By Cat. 2003.
Taste Rating:
Dubious.
Dedications:
To the turkey that gave up its life to appear on my festive table, also to the Australian vineyards that worked overtime to make sure there was enough wine in the shops for me to buy to cover the Xmas period.
Apologies:
For length of this rambling tale, the bloody thing developed a momentum of its own. Forgive any incoherencies, after all it is the season of goodwill;)
*
Preface:
I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little tale to raise the Ghost of an idea which shall not put my readers(all 3 of them)out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their house pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it(unless of course there’s a mutual attraction and you use sensible precautions;)
*~*
Stan was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that...Old Stan was as dead as a door-nail. This must be distinctly understood or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate(and rest assured, nothing WILL anyway, so don’t hang your festive footwear on that particular nail;-)
Stave I : Christmas Eve. 4pm.
Somewhat breathlessly, Stevie extracted the parchment from the tin and under the gaunt glow of the security light in the safety of Nial’s garden, read...
‘Tombstones, no names, long gone
rain washed, mud splashed,
tinkered with by the elements.
Frost snapped, wind worn, slowly dissolving
along with the matter they commemorated.
Land sold.
A house now stand on the sacred plot
who it contained doesn’t matter a jot.
Find the door that fits this key,
and then a secret you will see.’
“Well?” He turned wide eyes on Nial, “what do you think it means?”
“How the flaming Hades should I know,” snapped Nial irritably as he also read the verse over his friend’s shoulder, “do I look like Sylvia sodding Plath, I didn’t write the bloody thing did I?”
“Keep your hair on,” Stevie scowled at his disgruntled friend. “I was being rhetorical, I wasn’t asking you to produce a fucking literary dissertation on it for The Big Read, so there’s no need to rip my balls off you grumpy sod!”
“Well keep your bloody rhetoric, and your daft ideas, internalised in future, might save me some grief.” Nial scowled back, considering himself well justified in his irritability, having just been pursued by a Jack Russell Terrier which had been intent on wresting the contents of a shoe box from his arms. The tear in the seat of his jeans told of the narrowness of his escape.
“Well there’s gratitude,” Stevie sounded wounded, “it was you who gate crashed my house this morning demanding I help you, so quit whining. Anyone would think you’d been pursued and mauled by a fucking humungous, slavering Werewolf, instead of chased and nipped by a harmless little terrier.”
“I must need my head examining asking you for help,” Nial pouted, clutching his shoe box more tightly while rubbing a tentative hand over the seat of his jeans, “it nearly cost me a visit to casualty to have that so-called harmless little terrier removed from my arse. I thought the little bastard was never going to let go, it was hanging on like a piranha to a meaty snack.”
Stevie took a deep breath, determined to keep his features composed.
“I bloody hate you!” Nial glared furiously as with an explosive sound, Stevie’s features composed themselves into signs of callous mirth and joyous merriment.
“Jeez, oh God,” spluttered Stevie, his eyes leaking laughter, “I wish I’d had a video cam following you as you galloped through that garden with a crazed pooch hanging from your backside, waving from side to side as if you’d sprouted a tail.”
“Shurrup,” Nial’s pout reached professional standard, “or you’ll see what it’s really like to sprout a fucking tail, because I’ll ram the contents of this box right up your...”
The safety of Nial’s garden became suddenly suspect and they both started as the back door was dramatically flung open, emitting a pool of white light that spilled out of the kitchen to supplement the security light. They both immediately adopted an air of casual innocence.
The figure that had flung the door open, fixed each of them in turn with a fierce stare, like a hawk deliberating over a choice of mouse or vole. “Well, well,” the hawk folded its arms, “if it isn’t Tweedledee and Tweedledum! Judging from the disgraceful amount of cussing and quarrelling I heard, somebody’s rattle must have been thoroughly spoilt.”
“Hi Em,” Stevie hastily slipped the sheet of paper with its verse on back into its tin, “sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“What have you got there?” Emlyn turned his sharp gaze on the tin.
Nial took the opportunity to shove his shoe box behind his back before the hawk like gaze decided to investigate it.
Stevie began to edge his way towards the back gate, “I’d love to stop and chat Em, but better be getting back, you know how Frank worries.”
“With good cause most of the time, and yes, you’re quite right, you’d better be getting home, it’s getting cold and no doubt you should be helping Frank prepare for tomorrow.” Emlyn’s gaze suddenly snapped back onto Nial, “what are you trying to furtively conceal young man?”
“Nothing Em.” Nial’s eyes tried to express innocence.
Em, his own eyes expressing the thought that he considered Nial and innocence to be unlikely partners, held out his hands. “Hand it over please.”
“Hand what over Emlyn?”
“NOW!”
Nial jumped at the sharpness of the barked command, Emlyn was very obviously in no mood for procrastination. Oh God, if Em opened that box he was so, SO dead.
Stevie might be a prat and a pain in the proverbial most of the time, but he did sometimes come up trumps. “Nial, you idiot!”
Nial shot him a grateful look as the box was swiftly plucked from his hands.
“You were going to let me go home without my new trainers, I mean I know you’re jealous of them, but they’d never fit your big feet.”
Moments later, the creak of the gate indicated that Stevie and his box collection were well out of Emlyn’s reach. Nial’s relief was short lived.
“Inside, at once young man, you’ve got some serious mouth washing to do. I’ve told you before about that bad language, we could hear you above the television set, aunt M is tutting like a rabid wallaby.” Emlyn held the door open, suppressing the beginnings of a smile as he noted the careful way his partner tucked his backside under as he hastened past him. “I take it that you saw no sign of him then?”
“ ‘Fraid not Em, though I’ll step out again a bit later, have another mooch about.”
Emlyn smiled. “You’re being very good about this Nial, I really appreciate it, and I’m sure aunt M does too.”
Nial experienced a flush of mortification as a light kiss brushed his cheek, though a different emotion soon replaced it as seconds later a soapy toothbrush found its way around his mouth. Instead of following instructions to use the fifteen minutes corner time he was allocated to think about better ways of using language, he thought instead about the key and verse, and the events of the day that had led him and Nial to dig up the tin which contained them.
Ironically, the key and verse might have stayed buried, if Nial hadn’t been intent on burying something else that afternoon: a large moggy by the name of Stan. The cat in question belonged to Mrs Munchausen, Emlyn’s house guest, some elderly aunt, twice removed, who’d come for a quick visit in the spring and had never left. At breakfast that very morning, after listing her days medical complaints in horrifying detail, including a description of her bowel movements, she’d asked Nial if he’d seen Stanley. Apparently, he’d gone out for his usual stroll the night before and had not yet returned. Keeping to himself the hope that Stan, who smelled like a ferret with a gland problem, had moved out permanently, Nial had kindly reassured her that the cat was probably wending his way home even as they spoke.
