Read by Patsy Prince
"Picture the scene," Henry says, taking a sip of brandy and setting the glass back down. "It's a traditional German Christmas. We see a young mother, blonde hair in braids, fretting over the placement of decorations on the mantelpiece. The tree is up, covered in tinsel, and three or four fair-haired children are running around causing chaos. There's a ring at the door, and our hausfrau rushes to open it, children around her legs screaming Vater! Vater! They open the door, and there’s a man in a long coat, his face obscured by a tower of presents. One by one, the children take the presents down, until we can see him. We can see who it is.’
Henry raises his left eyebrow provocatively. ‘It's Hitler.’
Lucy groans and turns away. Glen pulls a face and looks at his pint of Doom Bar. There is an awkward silence that is swiftly invaded by the noise of the pub’s other patrons. Henry raps his fingers on his glass while Lucy scrunches up her face, unable to form words.
"Not like this,” Henry says. “You haven't heard the rest of it yet."
"It's been done," Lucy repeats.
Henry takes another slug of brandy, and this time the glass lands on the table with some force. "Been done? Everything has been done. We have one week till the competition closes."
"It's just... anything with Hitler is a no from me," Lucy says. “It’s like Godwin’s Law or whatever.”
"It's better than your idea for Christmas zombies,” Henry says. “They’ve been done. Done to death.”
“That idea was a goer, but fine,” Lucy says. “I’ll do it some other way.’
‘Yeah, go make a Tik-Tok out of it or something.”
“Lads,” Glen says, trying his best to calm things down. “We've no time for bickering. We have to think of something or it will be somebody else's name in lights come December.”
They can all feel the blade of the deadline whooshing towards them, and with it the greatest opportunity of their writing lives: the chance to pen the Christmas special for Fright Night, Netflix's hit horror anthology series, and have it available on the streaming service for the whole world to watch in time for turkey and mince pies.
“I thought Steve was supposed to have a killer idea. Where is he?” Lucy says. She looks around for their missing friend, as if merely saying his name might summon him to them. “He’s late.”
“He’s on the other side of the Pennines," says Glen. "Reckon he’s about to come over Snake Pass as we speak. Wanted to try out his new bike so went to the Peaks for a few days.”
They look out the window at the grey clouds in battle formation and the rain landing like musket shot on the glass.
“He’s a good cyclist is Steve,’ Glen says. "Took that old bike of his everywhere—the Alps, Vietnam …”
"Isn't that where he had that nasty accident?" Henry says.
"The first one," says Glen.
The other two nod and turn back to the table, on which is sitting three conspicuously blank notepads, some ballpoint pens, and three nearly empty glasses. Lucy looks around, vainly wondering if they might get table service. It’s a busy evening in the White Hart: a birthday party in the backroom and groups of men clumping inconveniently around the bar.
"So then, Lucy." Henry says. "Tell us your other brilliant idea."
"Oh yeah," she says. "This one's dynamite. It's set in an old people's home at Christmas."
"Obviously," Henry says, rolling his eyes.
“Right,’ Lucy carries on. “The manager of this home, let’s call her Dawn, she’s seen death hundreds of times, and by that I mean she’s seen him; she has the second sight. She literally sees Death coming for the old folks, walking through the sliding doors like a relative.”
Henry makes a show of looking at his phone, but Glen clears his throat and glares, and he puts the device back on the table.
"She doesn’t do anything to try and stop Death usually," Lucy continues, "She figures it’s their time, the old folks. But then one night they’re having a Christmas meal in the home, and she sees Death waiting at the door to the dining room, and she thinks no, not tonight, I’m not having it. So she strikes a deal with Death. If she can guess who he’s come for, then that person gets to live. She gets three guesses."
"It’s all of them, isn’t it?" Henry says. "Gas leak or something. She can’t guess who it is in the end because it’s every single one of them."
"WRONG," Lucy says, and she pulls a face at Henry before continuing. "So Dawn looks around the home’s dining hall, trying to think which of the hundred or so old folks it is. Her eyes fall on Philys, one of the oldest residents—lost her husband the year before, not getting out of bed much any more, had a UTI the other month. She guesses Philys, but Death shakes his head. She’s got two more guesses."
"Herself," Glen says, and Lucy looks crestfallen.
"But she’s young,” she protests. "And they’re all old. Why would she—"
"First thing you’d ask," Glen says. "Is it me?"
"How about they’re all dead already. And they just don’t know it yet?" Henry says.
"How would that work?"
Henry shrugs. "Worked for Lost, didn’t it? They all died in the plane crash in the first episode."
"No. No," Lucy says, shaking her head and screwing up her eyes. "I am not having that conversation again."
Henry’s lips are forming around a response when one of the phones on the table lights up and begins to buzz. The screen says Steve M. Glen picks it up and sticks his index finger in his other ear.
"Steve!’ he says. "Where are you, mate?"
Henry and Lucy watch as Glen’s already furrowed brow furrows up some more, till it’s more furrow than flesh.
"It’s a bad line, Steve. I can’t hear you," says Glen. "We’re in the Hart, at a booth in the corner. We’ll get you a cider, all right? Have it waiting."
