by Matt Haig
‘Get back here, you demon child!’
But Amelia kept climbing up into the darkness. It was a tight squeeze, and got tighter as she neared the top. Captain Soot pushed his way through the chimney pot first. And Amelia then wriggled herself through. Amelia and Captain Soot had made it out into the light.
It was snowing now. Amelia blinked at the whiteness of the roof. Captain Soot ran along, making tiny footprints.
‘There you are!’ came a voice from the street below.
The snow was making the roof slippery. Even though she wasn’t a cat and even though she only had one boot on, Amelia managed to run along the ridge on top of the roof without falling. It was a long roof. But eventually it ended and she had to jump onto the next row of terraced houses.
‘After you,’ said Amelia. Captain Soot jumped and made it, easily. Then Amelia jumped. And she made it. Less easily.
A group of carol singers stopped singing ‘Silent Night’ and stared up at her. Breathless, she looked down to the street and saw Mr Creeper walking fast with his cane. She loved her mother and knew she had thought she was doing the best, but her mother hadn’t understood how horrible Mr Creeper was. Amelia’s mind was a storm of fear and panic and howling sadness.
‘Aaagh!’
She lost her footing and slid down the other side of the sloping roof.
She caught hold of something. Hard and wet and slippery. She didn’t know what. But then she lost hold of it and she was falling and landing flat on her back. Looking around, she realised she was in somebody’s backyard. Captain Soot ran after her and jumped and landed on her stomach.
‘It’s all right,’ he told her, in the language of cats. ‘You can do this.’
And Amelia understood him, for the first time in her life.
Amelia and Captain Soot got up and ran through the yard and into the passage behind the houses. They came out into India Street and heard the distant carol singers singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Amelia looked behind and saw no sign of Mr Creeper. She ran fast, into the unknown land of her future.
Father Vodol and his Long Words
ather Christmas stood beside his broken sleigh as his oldest reindeer companion Blitzen came up and nuzzled him.
‘It’s all right, Blitzen.’
The elves were all standing in the snow eating emergency sugar plums for comfort, waiting for Father Christmas to say something.
So he did.
‘Well.’ He smiled. ‘This has been a very unusual Christmas Eve. But it could be worse. Let’s try and look on the bright side.’
‘Bright side?’ scowled an elf in a black tunic and long dark beard and thick bushy eyebrows. ‘There is no bright side. It is a catastrophe. A calamity of epic proportions. A cataclysm. A ruination. A . . . a . . . poopleplex!’
Father Christmas sighed. Trust Father Vodol to try and bring everyone down further, while also showing off some very long words. Father Vodol was the elf who knew the most words. He knew all seventy-six million elf words, and sometimes even made some up, just to confuse people and sound really clever. Poopleplex wasn’t a real word, Father Christmas was sure of it.
Noosh noticed Father Vodol’s footprints in the snow. He had been walking from the west, from the hills, which was strange, as he was normally in the Daily Snow on Christmas Eve.
Father Christmas forced a smile. ‘Come now, Father Vodol. There is always a bright side. Look, the trolls have gone. We are all safe. Obviously we will have to find out why this happened. And we will. We will. But that is not for today. Yes, there were some injuries, but we have incredible Elfcare workers seeing to those. Doctor Drabble is on hand. And we have the reindeer. Some buildings are still standing. Well, the Daily Snow is still standing. Those who have lost their homes can sleep there as we rebuild, or stay at my house. My bed can sleep about eleven elves, at least. And I could always sleep on the trampoline. But, we must remember, it is Christmas Eve, and we have work to do.’
A gasp spread across the crowd. Even Blitzen seemed doubtful, and did a wee to show just how doubtful he was.
‘Christmas? Christmas!’ scowled Father Vodol. ‘You must be joking. There can’t be a Christmas now.’
‘Hooray!’ said Little Mim, who didn’t quite understand and just liked hearing the word. ‘Christmas! Daddy, it’s Christmas!’