Promising to keep an eye out for the cat, he then made his biggest mistake of the day: Picking up a set of car keys, he sallied forth on the shopping trip postponed from the day before. That’s when it all started to go arse over tit, or pear shaped, as Emlyn preferred him to say.
* Twinkly fairy dust type stuff indicating flash back scene.*
Stave II: Christmas Eve Past, i.e. earlier that same Christmas Eve: 10am.
Nial, the lump in his throat, out-lumped only by the one currently residing on the side of his head, stared down at the large orange creature with deep dismay. It’s glazed and unhappy expression told a sad story; it was as a dead as a Whitby kipper, and not a dissimilar colour! Auntie Munchausen was a notoriously heavy smoker, and Stan had, in life, actually once been white. One thing was for sure, Stan would never wend his way anywhere again. The cat flap would never again be strained to breaking point as he squeezed his unhealthily bulging girth through it.
Fighting back tears, Nial heaved Stan from the gutter, tenderly laying the mortally languid creature in the boot of the car. To be honest, animal lover though he was, he’d never really taken to Stan, smell aside, he’d been a creature of uncertain temper and rather unpleasant habits, one of them being to use Nial’s trainers as a toilet. There was nothing nastier than starting your day by squelching cat shit through your toes. All the same, Nial couldn’t bear to leave the poor thing lying there in the road.
Besides, he blew his nose hard on the sleeve of his shirt and wiped his eyes, he had killed Stan. It was only right that he should dispose of his remains in a fitting and dignified manner. He’d bung him in a bin bag when he got home and bury him somewhere discreet the first chance he got, preferably before Emlyn found out.
The thought of Emlyn finding out sent little shivers of icy trepidation up and down his spine. Emlyn just wasn’t reasonable about things like this, he’d never believe that it wasn’t his fault. Rubbing at the exterior lump on his head, Nial mused, not for the first time, about why life was always taking a dump on him. It wasn’t fair, why did things like this always happen to him, he was a nice boy, good to his parents, kind to children and animals, most of the time? Still, he made a brave attempt to look on the bright side, Stan had probably died fairly happy, he had obviously had a good night on the tiles, calling on several old girlfriends and was on his way home, no doubt looking forward to a nice long sleep.
Well, Nial chewed his lip tearfully, poor Stan would certainly get a long sleep, eternal sleep in fact. He mentally re-enacted the drama in his mind: He’d come upon Stan unexpectedly and rather suddenly, the cat was sitting in the middle of the road engaged in a bout of strenuous coughing, probably brought on because he hadn’t yet had his morning fix of nicotine, courtesy of his owner. Spotting the animal up ahead of him and, recognising its bronchial activity, and lack of attention to the highway code, he had attempted to slow the car down, not easy when you were driving fast enough to make the transition into hyper-space.
Unfortunately, a carrier bag containing a selection of newly purchased groceries from Tescos, had chosen to split as he turned the corner into the home stretch of road, and consequently groceries were roaming freely around the car’s interior. Emlyn, being a sensible soul, in fact an almost canonised saint, always insisted that shopping be put in the boot of the car instead of being left lying on the floor, or seats, where, in the event of emergency braking, it could fly about and become a hazard. Privately, Nial thought Emlyn was being overly cautious on this point, if not downright fussy. He wasn’t so sure now.
However, Nial nervously fingered a strand of long fair hair, even worse than his failure to observe this etiquette of grocery carrying in cars, was one other small deed that Emlyn might possibly take a dim view of.
Nial wasn’t supposed to be driving the car, not without an experienced driver by his side, or an instructor, or something similar. He scowled mutinously, it was such a bore, having to pass a driving test. After all, he could drive as well as anyone, if not better, he just hadn’t managed to convince the powers that be of his ability in that respect, they kept muttering things about speed demons and recklessness.
Life could be so unfair, he stopped twisting his hair and took to chewing it instead, and Emlyn really wasn’t reasonable about this kind of thing. He pulled a face as Emlyn’s voice popped into his mind, solemnly intoning, ‘the law’s the law, and it’s there to be obeyed.’
With an effort, Nial jerked his mind away from the requirements of law, and back to the events that had caused Stan’s demise. One of the free range groceries, ironically a tin of Moggy meat, had somehow jammed itself under the brake pedal thus complicating his efforts to slow down after spotting Stan. Manically honking the horn to warn the coughing cat of his approach, and on the brink of panicking, in fact not so much as ON the brink as way, WAY past it, Nial had finally managed to kick the can out of the way. His kick, powered by adrenalin fuelled terror, had proved rather more exuberant than one would have liked in the circumstances. The can had hurtled towards the passenger side window, striking it with an almighty bang. Bouncing off the toughened glass, it then ricochet several times around the car’s interior, before striking Nial sharply on the side of the head- momentarily dazing him.
By this time Stan had coughed up something nasty into the middle of the road, and suddenly aware of, and alarmed by the noise of the car horn, had made a dash for the safety of the pavement. He reached it, and was crouched wheezing, just as the Moggy meat bounced off Nial’s cranium, causing him to swerve and mount the pavement.
The rest, as they say, was history, or at least Stan was.
Still, once again Nial made a concerted effort to find a bright side, at least he hadn’t demolished any walls or gates this time and the car was undamaged, so Em need never find out about his illegal use of it.
Slamming the lid of the boot shut on the bygone feline and getting back in the car, Nial sadly headed for home. If only he’d walked to the bloody shop, none of this would have happened, but then walking up a steep hill to the supermarket when you had a hell of a hangover was no pleasure. If only he’d done the shopping yesterday when he was supposed to, it wouldn’t have mattered about him having a hangover today because he wouldn’t have had to shop.
The thought of Emlyn discovering that he’d gone out and got drunk and not shopped in a responsible manner, and then killed a house guest’s cat by driving a car he had no business driving, made shivers invade his spine once again. At some level, Nial knew he had only himself to blame, but it didn’t stop him looking for someone else to at least carry some of the weight of responsibility.
