Last Minute First Published in 2016

As Part of Bah Humbug! A Christmas Anthology

Published by EyeCue Productions

Copyright © 2016 Duncan P. Bradshaw

The EyeCue Logo Copyright © 2016 Duncan P. Bradshaw

The right of Duncan P. Bradshaw to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Ding dong merrily on high, may Rudolph not leave you any poo dumplings after eating the carrots you leave out for him.

Cover and internal design by EyeCue Productions

“You little sod!” Steve scrunched the betting slip up in his hand and lobbed it towards the near empty glass of cider, left behind by the table’s previous residents. It hit the lip of the pint glass, bounced off and joined the rest of the detritus on the floor. “About right…sums up my luck today. Ah well, least that nag will get a nice Christmas present. An express appointment at the glue factory,” he let out a little guffaw, and sunk the remainder of his lager.

Looking around the bar, packed with people laden down with carrier bags, bursting with all manner of potential presents, a small spark of recognition flickered in his brain, before being replaced by the more pressing matter of his now empty glass.

“Why not, one for the road, must have plenty of time still.” Digging through the multiple layers of clothing, he snuck a quick glimpse at his watch before counting out his change.

Then his brain caught up.

He yanked his sleeve up again and looked at the time, “Bollocks…”

On wobbly legs, now dealing with the after effects of a steady afternoon’s worth of drinking, Steve picked up his empties and tottered to the bar. Depositing them and letting out a chirpy, “Cheers then,” he braced himself for the freezing cold world outside.

Leaving the warm enclave of the Drowsy Donkey public house, he was greeted by the distant sound of a choir singing carols. Unlike most of the spotty Herbert’s that came round his house, scrounging for cash whilst murdering Silent Night, this lot seemed to know how to sing.

Which was nice.

The harmonious melody acted as an odd soundtrack for the pandemonium of the crowds. Men weaved around each other, clutching carrier bags way too big for their contents. Panic filled eyes looked from glittery shop window to glittery shop window, desperately trying to remember their partner’s favourite perfume, or what the hell the middle sprog wanted.

Was My Little Pony still in vogue anymore?

Who is the bird on that Chanel advert?

What the actual fuck was a Zoomer Chimp?

Is wrestling fixed?

All of these words and thoughts coalesced into a festive scene of an inebriated, angry wife, and three children wondering why on earth Father Christmas had brought them a set of tungsten carbide drill bits, and a Turtle Wax gift set.

No.

Not again.

Not this year.

Allowing the booze to replace the thought of utter disappointment with that of a burning log fire, mince pies and a healthy measure of port, Steve rubbed his hands together, trying to instil some life into his already numb digits. With his internal GPS locking onto the sole department store in town, he took his first tentative step to salvation.

Unfortunately, he failed to see the patch of black ice and landed on his tail bone, his landing making him swear loudly enough to make the choir stop singing. After gingerly standing up, and skidding on the spot like a cartoon animal, he began to pigeon step off. To glory!

No sooner had he stood afore the promised land, the Christmas tree within the size of a small county, than the security guard ushered out the last pathetic looking man, still studying exactly what the fuck he had bought, and closed the doors. Steve frowned, checked his watch, and uttered a solitary, “Bollocks,” before balling his fists and banging on the reinforced glass, to the tune of Good King Wenceslas.

With a smirk, the security guard pointed to one side, towards the Christmas opening hours, which informed Steve, that he was one minute and ten seconds out of luck. His face sunk, the security guard revelled in the deflation, grinned and made the internationally renowned hand gesture of wanker, before disappearing back into the bowels of the shop. He even allowed himself a cheeky little heel kick jump, just to show Steve what an utter bastard he was.

Despite the arctic conditions, a bead of sweat turned into a tsunami, and cascaded down Steve’s forehead, which did nothing but lower his core temperature, as the air chilled it on his skin. Though given his current predicament, death was looking like a viable option.

Steve turned back, looking desperately around the shopping precinct. As if on cue, a veritable Mexican wave of retail denial rippled from shop to shop. Doors were shut, locked, and lights dimmed within. The façade to a well-known toy shop, undoubtedly containing something for all of his kids, seemed to laugh heartedly.