Humdrum nodded and closed his eyes and tried to calm down by thinking of gingerbread.
Then Father Vodol stepped forward and muttered in a low voice, ‘It’s impossible.’
The crowd of elves gasped and parents put their hands over the ears of little ones.
‘Father Vodol, please, no swearing. There are children present,’ said Father Christmas, before continuing to address the crowd. ‘I understand that it looks . . . difficult. But I was once told by a very wise elf that there is no such thing as im . . . that word. And every human child in the world is depending on us tonight. We have to give them magic.’
‘I’m afraid Father Vodol might be right,’ said Father Topo.
The elves seemed baffled.
‘There are no toys!’
‘There is no sleigh!’
Father Christmas nodded. ‘Yes, there are concerns.’ He looked at the smashed-up sleigh. ‘The sleigh needs a bit of work. But we have the reindeer. And my good self. And the infinity sack. And there will be a whole world of hope. Every human child in the world will be filled with joy and excitement today. Later, when you look at the sky you will see the hope glowing in the air. The Northern Lights will be shining brighter than ever before.’
‘Not to be a party pooper,’ said Mother Breer, the beltmaker, ‘but if that was the case then none of this would have happened in the first place.’
Father Christmas felt the paper in his pocket. The letter he’d got from Amelia Wishart. Amelia had been the first child he’d ever given presents to. He looked at Father Topo, who reached up and put his hand on Father Christmas’s back. Or tried to. He could only really reach his bottom, which was a bit awkward.
‘Come on, elves,’ said Father Christmas. ‘You are elves. We’ve at least got to try. The humans need us. Now, any questions?’
Little Mim put up his hand.
‘Yes, Little Mim,’ said Father Christmas. ‘Fire away.’
‘Can you spickle dance?’ asked Little Mim. A few elves laughed. It was nice to think of spickle dancing on such an otherwise miserable day.
‘Spickle dance? Erm, well . . .’
‘I’ve never seen you spickle dance,’ the little elf went on.
‘Little Mim,’ whispered Noosh. ‘I don’t think this is the time for such a question.’
‘Little Mim, I am not an elf. Look at me. Look how tall I am. Look at my big belly. I mean, yes, I was drimwicked, but I still think spickle dancing is best left to elves.’
Little Mim looked sad. His smile faded. Even his pointy ears seemed to droop a little.
‘Spickle dancing is for everyone,’ chirped Little Mim. ‘That is the point of spickle dancing.’
Father Christmas thought hard. If there was a chance of cheering the elves up, well, why not?
And then, to polite applause, he took a deep breath and started to move.
It turned out that Father Christmas was really quite a good spickle dancer.
‘Right,’ he said, out of breath, once he had finished. ‘Shall we try and save Christmas?’
‘I’ll try!’ came the same small voice from the front.
‘Why, thank you, Little Mim.’
‘Anyone else?’
Noosh raised her hand. And Father Topo. A few others did too. But Father Christmas had never seen the elves look so miserable.
‘Right. Super. Wonderful.’
He patted Blitzen for comfort and looked over towards the mountain, thinking of the human world beyond, then hoped for the best.
Running
melia had run and run.
She ran west, without thinking, letting Captain Soot lead the way, through the dark of night.
She followed his white-tipped tail like words chasing an exclamation mark.
After a while she realised it would be easier to run with no boots than with one boot and so she took her boot off and left it on the pavement.
She was crying as she ran, passing all the cosy houses with their curtains drawn and with happy Christmas Eve families sleeping inside. She thought of all the children who would wake up tomorrow and be happy with the toy soldiers or china dolls in their stockings. She had no idea what to do or where to go.
The old woman who sold roasted chestnuts was pushing her cart along the street. She had a kind face.
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ said Amelia.
‘’Ello again, gal,’ she said, revealing a mouth full of brown teeth. ‘Shouldn’t you and your cat be getting home?’
Amelia felt desperate as cold and sadness bit into her. She hugged Captain Soot close. ‘Erm, well, we have nowhere to go.’
