The Liability Clause

1)

“So, I’ve been replaced?” It was 9 am on All Hallows Eve, North of the pole, and he’d been hoping for a lie in. The knock on his door was alarming. No one ever knocked on his door - why would they? The knock had been incessantly rude and disruptive. What was even stranger was his bed was cold and empty. In fact, there was no sign of anyone having ever lived there.

His head was foggy, his beard felt scratchy and his belly ached. Something told him things were going to get a lot stranger. More knocking and after nearly breaking his little toe on the banister he managed to navigate his way down the splintered stairs to the draughty front door. He never remembered things being like this before! 

Upon opening the door he found himself belly to face with a rather bureaucratic elf in a holly green three piece suit with a rather starched Phrygian cap.

“This isn’t an easy thing to say, but it’s never stopped me before… You’ve been replaced.” The Elf was very matter-of-fact; he didn’t want to be there and the rotund man with the mothy beard facing him had never actually seen him before. This must be one of the new members of the Elf Bureau.  Then the man suddenly remembered he hadn’t got his dressing gown and was now only in his threadbare pajama bottoms and stained string vest. 

“We’ve spent a long time deliberating whether you’ve been adapting to the new efficiency guidelines, Stan. But you’ve actually gained weight rather than losing the required amount -the polls suggest that the children would respond to a more athletic, svelte Santa. Nor do they want the lecherousness that seems to go hand in hand with your persona. You should have seen the writing on the wall when we replaced Captain Birdseye! But you’ve been told all this before, Stan.”

“Stan? My name’s..” The man did his best to interrupt but he wasn’t even given the chance.

“I’m afraid that the name is no longer yours.. Stan. You no longer have any claim to that name or any of the trademarks that belonged to it. It’s all copyrighted. Your name is now Stan… Stan.” The Elf smugly stated.

“You can’t do this.” Stand remonstrated.

“It turns out that yes -we can actually.” The Elf replied, belligerently now. “You were sent lots of emails..”

“I don’t have a computer!”

“And we even posted  you the transcripts of them..”

“I thought they were a joke!”

“But your ex-wife didn’t, did she?”

“Ex-wife?”

“Ahem… we have given you ample opportunities to change but they went unheeded. Now everything you were is forfeit. You no longer have claim to the Santa estate. You have been made, for all intents and purposes, redundant. “Stan was aghast. This just could not be happening!

“What will happen to me?” He asked.

“Please don’t think that we would be so ungracious enough to leave you out in the cold.” The Elf tried sounding sympathetic.. But it didn’t work.  “We acknowledge all that you have done over the last 250 years and we have a.. Generous severance package for you. Well… under the circumstances, and taking into account inflation and budget cuts, we can offer you a life as Stan Smith and a new job as a… grocery clerk in a supermarket, There’s a salary attached of about £20,000 a year, and a flat that’s been paid for so it’s just the bills you’ll need to be concerned about.” The Elf looked quite smug with himself, and looked at Stan as if he should be grateful. There was no response forthcoming so he continued. “There’s enough glamour left that we can provide you with a satisfactory cover story, including all the requisite tax, national insurance and birth certificate details. You’ll also have memories pertaining to your ‘past life’ should you need them. That will allow you to live among the Mundy’s without drawing too much attention to yourself. You should be able to fit in. We’ll also change  your appearance enough so no one would ever be able to make comparisons with Father Christmas or his estate.”

“What about Mona?” Stan asked, still trying to take everything in.

“Your ex-wife?” The Elf seemed perplexed that he was having to spell it out to the man. “She does not want to come with you, Stan. She was offered the choice  but she respectfully declined. So she is still Mrs Claus, just not your wife.”

“So I need to sign a piece of paper and POOF, stop being Santa Claus and become Stan Smith and live happily ever after?”

“Well, I’m not sure about the last bit… that’s entirely up to you. Once you sign the paper we no longer care.. But yes, sign the paper and start your new life.”

“And what if I refuse?” Stan asked, still hoping this was a nightmare.

“We will have no choice but to forcefully remove you. We’ll blindfold you, drug you and leave you outside in the middle of the North Pole, naked and alone.”

“Stan Smith, here I come then….”

2)

It’s not until the magic leaves you that you realise how much you actually depended on it. Stan never noticed the transition between signing that bloody piece of paper and waking up back in his bed again. 