In his mind, he could hear the array of shops mocking him:

“What a twat.”

“No perfume for you Mister, perhaps you could make your own from a tramp’s bile duct?”

“Say daddy, which end of this machete do I hold? AAAARGGGGGHHHH, my fingers.”

“Nice one Steve, this crotchless penguin onesie is too big.”

Annoyed with his internal monologue for putting him into an even fouler mood, Steve slapped himself, trying to stir his spirits from the precipice of doom. “Sod it, the garage is still open, I can get something from there. Little Jamie would love to get some charcoal. He could help daddy build a big roaring fire tomorrow morning.”

He tutted, “Yeah, so mummy can roast daddy’s nuts. Come on you idiot…every year, the same, it doesn’t have to be big, it doesn’t have to be clever, it just has to be….something. Anything. Just nothing which can be traced back to the local Quantico Fill ‘Er Up and Go at the bottom of the road, or next year, I’m going to be drinking my own piss through a sock covered tankard. Come on man…think.”

Plodding into the centre of the pedestrianised square, he looked around, trying to find salvation. Then, from above, a bright light flared in the sky. “Ooooohhhh,” he cooed, as if watching a fireworks display. The yellow bloom arced lazily through the pitch black sky, settling above a block of old houses, nestled next to an alleyway, frequented by the local sexual predators. It hovered above it, flashed twice, then disappeared in a puff of sparkles.

Still mesmerised, Steve stumbled towards it, drawn like a moth to a blowtorch. He came to a halt in front of an old antique style shop. There was a faint light within, emanating from a meagre candle, melted onto the shop counter. Miraculously, he could make out the shopkeeper, a balding man, with wonky teeth, pustules, and sporting glasses held to his face by a boil which had ballooned up, and fused both skin and spectacles together.

Sporting a nifty festive cardigan, which at first glance looked like a posse of reindeer, gang banging a red breasted robin, the man waved a withered hand, not his own, some kind of prop Steve wagered, beckoning the weary shopper within. Despite the appearance of both shop and owner, which had seen better days, probably in a parallel universe of some kind, Steve pushed on the door, which elicited a small bell tinkling, and stepped inside.

It was the smell that hit Steve first; it reminded him of going round to see his grandparents when he was a kid. He detected wafts of lavender, damp tweed and a slight tinge of spilled milk. The shop itself was best described as eclectic, with bookcases of various shapes and sizes, arranged wherever there was suitable space. On the shelves were all manner of crap, from animal skulls to snow globes, which had long since dried up, the snow now formed into a crust over the captive figure within.

The shopkeeper was still grinning as though he was being sexually serviced by someone stashed beneath the counter. His hand continued to tease Steve deeper into the shop. Perhaps he wished to claim him, hollow him out and mount Steve for onward sale?

Finally arriving at the counter, and seeing that the shopkeeper was naked from the waist down, save for a pair of heavily stained y-fronts, Steve resigned himself to looking at the guy square in the face.

“Good day to you sir, why…I wager you’re looking for something for a loved one, or multiples of that number, to send them good tidings, upon this, the most joyful of commercialised holidays,” the shopkeeper lisped.

Steve nodded, “Yeah…though you don’t know how picky my lot are. I gave the little ones a book each last year. Ungrateful so and so’s, they’ll want to know how to cook a variety of sub-continental meals. One day. The missus wasn’t too impressed with the necklace I got her though.”

“Pearl?” the shopkeeper asked, allowing himself a boyish titter.

Ignoring the obvious connotations, Steve shook his head, “Nah, gold. Though it was so moody, it could’ve been mistaken for a teenager.”

For a few awkward moments, silence befell the pair, save for an off kilter squeaking, which sounded like a trapped gerbil. Judging by the state of the shopkeepers underpants, Steve hoped that it wasn’t a call for help from within. The silence was broken by the man bursting into laughter, a noise akin to corn popping in a saucepan on the hob. “Oh, that’s a good one sir, I’ll remember that. Why…I think I can find you something for all of your family members, I’m sure of it.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, the man produced a set of three hollow metal pipes, with an elliptical hole half way down the tube, “Da-dah.”

