She had an hallucination of a tall dark man on the street, striding through the hail. Adamus in a cloak of thunder, come to claim her again for the Scarabae.

But all that was over. It was a dream. She had conceived immaculately and here she was, the slave of this molten tumour in her womb, and it was real.

Chapter Eleven

From the larger stores along the high street, carols wailed and jingle bells jingled, compulsory joy.

It rained heavily. There was a lot of flu about.

Rachaela had given in her notice at the Pizza Eater and left just as the free balloons began to be given out and Christmas pudding appeared on the menu. Children had knocked over the tree of green and red glitz, and everyone was picking it up; that was her last image of the restaurant.

Emma Watt came out of her door like a cuckoo from a clock.

‘I’ve bought a bottle of really nice sherry, and some wine. Will you come down and have a drink with me? To toast my little tree. I always have one. One must. Christmas is so important, it’s important to salute it, even if, well even if you’re on your own. Are you going anywhere for Christmas?’

‘No.’

‘just quiet by yourself. Yes, you must get all the rest you can. Anyway, do pop down. About six?’

‘All right,’ said Rachaela, to shut her up.

Rachaela had never bothered with Christmas. It had only meant one more day of privacy. She heard distant bells ringing and the strange silence of the streets. The radio had Christmas music which often she did not like, huge oratorios and quasi-religious peculiar plays. Once she had listened to a Christmas service out of curiosity. She knew the hymns from school days, the tunes at least.

Her mother had believed in celebrating Christmas too. There had been a dinner cooked, turkey or chicken with sausages, roast potatoes and stuffing. It had entailed much the same fuss and anger as the now-and-then Sunday dinners: Rachaela recruited to peel vegetables, make crosses on the thousands of sprouts. One Christmas her mother had scalded herself on the turkey fat.

Neighbours would come in for a drink and boxes of chocolates and handkerchiefs would be exchanged.

After the neighbours and the dinner and the Queen’s speech, depression would set in from the rich food and the gins and tonics.

Her mother gave Rachaela sensible presents, a new blouse or shoes that pinched. Once there had been a fairy costume from a neighbour. Rachaela had played in it for hours, she was six, it had been oddly magical. But somehow the wings got torn, like a symbol. Her mother scolded her and made her ashamed.

Rachaela did not mean to go down to toast Emma Watt’s tree. So far she had avoided the interior of Emma Watt’s flat.