short story Archives - Kirsty France Writes

Posted on 16th December 202416th December 2024 by Kirsty France — Leave a comment

The Last Noel

Becky looked up at the clock and was dismayed that only three minutes had passed since she last checked. She scanned the shop floor in front of her. Still empty. It was hardly surprising. You’d have to be pretty desperate to venture down to the basement on Christmas Eve. The last customer she’d served had left two and a half hours before, and they’d only needed batteries so their kid’s new toy would work on Christmas morning.

“The choir of children sing their song, they practised all year long,” sang out over the speaker.

Becky had heard that song at least a billion times since the Christmas music started on November 27^th. She thought the children must be slow learners since they were only singing ‘ding, dong’ over and over again.

She looked up at the clock again. Four minutes this time. Another glance around the shop told her no one had come in. She wondered why they stayed open on Christmas Eve but realised she knew the answer. Mr Parker wouldn’t risk someone coming in for a last-minute gift, batteries or wrapping paper to find their doors closed.

“We could be the difference between the perfect Christmas and disappointment,” he’d said, leaning in just a little too close.

She and Emily had asked if they could leave early as the shop was deserted when they came back from lunch break. He’d been watching her with an oily smile when she handed over the pack of AAA batteries an hour and 45 minutes later.

Becky distracted herself by wondering, again, how old he was. He insisted on being called Mr Parker when all their other duty managers used their first names. They all wore smart trousers and polo shirts with their name badges, but he always wore a suit and tie. Maybe he wanted to look older than he was. Becky was sure he was older than her, but probably not by much. Perhaps he’d got his job via the graduate scheme and would move on to learn about another department soon.

She couldn’t wait to go to university. Six months ago, a year out to earn some money and take out fewer student loans had felt like a good idea. People had warned her that retail was tough, but it was this or bar work. At least her obnoxious customers here were mostly sober. They might shout at you but didn’t pin you in a dark corner because your skirt sent the wrong message.

Becky straightened up as she heard footsteps on the stairs next to her counter. She turned to smile at Emily as she came into view. Becky realised they made unlikely friends on the surface. Emily bore all the hallmarks of a well-brought-up, middle-class young lady who was always immaculately turned out. Becky had got the job on the condition that her uniform must always cover her tattoos, and she’d only wear a stud in her nose instead of a ring. They’d started at the same time and had quickly discovered, during shared lunch breaks, that they were both there for the same reason. A shared bus journey home had cemented their friendship, even though Emily had carried on to the more expensive outer suburbs after Becky got off.

“Deserting your post?”

Emily smiled. “I almost thought Parker was hiding behind you just then!”

“I’ve had lots of time to perfect my impression. What are you doing down here?”

“It’s as dead up there as it is here, but Anne convinced Parker that you might need my help, so here I am! Honestly, I could have kissed her. She’s a lovely woman, but as I don’t know anything about children or dogs, our conversation is a bit limited.”

“Well, I definitely need your help. I’m dying of boredom. Have you got any plans for tonight?”

“Some of my school friends are back from uni, so we’re going to the pub to catch up. You?”

“Dunno. After the Christmas party, I’m not really in the mood to go out. I’ll probably end up listening to Mum argue with Dad about whether illegal immigrants are going to eat our cat.”

“Ugh. Hopefully, there’ll be something good on TV to distract you.” Emily stopped speaking, and Becky felt the silence had reached out to touch her. “Are we still, erm, you know…”

“Yeah. As long as you’re sure. This isn’t your fight.”

“Of course it is. He needs to know he can’t behave like that and get away with it.”

“Behave like what?” Parker must have tiptoed down the stairs. He stood a few feet away, gazing at them expectantly with raised eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like a work-related conversation. I don’t pay you to stand around chatting.”

“You don’t pay us at all,” Emily muttered.

His expression reminded Becky of her grandmother’s face when she was pretending to be too deaf to understand the things she didn’t want to hear.