Hang on a minute, he thought. Bed? Wake up? It was a dream after all! He opened his eyes and his bedroom appeared to be the same as he’d become accustomed to… Except smaller… colder, and dirtier. He was no longer in a luxurious double bed but a single bed with a really bumpy mattress. Light was streaming through very flimsy curtains and everything smelt… weird. Living at the North Pole he was accustomed to the warm, cosy scents of Frankincense, toffee apples and pine needles which always reminded him of happiness. He searched his new memories for words that would help him define these new aromas. Flatulence, damp mold and stale curry. What kind of personality had the Elves given him? He didn’t want to look any further for the time being, he had to figure out what had gone wrong.

He should have listened to Mona. She had actually tried to tell him several times but he never listened. He’d always replied that he was Santa Claus, no one could get rid of him! She just tried to remind him of two things: Claus was NOT his surname, it was part of the job title, and she urged him to remember his predecessor. 

He was too stupid to think about the Clause, thinking she was pulling his leg (this had started on April Fools Day, after all) and it was only now that he remembered the ex-Santa, what happened to him and how sad he looked on his last day. For some reason Nicholas, as he had become, had been given a few days notice before he left. He was supposed to show Stan the ropes but he spent the whole day blubbering and he was eventually cast aside most unceremoniously. Then Stan, who had been a most industrious Elf up until that stage, had been given the honor and POOF he was now Santa, and all memory of his previous life had vanished -it was so much easier for him to take up the mantle that way.

There was a deafening beep coming from the chest of drawers to his right and he remembered that it was his alarm call. This was to be the first day of his new life and the Elf’s were giving him a bit of help. He had half an hour to get washed and dressed, ready for his new job as a shelf-stacker in the local supermarket.; Trescisons. There was enough ‘conditioning’ left that he didn’t have to think too hard about what he had to do; the Elf’s had even thought of that. 250 years of service had counted for something.

He got up, found his slippers and drew the curtains. In his head he knew that it was December 15th. 9 Days to Christmas, a sick joke and extra salt for the gaping wound in his soul. It had snowed a couple of nights ago but it wasn’t the pristine white he was used to but a slushy, disheartening grey that sucked the joy out of everything. It had frozen the night before and too many people were slipping, too many cars were iced up and everyone was moaning.

Stan managed to navigate his way to the supermarket and tried his best to allow the ‘conditioning’ to take over. He was less than six foot, with grey stubble and a paunch, there was no way anyone would have made the connection with him and his ex-persona. His manager, Siobhan, was waiting for him at the door to the Supermarket. She was stressed but tried to hide it from the customers. Her hair was flowing fire and her freckles were a litmus to her temperament, flaring when she was annoyed and they were like lava now.

“Thank god, at least you’ve arrived.” She said, shaking his hand, almost crushing it. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this, but we’ve got no other choice, Stan. You’d be the last person I’d ever put in this position -especially as you seem.. Down on your luck, shall we say… but our Santa stand-in has the flu and we’ve got a load of screaming parents lining up with their bundles of joy. You’re going to have to be Santa.”

“What?! I can’t do that!” Stan blustered.

“You don’t have a choice.. Well, you do… you can either leave now and never get another job in this town.. Or you can be Santa Claus. What is it?” 

This was down to that damn Elf. No wonder he was smug, this was revenge for something. Or maybe he was just vindictive. And so, for the second time that day, Stan was faced with no choice at all. Bizarrely enough he was now being given a second chance to be Santa, just NOT the way he’d envisioned!

The moment he agreed he was unceremoniously shuffled and prodded into the storeroom, given the most preposterous Santa suit he’d ever seen and an immaculately coiffured white beard and wig. The suit had been tailored to make even his body look quite ripped and masculine. No more paunch and rolly-polly tummy, now he was more like an action star. His suit smelt of myrrh and money and his hat was luxurious and a deep carmine pink which somehow managed to have feminine overtones and give him a mystical unisexual intrigue. Was this part of what that Elf had been telling him earlier? What had they done to Santa’s image? 