Steve dared to take one, studied it intently, before shrugging, “I give up, what is it?”

The shopkeeper leaned in conspiratorially, “They are steampunk whistles, from the shores of Dunwall, ne’er hath they been seen in these parts, for quite some time.”

His face unchanged, Steve shrugged again, “And they do what? My kids are about as musical as a whoopee cushion.”

With his hands on his hips, and groin jutting forward, the shopkeeper licked his lips, “You just go ahead and blow.”

“Huh?”

“Blow. Blow it good. Blow it like you would if you were on your knees in a public lavatory cubicle, having to pleasure a man who governs whether you live…or die.”

Steve took a step back, working out whether he should just throw the dice of lady luck at the garage after all, or see what the mad bastard in front of him had in store, “Okay…” Twirling the pipe around in his fingers, he held it horizontally.

“WAIT,” the shopkeeper boomed. Rummaging around in a pocket, he pulled out a small pewter elephant, frozen in the act of tooting his trunk. Placing it on the counter, on top of a flyer for second hand coffins, the shopkeeper bowed shallowly, “Now…”

Holding the pipe in his hands, Steve put it to his lips, the shopkeeper tutted, “No sir, this is a nose pipe, you do not sully it with your mouth. Please, use your nose, as it was intended, by the Great Trumpeter, Marmaduk the Magnificently Proportioned.”

Giving the shopkeeper a look, Steve held it to his nose, and exhaled softly, a haunting aria sounded, taking him by surprise, “Wow, sounds really good, I’m not even trying.”

The shopkeeper nodded, “That’s not all sir, look at the wellyphant.”

“The what now?”

“The wellyphant. Regard...”

Steve smiled, before repeating the pipe blowing process again, as the music filled the dusty shop, he looked down at the pewter elephant, who was now walking merrily along the counter. His little metal belly swung in time with the melody. Walking over to a glass filled with brackish water, he dipped his little trunk in and drunk it. “Holy shit,” Steve screeched, the music stopping, as did the elephant. “How did…how does…why does it? Just…sod it, how much?”

“For you sir, I will require three rectangles of paper which have a ten stamped upon their breast.”

“For all three?”

“Yes.”

“Wow, bonus. That’s the kids sorted, does it work with anything?”

“Yes, it does, though the nose pipes of Kerpluk Khan, must be used sparingly.”

“Why’s that?”

The shopkeeper held the pipe up to his eye as if it were a telescope, “The design is such, that you can get quite the build-up of mucus, if used heavily.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, “Okay…you’re a little random huh?”

The shopkeeper looked back, already wrapping the pipes up in Christmas wrapping paper from the eighties, “Thank you sir. I appreciate your feedback.”

“So…what do you suggest for my wife?”

With the wrapping done in record time, the shopkeeper crouched down, before leaping up, nearly breaking the tenuous hold his underpant elastic had. “This.” In his hand, he held out a plastic looking nose, complete with a bulbous, hairy, wobbly wart.

“Erm…she’s not really into fancy dress. Like. At all. Suggested a sexy archaeologists outfit once, ya know, for Halloween, she didn’t speak to me until Christmas. Then, when she saw that I had got her a Haynes manual for a 1974 Fiat Spider, well…”

“No sir, this is the nose of the Harnham Witch.”

Steve furrowed his brow. Again. “Eh? A witch’s nose?”

“Yes.”

“But how does she smell?”

“I don’t know sir, she’s dead and has no nose, so I’d suggest that she-”

“No! You’re supposed to say terrible. It is the standard response for that setup. Look, doesn’t matter, what does it do exactly? I can’t see Meredith being too made up with the snout of a witch.”

The shopkeeper held the nose out, “Lick the wart and make a wish. But before ye do, make sure you sing a verse from Auld Lang Syne.”

“Eh? Auld Lang Syne? Is that necessary?”

Looking offended, the shopkeeper replied, “Oh yes, very important, for if ye do not, a terrible pox will visit ye home.”

“But I don’t know the words.”

