Read by Patsy Prince
At 32 years old, Paul was proud to possess the following: 263 friends on Facebook; the kind of ginger hair that made women describe him as "cheeky"; a city job with a six figure bonus; a city flat with a roof terrace; an espresso machine he'd actually used once; a juicer he intended to use as soon as he remembered to buy some fruit; a fiancée who worked in an art gallery and wore Gucci; a mistress who was into bondage and didn't mind about the fiancée. His life was, in his opinion, pukka.
It was especially pukka now that he'd got Christmas sorted. Paul didn't like Christmas if it involved any of the following: his Aunt Peg or his Uncle Ron, his mum's mournful sprouts or his dad wearing joke reindeer antlers at the dinner table. So this year he'd taken control. He'd be staying right here, in the comfort of his own pad. He would spend tomorrow, Christmas day, in his dressing gown, eating his way through a Fortnum's hamper and watching all six Star Wars films back to back. His one gesture to seasonal sociability was Christmas Eve drinks.
Paul raised his glass.
"Merry Christmas, lads and lasses." He'd been hoping for a few more people. There was his fiancée Caroline, festive in a red Armani jumper and tinsel hair clip. His mates from work, Kamal and Jason, toasting at champagne-induced high volume. Then two more dubious guest choices: Julie from the flat downstairs, engulfed by a startling snowflake-patterned cardigan, and a Mr. Dewar, who Paul had only a hazy memory of inviting after a drunken lock-in at the local. He'd already worked his way through half a bottle of Famous Grouse. Still, the flat looked well smart. The Christmas tree was black with silver tinsel and topped with a Playboy bunny. He had left the window blinds up to show off the view, which he liked to tell people had cost him an extra fifteen grand on the price of the flat. From the front window Ludgate Circus was a yellow river of traffic. From the back window the steeple of St. Bride's loomed, a pale wedding cake slick with rain. The topic of conversation was the weather.
"I'll 'ave to stop in at the church and get the buckets out." It turned out Mr. Dewar was a sexton at St. Bride's. Paul regretted inviting him. The lads were taking the piss behind his back.
"It's miserable out there." Caroline said everything in an accusatory tone, like a detective revealing the identity of the murderer. Still, she was loaded, and Chrissie wore too much leather to be potential wife material.
"Not very Christmassy weather. Especially with that graveyard down there. Close the blinds Paul." Paul crossed to the window. Caroline's obsession with the graveyard got on his tits. It was mostly used by office workers looking for a bit of grass to sit on and eat their Pret wraps, but she still refused to stay the night in case she saw, as she put it, something nasty. Still, that suited Paul. He could have Chrissie round with no fear of interruption.
Rain was hitting the window like gravel, and the wind was rocketing round the building. There was still someone out in it, though. He could see a figure staring up at the building from the edge of the graveyard, indistinct in the rain. Admiring the roof terrace, most likely, and who could blame them. You paid a premium for outside space round here. Paul felt a bit sorry for them. They didn't look dressed for the weather. Probably some tramp. He gave what he judged to be a cheery wave. It was Christmas after all. The figure waved back. Paul didn't much like the way it did that. Sort of too quick, eager, as if whoever it was had suddenly recognized him.
"Close the blinds, Paul!" Caroline's whinny made him turn around. When he looked back, the figure had gone. He yanked the blind down to shut out the night.
"Mr. er… was just saying…"
"I was saying it's perfect weather. Darkest time of the year, night before Christmas. Things walking that shouldn't be walking."
"Oh stop it!" Julie shrieked.
Mr. Dewar's eyes gleamed. "Oh yeah, love. It's a long night, Christmas Eve. Used to call the church bells at midnight passing bells when I was a lad. Funeral bells for the devil as Christmas dawns."
"Oh really." Caroline did the laugh that set Paul's teeth on edge.
"I thought it was all about mince pies and Santa leaving presents for good boys and girls, innit?" Kamal loosened his lilac tie.