STEVIE! The name sprang automatically to mind, it was all that sod’s fault! He’d insisted on them going to The Mucky Duck the night before, Nial never managed to leave that place sober, and he never managed to stay out of trouble when he was with Stevie-disaster-area-Jones! If it wasn’t for him, he’d have done the shopping last night, sensibly walking to the shop and back, and he’d have woken up refreshed this morning, instead of feeling like death warmed over. Nial swallowed, he knew something else that would get warmed over if Emlyn ever got wind of these current events. Parking the car without mishap, Nial headed purposefully across the street, noting with some disquiet that there was an icy nip in the wind.
***
Stevie, pale faced and tousled haired, leaned heavily against the front door, and gazed blearily at his visitor through half closed eyes. “Nial, is that you?”
“Who do you think it is,” snapped Nial, barging past him, “the laughing policeman!”
Stevie groaned and gently closed the front door, “don’t mention the police! Frank is going to kill me when he finds out about last night.”
“Good, let me know when he’s ready to start, I’d like to watch!”
Stevie managed to force his eyelids up another millimetre or two, and gazed at Nial sourly, “you’re a regular fucking sunbeam this morning, only I bet Jesus doesn’t want you, not in this mood, you’ll scare the fucking cherubs! What’s up with you?”
Nial enlightened him.
“My fault?” Stevie’s eyes opened wide. Such an outrageous accusation bore repeating, “my fault?” In fact he went for the hat trick and repeated it again. “My fault?”
“I’m glad you accept your part in this tragedy,” Nial pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down heavily, “however, confessing your guilt won’t bring Stan back.”
Stevie sat down with a pout, “I wish we’d never moved into the street, you’re always getting me into trouble, I preferred living at a distance. My arse doesn’t know the meaning of sitting comfortably anymore.”
Nial glared at him, “you never take responsibility for your actions do you Stevie, and whose idea was it to try and get that Police No Waiting sign on top of the prison gates last night?”
“Pete’s actually!” Stevie glared back, “so don’t blame me for that.”
“You should have stopped him, and yourself, and me, haven’t you got any common sense?”
“Not after six pints of snakebite and three vodka slammers, which incidentally you bought me!” Stevie moaned slightly as both his head and his stomach spitefully reminded him of his over indulgence.
Nial rested an elbow against the table top, and leaned his own aching head against his hand. “Georgie didn’t look too chuffed when he came to bail us out, did he?”
“Poor Pete, did you see his face when Georgie showed up?”
“I was too busy watching his backside as he tried to squeeze himself under the duty sergeant’s desk.”
Stevie grinned, his brown eyes sparkling, “that arresting copper’s face was a bit of a picture when Pete heaved into his helmet, wish I’d had a camera handy.”
Nial’s temporarily suspended sense of humour made a brief reappearance, and he joined in with a grin of his own. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if Pete hadn’t insisted on carefully placing it back on his head for him while wishing him a happy Christmas and asking for a snog!”
They both dissolved into giggles.
Nial wiped water from her eyes, then sighed, “do you think Georgie will grass us up to Em and Frank?”
Stevie pulled a face, “of course he will, he’s a top isn’t he, and he was mad as hell at all of us. That telling off he gave us was legend, I’m glad that I was too pissed to take much of it in really. Poor Pete, I bet his head isn’t the only thing aching today. Luckily it probably won’t be tonight when he tells all. Pete said that they’re going to some Christmas do or other that the new boss from Georgie’s department is throwing, so our derriere’s are safe for now.”
Nial groaned, “it only puts off the inevitable, Emlyn will bloody kill me. I was supposed to be studying this weekend, not getting drunk and scaling prison walls. It wouldn’t be so bad if we’d been trying to break out, but breaking in! Come to think of it, I might try and break in again, a prison cell might be the safest place for me after he finds out about last night.”
Stevie grinned, his headache lightening slightly as he cheerfully observed, “he’ll kill you again when he finds out you’ve done in your lodger’s cat while hung over and driving his car without his permission, never mind a licence! You won’t be able to sit down this side of New Year.”
Nial’s blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do you want me to tell Emlyn who it was that super-glued that dead hedgehog to his rear windscreen wiper last week?”
Stevie’s grin quickly disappeared, his cousin already had his suspicions about that incident, he just hadn’t been able to prove them. Anyway, reasoned Stevie by way of salving his conscience, it wasn’t his fault that Em had been so mesmerised by the sight of a large, flat hedgehog cleaning the rear window of his BMW, that he’d mounted the pavement and demolished their neighbour’s front fence, subsequently destroying his collection of terracotta, hand painted, Lord Of The Rings garden statues. Stevie swallowed slightly, “you wouldn’t really tell Em would you Nial?”
It was Nial’s turn to grin, “nah, my lips shall remain sealed...as long as you help me dispose of Stan’s body somewhere it will never be found, and find a replacement moggy for Mrs Munchausen.” He paused, and added, “and yes please I will have a cup of coffee, I’m sure you meant to ask when I came in.”
Stevie got reluctantly to his feet. “You’re not asking for much are you, and I don’t mean the coffee. Do I look like a frigging undertaker, who do you think I am, the feline branch of the Co-operative funeral service, and where do you think we’re going to dredge up a nicotine stained replacement?”
“Three sugars in my coffee please, I think I might be in shock you know!”
“Not so you’d notice,” muttered Stevie, filling the kettle. He was beginning to think it had been a dark day when he and his partner Frank Reynolds had taken up residence in the same street as his cousin Emlyn and his partner Nial Simmons. “Why can’t you just bury Stan in your garden?”
“Oh come on Steve, have a word with yourself here,” Nial shot him a withering glance. “Emlyn’s got eyes like a hawk, he can spot if a blade of grass is longer than it’s neighbouring blades of grass. He notices changes in the soil that herald the eruption of a daffodil weeks before the bloody thing actually surfaces. So he’s certainly going to notice if a grave suddenly appears in the garden.”
Stevie was suitably withered, “yeah, I know what you mean. Frank’s a bit like that, he can spot a worm cast from miles away, so we can’t bury him in our garden either, Stan that is, not Frank.” He paused for a moment before adding gloomily, “come to think of it, there probably will be a burial in our garden before long...mine, when Frank gets wind of last night’s debacle. I was supposed to be grounded to start with, and,” his face clouded further, “I got carried away with festive generosity and spent the twenty five quid that he gave me to buy a Christmas tree on Cranberry curry for everyone last night. I wouldn’t mind so much, but none of us got to fully digest it before it came up again.”
“Ta,” Nial smiled as Stevie set a mug of sweet coffee before him, “tell you what, if you help me out, I’ll tell Frank it was my fault you got drunk, and that you only tagged along to try and keep an eye on us.”
