The Gobbling

SAMPLE CHAPTERS 1 & 2

Chapter 1. A Concerning Bumpkin 

It was the most joyous monstrosity that ever lay without a head. No feathers, no feet, no giblets, no wattles. Yet it was still a bird, and a marvellous one at that. Juices washed around its bony stumps. Greens and steaming vegetables bolstered its girth. Knotted herbs bubbled under the skin enticing those within a sniff to drool and dream of sweet mastication.

Her bulging fingers, grubby and sullied from a lifetime of gizzard extractions rolled over the platter’s lip, assisting her mammoth bosom in the provision of a worthy throne for a bird so grand and tasty.

An apple-wax shine adorned her cheeks. Within them an eruption of rosy fulfilment and a motherly smile of the kind that makes you scared to be sad. Probing blood vessels loitered, overflowing dubiously onto a nose that signalled a specialty in sherry trifles, beef and ale pies, red wine sauces and brandy-soaked puddings.

Without warning, wafts from the giant bird took hold of her senses sending her into an orgasm of delightful sniffs and smacking lips. She shuddered, swayed a little and felt it necessary to distance herself from the steaming temptress. Carefully she placed it on the kitchen table, her movements only a nibble away from wildly tearing at the steaming flesh and drowning amid great snorting noises as her nostrils fill with fat and grease.

A deep, lung filling breath, and control resumed. She stood, arms crossed, proud as a warrior in front of her beheaded and basted foe. Her smile returned.

‘Tuuuuuuuurkey,’ she announced, full of bumpkin delight, ‘mmm mmmmmm.’ And without fair warning, she started to sing.

‘Soilent Noight,’ she cawed, ‘Blessed are thee who takes their hand on a journey up a turkey.’

Concentration gathered her brow into a furrowed ball as the roly-poly strumpet wrestled with words and melody. The resulting image became that of an ominous jelly spewing festive verse with a level of conviction that went way beyond comfort. Hither and thither she pranced adding undue pressure to the cardboard kitchen until a door folded and died and the polyester snow drooped from the lintel. Her tartan and holly patterned frock moaned under the strain of her swaying body. The floor rocked. Curls bounced free of her bonnet. And the turkey was grateful of its lifeless state.

Taking a drastic swing towards the unbearable, a portly chef with balls of fire entered the scene. The flaming plum puddings roared savagely in front of a face bereft of any foliage as if it too had been caught in the inferno. Only a thin membrane of overstretched skin remained upon his skull, dressed in a veil of clammy sweat that occasionally dripped and hissed in the fire of his puddings. Under the veil there glowed a matching set of rosy cheeks, though unlike his pickled princess their origin lay in a blood pressure not to be envied.

In a moment of utter terror the observer noticed that not only was the chef providing an accompanying harmony, but also he was shuffling from one end of the kitchen to the other.

His groin was gyrating.

The slithering movements of his plastic brogues gave hideous birth to pelvic propulsions aimed directly at his cavorting strumpet. A twinkle shone from the corner of her eye when she caught sight of the man with flaming balls. She spun backwards on her right heel, forcing her rear quarters to face his buckish advance. Closer they drew, closer until their synchronised midriffs grazed on each other’s sweat. All who gazed did so with ashen dread as if caught in the headlights of a driverless train. Calls came for mercy.

Their loins collided like planets. Many closed their eyes. Some never opened them again. And then came silence. The turkey ditty had come to an end, and loins, though still together, ceased their gyrations.

They stood arm in arm, proud as punch and brimming with family values. Had it not been for the unsettling glimpse into what happens behind their closed doors, those who watched may have possibly melted at the cuddly couple standing before them. But it was clear they had a saucy role-playing karaoke thing going on, and for that the scar ran deep.

