
‘Hurry up, will you?You’ve got to come with me.Have you not seen the new weather forecast?They’ve put out a bunch more alerts on top of the alerts there already are.It’s going to get worse overnight.’
Nash’s stomach drops.He really isn’t getting out of here any time soon.
‘They’ve called an emergency town meeting to work out how to help everyone.And seeing as you two have already been such good little elves today, I figured you should come along.’
‘You don’t have to come,’ Christopher whispers to Nash, which makes his stomach twist in a different way.
He’s here, isn’t he?He fixed the van.He helped with the shopping and was about to start cooking.Why does Christopher keep trying to leave him behind when having something to do is the only thing keeping his sanity in check?Does he think Nash is that much of a jerk?The thought makes him feel strangely small.Unseen, perhaps.He’s not sure why it bothers him this much, but then, who likes being misunderstood?It’s probably just that.
Hot irritation rushes up his neck.It makes him want to itch or fight or go for a run.‘Let’s go,’ he says, grabbing his coat from the hook.
‘That’s more like it, American boy,’ says Shaz.
Chapter Twelve
Christopher
They follow Shaz over the road to the town’s community centre, a single-storey red-brick building bordered by a low grey stone wall.On the wall outside is a memorial to soldiers who fought in WW1 and WW2, a huge board for event announcements with a map of the town and the odd handyman business card.It’s a place that Christopher has passed many times but has never been in.Not because he wasn’t sure he was allowed or anything; more that he’d never had the time to seek out what happened there, or what he could potentially be a part of.It was hard to take part in a community when you were so exhausted from quite literally serving it every day.Or trying to.
Though, right now, he does worry that he might not belong here.Sure, they helped out Myffy, and he and Nash are set to cook for her and Shaz’s family too, but will the rest of the town want his help?He’s still basically a stranger, and Nash is an entirely unknown quantity.
Luckily, he doesn’t have time to dwell on any of that, because Shaz has been literally dragging him over there, her mittened hand clutched around his wrist.
They tap the snow off their boots outside the front door and step inside.It’s not much warmer inside, and Christopher swears he can hear the clunking of the heating reluctantly firing up after being so rudely awakened.Shaz leads them into the large open room of the community centre, with painted white walls, ancient faux-wood linoleum on thefloor, and thick green velvet curtains.The paint is peeling off the ceiling where damp must have got in, and the whole room has an air of shabbiness about it.He wonders when it was last redecorated, or if the council even has money to do that.At least it’s warm.
There are a few cursory nods to Christmas – some sad tinsel taped up around the announcement boards, and up near the ceiling he can see the browned edges of tape leftover from Christmas decorations of years gone by.There’s also a plastic Christmas tree in the corner that he is fairly sure must be as old as he is.
Shaz waves to a few people in greeting, and Christopher realises he doesn’t recognise the majority of people here.Perhaps he’s not done as well at ingratiating himself into the town as he thought he had, and he had pretty low expectations to start with.
In a crisis, you can always count on the fact that someone will have made an urn of tea to power everyone through, both physically and emotionally.And even this rather hurriedly set up town meeting doesn’t stray from that intensely British blueprint.Shaz beckons them over to a fold-up table where there are two hot drink dispensers – one full of seemingly eye-wateringly strong tea, and one full of what looks like the weakest coffee known to man – along with a truly eclectic assortment of mugs, sugar and packet biscuits.It’s weirdly comforting.
Looked on by an older woman with a short crop of curly hair, Shaz makes herself a cup of tea in a somewhat ancient Cadbury’s Caramel rabbit mug.The woman does not offer to help.Her job seems to be more to ensure proper use, rather than to actually assist anyone in making a beverage.She smiles at Shaz before disappearing through a door that leads to a tiny, ancient-looking kitchen.
‘Come on, make yourselves one,’ Shaz says.
Christopher does as he’s told and soon is holding an extremely hot cup of tea in a mug dedicated to the openingof a local bypass in the nineties, hoping he doesn’t scald his palms off.
Nash doesn’t move, too busy looking around at his surroundings.Shaz elbows him.
‘Oi, hurry up.’
‘Oh, thanks but I’m not really thirsty.’