“Really?” Stevie’s face lit up, “he just might believe it, he thinks you’re a bad influence.”
Nial stuck his tongue out at him, “Em thinks the same about you. Got any chocolate biscuits to accompany this coffee? You can’t have coffee without a biscuit, it’s unnatural.”
“I’m not supposed to eat choccy biscuits,” said Stevie virtuously, “Frank says they’re not good for me.”
“Frank thinks breathing is bad for you, I’m surprised he just doesn’t have you linked up to a machine that he controls completely. Come on Steve, it’s Christmas, loosen your jock strap, and besides, you’re a grown up, you can eat biscuits if you want to. I don’t let Emlyn dictate to me what I can and can’t eat, I make my own choices.”
“Me too,” Stevie retrieved the tin from the top shelf in the pantry where Frank fondly believed he’d hidden it. “Only,” he prised the lid off, “Frank doesn’t always seem to recognise that fact.”
“Look,” Nial bit into his Kitkat with relish, “you’re going to have to stand up to Frank a bit more, he bosses you about far too much. Tell him straight out that you’re quite capable of deciding what is and isn’t good for you.”
“You’ve dribbled coffee on the front of your t-shirt,” Stevie pointed at the offending stain, “have you got a hole in your bottom lip or something?”
“Oh crap!” Nial dashed to the sink and grabbed a damp cloth, rubbing frantically at the stain. “Em will go mad if he knows I’ve been imbibing caffeine, he seems to think it’s toxic or something. Sometimes I think him and Frank are long lost brothers, they’re so sodding constipated about certain things.” He paused in his rubbing to glare at Stevie, “what are you smirking at?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Stevie carefully inserted a finger of Kitkat sideways into his mouth and crunched. Brushing crumbs from his t-shirt, he finished the last of his coffee, and said, “I think I know where we can safely bury Stan, and solve my Christmas tree problem at the same time.”
“Great, where?” Nial sat up straight, a smile lighting his face, it didn’t stay light for long, quickly darkening down as Steve revealed the possible location for Stan’s funeral. “Monksrest? But it’s been empty for years, no one ever goes there.”
“Give the boy genius a prize!” Stevie rolled his eyes heavenward, “where better to bury Stan then, no one will ever discover him there, it’s perfect. And it’s got some rather nice fir trees, I’m sure we can utilise one for our own use, no one will ever know. Give me a few minutes to get dressed and we’ll...” he broke off, tipping his dark head quizzically to one side as he viewed his silent and, it had to be said, unenthusiastic companion. A slow grin crept across his snub nosed face. Reaching out he pinched Nial’s cheeks teasingly between thumbs and forefingers, “is poor lickle Nial, frightened of the rumoured ghosties at Monksrest then.”
“Gerrof smartarse!” Nial slapped the hands away. “It’s just I’ve heard loads of reports about strange happenings up there. This is all Church land around here, apparently that particular house was built on the site of a thirteenth century monastery, complete with its own cemetery for the brothers that died.” He lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder as if he expected something to materialise in a corner of the kitchen. “They say no one has ever managed to live in the house for more than a few months at a time, they say the monks are angry that their resting place was defiled.”
“Look, there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Steve perched his backside on the edge of the table, “it’s just an old, empty house with a huge neglected garden, which makes it an ideal place to stash a dead moggy and nick a Chrimbo tree, plus, it’s not as if we’re going to be creeping around there in the dead of night are we? Nothing can get us in daytime, it’s a well known fact that spooks only come out after midnight.”
Nial looked doubtful, “wh...” his would be question died on his lips and he stiffened as the sound of a key being inserted in a lock reached his ears, he turned wide eyes to Stevie, “I thought Frank and Em weren’t due back from Birmingham until tea time?”
“They weren’t,” Stevie’s startled gaze swept to the kitchen sink which was piled high with unwashed pots, “what’s the current world record for washing up the most pots in the least time?”
“Way past your abilities to surpass Stevie my boy, I’ll call for you later.” Nial gave his shoulder a light slap and with a grin slipped out of the back door before Frank could materialise in the kitchen and ask awkward questions.
Muttering feverishly about rats and sinking ships, Stevie headed for the hall intent on keeping his beloved’s eyes from starting from their head should they lay eyes on the disaster his pristine kitchen had turned into over the space of a weekend. If he could get him into the bedroom and exhaust him chances were he could slip down and put things to rights while he slept.
Frank, wrestling to get an arm out of his overcoat, rocked slightly on his heels as an exuberant figure rocketed from the kitchen and leapt into his free arm.
“FRANK YOU’RE HOME!”
“It would appear so sweetheart, we finished the meeting earlier, it being the eve of Christmas and all that.” Frank laughingly kissed him and put him down, “I’ve missed you too, but at least let me get my coat off properly, and perhaps even grab a nice cup of tea, it was a long drive.”
“Tea? You don’t need tea,” Stevie impatiently grasped Frank’s hand and began dragging him towards the stairs, “gather ye rosebuds while ye may, you’ve got all your old age to be drinking tea.”
“Fair point,” Frank smiled and allowed himself to be dragged. Besides, he thought privately, whatever Stevie was trying to distract him from, several tons of undone dishes if he knew Stevie, which he did, all too well, would still be there afterwards. He managed to gather breath after the enforced march upstairs to ask, “did you get the Christmas tree?”
“It’s at a friend’s house, I’ll collect it later,” Stevie pulled Frank into the bedroom and briskly closed the door before he had time to ask why he’d taken a Christmas tree to visit a friend.
*~*~*
Stave III: Christmas Eve future, i.e. not as future as to begin with, but earlier than formerly and still that same Christmas eve : 3.30pm.
“What did Frank say about the washing up you’d accumulated?” Nial tucked Stan’s makeshift coffin, a Nike shoe box, more securely under his arm as they headed in the direction of Monksrest.
“Nothing,” Stevie sighed, “he just adopted a grim expression, swatted a hand at my bum, then pointed at the sink. I got the message.”
“How come he let you out so easily, I thought you were still grounded?”
I told him I was nipping out to collect the Christmas tree from Danny’s house and also to help you look for madam M’s lost moggy, he was really pleased with me for making the effort.”
“I just hope we can find a reasonable replacement for him,” Nial’s voice was heavy with guilt. “I feel really bad about it, poor madam M is really upset, she hasn’t complained about her bunions once this afternoon.”
They stood outside the wrought iron gates of Monksrest for some time before Stevie, with a deep breath, pushed them cautiously open.