Mr. Dewar wheezed. "My ma used to tell us something else came for bad boys and girls. Something not so nice. We was well behaved at Christmas, alright."
Paul was getting restless. It was eleven o'clock, and there was a good chance that Chrissie might make it round later after her shift at the bar. He'd had enough of Christmas drinks and was more in the mood for a Christmas shag. He started clinking glasses and scraping plates.
"Time to make a move." Jason slapped Paul on the back.
"Already? If you say so, fella."
"Don't forget to hang up your stocking, you old bastard."
"You'd know all about stockings, mate."
Paul hussled the last of them through the door. He'd thoughtfully ordered a cab earlier for Caroline, so she was whisked away before she had time for more than a "Bye, sweetie."
Paul heaved a sigh, then spun round at the sound of an ominous creak behind him. Mr. Dewar was stretching out in the recliner with a fresh whiskey in his hand.
"Now, that there graveyard. I could tell you some tales."
Paul coughed. "Think I might turn in."
"Fair enough, sonny, fair enough. Mind if I take this with me?" Mr. Dewar rattled the ice in the whiskey. "Shame to waste it."
"Sure, sure." Paul ushered him through the door. The wind was storming the walls, rattling the windows.
"What is it they say? The devil's busy in a high wind?"
Paul had never heard them say this, but he forced a laugh and closed the door.
It was half eleven, and Chrissie's mobile was switched off. This usually meant she was out on the piss. It looked like the Christmas shag was off the cards until tomorrow. Paul decided to call it a night. In bed, he ran through the schedule. Phantom Menace; Attack of the Clones; Revenge of the Sith; break for microwave M&S Christmas dinner; New Hope; Empire Strikes Back; break for Christmas shag; Return of the Jedi. Stonking. There was a thump above him, as if something was on the roof. Probably a pigeon. He listed to whatever it was scratch around, humming the Darth Vadar entrance tune under his breath. TUMM TUMM TUMM tum te TUM tum te TUMM. The wind shouted. It was a lonely sound. The treacherous, wistful thought was creeping into his head. His mum's brandy butter. It had the colour and consistency of grout, but packed enough punch to floor a horse. Even the image of Aunt Peg and Uncle Ron snoring on the sofa in crumpled paper hats was acquiring a nostalgic glow against the background of moaning wind. Paul sat up in bed with a start. There had been a sound from the next room. He listened intently. There it was again. There was definitely something coming down the chimney.
Paul lay absolutely still. There were several perfectly rational explanations: rain; wind; soot; that pigeon. Paul liked the last one best. It would account for the fact that whatever it was sounded like it was wriggling down the flue. He fought away a vision of a fat man with a beard landing in the fireplace. Although… he was sure he'd read somewhere about burglars breaking in down chimneys. Paul got noiselessly out of bed and grabbed a hockey stick he'd never used from behind the wardrobe. He edged open the bedroom door. The flat was silent except for the growling of the wind. He tiptoed down the hall and paused outside the door to the lounge. There was a faint swishing sound, just audible beneath the crying wind and the blood thumping in his ears, like someone inside the room running their fingers over the wall searching for a light switch. Then he had an image of the new PS3 he'd bought himself for Christmas disappearing up the chimney with the burglar. He'd just unlocked the last level on Need For Speed! He burst through the lounge door.
The room was empty. Paul swung round on the spot like the swat teams on NYPD Blue. He crept forward, checking under the coffee table. No one. The wind rattled the window, and a light dusting of soot clattered into the hearth. The PS3 was still there. Paul relaxed. He'd probably been half asleep and it'd been the wind. He leant the hockey stick against the wall and looked at the clock. It was quarter to midnight, virtually Christmas. A whiskey toddy to calm his nerves was in order. Leaning back in the recliner with the toddy in his hand, Paul closed his eyes. The glass sloshed sideways. He slept.
