Hark! the Herald Angels Scream

by Hark! the Herald Angels Scream (retail) (epub)

  “Sorry, we’re booked up till New Year’s.”

  She stormed to her room and tried to go online to see if she could get a refund from the booking site. But her mobile couldn’t get a Wi-Fi signal, and she’d decided against buying a sim card because it was too expensive. This meant another trip downstairs, where the sleepy-eyed boy was now playing some sort of game on his mobile.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said when she complained about the lack of Wi-Fi. “It keeps cutting out. I think it’s because of all the construction.”

  She gave up, took a melatonin, and went to bed.

  She slept fitfully, awakened by people going up and down the stairs. She’d forgotten to put in her earplugs, and she was too tired to search for them in a strange room in the middle of the night. So she buried her head in the thin pillow and tried taking long, deep breaths. She gave up at five a.m., when an endless parade of delivery vans and trucks began in the street outside, causing the bed to shake.

  But she was awake now, and it was Christmas Eve. The Buckingham Arms didn’t serve breakfast (or anything else), so she dressed, tucked her copy of A Christmas Carol into her handbag, and trudged back downstairs.

  The sleepy male receptionist had been replaced by an equally young woman with an Eastern European accent, who greeted Melanie cheerfully. “Jet lag? I know, it’s horrible—kept me up for a week when my boyfriend and I went to New York last summer.”

  Melanie gave her a curt nod. “Is there a place nearby that’s open for breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” The young woman glanced at her mobile. “At five? Not around here. Maybe if you head to Marylebone, or Camden. I’m not sure if the tube is running this early. The holiday,” she added, eyes widening as though confiding a secret.

  Melanie sighed. Maybe that explained all the trucks and delivery vans. She headed for the door, halting when the receptionist called after her.

  “Wait, I remember—there’s a McDonald’s two streets over! Or you can go to Euston, I’m sure there’s places inside the station. Pret A Manger, I think.”

  Melanie turned and left without replying.

  Outside, it was raining, not hard but a cold steady drizzle. She’d forgotten to pack an umbrella—in Devon it often snowed at Christmas. She pulled up the hood of her wool coat, relieved that at least she was wearing boots, not her best pair but practical, with sturdy rubber soles and pleather uppers. She walked in the direction the receptionist had pointed to indicate Euston. After ten minutes, she still hadn’t seen any sign of the station, and halted under the awning of a news agent. The door was locked, but she saw a man inside behind the register. She tapped on the window and smiled. He glanced up and shook his head. She knocked again, louder.

  “I just want directions!”

  His muffled voice came back to her. “Six o’clock!”

  She stood for another minute, trying to will him to let her in, then trudged the way she’d come, turning down the next street, when she recognized the unwelcoming line of down-market hotels. She found the McDonald’s a few blocks away. It opened at six, but by now it almost was six. So she waited outside until a girl in an orange uniform came and unlocked the door. She had coffee and an Egg McMuffin, and comforted herself by thinking how this would make a funny story when she got back to the office in the New Year. London at Christmas, and nowhere to eat but McDonald’s!

  She read a bit of A Christmas Carol before she set it aside and took her mobile from her handbag. Miracle of miracles, she was able to get a Wi-Fi signal here. She looked up Christmas sights in London, also last-minute tickets. The shows were all sold out, including the long-running musicals she wouldn’t have even considered seeing at home. She thought she might go to Carnaby Street and look at the lights, then walk to Liberty and see if she might find a scarf as a present for herself, or even splurge on an umbrella.

  But when she glanced out the window, she saw that the rain had grown heavier. Passing vehicles threw spumes of filthy water onto the sidewalk. People hurried to work, an army of black umbrellas and wireless headsets. She consulted her phone again and decided on Covent Garden, finished her coffee, and set out.