“It’s a bit spooky,” whispered Nial as he pushed his way carefully through the vastly overgrown garden, trying hard to avoid being lashed across the face by trailers of spiked briar and bramble, not easy with the winter afternoon already lapsing into darkness, and a still sleepy moon playing shy behind heavy cloud, refusing even to cast a modicum of light. He paused, expecting Stevie to make a comfortingly rude remark about him being scared of ghosts. There was only silence, and stillness, Stevie had been close on his heels, but now there was no sound or movement.
Before he could turn his head to investigate his friend’s whereabouts, something shot out of the darkness, painfully gripping his upper arm jerking him backwards into the middle of a monster sized hydrangea shrub. A rough hand clapped itself over his mouth before he had time to scream for help.
“Shush, it’s me,” whispered a sickly voice.
Nial glared through the darkness at his assailant. “If you want my attention, just say so, there’s no need to tear my fucking arm out of its socket!”
“Shut up,” Stevie raised a shaking finger. “Look over there.”
“Ha-bloody-ha, you can’t scare...” Nial’s voice trailed off as the moon deigned to make a brief appearance, illuminating the cause of Stevie’s shaking finger. His own bowels turned to water at the sight of a long robed figure intent on digging at something below a rose bush, its robes seeming to give off a sickly greenish glow.
“Just shred several layers of my flaming skin off why don’t you?” Stevie stifled an agonised yelp as Nial clutched at him.
“You started it,” hissed Nial, but his voice lacked venom, it was too busy fending off sounding terrified, “what is it, why is it here, and what’s it doing?”
“What is this,” Steve’s exasperated voice pressed itself stealthily against Nial’s ear, “a fucking paranormal survey, how should I know what it is, why it’s here, or what it’s doing. I know one thing, it isn’t Alan bloody Titchmarsh, not unless Gardner’s World has gone nocturnal and he’s planting some kind of illegal daffodil bulbs under cover of darkness.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.” Nial’s huffiness was tangible, even in the dark. “I knew it wasn’t Alan Titchmarsh, too tall for one thing, he’s a bit on the short side is Alan......still kind of sexy though, I can see why Emlyn never misses a GW programme, those twinkly eyes and that smile, shame he’s straighter than a row of pea supports.”
“It’s all go in your house isn’t it Nial, Gardner’s World and cocoa at ten, I don’t know how you survive the pace of it all. What is Em getting you for Christmas, a pipe and a pair of carpet slippers?”
“Fuck off Steve, I know for a fact that you and Frank are addicted to repeat episodes of Miss Marple and that you have a secret hoard of Ready Steady Cook vid...”
“Sssh!” Steve’s fingers repeated their painful assault on Nial’s upper arm. “Jesus, look,” his shaking finger made another appearance, “there’s another one.”
Nial clutched his shoe box more tightly, moaning softly as sickly moonlight illuminated another, smaller robed and hooded figure. “I told you it was a bad idea to go roaming around old graveyards after dark, it’s the sort of thing that terminally stupid characters, played by bit part actors, do in horror films. Five seconds on the big screen and then they’re gone, victims of some hellish fiend, and no one ever remembers who they were.”
They both held their breath as the gardening ghost glided off towards its fellow ghost, leaving the spade by the rose bush.
“Where are they going?” whispered Nial, as the two fingers vanished into the faint mist that was beginning to swell in the garden.
“You seem to think I’m some kind of spectral behaviourist,” growled Steve, gripping his friend’s sleeve and dragging him towards the rose bush recently vacated by the apparition. “They’ve probably been called to ghostly Evensong or something, come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“I swear to God that if you ask me one more fucking question, there’ll be yet another ghost around here, because I’ll be forced to kill you!”
“I only asked.”
“Well don’t,” Steve’s voice hung irritably on the damp air, “we’re going to see what that monk was burying.”
“Barr’s Humbugs?” Nial stared in bafflement at the tin that Steve had uninterred from the earth, “I didn’t realise that Barr’s produced mint humbugs as early as the thirteenth century.” Forgetting Steve’s threat to despatch him to the spirit world if he asked one more question he opened his mouth, only Stevie opened his faster.
“I wonder why a monk would want to bury a tin of humbugs, unless they were considered sinful in the thirteenth century, either that or he was trying to stop the Abbot getting his greedy mitts on them.” Stevie shook the tin, then froze with horror as a metallic clang rent the air.
“Wake the fucking dead why don’t you?” Nial, his heart pounding with fright, gazed anxiously around the dark garden, expecting to see an army of humbug seeking ghostly monks materialising. His heart beat faster still as he suddenly detected something charging through the undergrowth towards them.
It rocketed from the long grass, baying in Steve’s terrified face, then to Nial’s horror, it got a scent of the contents of his shoe box and with an unearthly snarling whine, leapt for it. With a howl of fear Nial took to his heels and ran, the devil dog in close pursuit, very close pursuit as it attached itself firmly to the seat of his jeans. Steve didn’t linger, clutching the monk’s sweet tin he legged after his fleeing, canine encrusted friend.
*~*~*
* twinkly, twinkly, more fairy dust type stuff, back to present time. *
Stave IV: A bit later than very earlier but still that same Christmas Eve. 4.15 pm.
“Where is it?” Frank laid aside his newspaper and gazed enquiringly at his partner.
“Where’s what?” Stevie flopped down into a chair still clutching Stan’s makeshift coffin as well as the ghost Monk’s confectionary tin.
Frank sighed, “the Christmas tree, the one you left at Danny’s house, though quite why you took it there in the first place is still beyond me.”
“Oh that, erm, Danny was out, at choir practice with Jack, and God knows if anyone needs practice it’s Jack. I’ll get it later, I promise.”
“I hope so, I want it in place and dressed, preferably BEFORE Christmas Day...what are those boxes you’re hugging so lovingly.
“Chrissy pressies,” Stevie hugged them tighter still, “you can’t look, secret.”
“Might be a good idea to wrap them up then, and while you’re at it, do your share of the others, they’re on the bed, just in case we ever do get a Christmas tree to stick them under.” Frank gazed thoughtfully at his partner, he was beginning to scent a rat, he sniffed slightly, certainly he could smell something. “No sign of poor madam M’s cat then?”
“Nah,” Stevie fought off a blush, “I said I’d pop out again after tea, and help Nial have another hunt about, if that’s alright with you Frank?”