‘Oh moi dears, moi dears,’ she crowed, wiping her brow and armpits with her apron, ‘How loverly it be to ‘ave you wiv us on this roight an’ special day. Moi name, moi loverlies, is Gladys,’ then with a curtsey and a wink, ‘but, oh woi not call me Glaaad.’ She giggled, releasing a bubble of drool onto her lips. ‘An’ this ‘ere ‘unk of rrripplin muscle,’ even he looked surprised at this, ‘iz me ‘ubby Norrrmaaan.’ She leant close, winking again and licking her lips until the drool landed with a splot on her shoe. ‘I calls ‘im Sexay Norrrm, an’ oi bet you can see woi can’t you gurlz?’ She manhandled a large portion of his gut, shaking it vigorously until a button popped from his shirt. ‘Oooh an’ gurlz, not only iz ‘e aaaaaall maan, bud ‘e cooks the foinest pudd’ns in the ‘ole woid world ‘e doos, mmm mmm mmm mmmmmm.’

Sexy Norm’s puddings, it appeared, was the dingle in her dangle, for between one ‘mmm’ and the other she inhaled with monstrous grunts, flicking her tongue in all directions and sending a fresh batch of drool to stain the kitchen walls and glaze the unfortunate turkey.

Norm reacted positively to his vote of virility. His thoughts transgressed into grubby musings concerning a bountiful audience of fillies, each fixated upon his rippling frame and squirming with unbridled glee. He turned to place the puddings on the table with the turkey, winked at nobody in particular, did the groin thing and announced in a husky rumble, ‘How’d you like a mouthful of pudd’n ladies?’

Clearly Norm was working the pistons of lust. In relieving himself of his puddings he had also relieved many of his shirt buttons of responsibility. It flapped open, hanging lazily from a drenching of sweat. Shimmering beads gathered around his nipples, salt residue around his navel. As a celebration of his musky powers he drew slowly a slippery tongue over his glistening lips. The corner of his mouth twitched in unison with suggestive eye movements, hinting to his wife very rude things indeed

Gladys moved gently, leaning and slowly crushing Norm’s foot under her size 13 stiletto heels. Her mouth pursed swiftly to one side, keeping all the while a happy gaze fixed upon her audience. ‘The food Norm.’ She spoke in firm whispers. ‘Concentrate on the flippin’ food you ‘orny toad.’ An innocent giggle followed, as did a curtsey and some vigorous fanning with a cardboard fish slice.  

‘Hoo hoo, now where was oi me dears? Oooooooh yes.’ Her back arched, her pelvis shot forward. ‘Well oim sure we’ll all be wiv me in thinkin’ that it be that time of year again. Tha’s roight me loverliess, it be time to think about Christmas once more. Ches’nuts roastin, turkeys a sizzlin’, an’ less not ferget Norm’s famous puddn’s.’ The drool returned. Norm stood motionless with a rather contorted expression across his face, owing no doubt to the large stiletto heel that impaled both his foot and friskiness to the ground. ‘But,’ she gasped, ‘where’s a person to get all this loverly ‘ome cooked scrrrrumptious food from? You don’t want to cook it yerself now doos you? An’ jus’ think about aaall that shoppin’ in them there ‘orrible supermaaarkets. Oooh it do makes me shudder at the thort of it.’ And shudder she did, much to her husband’s whines of protest. ‘But don’t worry me little loves,’ she said, composing herself, ‘‘cause ‘elp be on the way. Woi not, oi tells you, wooooiiiiiii not…get a bumper flippin’ big ‘amper from me and moi Norm? Mmm? Tha’s roight, when you orrrderrrs an ‘amper from The Bumper Flippin’ Big ‘Amper Company, you gets the ‘ole of Christmas delivered to yer door in one heeeeuuuuumongous wicker baaaaasket, you do. We gives you more ‘ome baked goodness than you can eat, more beer, woin and spirits than you can drink,’ she let out a petite hiccup, ‘an’ we even throw in the pressies too!’ She was getting a little over-excited again. ‘In fact, oi reckons we don’t even need Santa any more.’ She flashed her eyes at her traumatised husband. ‘Especially when we got sexay Norm.’

There exists a thin line between a roguish oddball and a marauding danger to the public, and with an effortless glide into the latter, Gladys, of The Bumper Flippin’ Big ‘Amper Company became a worry to us all. The chant was slow and restrained at first, then built into a riotous spot of hollering, ‘Out with Santa, in with sexay Norm…Out with Santa, in with sexay Norm…Out with Santa, in with sexay Norm…sexay Norm…sexay Norm…sexay Norm.’