He hangs on for a moment longer, but the line seems to be getting no clearer and he gives up. "Sounded like he was calling from the abyss," Glen says, and he puts the phone back down. "Now, I’ve got an idea for you. Bit Stranger Things. More of a sketch at the moment. I’m seeing a wintry landscape, an open field, and there’s Santa, bleeding, dragging his body across the snow. Behind him is Krampus, the evil Christmas spirit that punishes badly behaved kids. He's going to kill Santa. And it’s kids that find him, that have to fight the monster.’
Lucy takes a deep breath. "You’ve literally just described a painting by an artist called Jakub Różalski," says Lucy. "Quite well known."
Glen scratches his shaggy beard and sends a dusting of dead skin onto the table. "Who?"
"Różalski. He's a Polish fantasy artist. You’ve just described one of his more famous works. To the letter."
"Never heard of him," Glen says.
"Subconscious influence," Henry says. "Happens to us all. I’ll get another round in." He stands up and begins to muscle his way to the bar.
"Well, I’m out of ideas. I hate Christmas specials anyway," Glen says, giving his chin another scratch. "Did I ever tell you about the time I met Clive Barker?"
"Define met, Glen," Lucy says. "Book signings don’t count for me."
"I spoke to him for a good five minutes. Gave him a copy of my novel. He said he’d read it. I can’t be sure, but I got a five-star Amazon review about a week later."
"For the last time: Clive Barker did not review your book on Amazon," Lucy says, and she folds her arms across her chest.
"I’m going for a cigarette," she adds, a moment later, and she pushes herself up from the table. She quit smoking a year ago, but it’s a good excuse to take a break from talking to people. As she passes through the bar she hears a scream from the back room where the birthday party is taking place, and someone shouts something about a bird. She slips out the back door of the pub and stands under the lintel. The rain has eased off a bit but is still coming down hard. She takes her one cigarette out of her inside coat pocket and dangles it from the fingers of her left hand in case someone should surprise her. She is staring into space when she sees a man in a yellow cycling jersey and black shorts standing at the edge of the beer garden.
"Steve!" she calls out, but he doesn’t respond. He seems to be looking straight at her, though it’s hard to tell with the low light and the sheets of rain. "Steve!" she calls again, and she waves a hand in the air. He still doesn’t move. She looks up at the grey sky and makes a dash for the safety of a parasol. She calls Steve again, but he still just stands there in the rain. Suddenly, the back door of the pub slams and she turns around to see a pigeon spinning towards her. She shrieks, and the bird flaps its wings and pulls up into the sky just in time. When she turns back, Steve is gone.
The rain is too heavy to venture any further out, so she goes back inside and squeezes her way through the crowd. There are four new drinks on the table when she arrives, but Henry and Glen are just staring into space.
"Cavalry’s here," Lucy says, taking a seat and picking up her pint. Glen looks at her, and his spider-veined face is unusually pale. "Steve’s missus just called. He’s dead, Luce."
Lucy laughs, though she shivers all the same. "I just saw him outside," she says. "Probably just locking his bike up. He’ll be here in a sec."
"No, he won’t," Henry says. "Ambulance picked him up a few hours ago. Massive heart attack, Kate said. He didn’t stand a chance."
"I just saw him," Lucy insists, but she is thinking about how far away he was, how he stood there and looked at her, how his lips seemed at one point to be moving, as if he were trying to speak. Then she thinks of something else.
"Who called you earlier? You said it was Steve."
Glen's hands are shaking; he is clamping them onto the table to try to keep them still. "It was him," he says. "I think he had a message for us, but I couldn't hear it."
Glen’s mobile lights up again and starts hopping across the table. They all know who it is before they see the name.
If Glen was pale before, he is almost translucent now. He swipes to answer.
"Put it on speaker," Henry whispers, but Glen doesn’t seem to hear him. He holds the phone a little away from his ear, as if to hold it closer would cause him physical pain, and the other two can hear a low hiss emanating from it, and beyond it a faint, faraway voice. Henry takes Lucy's hand in his. After about a minute or so, Glen nods and hangs up.
"Was it him?" Lucy says.
"Aye," Glen says. He lifts his pint and chugs about half of it, his hairy Adam’s apple bobbing up and down and some of the liquid escaping onto his chin.
"What did he say?" Henry says.
"It was his last gift to us," Glen says. "Him reaching across the veil of death to tell the world one final yarn. It was his idea for the Christmas special."
"And?" Lucy says.
Glen shrugs and picks up his glass. "It's been done."
(c) Rhys Timson, 2021
Rhys Timson is a writer from Zone 5, a sci-fi dystopia that closely resembles suburban outer London. His work has been published in 3:AM, Litro, Structo, Lighthouse and other literary magazines and appeared in Retreat West’s 2019 and 2020 competition anthologies.
Patsy Prince trained at RADA and KCL. Recent film includes: The Bad Nun, Mummy Reborn and Culture Shock. Theatre includes: Voices from September 11th (Old Vic) and Swallows (OFS Theatre Oxford). She also co-hosted 'Open', a podcast on The Women's Radio Station. Patsy is an ex-lawyer, ex-parliamentary candidate and ex-hotelier, now excelling at being a bad wife, drinking too much gin and expanding her collection of millinery.
Comments