Jean watched as groups of small ghosts and vampires, princesses and witches, ran from house to house, trailing bored and inanely grinning adult guards behind them. A chill wind gently swept away sweet wrappers. The street lights glowed in imitation of the carved pumpkins on every doorstep.
Jean looked down at the diminutive Harry Potter who held onto her hand, as his only anchor in a sea of confusing colour and movement.
“A couple more houses, eh Jake?” she said.
“Can we go home then?” Jake said.
He had that familiar look again, trying to mask his fear. Everyday life was difficult enough for him to navigate through. What was she thinking, dragging him away from his comfort zone? She had already taken him away from their family home, to a tiny flat in a tower block.
Jean peered into Jake’s plastic pumpkin. He had collected three sweets and a small bar of chocolate, and she had given him the sweets. His first trick-or-treat without his father nudging him, and now he thought he was letting his mother down. Jake’s head dropped low and the beginning of a tear was forming.
“Hello” a little voice piped behind them, “what you got?”
A little ghoul-girl looked into the plastic pumpkin. She wore an old-fashioned party frock, torn and dirty, all ruffles and rouches, and too many bows. But her face. Whoever had got her made up for Halloween had imagination and talent. Her mouth was slashed up to under her right ear. Her broken teeth gleamed pearly-white, and a purple bruise spread across her forehead with pebble dash down her right cheek. Her left eye was milky white, and her blonde curls were matted with dry blood.
“Where’s your mummy, sweetheart?” Jean said, stepping in front of Jake. The little girl’s direct gaze, out of one eye, was disconcerting.
"She’s waiting for me at home,” the girl said. She pointed in the direction of a back lane that lurked darkly, from the street. “Can I go round with you?”
Jake let go of Jean’s hand, and the little boy, who always shied away from other children, stepped close beside the girl.
“We’re going to two more houses,” he said. Jean’s lips twitched: he sounded so much like his father, taking charge.
“Then will you take me home?” the girl said. She touched Jake’s face with fingers that had torn nails encrusted with blood. Or something that closely resembled blood.
Dry leaves were blowing along the gutters and only a few children were shrilly demanding “trick or treat”. Most of the families had moved onto other streets.
“Mummy?” Jake said, looking up at her.
“All right,” Jean said.
Both children laughed and hugged briefly.
“All right now,” Jean said, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Amy,” the little girl said, and Jake nodded. Perhaps he knew her from school, they looked to be around the same age. Jake had not introduced her as a classmate, but that was not surprising. Other children did not usually register as people to Jake. But that was his condition, not his fault at all. And now Jake seemed happy, holding hands with another child. One that smiled back at him. Jean knew what he was thinking: “See Daddy? I can so make friends. I’m not creepy or weird.” For one moment, Jean wished that her ex-husband was there to witness the miracle of their delicate, “special” son with his new friend.
At every house they visited, Jake was made much of, while the little ghoul was glanced at with barely hidden horror. Two successful houses led to four, and more. Jean gave Amy the spare pumpkin she was carrying, and both children were given handfuls of sweets and chocolates. When they reached Amy’s house, they had stuffed Jean’s coat pockets with their overflowing loot.
Amy’s house was dark. No welcoming lights in the windows, no pumpkin on the doorstep. This was the only house without a cardboard witch or ghost fastened to the front door. The small front garden was overgrown with several years worth of weeds.
“Are you sure this is yours?” Jean said. Amy nodded, but it was strange that she stood still, staring at the door.
Jean gently pushed the little girl forward, and they all walked up the steps. Jean knocked on the door, and laughing, Jake rattled the letter box. Amy stepped back and turned, just a little. But the door opened slowly and a face peered around it, holding the door in front like a shield.
“Mummy?” Amy said, robbed of half of her insouciant cheekiness. “Mummy, I’ve come back home. Jake and his mummy walked me home.”
It all happened so quickly that Jean could fool herself that the dark, dead house had always been full of golden light, and a woman laughing as Amy ran into her arms. The front door stood wide open as Amy and her mother hugged and laughed their way along a narrow hall. Jake tugged Jean’s hand and she had no choice but to follow her son into the house.
Amy was sitting on her mother’s lap, talking her through the collection of sweets in her plastic pumpkin. Her mother was gently stroking the child’s tangled hair, not listening to the words, but hearing and sounds and revelling in them. Rather over-the-top for a track-or-treat expedition. But Jean told herself that she had been every bit as fond and happy when Jake had had a really good day and wanted to tell her all about it. The two women caught each other’s eye and smiled indulgently.
All kinds of miracles were happening on the cold, dark, last night of october. Jake walked over to Amy’s mother. Actually let go of his own maternal safe haven and leaned against the strange woman’s knee, laughing as Amy popped a sweet from her collection into his mouth. Amy’s mother wrapped her arms around both children.
“Can you stay for some cocoa?” she said.
“Well,” Jean said, “it is getting late, Another time?”
The other woman, the other mother smiled. “I couldn’t let you go without some chocolate,” she said. “It is halloween.”
It was halloween, when all kinds of unusual things happened. Amy jumped down and chatted to Jake, showing him photographs on a side table. Father, Mother, and Amy; a smiling, happy family. Like the photos that were hidden in a box at the back of Jean’s wardrobe. A family, for the short time it had lasted.
Amy’s mother tipped half of a box of chocolates into a paper bag and gave them to Jake.
“That is so generous of you,” Jean said. “What do you say Jake?”
Amy’s mother laughed as Jake glared at his own mother.
“You brought my little girl home,” she said.
Mother and daughter looked at each other. Silent, suddenly serious, all smiled over and done with. There was a smile left for Jake though, as he moved to Jean’s side.
“Perhaps Amy could come to tea someday,” Jean heard herself saying.
Amy’s mother did not reply. She was now looking worn out, with all her exuberance burned away, as Amy leaned against her, equally weary. She escorted them to the front door, but Amy sat in her mother’s chair, slumped against the cushion. She could barely lift one hand to wave to Jake. It was as though all her life had simply ebbed away.
When the door closed behind them, Jean looked back at the house. All the light had gone out. The impression of neglect, that no one had lived there for a very long time, came back, and Jean shivered.
“Amy was tired, Mummy,” Jake said. “She must have been out for a very long time. I’m glad we brought her home.”
“And you got such a lot of sweets,” Jean said. “I’m glad we took her home too.” And that was all that was really important. Whoever was there, whoever was waiting. Amy was back in her home, and it was time they went back to theirs.