All that watched became silent. Parents gathered their children close. Dogs hid under chairs. Unfortunately, Sexy Norm had no such luxury. He was impaled next to unhinged danger, his aggressor strengthening her hold as the chant saw her jumping and stamping like a witchdoctor having just swallowed an energising newt.

Pain and relief mingled in Norm’s eyes as he heard Gladys drawing the pitch to a close. ‘An’,’ she said, pausing and sensing his desire to be free, ‘you can rest assured with us me dears that all these fresh,’ she sniffed gloriously, ‘goodies wont cost you the earth. Ain’t that roight, ‘usband of moine?’ He squeaked in reply. ‘All this will cost you is a wee smidge of yer annual income,’ and then very quietly, ‘per month,’ and then quieter still, ‘fer 440 months.’

She ranted on, ‘But it don’t stop there.’ Norm wished it did, ‘The very furst ten people to call I on the phone will each receive a special gift of love from me an’ moi Norm. You’ll never believe your luck an’ you’ll think evury Christmas ‘as landed at once. But it be true, and if you iz one of those luckay ten, you will receive…wait fer it…are you ready…a limited edition video tape of me an’ moi Norm singin’ all yer Christmas classics and dancin’ loik the little dainty fairies we be. Now wouldn’t that be special. Oh oi feel fer them Norm, oi feel fer them oi do.’

And at long last she drew it to an end, giving the number to call and brandishing a huge sprig of mistletoe above their heads. She turned to kiss her sweet love, finally removing her heel from his grossly perforated foot. As their lips collided in a squelching mass of slobber, Norm, awash with relief breathed a long and strident sigh. Gladys unfortunately took this as the return of misplaced lust and drove the bloodstained heel back into the gaping chasm that once housed an entire foot. As the commercial faded from the television the shrewd viewer was rewarded with a bloodcurdling scream and the sight of Norm reaching for a real, non-cardboard, meat tenderising hammer.

Chapter 2. Little Medusa’s Rumpus

On the ninth day of Christmas…

An old lady stood motionless outside the Humbug and Harp. Rain converged in rivulets along her many wrinkles, running in streaks to sodden her clothes. Her feet wallowed in a puddle. Black clouds, low enough to graze on the rooftops did nothing for her mood. Her bottom lip quivered. The rain penetrated her underwear, and in the roar of precipitation, she grumbled.

Tinkerbell Fanny McWiddle despised duty, or any obligation to further the cause of others. She was her own woman, cantankerous, withered, without standards and cared only for her daily pickled egg and sweet sherry whilst perusing the six o’clock news.

But not today.

For the pleasure had already been thieved. Daily routine had become poisoned with a request. More a command when considering its magnitude and source. No matter how she viewed it, it was a duty. Inescapable, unavoidable, not worth the rumpus of refusal. And so again, she grumbled.

The Humbug and Harp was a pokey old joint. The air hung like blanched spinach mixing with layers of smoke, sweat and ill-tasting ale. Its clientele swarmed in every nook. Outcasts, most of them, familiar and at ease with others of their kind. They were the Humbug’s odour. Loners, losers, lost lovers and drunks. They were safe within its walls. They could stink without oppression from the world outside.

One such odour was the sole property of Old Bill Rodgers. He sat with his elbows on the bar, both of them soaking puddles of ale as if his lonesome mouth needed assistance. His barstool was like a pet, loyal only to his buttocks, forcing any intruder to wriggle in utter discomfort. It even had a name.

 Why he was considered to be old he did not know. ‘Old’ was a word he used for buck-kneed artefacts or a lager absent of fizz. His girth had started to spread, and his faded moustache had long since taken the stain of nicotine. He found a liver spot the year before last and recently he asked a bus driver to slow down. But old he was not. He felt as if he were somewhere close to 42. Yet, sadly, none of this he could prove, for as a child his parents had banished him from home after an incident where he’d accidentally ate a winning raffle ticket. The highly coveted jumbo jar of pickled onions would forever lay beyond his parent’s reach, and so their son had to go.