  The Underground was packed. She stood in the train car, pressed between a heavyset man in a maintenance suit and a woman standing guard over a large suitcase that blocked the aisle. When the doors opened at Covent Garden Station, people flooded onto the platform. Melanie let herself be swept along with them down the passage and into a lift, up a flight of stairs, and finally out into the chilly gray morning. Covent Garden was as crowded inside as the train had been, but here the mood was jollier, with Christmas music piped over the sound system. A group in medieval garb stood at one end of the arcade, attempting to sing “The Wessex Carol” over a recording of “Merry Christmas Everybody.” Melanie found respite in a vintage clothing emporium, where she fortified herself with mulled cider and a stale mince pie before once again braving hordes of shoppers.

  Still, the prevailing mood remained merry and bright. She spent the morning drifting from shop to shop. When the rain lifted, she went outside, surprised to see how quickly the buskers and living statues had appeared once the weather improved. A Victorian bride was clad entirely in white: even her face was chalked, everything but her eyes, which gazed out at Melanie, a startling violet. Men in bowler hats performed tricks with gold rings and a flaming orb to a delighted crowd of families with children. She returned inside to find the medieval choristers replaced by a group of men clad in vaguely rustic eighteenth-century attire who lustily belted out “Wassail” and then engaged in morris dancing. Melanie watched them for a few minutes, until with a yawn she embarked on another circuit of the hall. She bought herself a forest-green scarf patterned with wine-colored berries that she thought would go well with her cashmere sweater, and continued to sample enough mince pies and cider to keep her sated until early afternoon, when she ventured out into the street intent on finding a pub for lunch.

  It was only then that she discovered her mobile phone was gone. Dropped in the crowd, or more likely, pickpocketed. She felt a frisson of terror that candled into rage: how could she have been so careless? She looked around for a policeman or security guard—she’d seen several milling around inside. Now of course there was not one to be found.

  She huddled beneath the awning of an upscale designer boutique and tried to calm herself. The mobile was nearly two years old: she’d have traded it in for a new one within a few months. It didn’t work over here, not as a phone, and she’d already discovered that any Wi-Fi access would be sporadic. She was old enough to remember a time when people got around relying on maps and friendly strangers, the theft of her phone notwithstanding. She’d have an old-fashioned holiday, and let serendipity guide her through the city. Thank God her wallet hadn’t been stolen.

  The streets around Covent Garden were thronged, as were the pubs and restaurants. On one corner a half-dozen children dressed like extras from a production of Oliver! sweetly sang “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” She briefly considered dropping a pound coin into the cap at their feet, but she saw a small shining heap in there already, and even a few notes. After all, they weren’t real urchins.

  She wandered along the sidewalks, taking little notice of where she turned. The rain had finally slackened, though it remained cold, and she gazed with envy through pub windows at the people who sat inside, laughing as they ate and drank. More than once she passed a group of drunken Santas standing outside a pub as they smoked.

  It was nearly three o’clock before she found a pub where she could make her way inside. She went to the bar and ordered a pint and a plate of fish and chips, found an empty table where she could watch the revelry around her. Office parties and another Santa posse, this one made up of tipsy young women who shrieked gleefully as they tugged at each other’s false beards. Melanie took her time over lunch—it was late enough by now that she could think of it as an early sup
per. The battered fish was barely lukewarm, and the chips were stone-cold. She considered sending it back, but the crowd at the bar was now three-deep. She grimaced and ate what she could, sipping her pint. She’d forgotten that English beer was served warm.

  When at last she finished, it was full dark outside. Automatically she reached into a pocket for her mobile, recalled it had been stolen. Nothing to be done. She elbowed her way across the room and asked the barkeep where the closest tube station was. He shouted directions at her, and she headed off for her hotel.

  A different receptionist sat behind the hotel desk, a young black man plumper than the other, with a neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard and red plaid bow tie.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said as she walked past him. “Enjoy yourself out there?”

  Melanie nodded. “Very much.”