Siobhan came into the storeroom and nodded enthusiastically, shocked at the transformation. “Wow, one could almost see you as the real deal himself!” Stan wanted to shake her, shout at her that he WAS the real deal, but what was the use? “Tomorrow you’re going to need to shave off that awful beard -it just doesn’t look right, but for today it’ll do. Just remember, you’re SANTA and need to be upbeat and enthusiastic.. But with none of that ho ho ho. It’s not allowed anymore. No more referring to them as boys and girls… or children. Just say ‘Hello, everybody.’ We’re not even allowed to mention Christmas but just keep it to happy holidays if anyone asks. It’s a lot to take in on your first day, especially as it's not what you were employed for… but there’s a couple of Elf’s that can help you. Go get ‘em, Stan… I mean, Santa!” And with that she catapulted him out the double doors, right into the grotto area where a hundred children screamed and bawled -and for the first time in his life Stan wished he’d never heard of Santa Claus.

3)

With each child that sat on his lap Stan was more and more convinced that he’d been set up by that damn Elf. So much for 250 years of service, this was how he was being repaid. He’d lived a sheltered life at the North Pole, he knew that now. The only children he had had to deal with were the nice ones; the ones that deserved presents. The polite ones, the happy children. This lot were all selfish, grizzling, loud, malicious. And the parents were even worse, each one demanding several photos with the children sitting on his lap. God the kids were heavy; and not all of them had dry backsides either. Within half an hour the smell of urine was becoming more pronounced -Stan was glad for the red trousers at least, the stains wouldn't show up so much.

Nothing was sacred. The kids pulled at his beard, tried pulling his hat off, punching him in his stomach to make sure his six-pack was real. They all wanted the most insanely ridiculous presents as well -top of the line phone’s, expensive trainers, games consoles… Stan could only rely on the elves so much (and they did try), but even when he gave out the pre-requisite gifts to the parents there was a lot of moaning and complaining. No one was happy, no one was grateful or gracious or polite. He barely got to lunchtime; it was almost too much. Has things changed this much? Was this what Mona had been trying to tell him? 

During lunch he sat in the canteen and chatted to some of the other staff members. They all seemed really grateful to him for taking on the role of Santa and he just felt more depressed. It didn’t help when he looked at the tiny television set in the corner of the room. It was a Christmas advert and, sure enough, there was the imposter. The new and improved Father Christmas, except he was no longer allowed to be called Father, so they just called him Christmas. ‘Here he is, your festive friend: Christmas!” It was like watching an advert for the latest action movie; Christmas’s hair was billowing in the snowy wind and he walked down an unhappy crowded street -which was all in black and white, no less- handing out presents. With every present he handed out, the person became happy and monochrome turned to technicolour. He seemed so confident and everyone's best friend. It was almost impossible to hate him but somehow Stan did. He understood what had been done to him and loathed this new Santa… and everything that had made him. 

Lunchtime was up and he was now faced with another hoard of troglodyte children. He’d had enough though. Siobhan seemed like a very nice woman and had given him a chance, albeit against her better judgement and due to some nefarious programming by the Elves, but he just couldn’t take it any more.

He walked back on to the grotto area and took his hat off, ripped the wig off his head, leaving his own threadbare, grey hair limp with sweat and then carefully took his beard off. He didn't dare rip this off because it had been fixed with spirit glue and he didn’t relish the pain. As he did so he chuckled in a malicious tone: “Ho Ho Ho.” Quietly at first and with each bout becoming louder. When he’d finally got the damn beard off he ripped his Santa suit top off, leaving the string vest underneath. He sat down on his throne and looked at the crying children and shocked parents.

“Hello boys and girls everywhere! Merry Christmas. Is everyone having a good time?” Silence. The sense of outrage was palpable, he could feel the waves of offense rippling through the crowds. “I think we all need to have a chat, don’t you? I think you all need to take a long hard look at yourselves and think about how we’ve all got here, yes? How far we’ve been led astray by your corporate steering committees and focus groups. Each year forgetting about forgiving and focusing on stuffing your faces regardless of the consequences. Ignoring your neighbors' suffering and concentrating on your own hysteria. hmm. I’ve been down here one day and I never realised how much of a favor I’ve been given. For 250 years I've been blinkered from the degeneration of your materialist societies. But it’s not so long ago that you nearly lost everything in the war and understood what really mattered in life; you were actually grateful for what was yours and helped those in real need. Now you’ve got far more than you could ever want; forgotten just how privileged you really are. You cry about injustice, rally about the evils of the world but turn a blind eye to the ones you create. All I’ve heard today is the complaining of spoiled ego’s and the wants and demands of the morally bankrupt. 