He joined a circus, busked in a swamp, darned socks for the army and sat on a brick of coal for a year in the hope of producing a diamond. Many years passed, many years he roamed. With every passing day the drag on his feet grew heavier, his sullen mood became etched onto his soul, and the shadow under his eyes simply never faded.

It was a cold winter night when three bottles of rum finally told him to start his life again. Strip naked, forget the pickled onions, cast every possession and burn the lot. And so he did. The meagre ball of flames reminded him of what little he had accomplished, and served to keep him warm for all of half a minute. He lay on the coals, his naked body shivering from the bite of winter, and slowly he lapsed into a coma.

The next day only his body roused. He knew his name, remembered the significance of pickled onions, and nothing else. His age, along with the rest of his life, had been erased. And so begun the mystery of Old Bill Rogers.

But then there was always the theory held solely by Clive Motherwell, landlord and imperial ruler of the Humbug and Harp.

‘He’s called Old Bill ‘cause he stinks of piss!’

It’s Clive’s catchphrase, his drawn-out revenge for the time when Old Bill had received a wink across the bar from the landlord’s intended, the delectable Brenda Spencer. Flustered and without detailed knowledge of the opposite sex, Old Bill had once again stumbled on the ill advice of rum. Womenfolk love the scent of a man, it whispered. Go on, this be yer only chance, invite yerself into her nostrils before she be captivated by another. Relieving his bladder on Clive's carpet seemed the right thing to do given the situation, but the resulting puddle, shriek from Mrs Spencer, and roaring landlord told him that rum was not always to be trusted.

No trip to the Humbug and Harp was complete without Clive's explanation of his friend’s ancient prefix. The tale was commonly told in the presence of women folk; a precautionary measure offered for the sole benefit of Old Bill's dignity should any female decide to purr again in his ear. Plus it saved another stain on the carpet. Every night the landlord howled the same words. Every night he rocked his baritone laughter around the bar, and every night, Old Bill, who now actually smells of beef and cologne, cried a little into his sleeve.

But take it to heart he did not. Old Bill’s skin had grown thick from the landlord’s incessant mocking. People like Clive were in fact his only spark, his sole reason for occasionally raising the beginnings of a grin. A tale of unfortunate incontinence it most certainly was, but for a creature so dull as Old Bill, it was at least a tale about him, a time and place where no soul would dare, or want, to step into his glory. And so the tears were now married to Clive's riotous jeering, partly through joy and attention, mostly through the recognition of a dull existence.

***

The young lady stood beside Old Bill, her head jerking like a chicken’s upon hearing Clive’s latest tale of incontinence. She glanced from storyteller to victim, sending her frizzy hair into a ruffle of excitement. Her hands were stuffed with vodka and tonics, and she pecked at Old Bill with her nose. He sighed at the inevitable approach of pity.

‘Gees, you take it on the nose mate.’ She pecked him again, her hair tickling his chin. ‘That fat tosser aught to take a look at himself. You want me to have a pop at him fer you?’ She pursed her lips and dug her eyes into the bellowing landlord. Her voice became shrill and uncomfortably righteous. ‘Rather stink of piss,’ she snipped, pecking the air in Clive's general direction, ‘than smell whatever it be that lives in yer mouth.’

At the sound of little Medusa’s rumpus there happened a stirring in the Foundation of Fellows; a trio of gentlemen whose age had exceeded their ability to count. They sensed trouble brewing and cackled like cauldron-bound witches. Cold, bony hands rubbed in glee amid desperate attempts to stir the incident into a carry-on of flan-flinging proportions.

‘Ooooh goo on Bill, dop the fat bugger on his nose,’ said Bert.

‘Wouldn’t take that from a wily young filly if I were you, Clivey boy,’ added Bert’s comrade, Burt.

The third fellow, ´Glass eye` Gord, merely offered his encouragement with a cough and an excited wheeze.

