An old man's ghost teaches an unruly boy the terrible consequences of bullying.

Cold Cure

Mark's cure for devilry in his hyperactive son (unbearable, ten-year old Tom) was a trudge in the snow. Grandma was grateful. Though they'd been with her for only hours that icy weekend, she needed a break.
"Must we, Dad?" the boy whined. "It's really cold out."
He fiddled with a china figure on the sill until it dropped; an arm snapped off; he smirked defiance.
"Oh dear, that was my Granddad Wright's," Grandma sighed.
"Sorry Joan," Mark said, grabbing at his son. "Tom, put on your anorak and boots," he ordered, echoing his wife's tone - she'd deserved a break too. Warmly dressed, he opened the front door. Garden and roadway shared a duvet of snow. The blizzard had reduced the picket fence to a rib-cage. It reminded him of a fact he'd learnt at Tom's age: moss grows on the north side of trees. That would mean nothing to Tom who divided his time between football and bullying.
"We'll be at least half an hour, Joan. I'll take the torch." He lowered his voice. "I'll exhaust him."

January was Christmas-card wintry. The forecast for the eighteenth had been freezing fog but it had snowed all morning. On most Friday afternoons, weekenders' cars hurtled through the village forcing walkers into the hedge; only off-roaders had risked the journey this time. Half the village was frozen out and the rest was snowed in. Years ago, Mark reflected, Inkpen must've been as eerily quiet as this all winter Tom started like a gazelle, springing in long strides but the effort was too much. Father and son waded silently ten yards apart, alone in time and space.
"Can we go home now?" the boy called from beyond The Lamb.
"No way. Go left towards Kintbury," Mark ordered.