“Very well, but I think personally that something’s happened to the old boy, he’s never gone missing before.” Frank went back to his newspaper, adding, “don’t come home without the tree for goodness sake, I don’t want to have to pile presents under a cheese plant tonight, it doesn’t have the same festive appeal.”
Stave V: Later still that same Christmas Eve 6pm:
“Who’s the pressie for?” Nial viewed the beautifully wrapped box with interest.
“No one,” Stevie grinned, “it’s Stan. I had to wrap the box up, in case Frank got suspicious about why I was lugging a shoe box about, looks nice doesn’t it, not many dead cats get to be gift wrapped before they’re buried. Come on, let’s get back to Monksrest, we’ll bury Stan, have a poke about to see if we can find out anything else about that tin we found, and then grab a tree.”
“Ah-ah,” Nial shook his head vehemently, “there’s no way that I’m going back to that place, I don’t give a bugger about some poxy poem and a key, whatever mystery it represents can stay a mystery, I don’t care.”
“What about Stan, what about my Christmas tree?”
“I’ll stick Stan in someone’s wheelie bin, they’ll never notice, and we can get a tree from somewhere else.”
“Of course,” Stevie scowled into the winter air, “we’ll just go marauding through people’s gardens looking for an appropriate wheelie bin in which to stash a smelly dead cat, and then we’ll nip down to the twenty four hour, ‘Trees Are Us,’ store and pick up a fucking free Christmas tree.”
Nial gave in, gloomily trekking in Stevie’s footsteps like the Page from the famous carol, only, he frowned, Stevie was no sodding Saint!
The spade and the rose bush were still there, as was the hole they had left under it, when they had dug up the tin earlier. However, to Nial’s relief, there was no sign of the demonic terrier. It seemed a shame to waste the hole, so after burying Stan’s festively boxed remains in it, they stood quietly for a few moments of silent respect paying.
“Look on the bright side,” Stevie patted Nial’s shoulder, as he gave a small sniff of guilty remorse, “at least you won’t have to clop around in shit filled footwear anymore, c’mon, let’s find a tree.”
They moved cautiously through the grounds half hoping that a suitable Christmas tree would uproot and present itself.
“They all look a lot bigger close up don’t they?” Stevie craned his head back to examine the tall dark silhouette of the smallest pine tree they could detect in the dark grounds. “I suppose we could just lop a bit off the top, that would do.”
“Well don’t look at me,” snapped Nial, “I’m not a fucking lumberjack, there’s no way I’m scaling fir trees in the dark. Maybe we could dig one up?”
Stevie sounded sceptical, if not scathing, “it would take until Easter to dig one up by the roots, I bet they stretch underground for miles, and you’d need a team of dray horses to drag it home. They’re all huge, it’s a bit off the top or nothing.”
“Fine.” Nial folded his arms, “you lop a bit off the top Sweeny Todd, I’ll stay down here and keep watch, incidentally,” a note of sarcasm crept into his voice, “what do you plan on lopping it with? A pocket knife, a nail file, your teeth, the power of thought, though in your case that wouldn’t be enough to break a square from a bar of chocolate, never mind rend the top from a mighty fir?”
“Buggeration!” Stevie’s voice resonated sheepishly, “I never though about bringing something to cut it down with.”
“Pilloch.”
“Cat killer.”
“Fu...” Nial’s would be polite rejoinder perished on his lips as hushed murmurings indicated the presence of creatures other than themselves. Judging from the way Steve’s fingernails were shredding the skin from his upper arm, he’d also heard them. Returning the favour, he silently shredded Steve’s arm. Mutually shredding, they shrank back against the trunk of the tree as a ghostly procession of monks materialised in the damp air.
Snaking through the garden, the spiritual brothers followed a tall monk lighting the way with a candle lamp, with which he was apparently reading a manuscript held in his ghostly hand. He glided to a halt and silently pointed the manuscript towards the rose bush where Stan’s mortal remains lay.
“Oh God,” moaned Nial softly, “there’s more spooks here than in a Dicken’s novel, “they’ve come to take Stan to the spirit world.”
“Barr’s Humbugs!” Hissed Stevie.
Nial was insulted, “don’t take that Scrooge attitude with me, so why else is Brother Cadfael pointing at Stan’s grave?”
“He doesn’t know it is Stan’s grave, you moron. They must have come for the Barr’s Humbug tin.”
“Shit, and it isn’t there.”
“Thank you for that insight, Mister-stating-the-fucking-obvious.”
“How do you feel about being buried with a stake of holly through your heart, or maybe even up your...?”
“Sshh,” Steve dug Nial in the ribs, “they’re digging.”
“That rose won’t bloom this summer,” whispered Nial knowledgably, “not after having its roots buggered about with like that.”
They watched with bated breath as the earth around the rose bush was disturbed for the third time that night and the box containing the cat was lifted out.
“Hey,” Steve gently nudged his friend as the monk straightened up with the gift wrapped box in his hands, “look, it’s the ghost of the Christmas Present. I just hope he isn’t expecting Frankincense and Myrrh when he opens it, cos seeing as it’s Stan, he’s only going to find stinking-scent and no purr!”
Nial didn’t mean to giggle out loud, but his nerves, as well as his arm, were shredded with the day’s events and a manic cackle at Steve’s quip forced it’s way out of his mouth.
A host of cowled heads immediately swivelled in their direction.
Steve’s flight through the garden to the wrought iron gates and safety was hampered only by the fact that he was virtually carrying Nial who had a death grip on the back of his coat and was screaming like a banshee.
“Leggo,” Steve jiggled frantically, trying to dislodge his burden, “let, fuck, will you get the FUCK off my back Nial, you’re safely home now!”
Emlyn flung the back door open for the second time that Christmas eve, impaling them both on a frosty glare. “What’s all this noise about?”
His sharp voice sliced effectively through Nial’s hysteria. Relinquishing his grip on Steve he said shakily, “nothing Em. I was just wishing Stevie a merry Christmas and giving him a hug for helping me bury, SEARCH, I mean SEARCH for Stan.”
“That’s right Em, he was.” Stevie nodded, adding sadly, “though we didn’t see sight nor sign of him and no monks either.”
“Have you both been drinking?”
“Not yet Em, not yet,” Nial lurched into the kitchen after making sure no ghostly apparitions stood waiting for him, “but point me at a bottle of wine and I’ll get stuck straight in.”
“Well young man,” Emlyn surveyed his cousin sternly, “what are you standing waiting for, the spirit of Christmas?”