He woke with a start, spilling the whiskey as a pair of hands was placed over his eyes by someone behind him. He grinned. Chrissie had come after all. He groped, trying to grab her bottom.
"Oi!" He twisted his head, but the hands were firm. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
The voice was low, just a whisper in his ear.
"Have you been a good boy?"
Paul giggled. "I've been a bad boy. A very bad boy. I think you'll have to punish me. Severely." He was trying to remember where they'd put the handcuffs after last time.
"Oh good." The person behind him laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. It wasn't Chrissie's laugh. It sounded dusty. Paul twisted violently and the hands came away. He leaped from the recliner. He was conscious, in the low light, of someone wrapped in folds of grayish material, with stringy white hair not quite covering a wet grey scalp. There were eye sockets, but they had nothing in them. There was a mouth, but it was a foul worm hole in a rotten apple, surrounded by the puckered remains of skin. There was a smell of decay.
Paul backed away. Something grasped his wrists. It felt like handcuffs, cold and hard, but it was hands. Skinless hands.
Paul screamed.
***
Leaving the pub on slightly unsteady feet, Mr. Dewar began to weave his way through the gravestones towards the church. He was thinking about the party earlier. Shower of bastards, that lot. Still, generous with the whiskey. He glanced up at the window above him. There was a light on, and he could see a couple going at it inside. He chuckled. He knew the score. He'd been the same at that age. One figure broke free of the embrace, turned to the window and began to wave. Had a skin full, that one, thought Mr. Dewar. Yeah, I can see you, matey. Mr. Dewar raised a hand, and the figure waved more violently. Probably wants that glass back, stingy git. The other figure, the skinnier one with the hair, leaned in again and the waving stopped. Mr. Dewar turned discreetly away to light a cigarette. When he turned back to the window, only the skinny figure was there. He took a drag and adjusted his coat. The figure waved. Mr. Dewar didn't really like the way it did that. Over-familiar, these young folk. No respect.
The rain had stopped and the wind had died down, so the midnight chimes of the church bell rang out clear and sweet over the dark rooftops. Mr. Dewar turned to go. Behind him, the lit up window of the flat was empty. Christmas arrived.
Paul raised his glass.
"Merry Christmas, lads and lasses." He'd been hoping for a few more people. There was his fiancée Caroline, festive in a red Armani jumper and tinsel hair clip. His mates from work, Kamal and Jason, toasting at champagne-induced high volume. Then two more dubious guest choices: Julie from the flat downstairs, engulfed by a startling snowflake-patterned cardigan, and a Mr. Dewar, who Paul had only a hazy memory of inviting after a drunken lock-in at the local. He'd already worked his way through half a bottle of Famous Grouse. Still, the flat looked well smart. The Christmas tree was black with silver tinsel and topped with a Playboy bunny. He had left the window blinds up to show off the view, which he liked to tell people had cost him an extra fifteen grand on the price of the flat. From the front window Ludgate Circus was a yellow river of traffic. From the back window the steeple of St. Bride's loomed, a pale wedding cake slick with rain. The topic of conversation was the weather.
"I'll 'ave to stop in at the church and get the buckets out." It turned out Mr. Dewar was a sexton at St. Bride's. Paul regretted inviting him. The lads were taking the piss behind his back.
"It's miserable out there." Caroline said everything in an accusatory tone, like a detective revealing the identity of the murderer. Still, she was loaded, and Chrissie wore too much leather to be potential wife material.
"Not very Christmassy weather. Especially with that graveyard down there. Close the blinds Paul." Paul crossed to the window. Caroline's obsession with the graveyard got on his tits. It was mostly used by office workers looking for a bit of grass to sit on and eat their Pret wraps, but she still refused to stay the night in case she saw, as she put it, something nasty. Still, that suited Paul. He could have Chrissie round with no fear of interruption.
