Dark Christmas Tales

by James Dwyer

The first of December was supposed to begin the season to be jolly. Children up and down the country would wake to the sounds of advent calendar doors opening, the small chocolate inside a little taster of the treats that waited for them twenty five days later. Parents would start panicking, worrying that they wouldn’t have the perfect Christmas every single television advert told them they must have. Christmas was coming.

  This year would be different. Turning on the television, the nation came to a sudden standstill. Breaking news. “FLU EPIDEMIC HITS BRITAIN The government has issued a major health warning to everyone in the country. Scientists are calling it ‘Canine Flu’ and it is set to be the deadliest virus since the flu epidemic of 1918. All dog owners are ordered to contact their local Virus Prevention Centre to register their pet. Early reports suggest that man’s best friend is now our most dangerous enemy.”

  “Doom mongering rubbish.” Fred took a long swig from his beer bottle, his eyes moving from the television to his dog Harrison who snored loudly on the floor beside him. “Nonsense to scare us, make us depressed. Bird flu. Swine flu. I’ve seen it all before.”

  Fred reached for the television remote on the side table, not wishing to get up from his armchair. He stretched out his arm towards the remote, knocking over empty beer bottles as he fumbled for the control. Harrison remained undisturbed. The sound of glass clinking something he had grown accustomed to.

  The television flickered between channels as Fred searched for an escape from the news report. The dancing light from the television glistened on empty glass bottles, every surface in the dingy living room covered in them. A layer of dust and grime had settled over everything except for the television and Fred’s armchair. He had given up vacuuming, Harrison couldn’t stand the sound. Fred had given up on most things. Since his wife died, he found all he needed in his four-legged friend and a constant supply of booze.

  Every channel repeated the same government health warning, there was no escaping the grim government officials giving the grim news to the grim newsreaders. One channel escaped the grimness. “Xmas TV”. Non-stop Christmas music and movies twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Fred turned the television off. Harrison stirred as the constant chatter of the television was replaced by silence, sensing something rare and amazing was about to happen. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Fred wrapped himself warmly, preparing for his rare venture into the outside world. He checked he had plastic bags for the dog’s mess and twenty quid in his pocket for the off licence. Harrison wagged his tail, standing at the edge of the door, ready to run outside as soon as it opened. “Hold on,” said Fred as he zipped up his coat, his hand being jerked back and forth as he tried to hold onto the excited dog’s lead at the same time. Zipped, Fred opened the door and stepped out into the cold December air.

  It was just after four in the afternoon and the lamp posts were already glowing. Winter’s early nightfall in full effect. Children hurried home from school, the darkness giving them haste. No child wanted to hang around in the cold and dark. Fred liked this time of year. The colder days meant people stayed at home, streets emptied early. The less people there were, the less chance of social interaction. Since his wife Sheila died, Fred only had Harrison to speak with and he liked it just fine. There was the odd nuisance. A friendly cashier at the off licence. The occasional salesperson or preacher on the doorstep. Sheila’s sister called once a year to see if he was okay. She didn’t care how Fred was really. She only called because she felt obliged too. “Piss off,” he always said, ending the conversation and leaving both parties happy.

  Harrison pulled on the lead as he began walking the familiar steps to the park, only stopping to sniff where other dogs had gone before him, overriding their claims of territory with a cock of the leg. Fred stopped at the entrance to the park and unfastened Harrison’s lead, the dog disappearing into the bushes as soon as he was released from his bondage. He would be back in fifteen minutes, as soon as he had finished his business. The park was small, nestled between two rows of terraced houses. It was generally avoided during winter, only alcoholics and miscreants venturing there. A drunk was lying on the bench, the alcohol in his system a blanket that wouldn’t last the night. Fred stayed near the road, watching his breath cloud and dissipate in the cold air. A sign he was alive, something he rarely felt to be true.

  Satisfied with his exercise, Harrison returned and Fred clipped him back onto the lead. Next stop, the off licence. Fred had run out of his supply and was starting to feel the horrible sensation of sobriety. He tied Harrison to a pole outside and entered the shop, buying his usual twelve pack of lager and large bottle of cheap whiskey. He patted Harrison on the head on his return, the dog’s tail wagging as his owner approached. “Good boy,” said Fred, “You don’t judge me.”