The shopkeeper sighed, “Have ye not heard of Google? Look,” he coughed. “And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie’s a hand o’ thine, and we’ll tak a right guid willie-waught, for auld lang syne.” His tongue - which resembled a greying sponge complete with manky cornflake - slopped out of his head and licked the wart, before he said, “Fetch me a pint of mead, in a flagon of oak.”

Lo, an oaken flagon of mead, appeared in the shopkeepers hands, he raised it to his lips, stopped, said, “Cheers,” and sunk it in one. After an eye twitch of indeterminate length, the shopkeeper nodded towards Steve.

“Fucking hell! You made that appear out of nowhere, that’s amazing!”

Coyly, the shopkeeper replied, “Aye, that it is, the Harnham Witch was known to have coveted many a shiny thing. After they stabbed her, poured boiling tar into her lungs, pulled her arms and legs off, drowned her, pushed metal tacks into her skin, skilfully removed and preserved her nose, before finally setting her still breathing body alight, the villagers ransacked her home, claiming quite the haul of bejewelled goblets for their own.”

“Can I wish for anything?”

“Only material things I’m afraid sir, you cannot change free will, and the request must be something from a simpler time.”

“Eh? A simpler time?”

The shopkeeper sighed, “The Harnham Witch would hardly know what an iPad is, would she sir?”

Steve ahhed, “Of course, gotcha, keep it to silver and gold things yeah?”

“And don’t forget…”

“Gift wrapping is extra?” Steve offered.

“No! You must recite a verse from Auld Lang Syne. That is very important. Perhaps the singular most important thing to have transpired thus far.”

Steve gave the man a double thumbs up, “Gotcha. You, my friend, are a lifesaver, how much do I owe you for the nose?”

The shopkeeper waved his hands, “Oh sir, for this, I require no payment. Merely that you take it and do not return it to my shop, for I will not accept it back.”

“Fair do’s, Meredith is gonna be well happy with that, she loves all that old shit.”

“Are you stoned? You bought magic fucking nose flutes for the kids?” Meredith said, her face reminding Steve of a feral animal, on the cusp of ripping some poor things throat out.

“Hey love! That’s not fair! You weren’t there, the whole thing with the wellyphant, it was amazing.”

“Wellyphant?”

“Sorry, elephant. It moved! Not like remote control, it actually, physically walked across the shop counter, and drank out of the weird blokes glass,” Steve adopted his smug look, certain that it was the perfect time to deploy it.

Meredith folded her arms.

Shit, here it comes.

“I’m not angry Steve.”

Phew.

“I’m just really disappointed in you.”

Nooooooo. That’s worse than being angry, that’s no physical contact for a year bad. I knew I should’ve become a Trappist monk, least you get a kickass robe.

“Are you even listening to me?” Meredith demanded, arms still folded, death stare primed and aimed squarely at her husband.

“Please love, you have to believe me. Hang on, I know how I can prove it.” Steve rummaged through the carrier bag, he wrapped his fingers around the present, and held it out, “Here, Merry Christmas sweetheart.”

The tiniest fissure in Meredith’s demeanour appeared, so minute that if it wasn’t for the fact that they had been school sweethearts, and had to endure…sorry, been madly in love with each other for nigh on twenty years, Steve would’ve put the odd facial expression she was now exhibiting, down as the first sign of an impending embolism.

Unable to present ambivalence in its truest form, she cracked, “Oh Steve, you shouldn’t have.”

Knowing that now was the time to engage smug mode, he passed the present to his wife, “Trust me, this will make up for last year. And quite possibly the seven prior to it…”

“Awwww, sometimes you really surprise me, you know that don’t you? It’s proper wrapping paper too, it’s a little…unorthodox, but still, good work, the seams are well hidden. Plus…it doesn’t smell of petrol. You mister are gonna go in the good books tonight,” Meredith winked. Steve did a mental fist pump.

Unable to contain herself, she ripped the paper off, her look of wonder disappeared faster than the contents of a seventies radio DJ’s hard drive being wiped when the fuzz come a knocking. “Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?” Meredith held the nose out to Steve, who was still beaming from ear to ear.