Old Bill went to lay a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder, but her pecking made him reconsider. ‘That lummox,’ he said, rolling his eyes at Clive, ‘just happens to be a good friend of mine. Now if you will be so kind as to excuse me, dear, I have at least another 15 pints to get through before I can even think about gettin’ me shoes wet. Thanks for your heartfelt concern sweetheart, but I think you best be takin’ them vodkas an’…an’…uh,’ His eyes swung away from Medusa, a look of torture riddling his features. ‘I don’t soddin’ well believe it,’ he moaned.

He was staring in disbelief at a battered television set, balancing precariously on a mighty stack of crisps, cockles and pork scratchings. A slim panatela cigar tumbled from his lip and sizzled on the bar. Medusa was but a distant memory, and Clive could not be heard. For at that very moment there existed only the galling images of tinsel, turkey and a festive strumpet cawing about saving for next Christmas. Save today and get a free mince pie with special ouzo custard!  

One after the other, the folk of the pokey pub in Ilkington Yoke began to check and double-check watches, newspapers, diaries, or anything else that bore a date. Holding aloft a calendar in his mammoth hands, Clive was the first to announce his discontent.

Staring at the picture of Miss January doing things one wouldn’t normally do with a petrol pump, he roared, ‘It be the second of January! I’ve still got half a soddin’ turkey in the fridge an’ they want me to start savin’ money fer next year?’ Miss January, along with her periodical sisters and guide to doing all things rude with petrol station accessories, was suddenly torn from ear to arse and cast aside as the walrus warlord of the Humbug and Harp stormed into the backroom, leaving in his wake a billowing trail of profanities.

 The old vultures relished in this unexpected vocal tirade, and sniggered to each other in utter delight. As Clive returned, face crimson with rage and clutching a large block of cooking chocolate, he cut the trio a look that served only to remind them of the occasion when he forcibly removed a nun for refusing a triple vodka and bitters.

‘Don’t loik Christmas do ‘e,’ whispered Bert.

‘Neither do you, ya daft bugger,’ replied Burt. ‘Now shut them wrinkly lips before ‘e sees to yer prostate problem before dat doctor do.’

Gord emptied a lung in support.

Old Bill muttered some words and counted on his fingers. Maybe it was through the shock of seeing such televised evils, or maybe the rum had spoken again, but a small consideration of the consequences would have been favourable when uttering his next words. ‘Well actually, Clive, it’s this year,’ he said, correcting the landlord with a nasal tone of superiority. ‘Next Christmas is actually this year, although technically not all of it because, as we all know, Christmas does in fact last for 12 days, meaning that some of it will take place next ye…’

‘Keep yer brain in yer trousers, pissy pants,’ roared Clive, leaning across the bar and bawling into Old Bill's face. ‘An’ who placed you in charge of Christmas anyway? Follow yer bright flamin’ star to get here tonight, did ya?’ He straightened, rubbed his belly and pondered, before announcing with a clapping boom, ‘Naah, he just sniffed his way to his stinkin’ seat. That’s him, Old Bill. ‘Old’ because he do stink of piss!’ He brought down a mighty hand on the bar, slapping it with enormous might as he howled with laughter at his cruel redemption. He wanted cheers and applause, but found only silence.

Medusa was back, still intent on acting as Old Bill’s salvation. ‘Can’t you just leave the old feller alone? It’s bleedin’ obvious he ain’t got a life worth smilin’ about. And incontinence ain't such a bad…’ She went to continue, but old Bill stopped her dead.

‘Oh sod off, Angelica,’ he snapped.

‘You heard,’ ranted Clive, ‘sling it, you an’ yer band of vodka suppin’ trollops. Yer makin’ me pub smell worse than Ol’ Bill’s underpants.’

‘Ooooh, did eeh just call that there tart a trollop?’ asked Bert with a foreboding croak.

‘Don’t do no good callin’ a tart a trollop, Clivey,’ advised Burt. ‘oi’ve ‘eard they foinds it offensive.’

Clive slid his fingers around a festering ashtray and pitched it in the direction of the cackling fellows.

‘Ooooooooooooh,’ said the Berts.

Gord coughed-up a half-smoked cigarette.