“I’ve had enough, but I thank you for shaking me out of my stupor. I won’t be coming back and probably won’t even be getting paid for this day -but who cares? Whatever happens now, it’s got to be better than spending any longer with you lot of ungrateful reprobates. I hope your Christmas is as empty as your hearts and souls. Ho Ho, bloody Ho!!”

Stan calmly walked out of the grotto and ignored Siobhan’s complaints and curses. He had his head held high and walked back to his flat trying his best to refrain from actually skipping. Despite sabotaging his chances of getting another job in the town he didn’t care. He had faith that there was enough glamour left to last until at least after Christmas. After that he could do exactly what he wanted -he knew that somehow.

4)

Christmas Day. Stan sat in his studio flat on his newly acquired second hand sofa with his oil filled radiator keeping him nice and snug. It was almost time for the King’s Speech but ‘Where Eagles Dare’ was on and it was the first time he’d ever seen it; there was still over an hour left and he was far too excited by what was going to happen. He’d never realised there were things like films, and take-aways and pop-corn and BEER!! Since he’d left the supermarket he’d immersed himself in everything that life had to offer. James Bond, the Two Ronnies, Morecambe and Wise; the Beatles and Queen and Fairy Tale Of New York… Roast potatoes, stuffing and Roast Chicken! He’d missed out all these years and was actually grateful for what the bloody Elves had done to him. He couldn’t give a damn about Christmas anymore; there was no pressure anymore to make it THE day to end all days. And if this was how his life was going to be from now on he really did wish that everyday was going to be like this!

The case of the Santa slayings

1)

Not even December yet and it's too damn cold and wet to think about Christmas. Christ, don’t even get me started. Can’t stand this time of year, and it seems I’m not the only one. The phone call wrecks my first good night’s sleep in ages and I just pray it’s the wrong number... but I know it’s not. The festivities have started early this year – someone’s killed Santa Claus.

In an age of litigation and moral responsibility everyone has to be regulated and licensed; even would-be Santa Claus, would you believe? There’s even a goddamned training school for them; a four day course with a certificate and a big red suit at the end!

Looks like someone took a dislike to poor old Christopher Tingley; they must’ve taken exception to his portrayal in a big way. He was found trussed up like a Christmas turkey with an orange in his mouth and his giblets on the outside. Not a pretty sight.

Sure, there are plenty of killings over the Christmas period; no difference to any other holiday. Tempers fray, festivities be damned. But this one? Slightly more macabre than normal, probably why I got assigned to it. Ever since I cracked the Siamese Twin Murder-Suicide case I keep getting the nut-jobs. This one’s a little more creative; something tells me this won’t be an isolated incident, either. There will be more, you can count on it.

It doesn’t take too long for people to realise that the only way this’ll work is if I go undercover. Everyone seems to have a water-tight alibi; everyone’s desperate for the chance to play the jolly fat man and no one wants to risk it for anything. It’s got to pay well then, ‘cause it can’t be for job satisfaction! So the Chief agrees and laughs me out of the office. He loves the irony, and if it were happening to somebody else, I probably would do too.

Me, the ultimate, Christmas bad-ass going undercover in a training school for Santa’s where one Father Christmas has already been knocked off! Fer Christ’s sake, why me?

2)

Every time you go to a mall and see one of those fat festive fuckers with their ho ho ho’s; or the creepy guys with the fake smiles and glassy stares outside cinema’s and bowling alleys; chances are they’ve been to a training centre like “Little Saint Nick – putting the Is into Christmas!” (No, I don’t get it either…)

They’re all regulated and have to pass certain tasks and tests to qualify. It’s basic common sense but takes over four days of intense course and field work. Seems that someone cracked after the first morning; and I can empathise completely –I’ve only been there a quarter of an hour and I already want to murder every last one of them (and I’m supposed to be the good guy!).

In amongst the Ho Ho Ho practice sessions everyone’s keeping tight lipped. No one had a thing to say about Tingley, except that he was the one that seemed most genuine about what he was doing; so maybe it was professional jealousy.

