Santa and the ghosts...(part 1)

It's that time of year when I drag out my short story I wrote a few years back...it's a monument to the fact that I had a go!  (I haven't re-read or edited it - can't face it)



Nick's Carol

Nick sat on the edge of the bed, in the semi-darkness of his own special room.  The cushioning movement of the mattress was inviting but the creaking and sagging under his considerable weight was alarming, so he sat very still for a moment and just sighed.  This time of year he slept alone, and in all honesty on this particular night he was quite relieved at not having to talk.  He just wanted sleep, now and badly, and he could only afford a few hours before starting work again.

It was tricky pushing off first one boot and then the other using only his feet, but there was no way he was going to risk bending down, for both his sake and the bed’s.  He had hung his coat on the bedpost, but was there any point in taking anything else off?  Not really: he would hardly be asleep long enough, and he’d be wearing these trousers for the next forty eight hours anyway, so a few hours in bed would make little difference.  They’d be fine, he thought, as he pivoted round, raised his legs onto the bed and flopped backwards.  The bed made a sound suggesting that it had been holding its breath at the sight of the approaching mass but was now having its last breath squeezed out,  to the accompaniment of someone cutting taut piano wires.  Nick lay fearfully still for a moment, but the bed, the floor, gravity and Newton, all seemed to be holding a truce, so he relaxed, staring dreamily at the shifting shadows above him.  Outside, the moonlight was sparkling on the ice, and inside the ceiling looked like a monochrome reflection of a babbling stream.  He watched the shimmering light, moving his eyes across the ceiling and down the wall, until the strobing disappeared behind the dark hillock of his own belly.  He gave it a quick jiggle, just to make sure he could, and shut his eyes.  A thirty-six hour shift in the workshop had taken its toll and although his eyes ached with the strain, and the noise of the nightshift just reached the edges of his perception, he was soon asleep.

And then he was awake. Suddenly, and he didn’t know why.  A noise, somewhere, or a song or maybe a word.  Something...

There it was again!  But no song; instead a shuffling, a dragging, and with it a tinkling, a clanking, somewhere in the building.  It was drawing closer, along the corridor towards his door.  No one should be out there at this time of night, not on this night!  Nick’s sleepy mind was back online.  The proximity of the worrying sounds suggested that whatever produced them was now merely a few steps from his room. Where was security?  The Gate-Elves knew no one was allowed anywhere near this corridor, let alone his door.  But it transpired that the door was irrelevant, as first a hand, followed by its arm, a torso, and then the whole figure of a man passed through as though nothing physical stood in its way.  Given the relative transparency of the form now stood before him, eyes shining in the night, it appeared to be the man and not the door that had a loose relationship with physics.  Nick’s hand, which had been on its way towards the panic-button under his pillow (there had been time when ‘fans’ had come a little too close for comfort) slipped away as, at a subconscious level, he realised two things:

First, Security was probably useless in dealing with a man that can walk through walls.

Second, he recognised the figure before him.

By now, Nick was upright on the edge of his tortured bed, staring at the unnerving form before him – through whom he could still just make out the panelling of the door.  Although the details were necessarily hazy, he registered the long, brown, worn robe; the sandals protruding from its ragged hem; the balding dome, with incongruously well-kempt hair over the ears, flowing seamlessly into a long, grey, beard. Hanging low on his chest was a simple cross of grey metal, and in his left hand a small, bulging hessian sack, the source of the tinkling and clanking.

“Oh, really?” said Nick, fear momentarily suppressed by recognition and the long-practised habit of keeping the upper hand when dealing with trouble.  “The bag and everything?”

The spectre remained impassive, but his mouth opened and instead of the dry, dusty and distant voice Nick had been expecting (he’d read plenty of books, he knew how this ought to go) there came the same deep voice which Nick remembered and had comforted so many in years gone by.  Tonight, not so much.

“Are you really in any position to criticise the exploitation of the symbolism of legend?”

Uh oh, he could see which way this was going.

“Don’t start on me. We went through this over 1500 years ago.  It’s not going to change anything tonight.”

“It doesn’t even trouble you that I have returned from Beyond to visit you?”

“I live at the North Pole without freezing, in an invisible citadel, surrounded by magic elves and singing penguins.  Exactly how disoriented were you expecting me to be?”  This was all essentially true, but also masked a deep sense of unease that threatened to spill over into anxiety that something fundamental to his life was coming under threat.  “It’s hardly original, is it Nicholas?”, he continued in a tone that was meant to sound relaxed yet picky, “And where’s your bit of cloth to keep your jaw shut?  You missed it.”

“The trappings of death are unnecessary where I have come from.”  For a moment the gauzy shape held a rich glow, then faded.  This troubled Nick more than the previous few minutes.

Nicholas continued, “I know that the way things have developed were often beyond your control. But you have such resources, such power, such opportunity – and what do you do with it?  You’ve lost your way. You have hidden...you have forgotten.”

“Oh I see, we’re going to have some lessons in the T-MOC, like I haven’t heard them a thousand times before.”

“I’m not sure you would recognise the T-MOC anymore, not if it bit you.” Nicholas, paused and held Nick in his gaze, as if he were considering whether what he had to say next was too painful to verbalise.  “You will be visited tonight by three Guides...”

“You have got to be joking – “

“Three visitors, and they will deal with you.  Watch for the first at midnight.”

Nick opened his eyes.  He was lying in bed.  The ceiling was flickering as usual.  He looked at the door – no one there.   He realised he’d been holding his breath for some time, exhaled quietly, and started breathing regularly; the bed joined in on percussion.   Why tonight of all nights, on Eve’s Eve, would he dream of someone he hadn’t seen in centuries, dead and buried a hundred generations ago?  Well, when he said ‘dead’...technically anyway, to all intents and purposes.  He was part of the past, not the present, in more ways than one.  He had no right turning up in his dreams, not tonight.  Him, with his dogmatic commitment to ethereal hopes, to living forever, now fifteen hundred years six-feet under, dead, dead as a doorna-  no, don’t say that.  And the bag of gold, what was that about?   No academic believed the coins and chimney stuff.

Overwork and too much adrenalin.  Penguin coffee.  That was the problem.

A bell began to strike midnight.  Nick went rigid, eyes staring at the ceiling.  It was not simply that the dream gave the bell an ominous sound - he didn’t own a clock.  Clocks were a pretty vague concept in a place where the only regular event was annual;  the nearest was a quarter of a mile away, and it didn’t have a bell. It had a big flower (in the centre of a dial surrounded by animated carvings of gnomes) the petals of which unfolded once a month, when a clockwork fairy popped out and said “PoopPoop! It’s February!” or whatever.  There was no other clock.

But the bell of the clock that wasn’t there continued to toll.  Nine...ten...eleven...twelve...