‘Right!’ Medusa boiled with rage, her hair shook wildly, and turning to leave she knocked Bill’s ale into his lap. An uncomfortably reminiscent stain nestled either side of his crotch.

‘Thanks a bleedin’ lot, Clive.’ Old Bill had let his steadfast guard drop and was standing there, seething and dripping in unison. ‘Just one little thing on the box and you see fit to rant like it be Arma-flippin’-geddon.’

‘Well I hate Christmas, don’t I.’

‘And you think that we all love it?  Do you see one smile in this place? One single, pickled loner who relishes being forgotten for yet another Christmas? Is that Jack over there playin’ cards with his new Action Man? Or maybe Maud over there is sharin’ jam recipes with her new, realistic drinking action dolly? Drink driving? Not us matey, we’re all headin’ off home on our pogo sticks an’ tricycles tonight. Because we got so many presents that we just don’t know what to do with them. It ain't true that I’ve been forgotten by me entire family, if I even have a family. No, Clive, I gets so many gifts that Santa be startin’ to charge me freight. Me, hate Christmas? Never! You think that I spend months every year sendin’ Christmas cards to nice-soundin’ folk in the phone book? Don’t be silly. Think I get any replies? Bloody hundreds.’ He felt a tear slither over his cheek, and sat with his face in his hands. He peered through his fingers at the landlord, and said, ‘It be Christmas, Clive, time of good bleedin’ will.’

Clive slid a full pint of ale in front of his nose and said quietly, ‘Merry Christmas, dribble drawers,’ and walked off to serve Jack, who was rather confused and wondering what had happened to his Action Man.

***

Medusa had slipped into the shadows. Her heartbeat thumped hard in her ears. All over, her skin tingled. Her breathing came sharp and fast. She envisaged the event that she was born to accomplish and imagined herself festooned with medals for doing the deed that none had dared to do. The moment was upon her. Clive’s sloth-like movements ambled up the bar to shy around an apology to Old Bill, and then, with the reflexes only achievable by a frizzy peroxide Medusa intent on revenge, she struck. A jerk of her wrist and the yellow, steaming liquid leapt from her glass. Some of it swirled in Clive's open mouth; the rest scored a direct hit on his crisp, white shirt. The landlord retched, spitting out the liquid only to land with a plop in Old Bill's only Christmas present.

She drew her face to Clive's, sniffing in utter disgust, ‘Thought I should let you know that you really do stink of piss. Sorry to be so blunt, but we often skirt around the truth with people of your size. Should do something about it if I were you.’ And with a devilish grin she swirled on her stilettos, composed herself and left, at great speed. Clive stood in shock, rooted silently to the spot. Old Bill gazed nonchalantly at his pint, admired the amber glow, and raised it to Clive.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, and it was down his neck in seconds.

Clive was still ranting when, 23 minutes later, a familiar person edged her way into the pub. She stood in the doorway, shaking and slapping her clothes as if borne of the wildest storm. It was 5:45 in the afternoon, her hair stuck to her face, her bifocals were fogged, and Tinkerbell was still grumbling.

On any normal day, her spirits would lift. The parting doors, warmth and reserved barstool would result in the old dear singing in merry anticipation. Inside the Humbug and Harp she was free of the evils that linger in the outside world. With its gaggle of degenerates and loners, she was safe. The Humbug had been her local for the past 53 years, and since the invention of the six o’clock news she had rested her weary bones upon her stool, sweet sherry in one hand, pickled egg in the other, watching the world go to seed on the very television that had just ruined Clive’s day.

Grumpy she may have been, but to look at she was just the same. Wiry curls, ocean blue and glistening from the deluge outside. Rosy patches of lumpy rouge kept the grey skin of age at bay. Pursed, thin lips. Stubble in the oddest of places. Skin that stretched, and never returned. A ragged beach towel hung casually from her hips, secured only with a nappy pin that not a soul dared touch. On this cobbled sarong was the faded design of a setting sun, palm trees and a bronzed surfer, which according to Tinkerbell was a reincarnation of her late husband, Charlie. But in addition to this visual banquet she wore something of great controversy. Under the circumstances, wearing a Rudolf t-shirt, complete with battery operated flashing nose, would be cast as plain bad timing. But it was a favourite of Tinkerbell’s. For seven years it strayed not once from her skin; a fact that gave little relief to a raging and rather soggy landlord.

