Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  But then he started making demands on their mother. At first, it was to do with his meals. She had given him breakfast every morning, but he was soon having all his meals with them. As they hadn’t been able to pay for his services, this had seemed reasonable enough, but then he had wanted to move in on a permanent basis. That was when their mother had put her foot down, and when the arguments had started. Gradually he had begun hanging around all night, long after she had given him his evening meal. But she hadn’t given in to him. Not then.

  But one day, she and Halle returned from school to find the kitchen deserted. There was no sign of their tea. They had started to panic, running through the house and up the stairs, calling out for their mother. Her bedroom door had been locked, and they had heard muffled sounds on the other side of it.

  She had come out onto the landing and taken them in her arms. She had told them not to worry, she would be down in a moment to cook their tea. Then they had heard his voice. All low and gruff, telling them to run off and play and not to disturb their mother.

  When she had finally come down the stairs, they could see she had been crying and there was a bruise under her right eye. Birgitta hadn’t been fooled when her mother had told her everything was all right. How could it be all right with that bruise? She had walked into an open cupboard door and it had hurt, that was why she had been crying, her mother had assured her.

  The man was evil, no matter what her mother told her to the contrary. He had forced her to do unspeakable things with him, even if she hadn’t been sure exactly what. Halle hadn’t seemed bothered, though. He even said he liked him. But that was because he sometimes played football with him and helped him fly the kite.

  So, the man had finally moved in with them, and Birgitta had had to accept him. And now it was too late. Her mother was dead and, very probably, her brother too. She must get help.

  She left the farmhouse wrapped in her warm winter coat. She was a sensible child. There had been no fresh fall of snow, and she could see the small footprints of her brother and the much larger ones of the man very clearly. She could see them by the light of the full moon as she followed them into the dark, forbidding forest. She saw the big prints getting closer to the small ones, and fear took her in its grip. Where were they? Where was her little brother?

  On and on she went, through the tall fir trees until she reached a tree beneath which both sets of footprints stopped. The snow here had been disturbed by what looked like some kind of a sled or, she realised with fright, possibly a body? Her eyes tracked the source of this disturbance and rested on a large mound of snow at the other side of the tree. She knelt down and started to scrabble at the piled up snow.

  Then she saw the little hand and knew it was her brother’s. She scrabbled frantically until his face was uncovered. His eyes were wide-open and completely still. His mouth was also open, filled with the cold, unforgiving snow. Her tears fell on his eyes as she gently closed them.

  Then she heard a noise behind her and spun round. She collapsed into the soft snow and, as the bullet pierced her heart, the last thing she saw was the feet and legs of the man who had ruined all their lives.

  

  Baldur Hanssen glanced fearfully around him as the moon shone down on his large, brawny figure. Beside him, under the big fir tree, was the body of a little girl. He had lost all sense of reason. He had shot and killed her little brother and buried him here under the snow, and now he had killed her too. He sank down on his knees in despair.

  He hadn’t meant it to be like this. He had awoken that morning full of hope. He had planned to ask Marianne to marry him, taking to his heart not only her but her children too. He had been particularly fond of Halle; he was a dear little soul. Birgitta, however, had always seemed suspicious of him, but he had been determined to make her like him too. He had been prepared for fatherhood, as well as matrimony. But it had all gone disastrously wrong.

  Marianne had turned down his proposal in disgust. She had said he was too ugly! She had slept with him because she had needed his help on the farm, and that had been the only reason. She had used him. How could she? If it hadn’t been for him, they would have starved. After the Nazis had taken her husband and killed him, she had struggled to survive, she had told him. It was only when he had turned up to help, that things had improved for her and her children. She should have been grateful to him, not disgusted by him.