  She knew that to fight jet lag she should stay up until her normal bedtime, but the long day had exhausted her. She took two melatonin, remembered to put in her earplugs, read a few more pages of A Christmas Carol, and collapsed into bed.

  Miraculously, she slept through the night. It was light when she awoke and, disoriented, stared at a blotch on the ceiling. It bore an unpleasant resemblance to a face, mouth adroop and eyes too far apart. She took a deep breath and smelled cigarette smoke, also marijuana, and remembered where she was; reached for her phone on the rickety nightstand.

  But of course, she’d lost it. She sat up, in vain looked around the grimy room for a clock. She didn’t own a wristwatch. There was no window she could peer out, no way whatsoever to guess what time it was. She went to the door, cracked it, and glanced up and down the corridor. A small window at the far end glowed the dull gray of tarnished silver. Morning, probably, though who knew? She showered and dressed and went downstairs to find out.

  Yet another receptionist slumped behind the desk, head cradled in her arms, a Santa hat askew on her matted blonde hair. As Melanie approached she looked up, her eyes bleary and face streaked with mascara. Melanie wondered if she was one of the female Santas she’d seen in the pub.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Wincing, she sat up and tugged the hat until it covered her forehead.

  “I just wanted to know what time it is.”

  The girl picked up her mobile and squinted at it. “Half ten, it looks like.”

  “Ten thirty?” The girl nodded. Melanie gave a little gasp of surprise. “It’s so late!”

  “Supposed to be somewhere?”

  “No. Just I hadn’t expected to sleep so late. My mobile was stolen yesterday.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in such horror and pity that for an instant Melanie thought she might hand over her own cell phone. Instead she quickly slid it into her pocket. “Did you report it to the police?”

  Melanie shook her head. “What’s the point? It was old, anyway.”

  “You’re right about that. The police, I mean.” The girl swiveled her chair to gaze at the computer screen.

  Melanie went to the door and opened it to look outside, letting in a blast of chilly air. Above the construction cranes and run-down brick apartment stretched an unbroken wall of ashen clouds. The cold wind sent fast-food wrappers and Styrofoam containers tumbling along the sidewalk. The street was empty, except for a black car that had been booted, and also eerily silent.

  Frowning, she stepped down to the sidewalk, craning her neck to see if there was traffic on the cross street a few blocks distant. Nearly thirty seconds passed before a single car fleetingly appeared between the rows of buildings.

  She went back inside, clutching her arms to warm herself. “It’s so quiet out there.”

  “That’s Christmas.” The girl glanced up from the computer and shrugged. “Everything’s dead.”

  “I was wondering about that.” Melanie looked around the tiny foyer, wishing that another hotel guest would come downstairs. The girl was useless. Everyone here was useless. “Is there somewhere I can get breakfast? Or lunch, actually, it’ll probably be noon before I go out. Not McDonald’s or, you know, a convenience store. A proper restaurant.”

  The girl shook her head. “Not on Christmas. Everything’s closed. I doubt McDonald’s is even open.”

  “There has to be someplace.” Melanie resisted the urge to snatch the Santa hat from the girl’s head. “I was in Covent Garden yesterday, there were restaurants that looked like they might be open.”

  “Really? I doubt it. But maybe.” Her tone was dubious. “It’d be expensive—you’d have to find a taxi to take you there. There’s not many of them’ll be working, either. And they’ll all be booked by now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The girl sighed, licked a finger, and absently rubbed it beneath one raccoon eye. “You’re American, aren’t you? Americans always think they’ll come here at Christmas and it’ll be like the movies. Tiny Tim and big parties, all that. But it’s not. The whole city shuts down. No tube, no trains, no buses, nothing. Well, you might find a bus runs every hour or so in the afternoon,” she added grudgingly. “But I don’t know where.”

  Melanie gazed at her in disbelief. “But how does everyone get to work?”

  “They don’t. I told you, everything’s closed. I mean, police and hospitals are open, but they’ll be short-staffed. In case you planned on getting sick. Or arrested.”