Rain was hitting the window like gravel, and the wind was rocketing round the building. There was still someone out in it, though. He could see a figure staring up at the building from the edge of the graveyard, indistinct in the rain. Admiring the roof terrace, most likely, and who could blame them. You paid a premium for outside space round here. Paul felt a bit sorry for them. They didn't look dressed for the weather. Probably some tramp. He gave what he judged to be a cheery wave. It was Christmas after all. The figure waved back. Paul didn't much like the way it did that. Sort of too quick, eager, as if whoever it was had suddenly recognized him.
"Close the blinds, Paul!" Caroline's whinny made him turn around. When he looked back, the figure had gone. He yanked the blind down to shut out the night.
"Mr. er… was just saying…"
"I was saying it's perfect weather. Darkest time of the year, night before Christmas. Things walking that shouldn't be walking."
"Oh stop it!" Julie shrieked.
Mr. Dewar's eyes gleamed. "Oh yeah, love. It's a long night, Christmas Eve. Used to call the church bells at midnight passing bells when I was a lad. Funeral bells for the devil as Christmas dawns."
"Oh really." Caroline did the laugh that set Paul's teeth on edge.
"I thought it was all about mince pies and Santa leaving presents for good boys and girls, innit?" Kamal loosened his lilac tie.
Mr. Dewar wheezed. "My ma used to tell us something else came for bad boys and girls. Something not so nice. We was well behaved at Christmas, alright."
Paul was getting restless. It was eleven o'clock, and there was a good chance that Chrissie might make it round later after her shift at the bar. He'd had enough of Christmas drinks and was more in the mood for a Christmas shag. He started clinking glasses and scraping plates.
"Time to make a move." Jason slapped Paul on the back.
"Already? If you say so, fella."
"Don't forget to hang up your stocking, you old bastard."
"You'd know all about stockings, mate."
Paul hussled the last of them through the door. He'd thoughtfully ordered a cab earlier for Caroline, so she was whisked away before she had time for more than a "Bye, sweetie."
Paul heaved a sigh, then spun round at the sound of an ominous creak behind him. Mr. Dewar was stretching out in the recliner with a fresh whiskey in his hand.
"Now, that there graveyard. I could tell you some tales."
Paul coughed. "Think I might turn in."
"Fair enough, sonny, fair enough. Mind if I take this with me?" Mr. Dewar rattled the ice in the whiskey. "Shame to waste it."
"Sure, sure." Paul ushered him through the door. The wind was storming the walls, rattling the windows.
"What is it they say? The devil's busy in a high wind?"
Paul had never heard them say this, but he forced a laugh and closed the door.
It was half eleven, and Chrissie's mobile was switched off. This usually meant she was out on the piss. It looked like the Christmas shag was off the cards until tomorrow. Paul decided to call it a night. In bed, he ran through the schedule. Phantom Menace; Attack of the Clones; Revenge of the Sith; break for microwave M&S Christmas dinner; New Hope; Empire Strikes Back; break for Christmas shag; Return of the Jedi. Stonking. There was a thump above him, as if something was on the roof. Probably a pigeon. He listed to whatever it was scratch around, humming the Darth Vadar entrance tune under his breath. TUMM TUMM TUMM tum te TUM tum te TUMM. The wind shouted. It was a lonely sound. The treacherous, wistful thought was creeping into his head. His mum's brandy butter. It had the colour and consistency of grout, but packed enough punch to floor a horse. Even the image of Aunt Peg and Uncle Ron snoring on the sofa in crumpled paper hats was acquiring a nostalgic glow against the background of moaning wind. Paul sat up in bed with a start. There had been a sound from the next room. He listened intently. There it was again. There was definitely something coming down the chimney.