“Hey! Trust me, it’s worth it, it’s the nose of the Harnham Witch, you can make a wish, and get stuff.”

“What, like magic beans?”

“Eh?”

“Honestly, for a moment there, I actually thought that you’d gone some way to digging yourself out of the hell you’ve put me and the kids through. I don’t ask for much at Christmas, I sort pretty much everything else out on my own. I cook the dinner, put up with your racist father and your narcoleptic mother, who falls asleep whilst faceplanting the gravy boat. All I ask, is that you buy me and the kids one thing each. That’s not too much is it? IS IT?”

Steve shook his head, “Seriously love, give it a go, if it doesn’t work, then…we’ll do what you suggested, we’ll go see a counsellor, speak to someone. Deal?”

Grudgingly, Meredith nodded her head, “Fine. So go on then, how does this magical nose work?”

“Simples, three things, you gotta sing a verse from Auld Lang Syne, lick the ole wart there, and then make a wish. But it has to be for something a bit ye olde worlde, ya know, like a cassette tape or a fancy brooch or something.”

Meredith pulled a face, “Auld Lang Syne? Why?”

Steve shrugged, “No idea, but he seemed dead set on it, said something bad would happen otherwise.”

“Like what? Getting a witch’s nose from your loving husband at Christmas?”

Taking a leaf out of the United Nations, Steve looked around the room, making a mental note to drop some hints about Meredith removing the cobwebs from the alcove above the wardrobe. Realising his wife expected some kind of response, he replied, “Huh?”

“Fine, let me see if I can remember the words…every year we sing it, why can’t I remember the words?”

“Because no-one ever can! Seriously, by the time midnight rolls around, we’re usually drunk, that’s even if we’ve made it to midnight and haven’t fallen asleep because one of the kids has been playing up all day. Come on, let’s just do the first verse, how hard can it be?”

Linking hands, in that weird way people do, which looked pretty lame considering it was just the pair of them, (though unknown to them, the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future joined in, but they weren’t gonna let on that they were around, perhaps hoping to appear in the sequel), the pair began to half-heartedly sing.

‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never…mmmm de mmmmm, should auld acquaintance be forgot, for the sake of auld lang syne.”

Meredith looked at Steve, “That doesn’t sound right, we mumbled a bit at the beginning, and completely winged the ending.”

“Look, love, this isn’t the Evil Dead you know, it’s a witch’s nose, not the Necronomicon Ex-Mortis. I doubt very much it’s going to try and bite your hand off, whilst then forming an evil version of you.”

“I guess.”

“Especially considering that you’re pretty evil already.”

“Oi! Cheeky!” Meredith elbowed him in the ribs, making them both laugh.

“Come on, lick the wart, make a wish, and then you and I can retire to bed, gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

Scrunching her face up, Meredith licked the wart, and said, “I wish for a shiny golden doubloon.”

Nothing.

Well, I say nothing, Steve broke wind.

Meredith held the nose up to her face, “See, nothing-”

Before she could finish, the nose wrinkled and sneezed, coating Meredith in a thick gloopy layer of pale green ectoplasm, complete with desiccated eye of newt and leg of toad. With a look one could only describe as pure unadulterated disgust, Meredith passed the nose back to Steve, who was agape with wonder, slapped him, and began to scoop the gunk from her face. “Someone is sleeping in the spare room tonight. We’ll discuss your little practical joke in the morning.”

“But…I…” Steve mumbled.

Meredith pointed to the door, “Go, before I introduce the fibre optic Christmas tree to your colon.”

Shoving the nose in his pocket, Steve shuffled out of the bedroom, and headed for his overnight sanctuary.

In the midst of a dream involving a mermaid who had been created in reverse, so she had human sexual organs, but a fishy head, Steve was woken up by a gentle shaking. Bleary eyed, he looked from an alarm clock which informed him it was just past one o’clock in the morning, to the youngest of his three children, five year old Imogen. Pulling the threadbare duvet up and over his head, he muttered, “What is it love? Daddy is trying to get to sleep. Father Christmas won’t come if you’re awake now will he? He hates kids that are up and about, peering at their sleeping parents.”