“Emily, why don’t you go upstairs and help Anne? It’s nearly closing time.” He watched Emily climb the stairs before turning to Becky. “You can cash out your till.”

“Will do. Oh, I almost forgot. My key was jamming when I logged back in after lunch. Could I borrow yours?” Parker rolled his eyes as if she’d purposely arranged the malfunction. “I need to go to the top floors and check everyone’s cleared out. Come with me to open the lift, and then you can have my keys.”

“But –”

“But what?”

“I thought the lift was only for when you’re taking stock with you.”

Parker stepped closer until she flinched away from the smell of his breath. “Are you a manager? Your badge doesn’t say so, whereas mine does. Stay in your lane, missy.”

He flourished the keys as he walked, like a bargain basement prison warder. Becky saw his smug smile and thought it was amazing that someone could get that much pleasure from being the custodian of a key to the service lift. He turned the key to open the door, handed her the keys and pressed the button for the second floor. Becky watched as the lights showing which floor the lift had reached got to the top before turning back towards her till.

…

They’d missed the last bus home. The police inspector had kind eyes and told them a constable would take them home as soon as they’d finalised their statements.

“Thank you, inspector,” Emily said as she hugged Becky. “I’m just so relieved Becky’s OK.” She turned to her friend. “When we heard the scream, I thought something terrible had happened to you. When I looked round and saw you halfway down the stairs… I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved.”

The inspector nodded. “It’s strange he got into the lift alone if it was only meant for moving stock. We’ll get to the bottom of it though, don’t you worry. I can only imagine it was some sort of technical issue.”

“It must have been,” Emily replied. “That lift only moved if you had a key, and he had the key with him, didn’t he, Becky?”

Becky nodded slowly and gulped as the sick feeling rose in her throat.

“Yes, I wanted to double-check that with you. Now, you went upstairs to return a key, is that right?”

“That’s right. He lent me his till key because mine wasn’t working.”

“But the other keys stayed with him?”

“Yes. Only managers can have a lift key. He was a stickler for the rules. I handed him back the key, he put it back on the ring, and I went down the stairs. Then I heard the scream. Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

They’d only meant to scare him. Every night since the Christmas party, Becky had woken drenched in sweat, reliving what Noel Parker had done to her. She only wanted him to feel that same fear, and Emily helped her find the way. Becky had climbed all the way up to the second floor. His clammy skin had touched hers as she handed him his keys, and he smiled as she shuddered.

How was she to know he’d be distracted and step straight into an open lift shaft?

Posted on 17th December 202317th December 2023 by Kirsty France — Leave a comment

Death on a snowy night

The setting for death on a snowy Christmas night

“Of course, I didn’t realise I’d just seen a murder.”

They all stopped talking when I said that.

“You saw a what?” Thomas said, his mouth half full of the mince pie he’d shoved in moments before.

“A murder. I mean, when I saw them together, I thought they were just getting some air and he slipped. They said it was an accident. But now I look back, none of it made sense.”

“Anna, are you serious?” Vanessa was staring at me, leaning on the back of the sofa with a glass of sherry in her hand. It’s funny how all of my cousins had got to thirty and suddenly turned into our grandparents.

“Of course I’m serious. It was the view that made me remember.” I realised that my pause had lasted rather too long when I saw Daniel out of the corner of my eye, gesticulating with the remains of his mince pie. His sister Catherine was staring at me, looking rather pale.

“You know how we all joke that Gran and Gramps always put us in the same rooms as if we’re still nine instead of thirty-nine?”

“Speak for yourself,” Thomas replied. Was he still chewing the same mince pie, or had he crammed another one in?

“OK, thanks for the reminder. Anyway, I was looking out of the window in my room earlier and realised I was looking at the same view. The snow on the drive and top of the gateposts and the frosty trees beyond. It felt like I was a little girl again.”

“When was this?”

“Thirty years ago. Thomas, it was your first Christmas, so I must have been nine. Ness, you’d have been six, which means you two would probably have been too young to remember.

“But – who was m-m-murdered?” Catherine sounded terrified. There was a question. What was his name?