The chestnut seller stopped pushing her cart and looked directly at Amelia.
‘You ain’t got no ’ome?’ The chestnut seller sneezed. ‘Oh no,’ she said.
‘No. Not one that is safe to go back to.’ Amelia looked around. ‘And Mr Creeper’s after me.’
‘You don’t want that. A workhouse ain’t no place for a young gal like you. Not his one, anyhow.’ The woman sneezed again.
‘Can me and my cat come home with you?’ asked Amelia.
The woman looked at the ground.
‘Ah’m afraid not, dear . . . Cats, I can’t go near the things. Cats make me funny. That’s why I’ve got the sneezes. Let me think . . . Let me think . . . Your best bet would be to ’ead to old Mrs Broadheart near Saint Paul’s. She’s a good soul. Tell ’er Bessie Smith sent ya. That’s me. Bessie Smith. Mrs Broadheart looks after young girls like you . . . Selling matches might not be the best job but it’s better to be a match girl than locked up in Creeper’s Workhouse, I can tell you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Amelia, walking away.
‘Here, have some chestnuts, love. Little Christmas present,’ shouted the old woman.
But there was no time. Amelia saw a long shadow stretch from around the nearest corner. The shadow of a long thin man carrying a cane. She knew instantly who it was.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, and started running again.
‘Well, good luck to you, gal.’
Officer Pry
ven though Amelia’s bare feet were sore from running along the dark slush-puddled streets she kept running, dodging Christmas drunks and the warm sloppy contents of chamber pots. She reached Saint Paul’s Cathedral, a massive building with a spectacular dome on top that looked like an onion dreaming of being much better and bigger than an onion. There were lots of people around, heading out of the church after the midnight service. But she couldn’t see anyone who looked like she imagined old Mrs Broadheart would look.
She literally bumped into a policeman dressed in blue. When she was very little there hadn’t been policemen about. Certainly not ones in smart uniforms. But now they seemed to be everywhere. This one had a very big fluffy moustache. It was as if the moustache had decided to grow a face rather than the other way around.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Amelia said.
‘’Ello, little girl,’ he said. ‘Now where you going?’
‘I’m looking for Mrs Br . . .’
But before Amelia finished, a familiar voice interrupted.
‘It’s all right, Officer Pry. She’s with me.’
Amelia turned and gasped as she saw Mr Creeper’s face glowering under the gaslight.
Before she had time to run, one of his long bony hands had grabbed her arm.
‘Oh, evening, Mr Creeper, sir,’ Officer Pry said, taking off his hat.
Mr Creeper smiled his dead-leaf smile. ‘Thing is, Amelia is a wild one. As wild as this horrid cat she’s holding. She needs serious taming. New to us at the workhouse. I’d be ever so grateful if you helped me take her back where she belongs.’
‘Yes,’ said Officer Pry, grabbing her other arm. ‘I see what you mean. She’s a wild one. I’ll help you back to the workhouse with her.’
‘I don’t belong there!’
But it was no good. Amelia was a girl with no shoes and no parents and no hope.
Charles Dickens
r Creeper looked at Captain Soot. Captain Soot hissed up at him. ‘And you are going to have to get rid of that filthy animal too.’
Amelia’s heart was racing with fear. Captain Soot was all she had. He was her best friend. However bad life got, Captain Soot had been there to lick her face or rub his head against her chin. And he was a cat who liked humans – except one.
A man was walking towards them. The man was slim and smartly dressed, wearing a bright purple coat, a top hat and smart winter gloves. He had a sharp but kind face and his eyes twinkled with intelligence. Amelia could see he was not only a rich man, with, most likely, a nice fireplace, but very probably the kind of man who would like a cat. Indeed, there was something a bit cattish about him.
The man stared straight at Officer Pry. ‘What is the occurrence here?’ he asked, in a voice as rich as Christmas pudding.
‘This child is a wild one. She belongs at the workhouse with Mr Creeper,’ said Officer Pry.