  “I don’t,” snapped Melanie. “How did you get here?”

  “My boyfriend dropped me off. I have to stay over tonight, there’s a room upstairs where staff can sleep. Not that it’s your business.”

  Melanie closed her eyes, opened them to see the girl once more intent on the computer screen. Gritting her teeth, Melanie stood on tiptoe to peer over the desk, and asked, “All right. I’ll find my way on my own. Do you have a map there? A city map?”

  The girl groaned and hopped from her chair. “All right, all right. Let’s see what we can find.”

  She ducked behind the desk, rummaged around on the floor, and reappeared, holding a plastic bin overflowing with papers. “I think there’s a map here.”

  Melanie watched as she sifted through wads of receipts, business cards, advertisements for cheap mobile phone service and Indian takeaway. The girl tossed a brochure onto the desk. “There’s a tube map, but that won’t help until day after tomorrow.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Boxing Day. Everything’s dead then, too. Wait! Here we go…” Triumphantly she held up a dog-eared tourist map and handed it to Melanie. “Will that do?”

  Melanie unfolded the map on the desk. “It’s dated 1997.”

  “Really? Well, that’s the best I can do.” The girl stuffed the papers back into the plastic bin, set it on the floor, and kicked it against the wall. “Not that much will have changed, I don’t think. Anything else?”

  Melanie glared at her, but the girl had already turned away. “No. I guess this will have to do.”

  She folded up the map and returned to her room. She took a shower, then pulled on a pair of black pants and her burgundy cashmere sweater. She examined it for pilling—she’d bought it on sale four years ago, but she only wore it a few times a year. The room’s mirror was old; much of its silver had flaked away, so that her reflection seemed that of a different woman, one whose face was disfigured by black spots like spreading mold.

  The bathroom mirror was a slight improvement. She stood under the fluorescent, dabbed some concealer under her eyes, then sparingly applied a wine-colored gloss to her lips. There was no hair dryer, so she did her best with a towel and a hairbrush. Last of all she put on her boots and hooded coat, made sure her passport was in her bag, stuck the map in her pocket, and headed out.

  The wind had picked up. She clutched her hood around her head, walking briskly until she came to the nearest major cross street. Even here traffic was sparse. She waited in hopes of seeing a taxi, stamping her fe
et against the sidewalk to keep warm. When at last a black cab appeared, she stepped into the road, waving frantically.

  It sped past. Melanie swore angrily and started walking again. Now and then she’d check her map, ducking into doorways to keep the wind from crumpling it. The map was useless for the area around Euston Station, which had been completely transformed by new construction. She set her sights on Euston Road, a thoroughfare that, once she reached it, must lead somewhere. Surely she’d find an open restaurant in that part of the city. Worst-case scenario, it would be a better spot to catch a cab elsewhere.

  She plodded on for what must have been hours, with no way to keep track of time or how far she’d walked. The only other people she saw were beggars sprawled on the sidewalk and an old woman who, when Melanie approached her to ask for directions, darted across the road. Above her the sky darkened from ash to charcoal. Her fingers grew numb, and her toes. She was famished and also thirsty—who’d have thought to bring a water bottle on a short excursion to find an open restaurant in a major world city on Christmas Day?

  It must have been after three o’clock when the light began to fail in earnest. Over the last hour or so, the neighborhoods around her had grown increasingly desolate: Indian takeaways, charity shops, betting parlors, storefronts selling cheap electronics—all shuttered. She hadn’t seen another person in an hour at least, or a bus. Some blocks ahead of her, a thicket of construction cranes overshadowed the street. It seemed unlikely she’d find any signs of life there: in fact, it looked downright dangerous.

  She froze as an unexpected sound broke the near-silence: a church bell. She held her breath and counted as it tolled five times. As its last echoes faded, she turned in a slow circle, trying to discern from which direction the chimes came.