Paul lay absolutely still. There were several perfectly rational explanations: rain; wind; soot; that pigeon. Paul liked the last one best. It would account for the fact that whatever it was sounded like it was wriggling down the flue. He fought away a vision of a fat man with a beard landing in the fireplace. Although… he was sure he'd read somewhere about burglars breaking in down chimneys. Paul got noiselessly out of bed and grabbed a hockey stick he'd never used from behind the wardrobe. He edged open the bedroom door. The flat was silent except for the growling of the wind. He tiptoed down the hall and paused outside the door to the lounge. There was a faint swishing sound, just audible beneath the crying wind and the blood thumping in his ears, like someone inside the room running their fingers over the wall searching for a light switch. Then he had an image of the new PS3 he'd bought himself for Christmas disappearing up the chimney with the burglar. He'd just unlocked the last level on Need For Speed! He burst through the lounge door.
The room was empty. Paul swung round on the spot like the swat teams on NYPD Blue. He crept forward, checking under the coffee table. No one. The wind rattled the window, and a light dusting of soot clattered into the hearth. The PS3 was still there. Paul relaxed. He'd probably been half asleep and it'd been the wind. He leant the hockey stick against the wall and looked at the clock. It was quarter to midnight, virtually Christmas. A whiskey toddy to calm his nerves was in order. Leaning back in the recliner with the toddy in his hand, Paul closed his eyes. The glass sloshed sideways. He slept.
He woke with a start, spilling the whiskey as a pair of hands was placed over his eyes by someone behind him. He grinned. Chrissie had come after all. He groped, trying to grab her bottom.
"Oi!" He twisted his head, but the hands were firm. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
The voice was low, just a whisper in his ear.
"Have you been a good boy?"
Paul giggled. "I've been a bad boy. A very bad boy. I think you'll have to punish me. Severely." He was trying to remember where they'd put the handcuffs after last time.
"Oh good." The person behind him laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. It wasn't Chrissie's laugh. It sounded dusty. Paul twisted violently and the hands came away. He leaped from the recliner. He was conscious, in the low light, of someone wrapped in folds of grayish material, with stringy white hair not quite covering a wet grey scalp. There were eye sockets, but they had nothing in them. There was a mouth, but it was a foul worm hole in a rotten apple, surrounded by the puckered remains of skin. There was a smell of decay.
Paul backed away. Something grasped his wrists. It felt like handcuffs, cold and hard, but it was hands. Skinless hands.
Paul screamed.
***
Leaving the pub on slightly unsteady feet, Mr. Dewar began to weave his way through the gravestones towards the church. He was thinking about the party earlier. Shower of bastards, that lot. Still, generous with the whiskey. He glanced up at the window above him. There was a light on, and he could see a couple going at it inside. He chuckled. He knew the score. He'd been the same at that age. One figure broke free of the embrace, turned to the window and began to wave. Had a skin full, that one, thought Mr. Dewar. Yeah, I can see you, matey. Mr. Dewar raised a hand, and the figure waved more violently. Probably wants that glass back, stingy git. The other figure, the skinnier one with the hair, leaned in again and the waving stopped. Mr. Dewar turned discreetly away to light a cigarette. When he turned back to the window, only the skinny figure was there. He took a drag and adjusted his coat. The figure waved. Mr. Dewar didn't really like the way it did that. Over-familiar, these young folk. No respect.
The rain had stopped and the wind had died down, so the midnight chimes of the church bell rang out clear and sweet over the dark rooftops. Mr. Dewar turned to go. Behind him, the lit up window of the flat was empty. Christmas arrived.
--
The Bad Boy was read by Patsy Prince at the Liars' League Santa & Satan event on Tuesday 11 December, 2007.
Emily Cleaver has aspirations of being a writer, so she works in a secondhand bookshop on Charing Cross Road where they expect that kind of thing. She’s had work published in Smoke magazine, on various websites, and One Eye Grey magazine.
Patsy Prince trained at RADA and King's College London. Most recently she appeared in the new comedy drama series Sold on ITV1. Theatre credits include: Voices From September 11th (The Old Vic), Like Being Killed (Actors’ Centre NYC) and Hidden Voices (Paradoxos Theatre Co., National Tour). She has a website at: www.patsyprince.com
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