Imogen shook him again, “Daddy, he’s already here.”

Wondering if this was all part of the mermaid’s plan to get him to do the business, he asked, “Who is?”

“Father Christmas.”

“That’s lovely Imogen, go back to sleep now.”

“But he’s downstairs…”

“Of course he is love. Daddy is very tired, go back to bed.”

“…and he’s kissing mummy.”

Steve sat up bolt upright, “Like fuck he is.”

Imogen slapped her hands over her ears, “Daddy, don’t say rude words. Potatoes will grow in your ears otherwise.”

Shaking off the tentative hold of slumber, Steve swivelled on the bed and stood up, recoiling in pain as he trod on a piece of Lego. Wiping his eyes, he asked again, “Sorry love, who is downstairs?”

“Father Christmas.”

“Really?”

“Well duh…he’s got a red coat on and it’s got white bits.”

“And he’s kissing mummy.”

“Yes, and she must be liking it as they’ve been there a while.”

“Right…” Steve stood up and pitter pattered towards the doorway, along the way, he picked up his son’s cricket bat, twirling it in his hands. “So…wanted me out of the way, so you can go and play tongue hockey with that bastard next door? I’ll fucking show you.”

He crept down the stairs silently, sticking to the sides to avoid creaking, and headed towards the living room door. It was ajar, just a crack, but a haze of weak light shone into the hallway.

He teased the door open with the toe of the bat, and there, true to Imogen’s word, was Meredith, in the embrace of a figure dressed as Father Christmas, who had his back to him. Blind rage took over, and Steve stormed into the room, “Get off my wife you toerag,” he yelled. Pulling the bat back, he twatted Santa across the back of his head, making the conjoined pair jolt from the blow.

It was only now, stood in front of them, did Steve start to pick out odd little details about the scene. The red suit for one, wasn’t a jacket and trousers, but a fur lined red velvet cloak, heads of the unfortunate squirrels, whose pelts had been used, bounced as the bat struck. What he thought was a hat, with a white bauble at the end, was a plaited length of greasy hair, threaded through a section of spine.

Steve stepped backwards, realising that he may have been a tad hasty, “Err, sorry Santa…mate…just…ya know, you can’t really blame me, it all looks a little bit sexy mermaid. I mean fishy.”

The figure’s head moved, so it faced straight forwards, he saw Meredith slump backwards in the visitors hold. Something was different about her, but he couldn’t work out what. There was something covering the middle of her face. He leant in for a better look, before realising what it was, letting out a whimpered, “Oh shit.”

Meredith had a gaping hole where her nose should be, pulled off with such force, that it had taken most of her top lip and the skin up to the bottom of her eyelids. The red flesh and virginal eye sockets of bone glistened from the firelight. She was unconscious, saved from the horror visited upon her form. Steve gulped, “Who are you? What have you done to her?”

Slowly, the figure’s head began to twist, whilst its body remained rooted to the spot. Bones cracked and splintered as it continued on its path, revealing a woman’s face. Though what gawped back was a haggard, mouldering face. Skin sloughed from cheekbones, as if it had been melted, forming pouches of green skin, under which centipedes skittered. Eyes, the whites of which had turned red, from avenues of burst blood vessels, looked back blankly. A tongue, dry as sand paper, ran across pegs of blackened teeth, rasping as it went. Steve noticed that the woman was also missing her nose, as though it had been removed surgically. A perfect hole remained, the exposed cartilage looked like an upside down heart.

“I think you know who I am sonny,” the woman cackled. As fast as a rattlesnake, the woman’s head flipped back to the front, and snapped downwards, encompassing the entirety of Meredith’s skull. His wife went limp in the woman’s arms, who now turned to face him. The woman’s jaw strained beyond any comprehensible limit, holding Meredith in her mouth as if she were trying to eat an entire bowl of spaghetti carbonara in one go.

The woman bit down, and with one loud crunch, bit through Meredith’s neck, spraying Steve with a fountain of gore. Her body sank to the floor, pumping out blood over Steve’s feet. Despite the horror, all he could think of, was how warm it felt between his toes.