  He had found out only that morning just how much she had despised him all these months. Nothing had mattered then. He had been glad he had taken the gun that day, while he had been alone in the Dahl family kitchen making himself a hot drink. He had wandered around, looking into drawers and cupboards, looking for anything to take. He had seen it as his right, for Marianne never paid him for his work. He had found the gun behind the packets of oats and nuts and other grains in the larder. It was a small, brown paper parcel, but he had known what it was before he had even opened it.

  He could still hear her bitter words. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.” They had rung in his ears as he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and started to shake her. She had tried to scream, but he had put his hand over her mouth. He had the gun in his hand before he had known what he was doing. It had all been a blur. But then he’d realised what he’d done. He had killed the only woman he had ever loved. He had never meant to do it, never in this world.

  As he’d held her lifeless body, he had heard a noise behind him and turned to see the small figure of Halle run from the room. He’d had to chase him. He’d had no choice. He couldn’t let him tell the police. Then little Birgitta had followed him here. She, too, had to die.

  As he knelt there in the snow, he thought how only that morning he had been full of hope and happiness. He had envisaged that, by this time tonight, he would be the proud future head of a fully-formed family but, in reality, he had become Death. All his hopes had died with the family he had so mercilessly killed.

  

  Baldur knew he had to get rid of the bodies. The snow was beginning to fall again which was welcome, but would it be enough to cover them? He knew that, at this time of year, there weren’t many people rambling about the woods. It was generally too cold. And, if the snow kept falling, all traces of little Halle and Birgitta would soon disappear, he hoped forever.

  But could he rely on that? No, he needed to make sure. He pulled some leaves from the tree above him and covered the bodies roughly. That should be enough for now, he thought. Enough while he went back to the farm and fetched a spade.

  Returning about half an hour later, Baldur couldn’t find the spot at first. He had been sure he had hidden the bodies just here. For one awful moment he thought they’d already been discovered, although he knew that was unlikely. It was three o’clock in the morning and, apart from the wan light from the pale, full moon, it would surely have been impossible for anyone to have spotted the mound where the bodies were. Not unless they were looking for them. And that, too, was very unlikely. Time was on his side, at least.

  He was glad he had had the foresight to bring a torch as well as a spade, because he would never have found them otherwise. He was relieved to discover them exactly where he’d left them, but well covered with the fresh snow which was falling heavily now. He shivered, wishing he’d also fetched his coat when he collected the spade and torch. Still, the spadework would keep him warm, and in minutes he was sweating profusely as he dug deeper and deeper past the soft, fresh snow into the hard, frost-bitten ground. It was back-breaking work, but he deserved to suffer, he thought. Murder was something he never thought he would be capable of, but now he had killed not one, but three human beings. It wasn’t real. It was a nightmare.

  The big man kept digging, tears rolling down his big, slobbery face, the harsh moon his only witness. When he had dug down as far as he could, he placed the little bodies gently into the hole. He patted the earth flat with the spade and covered the spot with leaves. The snow had stopped falling and the pale
moon had gone behind a cloud. It was very dark in the forest and, if it wasn’t for his torch, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything at all.

  But at least one problem was dealt with. The children were well and truly buried; no one would ever find them there. The next problem was the gun. He didn’t want to part with it but knew that he had to. If it were ever found on him or in his lodgings, all would be lost. He was safe enough as long as he got rid of the evidence.

  He was a loner, always had been, and had always liked it that way until he’d met Marianne. Now, he would go back to his anonymous life, speaking to no one from one day’s end to the next. There was nothing to connect him to the Dahl farm, no one ever knew he’d gone there. He had never told anyone. The only people who knew wouldn’t be able to testify. The police wouldn’t have a clue who he was, or where to find him.

  He wiped the gun clean of fingerprints and wrapped it in his handkerchief. Now, he thought, where should he put it so that it would be easy to find when the dust had settled? Mustn’t make it too easy for the police, of course, but he had to be able to locate it himself when the time was right.

  He looked around him. As he did so, he thought he heard a rustle of movement behind him. He spun round and stared into the unbroken darkness. There was nothing there, just his fevered imagination. Calm down, he told himself. He mustn’t get distracted. He must find somewhere to hide the gun.