The nose flashed on and off in a tireless rhythm, illuminating Tinkerbell's breast. The irrepressibly joyful face of the first reindeer stared endlessly at Clive. The jovial expression refused to let him go, following him from one end of the bar to the other. His fingers twitched. He sweated. His link between Medusa’s assault and Christmas was complete. He stopped and stared at Rudolf with intense hatred. The flashing nose. The flashing nose. The flashing nose. It had to die.

‘Stop starin’ at me tits ya bleedin’ pervert,’ screamed Tinkerbell, hurling her sherry into the landlord’s gazing eyes. ‘That should cool you down a bit,’ she shrieked, sniffing the air with disgust. ‘What’s happened to you me lad, mmm? You stink like a pensioner’s drawers an’ you stand there wiv yer tongue on the bar, starin’ at bits that frankly shouldn’t be considered.’

‘Love oi reckons,’ said Burt.

‘They bees doin’ the camera suture next,’ remarked Bert. Gord looked confused, then went to smile, but coughed instead.

‘What the?’ Clive's eyes started doing funny things. ‘Yer tits? You think I’m starin’ at yer tits? What are you talkin’ about you insane ol’ boot? It be yer t-shirt that’s botherin’ me. Let’s just say that I’d rather you weren’t wearin’ the bleedin’ thing.’ He lowered himself to gaze into her misted spectacles. ‘BECAUSE IT’S ONLY NINE DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS!’

Tinkerbell screeched in alarm, slapping the furious landlord around the chops. ‘See,’ she squawked, ‘he does wanna see me tits!’ Every bleary eye in the establishment swung in her direction. ‘You heard him, undressin’ me with his dirty mouth. You should be ashamed of yerself, Clive Motherwell.’ She clasped her talons around Old Bill's knee, preventing him from vacating his stool and running for cover. Only once before had he seen Tinkerbell and Clive at loggerheads, a night that ended with a mounted policeman donating his steed to the Humbug’s bar menu. ‘You heard him, didn’t ya Bill?’ Hollering in his ear was not entirely necessary as her fingernails had already sunk into his flesh. ‘That bleedin’ landlord of ours wants me to take me top off so he can see me tits!’

‘You wont find ‘em there mate,’ chirped Burt, ‘Oi’ve ‘eard she tucks them into ‘er socks these days.’

‘Nah you silly bugger,’ protested Bert, ‘She do hang them up by the door wiv ‘er walkin’ stick.’

Tinkerbell cast the old men a gaze. One of those gazes. They’d seen her in action before. They shivered. Gord coughed. Her knuckles cracked. She toyed with the hairs on her chin. Her dentures ground like milling stones. Silence reigned. Anticipation saw every punter planning their escape.

And then she broke.

Her cackle split the stillness like an axe to wood. Like a piper leading them astray, not a soul could resist dancing merrily in her footsteps. Old Bill laughed so hard that he submitted to a secret desire for urine in his ale. Bert, Burt and Gord burst into a crow that saw a pair of dentures and a glass eye flying over the bar and into the pickled walnuts. Jack had forgotten about the enigmatic Action Man, and even Clive, the man giant of the Humbug’s helm, was roaring out of control, laughing so hard that he found himself smiling, teeth and all, at the flashing red-nosed reindeer.

***

Even Trevor roused a diminutive snigger. He wanted to laugh more, as loud as the others who all appeared to know every detail of every life in every corner of the pub. But Trevor had never been part of a crowd; he had spent much of his 26 years being avoided, ignored and forgotten, all for reasons that eluded him as if the truth would be too much to bear. But the truth of the matter was far simpler: Trevor Buggercup was a man abandoned by society because he was a moron, plain and true.