There were only five other people on this course: Paul Robeson –an Australian who really didn’t seem to give a fuck whether it was Christmas or not, he just really needed the money (I liked this guy a lot); Nicholas St. Hubbins –an Englishman fallen on hard times, his beard was tatty and smelt of mothballs, but at least it was his own, and the rest of him was the wrong side of shabby chic. Inigo Jeffies was odd.. it was difficult to gauge where he was from, he didn’t exactly speak any form of English that I had ever heard and he looked very puzzled throughout most of the days exercises, even managing to mispronounce the Ho’s. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d been sent as a cruel joke by the job centre. Oestre Lapin was probably the most decent guy I’d met for a long time; he was very light on his feet with a sensitive nature; but had a really sweet teeth. Then there was Martha Grimes.

Yup – a woman! In an age of equal opportunity, why not? Why not have a female Father Christmas… Please; let the killer be her…

By the end of the first day I was none the wiser; no one seemed to have wanted Tingley dead, yet there had to be a motive. To kill is one thing; but to be trussed up and gutted takes another level of hate entirely.

I slept in the college to keep up appearances and as I turned the lights out I said a silent good night to the budding Santa’s and wondered who would be next.

3)

Her screams alerted us to the painful truth that Inigo would no longer be joining us. Someone had taken great umbrage to his impersonation, so much so that they had fed him copious amounts of mistletoe berries and even stuffed his mouth with them when he died. This was some hate, folks.

The thing is, anyone of them could have gotten to Inigo that night; and I hadn’t even had a chance to interview the staff yet.

If I thought the prospective Santa’s were hard work then they were amateurs to those that ran the college. I knew that they were hiding something, there was definite fear behind their eyes but I could tell that none of them had been responsible for either of the murders.

We were given a few hours grace because of the police investigation surrounding Inigo’s death. No one knew of my own under-cover work so everything had to run as standard and this gave me a chance to do a bit of research. I checked into the local library and looked at the newspapers going back over twenty years.

Fifty people had been killed whilst dressing up as Santa in this town alone. Fifty! Somehow it had been hushed up, but now it had managed to track back to the source –the college.

4)

What the hell was happening? Only one man would be able to help me out, the owner of the College: Rudolph Deerheart (I swear, I’m not making this up.)

“Yeah – we hushed it up; but what else could we do?” It didn’t take much for Rudolph to start singing to me; I can be very persuasive sometimes. “If people found out that becoming Santa got you dead then who’d want it? Sales would plummet without having a Santa to brighten the Christmas experience and the country would go under. That what you want?”

He was asking the wrong guy.

But twenty years… the killings had gone on for twenty years! There was only one guy that looked as if he had that much hate in him and when we found Martha stuffed in the chimney, back at the college with her neck twisted completely round I knew it had to be him. He didn’t even deny it; seemed almost proud of it!

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” He snapped back when I asked why he’d done it. “Damned Coca-cola; damned Richard fucking Attenborough. No one remembers me anymore; even my name.”

“Saint Fucking Nicholas.” Exclaimed Paul.

“Ho fucking Ho, yes?” Nick snapped back. “This should be my time of year but for because of those charlatans, no one believes in me anymore. My power has been diminished and I’m forced to live in the gutter; no better than a tramp. Each year I try to put people off; kill a few Santa’s but it makes no difference. So this year I thought I’d get proactive, and I would’ve succeeded too if it wasn’t for you pesky...”

“Just take him away, will you?” I said to the police who were standing open-mouthed at the turn of events. Little Saint Nick turned Satan’s little helper… what a world, eh?

5)

I needed a walk home, clear my head. I don’t know whether it was being in such close proximity to the festive cheer, but I was in the middle of a major headache. I’d like to say that it was because of the jackhammer pain that I didn’t realise I was being followed until we reached the building site.. but I just wasn’t paying attention. The case was over; or so I thought.

A church of all things was being renovated into a swanky club and I couldn’t help but sneer at the irony. A smack to the back of my neck sent me sprawling. I was in too much pain to put up a fight and somehow I was dragged into the church. I’m no lightweight but this person managed to heft me about as if I was a ten stone weakling.

The inside of the church was a mess; workman’s tools strewn about. Chisels, crowbars, nail-gun’s, hammers, drills, screwdrivers… it was almost as bad as the inside of my flat!

I was pushed to the floor and I hit my head against a trestle.

“Who’s going to miss another coppa, eh? Especially one who’s still sporting the colours.” Fuck, I was still in my Santa suit; but I recognised the voice and suddenly I understood what was happening.

“Brer Fucking Rabbit, I presume.” I said, rubbing the back of my head as I stared at the bloodshot eyes of Oestre Lapin.