His train of thought was interrupted by a loud crunching sound, the woman chewed down on Meredith’s head, as if it were nothing more than an apple. As she ground it in her mouth, she fixed him with a dispassionate stare. With a big gulp, she swallowed the mashed up head whole, and ran a scabrous hand across her lips, letting out a burp which smelt of burnt hair and gummy bears.

Finally, the woman spoke, “You want to know what I want?”

Steve nodded, struck dumb.

The woman leant in closer, and pointed to the gaping hole in her face, “I want my nose back you fool. You set me free from my accursed prison, and now I want my nose back. All those years, making wishes come true, waiting to be made whole again. How quaint that I should arise, on this, the Eve of Christmas, which marks the anniversary of my murder.”

“Convenient…” Steve added. He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out the nose, the witch’s eyes flared, seeing the sight of her well preserved schnozz.

“My precious!” she shrieked.

“Steady on, we don’t want to get into the shit ya know, let’s just stick to hat tips and nods to inspirations, whilst casually ripping off public domain stuff, deal?”

Grudgingly, the Harnham Witch nodded, “I meant to say, my special! That works, yeah?”

Steve nodded.

“Good, so hand it over.”

“Daddy, why is Father Christmas an old woman?” a child’s voice asked.

Turning around, Steve saw Imogen peering around the doorframe, Timmy and Rita had joined her, three floating heads looking at the scene within. “Why is mummy lying on the floor daddy? Have you been knocking her about?” Rita asked.

“Hey! You know I’d never hurt your mother,” Steve protested.

“Not what I told ChildLine,” Rita confessed.

The Harnham Witch cackled some more and rubbed her calloused hands together, “And wee bairns too, they will reduce down a treat in my pot. Hmmmm, been too long since I had boiled brat for breakfast, they look plump, you feed them on maize?”

Steve clenched the bat tighter, “Shut up vile crone. You may have murdered my wife, but you’re not going to hurt my kids.” Screaming at the top of his lungs, he pulled the bat over his head, smashing the lampshade in the process. Ignoring the sparks shooting out from the destroyed light housing, he brought the bat down on top of the witch’s head.

There was a squelch, as it connected with the soft sallow skin, and pushed her head down into her body, her mouth now level with the top of her chest. The children cheered, “Go on daddy, kick her flipping head in,” Imogen shouted.

Spurred on, Steve ducked to one side and walloped the witch in the back of her knees, sending her sprawling to the floor. As she smacked into the ground, he put one foot on the small of her spine and brought the bat down again and again, into the back of her skull. After a few lusty blows, there was a crack, like ice being dumped in warm Bacardi and coke, and the witch’s head caved in. A swarm of fat bodied flies took flight, buzzing out of the breach, bumping against Steve’s face.

Seeing that the fire was still going, Steve put a foot against the witch’s body and began to roll her towards the roaring blaze. As she got closer, the witch began to thrash around, which sent lengths of rotting brain into the air and over the once pristine carpet, now ruined by soaked in blood and brains.

A shower of fiery embers landed on her clothing, near bone dry from her incarceration within the ancient curse. Steve managed one last kick, and the old woman rolled into the pile of red hot logs, making a huge WOOSHing sound as she went up like a petrol soaked shell suit. The witch began to melt, strands of skin looped from her bones and landed against the floor, creating a thick lattice web.

She went to cackle again, and utter some hideous curse, but a backdraft of flame took her face clean off, exposing a manky skeleton beneath. Teeth clacked against each other, unable to make any sound as the vocal chords were baked within her melted flesh.

Steve rammed the bat into the centre of the witch’s face, making it shatter like glass, shards of bone scattered across the hearth. He darted over to his kids, who had grown tired of the spectacle and were already playing a variety of games on mobile phones and tablets. He pulled them in close, hugging them tightly. In turn, he kissed each one softly on the head, nodding wordless messages of condolence to each in turn.

As the fire began to die back, the witch reduced to ash and cinder, he turned to Imogen, “So, what do you want Father Christmas to bring you?”

Taking a moment to think, she turned and said, “Mummy!”