The Christmas routine in my grandparents’ house hadn’t changed since 1958, when they brought their first child, my Dad, home from the hospital. Christmas Eve was for church, Christmas Day for family, and Boxing Day brought their friends from the village for lunchtime cold cuts and pickled onions, followed by drinking and nibbles that could go on until the early hours. Each Christmas celebration blended into the next. The only difference was that one of Dad’s three siblings occasionally added a new cousin for me to play with. I tried to remember the man who died that day. He was a big man, tall with strong, broad shoulders and dark hair. Loud voice, too. I remember being three years old, mute and wide-eyed, when he’d burst into the room and shouted ho-ho-ho down at me. What was his name?

“Brendan. I think. Something like that. I’m sure he had an Irish accent.”

“Oh, him!” Vanessa exclaimed. “Yes, I remember him a bit. Absolutely massive and with a habit of pretending to be Father Christmas even though he never wore the suit.”

“Yes!”

“I don’t remember anything happening to him.”

“Do you remember ever seeing him again?”

Vanessa frowned slightly, then shook her head. “Now you come to mention it, I thought – actually, I don’t know what I thought. I can’t say I missed him.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t remember anyone mentioning him again.” Vanessa’s brow was still wrinkled. “Is that odd?”

“Of course not,” Daniel replied, “would you talk about it if someone had died in your house?”

“It wasn’t in the house, though. It was out there.” I waved my hand towards the bay window. The moonlight reflected off the snow, but I could only see the outline of the cars parked outside and the gateposts beyond.

It didn’t matter whether you were a baby or a teenager. In Gran and Gramps’ house, all the children went to bed at seven o’clock. By the time Vanessa and I were teenagers, our parents had learned to bring a stash of snacks and moved the TV from one of their rooms into one of ours. As long as we kept the volume low and our giggles muted, we could chat and watch cheesy Christmas shows until we were actually ready to go to sleep. At nine, I was old enough to feel slighted at being forced into a baby’s bedtime. I had hoped that Vanessa, only three years my junior, would have joined me in protest. However, our traditional post-lunch Boxing Day walk had worked its magic, and Vanessa had to be carried up to bed halfway through the teatime buffet.

I was left, grumpy in my nightdress, to amuse myself in a bedroom that smelt of fresh paint and musty curtain fabric. Mum had left me with a torch and a copy of ‘Matilda’ along with my bedtime milk, but I was still wide awake after I finished the last few chapters. I wriggled out of the tight layers of sheets and blankets and found an eiderdown in the blanket box at the bottom of the bed. If anyone caught me, I could say I’d been cold and needed an extra blanket. It was a complete lie, of course. Gran’s bedmaking resembled something from the ‘Princess and the Pea’, except most of the layers were on top instead of underneath.

I wrapped the eiderdown around me and shuffled to the window. My room was above the drawing room, which was Gramps’ way of describing a place with sofas but no TV. The party was rumbling on below me, with indistinct music and the occasional shriek of laughter. Light from the vast bay window illuminated the snow at the front of the house and turned the parked cars into dark shapes. I recognised the outline of Dad’s trusty Ford, although the snow that had settled on the roof since we arrived on Christmas Eve gave it an odd, lumpen look. The trees kept watch in the distance, reaching their branches towards the dark velvet sky.

I winced and shrunk back from the window as the lights blazed before me. Was there a car? The sudden flare reminded me of headlights, but I couldn’t hear an engine. As I edged back towards my vantage point, I realised that someone had turned the lamps on. They were never lit, and I’d always assumed they didn’t work, but there they were, halogen bulbs blazing and turning everything behind them white. The front door swung open below, and two men emerged. I recognised Brendan immediately. He was the biggest man at the party by half a foot and at least two stones. His companion was harder to identify, but he was obviously a member of the family. All of my male relatives have the same walk—a loping gait that looked like a shrug was travelling forward. At first, I thought it might be Dad. Then the other man turned, and I realised it was Uncle Arthur. My Dad’s youngest brother was the only one of the four who hadn’t contributed any grandchildren or even a significant other. He was the funniest man I knew, always ready with a joke. At Christmas, he’d pull chocolate coins from behind my ears as if by magic. But this wasn’t the Uncle Arthur I knew.