  Untying Harrison from the post, Fred became aware of people staring at him, regarding the dog with mistrust, some covering their mouths as they passed. “Come on,” said Fred as he pulled at the lead. Time to return home to privacy, solitude, and alcohol’s warm embrace.

  The news reports became grimmer as more advent calendar doors opened. Images of the first British victims of the flu were broadcast day and night, newspapers shouting daily the growing death toll. “People are not listening,” said Doctor Nathaniel Ablitt, head of the Virus Prevention Centre, “If you have a dog, you have to turn it over to us. Forget any attachment you may have, any sense of love or affection. It is time to be serious. This disease has a one hundred per cent mortality rate. It will kill any human it comes into contact with. The fact is, a live dog can transmit the disease, a dead dog cannot. Either turn over your dog to the VPC for extermination or do it yourself. This is not optional!”

  Doctor Ablitt was extremely agitated, refusing to acknowledge the newsreaders’ concerns about dogs being family members. “Don’t worry,” said Fred. “I won’t let anyone get you.”

  Fred’s rebellious attitude lasted until a few days later when a special report described the disease’s symptoms. “Once the virus has entered the human body, it will take effect in a matter of hours. The first symptom is a sharp pain in the chest, just behind the sternum, breast bone.”

  A stabbing pain suddenly throbbed in Fred’s heart, a growing sense of panic as the report continued. “The second symptom is a horrible taste in the mouth, like sour milk swirling around inside.”

  Fred reached for the nearest beer bottle and swirled the flat warm liquid around his mouth, spitting out the contents onto the carpet beside his chair. “Then follows an intense feeling of nausea and dizziness.”

  He gripped the arms of his chair, holding on tightly as the room started to spin. “Finally, the subject feels extremely tired and an overwhelming desire to lie down.”

  Fred stood up suddenly, stretching out his muscles, trying to make himself feel as awake as he could. “Once the virus takes hold, it is a slow, agonising death. The Alveoli in the victim’s lungs slowly turn to fluid. The patient slowly drowns on their own lung matter.”

  Fred grabbed the nearest projectile and threw it at the television, hoping to smash it into pieces, not wanting to hear any more. He was sweating, the pain in his chest would not subside. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Harrison walked over to Fred and stared up at his master with his big brown soulful eyes. Fred looked down and saw a look of concern on the dog’s face. He looked deep into the eyes and suddenly felt an intense feeling of fear. Harrison was going to kill him. “I’m not going to lose you. You’re all I have and I’m not gonna let anyone take you away from me.”

  Fred was talking to himself more than the dog, trying to come to terms with the situation. He took another one of the half full beer bottles on the table and drank it down, hoping the bitter brown liquid would take the thoughts away. The alcohol started to take over and Fred began shifting the blame to Sheila, her portrait hanging above the fireplace, frozen in a fake smile that Fred detested. This is her revenge, thought Fred. Somewhere,
in between the hot pokers and the torture rack, she was laughing at him. Taking the last little bit of pleasure Fred had. He finished the bottle of beer and let it drop to the floor. “I’m going to do it you bitch,” said Fred, “I hope you’re happy. I’m glad you died, glad you fell down those stairs. I could have grabbed you, caught you before you fell. But I didn’t and I’m so happy.”

  Fred grabbed his coat and walked through the house to the back door. Harrison followed obediently, keen to stretch his legs for a little while. The door opened and the cold winter air rushed inside, stealing as much heat as it could before Fred shut the door behind him. He grabbed the shovel that rested beside the back door and walked down to the bottom of the garden. It was a small garden, just big enough for Harrison to do his business.

  Snow had fallen during the night, making the ground tough and hard. It would be difficult to bury the dog here, Fred thought sadly. A large metal cage that Sheila had used for Harrison covered a third of the garden. Another third was...occupied. All that was left was a small patch at the edge of the garden. Fred walked over and dug his shovel down. It sank a few inches before the earth became too tough. “Come,” said Fred.

  Harrison padded over obediently, his eyes always on Fred, waiting for his next command. Fred looked up and saw the neighbour’s curtain twitching. Nosey neighbour spying on him. Fred stared until the curtain closed and returned his attention to Harrison, who rolled around on the snow. “Harrison, sit.”

  His dog obeyed immediately, eager to please his owner. Fred took the shovel and lifted it up into a position to strike. Harrison sat there ready, not knowing what his master was doing but fascinated regardless. “I’m sorry,” said Fred, tears in his eyes, “But I can’t let her win. I can’t die now. I need a few more years of freedom before I join her.”