“Nah, had enough of spirits,” Stevie gloomily shoved his hands in his pocket and headed for the gate, where he hesitated for a moment, turning to ask, “Em...Have you got a Christmas tree I could borrow?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind, see you at our house tomorrow for Christmas lunch, if I live that long.” Digging his hands deeper in his pockets Steve headed for home, wistfully singing: “‘Oh I’m the happiest Christmas tree, ho, ho, ho, he, he, he, someone came and they found me and took me home with them.’ Yeah right, like you just find a singing Christmas tree!”
Emlyn shook his head, closed the door and went to detach Nial from the wine bottle he was lovingly cradling. “Come on love, you’ve done all you can to find Stan, I’m proud of your kind commitment, I know he wasn’t your favourite animal.”
Nial felt meaner than Scrooge and more dishonest than Marley at this accolade.
*~*
Stave VI: (which is already one more stave than Chas Dick)
Christmas Day:
“Beautiful Christmas tree!” Emlyn gazed at it admiringly as he entered the dining room, “looks like a Norwegian blue spruce, most unusual, and expensive.”
“It really is nice isn’t it,” Frank smiled, “Stevie chose very well this year, he got it for a song too, half the price they were selling them for at your sister’s garden centre, clever boy that he is.”
Nial yanked Steve aside, hissing, “where did you get it?”
“I found it,” Steve pasted an innocent smile on his face as Frank turned to see what they were whispering about. Fortunately the telephone chose that moment to ring and he went off to answer its call. Emlyn took a glass and a bottle of sherry into the sitting room to offer cheer and solace to his aunt, who was gloomily sitting by the fire still fretting about Stan.
“Found it,” Nial’s brows shot up to his hairline, “what, just lying on the pavement or something, wow, how lucky is that?”
Steve’s countenance turned a shade of holly berry.
A light turned on in Nial’s mind, “Jeez, you nicked it, didn’t you, you pinched it from somewhere?”
“Keep your voice down, or Frank will hear you!” Steve pushed Nial into a convenient corner, “I was desperate, I didn’t want to eat Christmas dinner standing up.”
“Where did you pinch it from?”
Steve’s colour deepened, “well, after leaving you I headed for the park thinking I might find a smaller tree in there. I was walking up the avenue when I saw this car parked by the road, its back was open and there was a couple of trees in it and not a soul in sight. I just reacted, next thing I know I’m flying back down the avenue like one of Santa’s reindeers, only dragging a tree instead of a sledge. Besides,” his voice edged into a tone of self justification. “Why would anyone need two trees, I mean one’s enough for anyone, and I left what money I had on me by way of recompense.”
“Which was?”
“Two pounds seventy five pence.”
“Man,” Nial grimaced, “are you dead if Frank finds out he’s got a hot Christmas tree in the dining room. Your backside will be giving off enough heat to roast chestnuts on.”
Steve scowled. “And a merry Christmas to you too Nial, by the way, how IS madam M, the catless, this morning?”
It was Nial’s turn to blush, “miserable, she didn’t want to come over for dinner, Emlyn had to coax her.”
Frank reappeared, “are you two going to stand there whispering like schoolgirls all day, or are you going to come and help get this festive shindig on the road?”
“When can we open the pressies Frank?”
Frank smiled, pecking Steve on the cheek affectionately, “all in good time my pet, after Christmas dinner, that’s if you pull your finger out and come and help me serve it.”
*
“More wine aunt M?” Emlyn held out the bottle.
“Yes please dear,” aunt M tremblingly held out her glass, “after all, it’s all I’ve got to comfort me now Stan has gone away.” She sniffed sadly, downed her wine in one and held out her glass again, “I loved that cat, I did, I really loved him, he replaced my husband you know. I keep thinking I can smell him, Stan that is, not my husband, though God knows he could smell when he put his mind to it, he was a martyr to pungent expulsions was my Fred.”
“I wish aunt M would stop going on about Stan,” whispered Nial, nudging Steve, who was glancing at the tree with a puzzled frown on his face, “why do you keep eyeballing the presents, you know Frank and Em won’t allow us to start the opening ceremony until after dinner?”
“I keep hearing strange noises. I hope the bloody tree doesn’t have some weird infestation. It would be just my luck to nick a festering festive tree.”
“It’s just your guilty conscience,” Nial reached for the wine bottle, “you’ll be seeing ghostly faces in the baubles next and hearing rattling chains.”
“You’re the one that should be seeing ghostly apparitions after what you did.”
Right on cue aunt M warbled. “He was family that cat, the son I never had, I swear he understood every word I said, and he was a grand listener.”
Nial grimaced, “I wish she’d...” he paused, cocking an ear in the direction of the tree, “you know, I think I can hear rustlings from that tree.”
Frank addressed Emlyn, “that was Georgie on the phone earlier, he wanted to wish us all a happy Christmas and to say they’d he’d be over later for a chat.”
“You do have a son aunt M, you just won’t speak to him because he stood on Stan’s tail and refused to kiss it better. ” Emlyn replenished her glass again, then turned his attention back to Frank, “did Georgie and Pete enjoy the party last night?”
“No, apparently it was a complete disaster...got cancelled in the end.
“That’s a shame, it was supposed to be a big fancy dress do up at Monksrest wasn’t it?”
The mention of Monksrest dragged Steve and Nial’s attention away from the rustling tree. They pulled a face at each other, both experiencing an increase in heart activity.
“Yes,” Frank nodded. “Georgie’s new boss bought the place a while back and has been gradually doing it up. He discovered something during the renovations that excited him and the party was based around this discovery. Guests had to dress up as monks in keeping with the history of the place, and follow a set of clues to a another clue that would then lead them to the ‘house secret.’
“You steaming idiot,” whispered Nial, glaring at Stevie through narrowed eyes, “I told you there was no such thing as ghosts.”
“Stop whispering young man, it’s exceptionally rude behaviour at the table,” Emlyn gave him a stern look.
Steve saw an opportunity to illustrate his indignation at Nial’s unfair comment. “He’s just asking for a second helping of sprouts Em.”
“Why didn’t he just say so?” Emlyn duly heaped a generous amount of the hated vegetation on a dismayed Nial’s plate, then turned back to Frank. “You were saying about Georgie, what happened?”
Nial, trying not to look too interested in the conversation, reached casually for his glass of wine.
“Well, the final clue was in a tin buried in the grounds, under a rose bush or something, only,” Frank took a sip of wine, “some jokers got there before the party guests, stole the tin and buried a fancy gift wrapped box in its place.”
NIAL!” Emlyn gave a horrified cry as his partner suddenly sprayed wine across the table, “what on earth are you playing at?”