  The forest was just fir tree after fir tree, nothing to distinguish the spot he was standing on from any other spot as far as he could see. He could bury it here, of course, but would he be able to find it again? No, he thought, not a chance.

  He scratched his head as the moon came out from behind a cloud, illuminating an old tree stump about ten yards away. It was the only one in that spot. He thought he’d be able to find that again, so he dug a hole and placed the weapon carefully in it. Once he had covered it over, he heaved a sigh of relief.

  All done. There was no more to do. All that was left for him was to return to his lodgings and keep a low profile. He would soon find some casual labouring work and pick up where he’d left off before he’d met Marianne. No one would be any the wiser.

  London, April 1948

  It was Saturday morning, nearly two weeks after Bernard’s disturbing experience at the Battersea bus stop. He and Robbie were firm friends already, drawn together by their shared circumstances. Robbie had even dropped round to the vicarage the previous evening for supper and a game of chess. It was likely to become a habit, as a second invitation had already been issued to the good doctor to come to supper again soon. Whenever he liked, in fact.

  This morning, however, Bernard was alone, agonising over the wording of his first sermon. He didn’t want to give his congregation something too heavy to start with; he wanted to make a good impression. He chewed the end of his pen in deep thought. It wasn’t easy for him, as he had never been at his best with the written word. However, he was rising to the occasion, and the ideas were at last beginning to flow.

  Then he heard the doorbell ring and, a few moments later, heard Mrs Harper and someone she called Dick talking outside his study. He popped his head out of the door.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs Harper?” he asked. He saw she was accompanied by a stolid, red-faced man carrying a bag of tools and scratching his head.

  “Yes, Vicar. It’s only Dick,” she replied.

  “Dick?”

  “That’s right. My friend Ada’s ’ubby. I told you about ’im. ’E’s come to ’ave a butcher’s at the lav.”

  Bernard sighed and returned to his desk. ‘Butcher’s’, indeed. He was quickly learning cockney rhyming slang, courtesy of Mrs Harper. Still, he was glad that someone was at least looking at that wretched lavatory chain, having spent his first few days in the vicarage waging war on it and praying for his waste matter to disappear. He just hoped this Dick knew what he was doing.

  Meanwhile, Dick Appleyard was dutifully having a ‘butcher’s’ at the toilet, accompanied by Mrs Harper who stood beside him with her arms folded. She watched with impatience as he pulled the chain to no avail.

  “I told you, Dick, you ’ave to yank it. Like this.” And Mrs Harper demonstrated.

  Dick rubbed his chin. “Hmm, I see,” he said. “Probably it’s your ball cock.”

  “Is it?” said Mrs Harper. “So, what does that mean, exactly?”

  “It needs adjusting.”

  “Can you do it then?” was the not unreasonable question. “Only the Reverend ain’t been able to flush it properly since ’e got ’ere.”

  “Blimey,” said Dick, although apparently unperturbed by the vicar’s embarrassment. “That’s a nuisance. I can ’ave a go, if you like?”

  His lack of confidence wasn’t reassuring. “Do you know what you’re doing, Dick?” she asked. “I thought you was good at this sort of thing.”

  “Well, I’m not your actual plumber ...”

  “No, I know that. But can you adjust the what’s it, like you just said?”

  “I should think so. Leave it to me.”

  Mrs Harper, although unconvinced of his competence, left him to it. As she descended the stairs, Dick called after her. “I take two sugars in my tea. Ta.”

  She huffed crossly but went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It was time for the vicar’s elevenses, anyway. She knew he was busy writing his sermon for the following morning, and she was looking forward to it. It would be a nice change from that old duffer, Reverend Smallpiece. His sermons had been interminable. She only hoped Bernard didn’t go in for epics. If he did, she decided, he wouldn’t get any chocolate biscuits with his morning coffee in future.