“How dare you!” He kicked me hard. “Even now, when you should be humbled at the sight of such divinity, you try and crack wise.”

“Divinity? Since when was the Easter Bunny divine?” That received another kick.

“Arrogant pig. You know nothing of what I stand for. Think about what has been taken away from me. Saint Nick; always wanting to be the centre of attention; had to steal my limelight –even though I’d gone to such trouble! But with your death everyone will know it was me, and I will regain my proper place in the pantheon!” He closed his eyes as if in rapture and stepped back so he was against the wall; arms outstretched as if in a state of grace. That gave me enough time to pick up exactly what I needed; I may not be the smartest but I’m fast!

“Yeah –well fuck you too! Here’s enlightenment in spades!” I pointed the discarded nail-gun and shot several nails into him; two in each palm and two in each foot. I was tempted to staple his lips together for good measure because he was still spouting some pseudo-religious crap; but I rang the chief instead:

“The Santa slayings?... Yeah –nailed it.”

A Carol, by any other name

For years I wanted to believe in angels and Christmas bells and the wonderful life but as they slipped past the bells, they just seemed to be tolling.

I’ve been reading Charles Dickens recently trying to kill off the hours leading up until Christmas. The rest of the year passes by smoothly enough; as the minutes vaporise into days and the months just coalesce into nothingness. Each day is indistinguishable from the rest and that’s how I roll. However as the years twilight nears then the air thickens, tightens and threatens. I have to read more and more just to escape it.

The excitement that once permeated each pore of my childish body gave way to the realisation that it would never be me gaining wings; soaring high on effervescent currents. I live in a much denser world full of bah’s and humbugs, so it seemed very apt for me to be reading “A Christmas Carol” for the first time…

Believe me when I say that I can relate to Scrooge:

“But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep it’s distance from what the knowing ones call nuts to Scrooge.”

Snow is trickling through the gray skies, carpeting the world in a hypocritical purity; the whiteness simply reflecting back my emptiness. Cold strikes me through what should have been my heart but now harbours only holes. I sit in my small room; a bed and a lifetime’s accruement of books for company. (I have a phone; an outside line to the rest of the world. It gathers dust.) I continue reading.

“”I wear the chain I forged in life.” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard: I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it…””

Marley’s ghost, the words of a long since dead friend. A friend to Scrooge? But if such a thing was possible for a man like Scrooge then why not me? I have long since lost that which mattered most to me; chased them away by lack of emotion, fear of commitment. Afraid to be broken hearted but broken anyway. So how did Scrooge manage? A story.. nothing more and I curse myself for a fool.

KNOCK Knock KNOCK

Who could this be at this time of night? I don’t have visitors. I get up wearily from the bed and walk to the door. I’m not used to receiving strangers or even talking to anybody, but the mask slides down rustily and I open the door to greet the person.

Hair like a sunrise in June, from a man who thought all poetry long since dead. A smile, bubbles of carbonated happiness blended with eyes of purest nectar. She speaks not in tongue but in warmth and the room seems much brighter for her presence.

“Sorry to trouble you.. especially at this time of night, but I’ve locked myself out. I feel really stupid about doing this, but I was wondering if I might use your phone?”

Think!! Don’t just blurt something senseless, think first before opening your mouth! “Please do.. you must be freezing? Come in – I’ll turn the fire on for you. I don’t feel the cold any more, but I’ll turn it on for you. Come in, sit down – please…. It would be because I would want you to.”

It would be because I would want you to? Gods teeth, strike me down! It’s been so long that I can’t even construct proper sentences now. She glides into the room.

“Thank you, you’re most kind. I won’t stay long – I just need to ring the locksmith and I’ll be on my way.” She replies.

“No please.. It would be no trouble, no trouble at all. I don’t have many visitors… well, you’re the first one. So stay a while – at least until the locksmith arrives…”

“Thank you.” She sits down on my bed, placing a cautionary hand on it first. Upon sitting she notices the Christmas Carol on the bedside table. “You fear the world too much.” She suddenly thunders. “All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of it’s sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, gain, engrosses you.” I must have looked bemused because she grinned and blushed at the same time. “I’m sorry – it’s my favourite book.”