  Fred looked up at the grey clouds that blanketed the sky above him, hoping for some divine intervention, some sort of sign that he didn’t have to do it. Harrison barked at Fred. His tail swung back and forth on the snow, like a windscreen wiper sweeping away the rain. Fred gripped the shovel tightly and raised it higher. “Forgive me.”

  A few days later, the doorbell rang, its piercing shrill forcibly waking Fred from his latest drink induced slumber. The doorbell was an alarm, a warning that something bad was happening, someone was at the door. Fred sat motionless in his chair, hoping whoever was at the door would get bored and leave. It was dark outside, who was calling at this time of day? Five minutes later the doorbell still rang and Fred relented, getting out of his chair and stumbling his way to the door. He could see through the frosted glass a bright orange shape waiting patiently at the door. The shape reacted as he approached, Fred waiting a few moments more before opening the door. “Mr Frederick Hughes?”

  The orange shape was a man dressed in a plastic hazard suit. A gas mask hung loosely around his neck and Fred noticed how clean he was from head to toe. His hair was cut short and neat, skin clearly moisturised each day. He was about half Fred’s age, not quite thirty. His smile faded as Fred stared at the man, not wishing to be pleasant. “My name is Patrick Kelly, I’m an agent from the Virus Prevention Centre.”

  Fred remained silent, enjoying how uncomfortable the man was becoming. “We have you registered as owning a dog?”

  “No,” said Fred, “No dog here.”

  “Really? The register has you down as having a dog at this residence.”

  “The register’s wrong.”

  “Right,” said Agent Kelly, eyeing Fred suspiciously, “Do you mind if I come inside and check a few things?”

  “Yes,” said Fred.

  “I wasn’t really asking for permission,” said Agent Kelly.

  Fred stared at him for a moment longer before stepping aside, allowing him into the house. “Wipe your feet.”

  Agent Kelly reached for the gas mask as he stepped inside, only stopping because he didn’t want to offend his host. Sensitivity training kicking in. The place stank of dog mess and stale beer, the light from the open door illuminating clouds of dust that danced in the air. “Is your wife home?”

  “She’s dead,” said Fred.

  “The register has her down as alive,” said Agent Kelly.

  “It was recent,” said Fred.

  “I see. My condolences,” said Agent Kelly.

  The VPC worker walked into the living room, instantly spotting the dog bed beside Fred’s armchair. He looked around in disgust at the filth and grime. The only clean surface was the television, its white square glow the only light. Fred watched him closely as he moved back and forth in the room. Agent Kelly’s eyes turned to the kitchen, a dog food bowl filled with biscuit resting on the floor. “You don’t have a dog?”

  Fred followed his gaze and saw the food bowl on the floor. “I don’t have a dog. I had a dog.”

  “Right,” said Agent Kelly, “You disposed of the dog yourself?”

  “I poisoned his food,” said Fred.

  “What did you do with the body?”

  “Buried it,” said Fred.

  “Do you mind showing me?”

  “Yes.”

  Fred waited a moment before moving to the back door. “Come on then. I don’t want to spend all night doing this.”

  Agent Kelly followed Fred suspiciously, starting to feel something was not right here and wanting to inform Fred he was onto him. He remembered his sensitivity training, how dog owners become attached to their pets, treat them like family members. He held his tongue and followed Fred outside. The garden was dark, the dim light from the kitchen barely illuminating the area. “I’ll grab a shovel, the dog’s buried over there,” said Fred pointing to the end of the garden.

  Fred disappeared into the shadows, Agent Kelly walking down to the garden. The snow covered the ground here and was undisturbed, no sign of anything having been buried recently. “When did you dispose of the animal?”

  “Yesterday,” said Fred from behind him.

  Agent Kelly reached the spot Fred had pointed to, immediately realising that nothing had been buried here. It was then that he heard the panting and the soft sound of a tail wagging frantically. Fred turned and saw two eyes staring out of a cage that sat in the other corner. Fred’s dog, muzzled. Agent Kelly reached for his gas mask, adrenaline pumping as he realised he was cornered. He turned back to the house and saw the light from the kitchen eclipsed by Fred, shovel raised in the air, ready to strike. Before he could say anything, Fred brought the shovel down on Agent Kelly’s head, the blow knocking him to the icy ground. Harrison barked as he watched his owner beat the VPC agent to death, wanting to join in with the fun game. Fred panted heavily as the body became motionless, blood staining the snow where the agent fell. He looked over at Harrison and smiled. “Good dog.”