  Meanwhile, Bernard continued with his sermon. Since the interruption by the good Dick Appleyard, he had managed to fill six sides of foolscap with his trusty Parker. Five minutes later, he put the cap on his pen with a sigh of satisfaction. If that didn’t impress them, nothing would, he thought. Now, where’s Mrs Aitch with that coffee?

  

  As Bernard surveyed his congregation the next morning, he couldn’t suppress a feeling of disappointment. Far from the big turnout he had expected, there was just a couple of rows of females of various, ages, sizes and hats. There were only two men in the whole church as far as he could see, and one of them was asleep or dead, he couldn’t decide which and didn’t much care.

  The good Mistresses Harper and Appleyard were sitting in the front pew, looking eagerly up at him. He smiled down at them, grateful for their support. As everyone stood to sing the first hymn, God Is Love, one of his favourites, the door opened with a loud clatter, and he saw Robbie slip quietly into one of the pews at the back. He was grateful for this welcome addition to the spear side, as his friend had only confessed to him the night before that he ‘wasn’t much of a churchgoer’.

  When the rousing hymn, which was accompanied on the organ by a battle-axe in a hairnet, had finished, the congregation sat down and awaited his pearls of wisdom. As he looked down on the people below, he smiled, cleared his throat and began.

  

  He couldn’t understand it. He had thought his words of wisdom would be seized upon with eagerness and gratitude but, as he read on, he heard a muffled whisper start along the first row of ladies, beginning with Mrs Appleyard, who had a dark frown on her face. Undeterred, however, he carried on. After all, what he was saying was innocuous enough. Surely, they couldn’t be taking offence? But the angry buzz was getting louder and louder as his voice became less confident and softer and softer. Somehow, he managed to get to the end of his sermon amid the continued buzz of annoyance. He gathered the pages together and stepped down from the pulpit, avoiding the eyes that he could feel burning into him with disapproval.

  As his flock (which was more of a straggle) left the church, he shook each one by the hand. They were polite, but distant, and not one of them congratulated him on his sermon. When it was Mrs Appleyard’s turn to shake his hand, she gave him a severe stare. “Thank you, Vicar,” she s
aid politely enough. “I just ’ope the dinner ain’t ruined, that’s all.” She stalked down the path, with Mrs Harper following in her wake in full sail.

  Robbie stood beside him when the last person had left the church. “Well, dear boy, that could have gone better.”

  The understatement of the year, thought Bernard. “Have you any idea what I did to offend them?” he asked him, as they returned together into the church.

  The battle-axe at the organ was folding up her sheet music and looking through her pince nez at Bernard as he collected the hymn books.

  “Thank you, Mrs er...” he said. He had been introduced to her earlier that morning, but he had never been good at remembering names. “Your organ playing was very rousing indeed.” If a trifle out of tune and time, he added to himself uncharitably. There was no denying it. He wasn’t in the best of moods this morning.

  Her only response was a sniff, a habit that many of the ladies in Bernard’s compass seemed to be fond of. The enormity of her sniff was only surpassed by Mrs Harper’s. She stomped out of the church, clutching her hymn music sheets.

  “She didn’t look too pleased with you, either,” observed Robbie with a grin.

  Bernard scratched his head in puzzlement. “Come on, Robbie, what’s the matter with them all? I could hear them fidgeting and muttering all the while I was reading my sermon.”

  “I think it might be something to do with the length of it,” said Robbie. “I mean, you did go on a bit, dear boy. I expect the womenfolk were worried about the roast beef getting burnt.”

  “Oh dear,” Bernard sighed. “I never thought of that. I just didn’t want to sell them short. I so wanted to make a good impression at my first service.”

  “Well, you made an impression, all right, Bernie,” said Robbie, clapping him on the shoulder. “Only I don’t think it was the one you were after. Anyway, why not come and have a swift one at the Bricklayer’s? We’ve got time.”