by Nick Brown
He slumped back in his armchair and gestured Ed to leave.
He said goodbye and left, considering it best not mention the ethereal chanting he’d heard in the dark, musty air of the crypt as he lifted an aged floor slab to place the gruesome relic in the hallowed earth beneath. Nor did he say that when he lifted the slab he found a finger bone of similar antiquity, already there. He said goodbye to Debo at the door, wished her merry Christmas and set off at a rapid pace across the frost encrusted lawn towards the brightly lit Rectory.
***
By ten thirty the party had begun to get going. To Si Carver’s relief, the better known amongst the guests had arrived, including some footballers. He put the letter from Richardson that someone had left in the lodge by the front gates, unread on a table. Thinking to himself as he welcomed guests, ‘Not turned out too bad, got all I needed out of him, the development will still go ahead; typical loser going soft. Still, could have been a problem later on, wanker.’
He was playing the host in a designer DJ and waistcoat, patterned to reflect his new diamond ear stud and watch. The champagne flowed although some guests took lager as well. He contentedly shepherded guests around the new improvements he’d made to the Hall; the games room, gym and golf course. Explaining that next he’d bulldoze that old chapel for a heated pool and giant hot tub as soon as his people found a way round some poncy regulations protecting old rubbish. Best of all though was the cinema which he’d demolished the old library to accommodate.
“Well, who’s got the time to fuck about reading?”
No one disagreed. He was feeling good tonight; the last weeks hadn’t been easy but now those bloody birds had gone, and since that old fool Davenport had been found unconscious by the old chapel near the Hall, he knew where the trouble had come from. He was confined to bed now, not dead unfortunately, but he would be taken care of later. The Chief Constable felt there was almost enough evidence to press charges. Pity the pillock from the church couldn’t have been found with him. His moment of seasonal reflection was disturbed by the small group of players and wags moving through to his games room.
“Nice gaff this Si innit, cheers.”
“Yeah, wait till you see what it’ll look like when I finish with it. You won’t fuckin’ recognise it.”
Happy, he wondered outside to inspect the arsenal of fireworks he’d have the staff detonate at midnight. That’ll shake them up in church at their poxy midnight service, the losers. He chuckled in great good humour, give the vicar a taste of his own medicine that would.
The only other thing that slightly took the edge off his satisfaction was that the ‘pleased with himself’ editor of the Journal hadn’t turned up, said as it was Christmas Eve he had family commitments or some such bollocks. Even worse he’d not sent anyone to try and cover the party, not even a photographer. Hadn’t Carver told them it was strictly private, couldn’t they take a hint, read between the lines?
But there was a good chance that his new wife Suzzie Jade would get that last slot on the new cooking show where celebs prepared their favourite dish naked. That’d be a result after all the surgery; cost a packet that had.
Still, the fireworks looked impressively expensive. It was cold but he’d thought of that too, the patio was liberally spaced with industrial strength outdoor heaters, that’d give the globe a bit more warming. He chuckled to himself and clapped his hands together in delight.
“That’s what Christmas is all about.”
Pleased and relaxed he walked back through the large glass patio doors into the Hall.
Behind him, unnoticed, there was movement at the edge of the woods. Something dark began to move disconnectedly but at unnatural speed across the brightly lit, frost covered lawns, towards the Hall. As it drew closer, had anyone been watching, they’d have seen that the decayed hood had been pulled back to reveal a hideously white face, part eaten away by time, with sharply pointed white teeth fully exposed behind the maggot depleted and rotting lips. The eyes set deep in the white bone sockets were intent on Carver and greedy with purpose.
***
They’d spent most of the last three days sleeping but on Christmas Eve, their first together, they made an effort. Giles managed to book a table at the Italian they’d eaten at before. The walk there invigorated them. The table was booked for nine, the restaurant crowded. They talked little yet it was after eleven when they left. On an impulse they decided to go to the midnight service in the local parish church and walked through the brightly lit roads with the pubs and bars spilling people out onto the street. Some drunk, but mostly just cheerful. The church was packed but the service was surprisingly uninspiring. Had they attended St George’s in Skendleby they would have participated in a much more passionate and muscular service performed by the Reverend Ed Joyce.
Afterwards they walked home, avoiding the Moss, through the back lanes; it was still cold and about ten minutes from home it started to snow. He put an arm round her shoulders; how life had changed. When they got into the warmth of the house she was tired, he took her to bed and helped her undress. They made love tenderly then she turned onto her side and was immediately asleep. Giles read for a while by the soft glow of the bedside light, and then he watched her sleep, murmuring gently in her dreams, a mass of soft dark hair on the pillow. Life was full of the unexpected: sometimes it could be so good and so undeserved. He leant across and kissed the back of her neck, turned off the light with a gentle click and settled against her to sleep. Outside the snow gently covered their footsteps.
***
Sometime later that night she began to speak softly in her sleep. Downstairs, in the dark and silent living room, there was another click as the compact disc player turned itself on. Noise started to bleed out of the speakers, first, the sounds you can hear in an empty room, then a type of whooshing, white noise and finally chanting identical to Claire’s in the bedroom.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born
Christmas Eve 2012