  As Christmas drew nearer, Fred started getting into the spirit of the season, an act of defiance against the grim news reports on television. He dug out the old Christmas decorations, unused since Sheila died. The dingy living room became a little more cheery, twinkling lights on the mantelpiece above the fire, a fake plastic Christmas tree in the corner. Christmas day came and Fred sat down in front of the television, a microwave Christmas dinner steaming in his lap. Harrison sat beside him in his spot, chewing on a bone Fred had taken from the local butcher’s. The butcher had winked as he handed it to him, a fellow dog owner defying the new anti-canine laws. “Merry Christmas,” Fred had said when he paid, the sound of a dog barking in the background as he left the shop.

  Sitting down in front of the television, Fred was looking forward to a day of Christmas TV. The Eastenders special, the broadcast of the Queen’s speech, humming along to “The Great Escape” theme as the film began. The news reports were less frequent now, normal television briefly allowed to return to the screen. Dr Nathaniel Ablitt, head of the VPC, looked resigned to his fate as he gave his final press conference. “The selfishness of some people knows no limits. There are still thousands of dogs being kept hidden from the VPC, some of our agents being attacked f
or trying to save lives. We have even had reports of agents going missing as people take desperate measures to save their pets. It is ridiculously stupid and endangering everyone in the country. We aren’t doing this for fun, we are doing this to save lives.”

  “Bah humbug, eh?” said Fred, turning to Harrison.

  The dog had stopped chewing its bone, lying on its side, breathing heavily. “Harrison!” shouted Fred as he threw his dinner to one side and crouched on the floor beside his dog.

  Harrison’s stomach swelled in and out, becoming more and more bloated with each pulse. The dog whimpered quietly, Fred stroking it reassuringly on the head. “Don’t worry Harrison, I’ll get you some help.”

  The dog stopped breathing, its stomach swollen to three times its normal size. The grey skin on its belly suddenly split as a giant white ball of pus emerged from inside the dog, swelling up like the inner tube of a football breaking free. Fred moved back in horror as the balloon grew bigger, a giant white pimple, desperate to pop. Before Fred could get away, the balloon suddenly burst, a cloud of wet spray hitting Fred in the face. He could feel the cold wet vapour entering his nostrils, down his throat and into his lungs.

  Fred fell back onto his armchair, a sudden intense pain in his chest worse than any pain he had ever felt before. He could feel his heart swelling inside, pushing painfully against his bones. The saliva in his mouth solidified, becoming lumpy, like rotten milk curdling in his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but found the lumps sticking to his teeth, unable to expel the foul liquid from his body. Fred collapsed onto his knees, looking over at Harrison who seemed to have recovered from his trauma. “Help,” said Fred, Harrison looking up at him with the same blissful ignorance as always.

  The nausea came next, the room spinning, a sensation that reminded him of the thousands of units of alcohol he had consumed in his life. All those times he still had control, aware that it would all be over soon. This time it was different, it felt as if he was in the centre of a storm, being thrown around by the vortex. Fred fell onto his chest, pushing himself up off the floor with his hands. An intense lethargy overtook him, Fred unable to stop himself rolling onto his back, all energy drained from his muscles. He lay there staring at the ceiling, Christmas lights flashing on the periphery of his vision. It was then he felt the burning in his lungs, liquid starting to pool inside, the incredible intense pain that he could do nothing to ease. Harrison walked over and licked Fred’s face. He soon became bored and lay down beside his master. As Harrison snored loudly, Fred slowly died, his last image the portrait of Sheila staring down at him. Smiling that same false smile he knew he would be seeing once again very, very soon.

  The epidemic spread across the country, hundreds of dog lovers paying for their loyalty to their animal. The Christmas season passed, what little cheer that had come disappearing quickly, replaced by a cold emptiness, the kind that was found in the homes of the dead. The VPC knew where to search for the bodies. They just had to look at the homes that still had Christmas decorations up when the cleanup began in March. Decorations were quickly taken down, grim reminders of the Christmas where man’s best friend had turned on its master. For one year only, a dog was for life, man was just for Christmas.

  THE CHRISTMAS TREE