Steve’s heart sank, he smoothed down his daughters hair, and said, “I’m sorry Imogen, but your mummy…she’s dead…”

A chorus of children asking whiny questions followed:

“Who is going to cut my hair now?”

“Will you make roast potatoes like mummy used to?”

“Which witch is which?”

“Has mummy gone to Devon?”

“Are we nearly there yet?”

“I need to go wee-wee.”

Steve held his hands up, “Woah now little ones, let’s not go all mental within a few seconds of your mother having her head bitten off by a witch. Look, here’s the deal, I’m gonna look after you now, it’ll be cool, honest. I’m gonna make this Christmas the best ever! We’ll play games, watch films till late, paint on the walls, heck we can even drag the charred remains of the witch from the fire and bury her in the forest. Does that sound like fun?”

Three blank faces looked back.

“Burying a body in the woods?”

Still nothing.

“In a shallow grave?”

Nowt.

“Well, tough, I’m your dad, you’ll do as I say from now on. The ground is frozen, so you lot will have to help. Plus…I’m not entirely convinced the local constabulary will believe what happened, so we’ll have to dispose of the evidence.”

Imogen shook her head, “But what about mummy?”

Steve clicked his fingers together, and began to rummage through the pile of blood soaked presents. Picking up the gifts he had bought mere hours earlier, he passed them to each child in turn, ruffling their hair, and calling them variants of champ, buster, scamp, and oddly, tinker. They each tore the paper off, and looked at the nose pipes blankly.

Grabbing hold of Meredith’s wrist, he dragged her decapitated body across the floor, dumping it in front of the kids, who were surprisingly nonplussed by the whole thing. “Now, one at a time, blow the pipe thing with your nose. Okay?”

Imogen placed the back of her hand against her father’s forehead, “Are you ill daddy? Are you going to die? Are we going to become poor orphans and have to survive in some musical tale of our lives?”

“No! C’mon, give it a go, when you do, keep an eye on mummy, okay?”

Huffing, Imogen put the nose pipe of Kerpluk Khan under her nostrils and breathed out, spraying almost as much snot out as air in the process. A beautiful melancholic song rang out, “Look,” Steve said, hugging the children tighter, and pointing at the headless body of their mother.

Meredith’s limbs twitched, before they pushed her body up to stand on all fours. As she did so, a length of spinal column, plopped out of the ravaged hole in her neck, which was still dripping with blood.

“WOW,” Timmy said, “can I touch her daddy? Please?”

“Of course you can, just be gentle with her though, okay? No rummaging around in the wound, we’ll seal that up later with some carrier bags and sticky back plastic.”

“Don’t you mean Sello-”

Steve pressed a finger against Rita’s lips, “Hush child, no product placement, m’okay?”

With Imogen still playing the nose pipe, Meredith pottered around the room, butting against furniture, and offering rides to and from the bottom of the stairs, for each child in turn. When Imogen tired, Timmy and Rita took a turn. Steve came back from the kitchen, holding a plate of mince pies, “Come on you lot, tuck in.”

The four of them sat on the floor, stuffing their faces with Christmas sweets and crisps, Steve had a cheeky mug of port, thinking it was well deserved. As Rita stopped playing, and Meredith came to a halt in the middle of the room, Steve rested the plate on her back, “Doesn’t mummy make a lovely coffee table?”

The children unanimously agreed, and, after they all retreated to the sofa, quickly fell asleep, all hugged up together. As the last of the wood burnt out on the fire, Steve squeezed them gently, “Merry Christmas little ones, Merry Christmas.” Seeing she was in range, he popped his feet on Meredith, who doubled up as a half-decent foot rest, and went to sleep.

Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas and all that jazz, I love this time of year, sure it ain’t what it used to be when you’re a kid, but things change when you get older, nature of the beast unfortunately. Still, it means a few days off work and a chance to spend some proper time with friends and family.

I hope you enjoyed this little story, if you feel so inclined, go and like him my Facebook page over at https://www.facebook.com/duncanpbradshaw/ or have a peek at my website http://duncanpbradshaw.co.uk/

I’m sure I have a book which will take your fancy.

Dunk