“Sorry,” spluttered Nial, “sprout went down the wrong way.”
Steve felt compelled to ask, even though he knew the answer, “what exactly was in the tin that was stolen Frank?”
“A key and the final clue, a verse of some kind. Apparently during renovations a secret room was found beneath the cellar, it turned out to be the burial place of several of the most important Monks from the monastery that had once stood on the land. Whoever built the house was nervous about disturbing a shrine, and just built over it leaving it intact, tombstones standing and everything. Local historians are very excited by the find and want to start excavations in the New Year. Georgie’s boss wanted to make the most of the room as it was, coming up with the idea of a fancy dress party to be held in there. After setting everything out, he locked the room, put the ONLY key in the tin and buried it. The idea being a kind of macabre treasure hunt, with the guests searching the house to find the door that the key fitted, and consequently discovering the secret that had been hidden for centuries.”
“All seems very complex,” Emlyn shook his head, “what was actually in the box they did dig up?
Stevie and Nial braced themselves.
“This is the really weird thing,” Frank smiled around the table, “the box contained a pair of novelty cat slippers, brand new by the look of them according to Georgie. Anyway, the party had to be cancelled because they couldn’t open the room and Georgie’s boss refused to let the door be forced.”
Stevie, his face a paler shade of sprout, tried to catch Nial’s eye, but Nial has lapsed into a trance and was staring at the heap of boxes under the Christmas tree with a look that could only be described as rank terror sprawled all over his face.
“Cat slippers,” he finally spoke in a strangled whisper, “didn’t you buy lady M cat slippers for Christmas?”
“Yes.” Steve nodded affirmation.
“All your pressies have the same wrapping paper on them.”
“Yes.”
“Easy to get them mixed up then?”
“Yes.” Steve’s head slowly moved back and forth.
“Especially if you’re an idiot.”
“Yes...hey! You were the one that done the deed so don’t start on me.”
“Only you could stick a gift wrapped corpse under a stolen Christmas tree. What are we going to do?”
“I wish you’d both desist from whispering,” Emlyn’s exasperation was cut short by the ringing of his cell phone. He rose from the table, going into the hall to answer it.
Frank suddenly glanced towards the tree, “what’s that noise, can you hear it, like scratching?”
Before he could investigate further, Emlyn re-entered the room, “that was your cousin Jane,” he gazed steadily at Stevie, “she said to wish everyone a happy Christmas, though she’s not feeling overly festive herself. As you know she works for the garden centre, well, she was delivering her last orders yesterday evening, and someone stole an expensive tree from the back of her car while she was delivering a wreath. They cheekily left a handful of loose change in its stead, which apparently wouldn’t cover the cost of a small branch let alone an entire Norwegian blue spruce. A passer-by said he saw a young man making a very rapid journey down the street dragging a Christmas tree behind him. Oddly enough, I suddenly recalled that shortly before departing for home last evening you made enquiry of me about the possibility of borrowing a Christmas tree.”
“Well,” Frank’s voice was colder than Christmas past, “that’s most peculiar isn’t it, have you perchance got something you’d like to discuss with me Steven?”
Before Stevie could utter a single word, an unearthly, hair raising screech tore through the room. Everyone froze.
“What the hell was that?” Emlyn, taking a shaky breath, glanced around the room, jumping again as an equally hair raising scream from madam M followed close on the heels of the unearthly screech.
“You didn’t tell me this house was haunted,” she shrieked as the unearthly screech began repeating itself, rising higher and higher in pitch, “I thought I sensed a presence when I came in.”
Frank, visibly bemused pointed towards the tree, “there’s something moving under the tree, look, one of the presents is moving, it’s moving!”
The present wasn’t just moving, it was positively bouncing. Everyone in the room watched mesmerised, then simultaneously screamed as, with a shredding noise, the ribbon fell away, the paper split and a spitting, screeching fury exploded from the shoe box. It rocketed up into the branches of the Christmas tree sending tinsel and baubles spraying everywhere like festive missiles. It wasn’t the only thing spraying, the next moment there was an almighty flash as an enraged Stan, for that’s who it was, released the long held contents of his bladder into the atmosphere, thus fusing the fairy lights. It was more than the tree could stand, in fact it ceased to do just that. With a shuddering groan it came crashing down, pinning a hysterical Nial and Stevie beneath it’s branches before they could flee the room.
“You fucking great idiot,” screamed Stevie as the cat launched itself from the stricken tree straight into the arms of its shocked, but delighted owner, “he wasn’t dead at all, you must have just stunned him!”
“He looked dead,” yelled Nial trying to heave the tree off, “how was I to know the bloody rotten evil thing was only pretending!”
“My baby,” cooed madam M tenderly cradling the unexpected, but very welcome feline guest to her bosom, “you’ve come back to mummy, you’re the best Christmas present I’ve ever had.”
“We can explain everything,” Nial’s voice came out in a choir boy tone as a shadow fell across the recumbent tree beneath which he resided, “can’t we Stevie?”
“Can we...oh yeah, yes, we can explain everything.”
“We do hope so” said Emlyn in a bleak midwinter voice as with Frank’s help he heaved the tree from atop the fallen brats, “don’t we Frank?”
“Oh yes indeed, we really do hope so,” Frank’s frosty voice made known his agreement.
*
Stave VII(beat that Charlie): The end of it.
Nial and Stevie were as good as their word, they explained everything, but Emlyn and Frank still managed to find out the real truth of the situation, helped along by Georgie’s explanation of certain events when he called around for a Christmas chat. Despite it being the season of Goodwill to all men, Nial and Stevie to their dismay, found themselves in very classic, very un-merry, face-down-pants-down-hands-on-positions: Em and Franks hands on their bare bottoms that is, followed by a brisk dose of the Yule paddle! From that day on they promised to be as good a brats as any top had ever seen. Emlyn and Frank decided not to hold their breath knowing from experience that such promises tended to last only as long as the heat in their backsides.
As for Stan, who as you’ve seen, did NOT die, he got his revenge by shitting in both Nial and Stevie’s brand new designer trainers.
The tree was properly paid for and the key returned to its rightful owner, Mr Fezziwig, who upon opening the door of the secret cellar was astounded and mystified to discover that all the party food and drink had been consumed, and a nun’s habit along with a monk’s hair shirt were draped over one of the tombstones. He sold up and moved out shortly afterwards vowing never again to write crap poems and bury them.
* HAPPY NEW YEAR! : God bless us every one ;-) *