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The light was fading fast. It would snow again. Draped bushes assumed the shapes of crouching men frozen to the ground. The halt sign at the junction was the only evidence of the twenty-first century. Tom went on, kicking snow in lieu of children's legs. When he veered right, Mark braced himself for whining.
"Look Dad," the boy shouted. He pointed at the laurels fronting a wall. "It's a man," he called.
Mark grunted disbelief and shone his torch at the dark mass. He could see why Tom had been mistaken. A dense holly bush grew amongst the straggling laurels. He stepped back but slipped. His swinging torch panned the brickwork. A cross had been carved behind the holly.
"But there was a man," his son protested. "I saw his hand."
Suddenly, it had become breathtakingly icy.
"Let's go home, Dad," Tom pleaded.
"OK. It's colder than I expected," his father admitted, nodding surrender.

Soon they were beside a roaring fire watching a cartoon. But when the TV news began, Tom looked about for something else to do. There were photo albums on the bookshelf. He tugged at one until its spine split. Without a word, Grandma put it on a higher shelf. Mark sensed her inward anger.
"That's enough damage for one day," he told Tom. "Go upstairs and play your PlayStation until tea.
Any more trouble and you'll not watch the football highlights."
The phone rang at sixish while Grandma was in the kitchen.
"Di," Mark greeted his wife. "God, You're well out of it: He's been bloody awful."
"Now you know what I have to put up with," she replied. "The twins have been really happy without him. How's the weather your end?"
"We're snowed in. He wouldn't build a snowman, there's no one to snowball so he's bored sick. Your mum's been very understanding but she looks exhausted. We've had only one bright spot: he became almost human when he thought he'd found a corpse beside the road."
There was no response.