But wise he was to the cost of a pint at the Humbug and Harp. At home, in his squalid flat, he had spent all afternoon as he did every afternoon: individually wrapping little parcels of cash, each containing the exact cost of Clive's cheapest brew. Today he had sold his fridge freezer and television, and thus was most delighted at stuffing two whole parcels of beer money into the pockets of his skin-tight jeans. His mood was fresh. He skipped to the pub. He congratulated himself on turning down the offer of extra cash, knowing that a single coin more would result in his pockets over-spilling and, worse still, the placing of undue pressure on a photograph of Nelly Cartwright kept always in his left pocket, close to his loin.

But now the skip had gone, he sniggered no more. Six o’clock was yet to strike, and all his parcels were spent. Into his pockets he delved with bony fingers, desperate to stumble upon hidden treasures. His anxiety accelerated as both hands rummaged together, frantically searching for parcels, nuggets of gold, diamonds, chocolate bars. Anything of value. But only the photo of Nelly could be found, and that was priceless.

During his manic search he failed to notice Tinkerbell and her flashing reindeer eyeing him from afar. Her laughing had ceased. Her grumbling returned. Her duty she had remembered. She looked on in misery at the wiry man, hunched in a frantic search for beer money. ‘Why him?’ she mumbled, and with a heavy heart she thrust a hand into her pocket. There was work to be done.

She needn’t have looked to see if Trevor was casting her a ferocious gawk. The troublesome skinhead’s eyes, green, with an almost touching exhibition of wanton desire, were bearing down on the old lady. She felt them on her, around her and inside her soul. She chastised herself for being scared, but still the feeling remained. In her withered hand she held the trigger, the catalyst and reason for Trevor’s hungry scowl. A large wad of cash.

He was a man pushing himself towards acts of desperation. His thirst grew by the second. Why should she have all that cash? Why do I have nothing? Where’s my fridge freezer? The slavering beast was counting his bounty with increasing fervour, guesstimating the amount, 200, 400, 600? Or are there 50’s in there too? His mind frolicked at the thought of lavish delicacies; cigarettes by the carton, beer by the firkin, keg, barrel or truck, enough cheap Scotch to preserve a herd of Aberdeen Angus, a bucket of cherry flavoured tobacco, a pipe and slippers, and a big, fat chocolate cigar. The aristocracy was finally calling.

But not just yet. Tinkerbell needed strength, warmth from within, and a feeling of might in the face of peril. A triple sherry would do nicely. She beckoned the strangely festive landlord and with her nails tapped three times on the bar. Like a waltzing hippo he twisted, tickled the lid of her favourite bottle and dealt her the medicine she craved. Drawing a grubby note from the bundle she slapped it in Clive's outstretched palm. ‘Keep the change me ol’ mucker,’ she said, grinning as she caught the skinhead twitching with frustration.

The syrupy alcohol was down her neck in a second, sending her frail body into a seizure of pleasure and pain. Clive followed through, sliding under her nostrils a complimentary lick of his most treasured brandy.

‘On the house, twinkle toes,’ he said, and he flashed her the kind of smile that makes an old dear feel safe.

For a while.

He waited for the mad old crow to throw in a piece of her finely honed wit, but nothing emerged, only a head bowed in quiet contemplation, and the laboured wheeze of dread.

‘You alright me love?’ he asked. ‘Somethin’ botherin’ you is there?

Tinkerbell peered back, staring at Clive through tired and burdened eyes. ‘You know what, Clive Motherwell,’ she croaked, ‘it’s bleedin’ hard work savin’ the world all on yer tod.’ And with that, she licked her lick of brandy and lifted her old bones from the stool.

The doors to a cold night lay ahead.

‘You go an’ bag us a villain, darlin’.’ Clive knew the old dear was prone to bouts of fantasy, and setting the television to the six o’clock news, he wandered off to abuse a random customer.

But today the news would go unwatched. Duty beckoned.

Trevor’s stool lay empty.

Outside, the rain tumbled down like lead. No moon, no stars, only cloud and the perpetual chill of a winter’s eve. She shuddered at the thought of imminent pain. He wouldn’t be long. The doors swung shut, amputating the warmth and cheer from inside. Only the flashing red of Rudolf’s nose remained.

She looked down at the dog-eared doormat, and a hand was around her neck, dragging her into the night.

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