The man then looked sharply at Mr Creeper himself. ‘No child belongs at the workhouse, especially not at Christmas.’
‘Bah,’ said Mr Creeper. ‘Humbug.’
‘May I ask who you are?’ enquired Officer Pry, looking the man up and down.
‘I’m Charles Dickens. The writer. You’ve heard of me, surely?’
Charles Dickens! If this had been another day Amelia would have been very excited. Charles Dickens was her favourite writer. Father Christmas had given her his story Oliver Twist and she had loved it.
Mr Creeper shrugged and sneered both at once. ‘Never heard of you.’
Charles Dickens crouched down so that he was head-height with Amelia. He had a little dark beard starting to grow on the point of his chin. ‘Where are your parents, dear girl?’
‘Dead,’ said Amelia. And a tear rolled down her cheek. Charles Dickens wiped the tear away.
Amelia felt embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Mr Dickens.’
Charles Dickens smiled a worried smile. ‘We need never be ashamed of our tears.’
Then Mr Creeper made a tutting sound. And this tutting sound was followed by Officer Pry saying, ‘Now if you would be a good man and get out of our way, Mr Dickens?’
Amelia was so terribly sad that she was struggling to speak. But she knew this was her very last chance to save Captain Soot. ‘Please, sir. Do you like cats? You see, they don’t allow them where I am going . . .’
Now, Charles Dickens loved cats. Indeed he had just that morning written the words ‘What greater gift than the love of a cat’ into his notebook, thinking that one day he would put that line in one of his novels. He had a cat called Bob at home. And he was sure Bob would like a friend. ‘I do like cats, but it would feel wrong to take this one from you.’
Amelia had to speak fast as she was being dragged further along the street. Charles Dickens was walking alongside them as she told him, ‘Well, it would still be mine. You’d just be looking after him. I’ll pick him up when I escape.’
‘You’ll never escape,’ muttered Mr Creeper as he pulled Amelia down a quieter street. This one was winding and dark. Right at the end of it was a tall and scary-looking stone building. It was grey – the grey of gravestones – and the street flickered in the ghostly light from the gas lamp. Amelia had a hunch this was the workhouse.
Officer Pry’s moustache twitched. ‘Sir,’ he told the writer, ‘if you don’t leave us be, I will have to arrest you for being a public nuisance.’
Charles Dickens looked at the poor trembling cat and the poor trembling girl who held it. As Amelia neared the workhouse she put Captain Soot onto the ground.
‘Go on, go to Mr Dickens,’ said Amelia.
Mr Creeper stamped his foot
to shoo the cat away. Captain Soot just stared at Mr Creeper’s shoe, not the slightest bit scared.
‘Go on,’ Amelia said. ‘Mr Dickens will look after you.’
And so Charles Dickens picked the creature up.
‘I will indeed look after you.’ It felt horrid to take the cat from her, especially at Christmas, but that is what he did, simply because he knew it was better for a cat to have a home than to live on the streets. ‘And when you get out of the workhouse you can come and get him. He’ll be with me. At 48 Doughty Street. In Bloomsbury.’
‘He likes fish!’ said Amelia desperately, as she was pulled closer towards the workhouse.
‘Then he shall have the best sardines every single day.’
‘And his name is Soot. And he is a captain.’
Charles Dickens nodded. ‘Oh yes. So he is. Captain Soot. Very well!’
The cat stared sadly after Amelia. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he miaowed. And Amelia stared sadly after the cat. And Charles Dickens stayed standing in the street, watching the raggedy, soot-covered, bare-footed orphan girl head off to spend Christmas in the workhouse. Then he carried the cat home, walking past a man coming out of the pub next door.
‘Happy Christmas!’ the man said.
‘Yes,’ said Charles Dickens, who couldn’t bring himself to say ‘Happy Christmas’ back.
‘Isn’t it the best of times?’ the man went on.
The cat gave a gentle miaow of disagreement in his arms as Charles Dickens nodded. ‘Yes. And the worst.’
The Dark Sky