“Oh, right… I’ve not read it before.” I reply, smiling sheepishly… I’ve learnt that not reading The Christmas Carol is almost as bad as not having watched The Sound Of Music (which I haven’t watched either).

“It’s one of my favourite books,” she replies, “a true story of redemption; a forgiveness of sins and a repentance of a former skinflint. To see things as they were; as they truly are and how they could be… what a gift that would be! To see how one man could truly make a difference should he be willing to change.” I was spellbound by her, her voice was captivating and she always smiled! I felt compelled to answer.

“I always liked the film It’s a Wonderful Life for the same reasons. The idea of a man not realising how important he is until he sees how his life has impacted on others… It’s just a shame it’s all a fiction.”

“But it took an angel to show him, didn’t it?” She replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes. But who showed the angels, I wondered. “Why are you on your own?” She asks suddenly. “It’s nearly Christmas after all…”

“I don’t know.” I reply truthfully. As usual the words fail me as I try desperately to explain that it was my choice, that I’d never been good at giving myself to other people… “I’ve always been afraid that if people see me for what I truly am then I would lose them.” Where the hell did that come from? I just blurted it out! I hardly knew her and yet I was now telling her things that no one else knew about me!

“Did you ever think that maybe people could help you? That maybe if you talked to people they might actually listen? They might be able to see things differently, and who knows –even enlighten you?” She laughs, and I’m unsure whether she is actually taking me seriously. I couldn’t detect any malice in her comments so I smile back. “What are you scared of?” What a weird thing to ask, especially after what I’d just told her.

“Being alone.” I reply without even having to think about it.

“But you’re alone now...” She laughs. I smile back again, like a confused child. “You can’t possibly be scared of something that you are already! I think you’re scared of something else, something that you’ve kept hidden from yourself.. and it’s that that’s keeping you alone! Think about it… I must be going now, I’ve taken up far too much of your time as it is.. It’s nice meeting you.” She stands up again and holds her hand outstretched so I can shake it. Her warmth is contagious and I feel the glow flow through my whole body.

“Will I see you again?” I find myself asking as she walks towards the door.

“Do you want to?” She parries.

“Yes, very much so.” I reply.

“I’ll be around the same time tomorrow night.”

“What’s your name?” I ask, just as she walks out of the door.

“Carol.” How apt, I thought and as I close the door behind her I realise that she never once used the telephone. I open the door to call after her but am surprised to find that she’s nowhere to be seen, and outside I can hear the ominous sound of metal clanging on metal ringing in a new day.

DONG! DONG! DONG!

The next day drags, snails pace and I’m impatient to see her again. Finally the evening crawls along and I sit in my room waiting for Carol again, so I pick up the book and continue reading from where I had left off.

“’…It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked like a perfect grove, from every part of which bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction if a hearth had never known in Scrooge’s time, or Marley’s, or for many and many a winter season gone…’”

KNOCK Knock KNOCK

I run to the door, unbolt it and swing it open. The smile that greets me again illuminates the room and I can not help but smile back.

“How are you?” She asks. “Did you think on what I said last night?” She hasn’t even walked through the door.

“I have…” I reply sheepishly.

“Then you can tell me whilst you fix me a cup of coffee.”

“Well… you were right, obviously.” I’m trying to talk and figure out if I’ve got milk and clean mugs… it’s not easy. She walks into the room and lets her eyes wander around before sitting on the bed again. She’s captivating, truly.. the way the light reflects off her hair; her eyes that hold a promise for a thousand lifetimes. “And I realised today how much of a fool I’ve been… and selfish, in a way… does that make sense?”

She nods and smiles, encouraging me to continue.

“I thought that I was saving people from the bad in me, but how could I have known?”

“Known what?”

“I never meant it to be like this. I wanted to stop people… myself from getting hurt… not to chase them away. Please tell me that they are two completely different things.” I turn to look at her, and she just shrugs her shoulders.

“’.. if he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.’” Carol replied, recounting another part from the Christmas Carol. “”Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.

“Man,” Said the Ghost, “if man you be in heart, not adamant, for bear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in sight of heaven you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!””

She once again looked up at me, the truth shining in her eyes like diamonds of flickering hope, refracting my heart. “Don’t you realise that it’s not your place to decide who gets hurt, and who gets to know you? Who are you to judge? You have to let people make their own choices. You are going to get hurt as love can not be without loss. An absence of one is the exclusion of the other. Do you see?”

I hung my head.

“How could I not have realised that?” and then the realisation struck me. “I did know…. I just kept it from myself, tried to hide in excuses: a web of deceit and self-debasement so tangled and intricate that I lost my own sense of identity. I pretended so much that I forgot who I really was… Then I forgot to pretend because there was no more I..”

“It’s not easy seeing things as they really are. It takes great strength and courage.” Carol places a hand on mine, the coffee long since forgotten. Electricity passes between us. “I must go now. You have a lot more to think about. I shall return to see you one more time; on Christmas Eve. But before I go I will ask you one final question. One that I think you will appreciate: ‘Are there no prisons?.. Are there no workhouses?’ Who makes up the prisons that bind us in our lives?” And with that she gets up from the bed, walks over and kisses me softly on the cheek. Roses, she smells of roses… and then she is gone.

As the door closes behind her I can hear the bells ringing, but I am too deep in thought. “Who makes the prisons that bind us in our lives?” Who indeed….

DONG! DONG! DONG!

It’s Christmas Eve, the room is quiet with nothing stirring. The snow is falling still but now with whispers of promise. Anticipation clutches at my heart as I continue my reading of Dickens.

‘”Am I that man who lay upon the bed?” He cried, upon his knees The finger pointed from the grave to him and back again.

“No, Spirit! Oh no, no!” The finger was still there. “Spirit”’ He cried, tight clutching at his robe. “Hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this now if I am past hope?” For the first time the hand appeared to shake….’

KNOCK Knock KNOCK!

I open the door to Carol and she smiles at me and this time the question is but a single word. “Well?”

I smile and beckon her inside. “We make our own prisons; bind ourselves with the shackles of our own past and expect others to free us from them. Friends and lovers can only do so much. At best they can provide the key, but it is up to each individual to unlock themselves. I chased others away so I wouldn’t get hurt by own lack of feeling, always blaming those people who only ever wanted to help. But I can see now where I went wrong. I can change.. Have changed!”

“Yes.. You have – otherwise you would not have been able to say those things. So what are you going to do about it?” She hadn’t even sat down, she just stood and smiled at me.

“Open up to people, be myself.” I smiled back, the strength of my convictions growing the more I talked about it. “I’m not going to be intimidated by my pre-conceived ideas of other peoples perceptions of me… Does that make sense?” I laughed.

“More than you realise.” She laughed with me.

“I’m going to give myself a chance to be me and have strength enough to say HERE I AM, WORLD!!!”

“BRAVO!” Carol replies, clapping with me. “I knew you had it in you. All you needed was someone who believed in you.”

“Yes, and I think I knew that from the start, but could never admit to it. That would have meant letting someone get close enough to hurt me, and that never would have worked.” I laughed again, feeling feather light. I was mocking myself and, for the first time, I was able to see myself as a whole person, not as a jumble or an emotional mess.

“Don’t you realise that you started on your road of healing when you invited me in? Not only did you allow me to enter your room, but you allowed me to enter your life as well. How easy was that?” She didn’t allow me time to reply. “And you did it without thinking! Now, my time here is almost gone, and I have but one more thing to give you. However, in order for that to happen you must allow me to leave and know that I will never see you again.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! After all she had given me, Carol now wanted to leave. “But we’ve been through so much! I can’t let you just walk out on me!” I pleaded with her, not ready to let another friend go.

“Loss is a part of life; a part of love. I could never be truly yours, for I am here for everybody. Would you deny other people what you have received? Will you decide what men shall live and what men shall die?” I understood what she was saying.

“No… it’s not for me to deprive others.” I shook my head. “I have been blessed with my time and I will always hold that dear. You’ve given me back feelings that I thought were long since extinct and for that I thank you.” I tentatively lean in and kiss her on the cheek. She reciprocates and lets the kiss linger on my cheek before opening the door. She looks back at me and winks, before closing the door behind her.

‘I have one more thing to give you, but in order for that to happen you must allow me to leave.’ What did she mean by that? Just then the windows are blown open –something I thought would be impossible on such a calm night. The naked pages of The Christmas Carol flutter in the wind, the pages bristle and flap like wings before stopping. I kneel down to look at the page that lies open.

‘He became as good a friend, as good a master and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town or borough in the good, old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed; and that was quite enough for him…”

The bells chime, but they are interrupted by the sound of my wings.