As he turned, I saw his face, screwed up in fury. I leaned closer to the glass but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Even so, I could tell he was shouting. His mouth moved quickly, releasing droplets of spit and foam. He finally paused, and I saw Brendan amble towards him, his arms moving slowly. It was the first time I’d seen that movement, and I didn’t understand what he was doing. Now I do. He was trying to calm things down. It didn’t work. Uncle Arthur started shouting again, except now he was crying too. Why didn’t anyone else come to stop them? Were they watching from the window, expecting it all to blow over? Uncle Arthur put his face in his hands, and Brendan moved to put his arm around him. Big mistake. My Uncle grabbed him and pushed him away. Brendan slid towards the gatepost and hit it head-first. At the time, I thought it was a horrible accident—an error in judgment. Now, I remember seeing Arthur grab Brendan and check the gatepost’s position before throwing him. I remember the expression he wore as he turned back towards the house after seeing his friend’s head split open on the corner of the post. He was happy. Smug, even. I watched as he deliberately rearranged his face and screamed in horror, calling the family to help him. As the others emerged, speaking of ambulances and doctors, I realised I’d been holding my breath. I sunk back through the curtain and buried myself back under the blankets.

“Oh my God.” Everyone was wide-eyed, and only Thomas spoke, “What happened then?”

“The police were there when I got up the following morning, but I was kept out of the way. I overheard someone saying it was an accident then clamming up as soon as they saw me. There was a weird atmosphere, too. No one seemed to want to talk to each other. We all stayed together until New Year’s Day, but it was as if Gran and Gramps, and our parents, had had all the fun sucked out of them. Then suddenly, Uncle Arthur was gone.”

“I don’t remember him,” Catherine said, “is that why?”

“Yes, I think so. A few months later, Dad told me he’d got a job in Australia. I thought that meant we might be able to go and stay with him, but we never did. He never came back to visit, either. I asked about the accident once, a few years later. I wondered whether he didn’t come back because he didn’t want to think about his friend. Everyone looked at me like you did just now. Later, Mum told me I must never mention it again.”

“So, did they just send him away? Did nobody think it might just have been an accident?” Daniel looked at each of us in turn. “Couldn’t they have tried to protect him?”

“I think that’s what they were doing. Sending him away so he’d never have to face suspicion.”

We all drained our sherries and drifted off to bed after that. The last ones to turn in, perhaps as a way to finally rebel against all those early bedtimes. We might never find out why Brendan died that night and why Uncle Arthur had to leave. Perhaps someone was protecting him from suspicion. Or maybe they knew he’d meant to do it. I couldn’t have been the only person looking out of the window that night.

Posted on 20th December 202220th December 2022 by Kirsty France — Leave a comment

Death in the Countryside

Mary watched the fields flash past her window in a green blur as Sam steered the car along the narrow country road. They’d only just left the M1, but she already felt like they were in the middle of nowhere. Bliss. She flinched slightly as the branches of a dark green conifer clattered against the window. The sat nav announced their destination was half a mile on the left. Mary leaned forward in her seat, hoping to see the little house where they’d be spending the next three days.

She tried to forget how her mum had looked at her as they packed up to leave — disheartened and a little bit sad. Mary had known in advance that two days would be enough. Christmas Day with her parents and her younger sister was always fun, and she loved seeing the extended family on Boxing Day, but she knew Sam struggled. Her family’s Christmas centred around eating, drinking and watching TV, and Sam started to get cabin fever. They’d gone for a walk, but a stroll around a suburb was a long way from his childhood, spent climbing the Malvern hills whenever he got the chance.

Mary remembered her childhood Christmases when everyone had stayed together in her grandparent’s house from Christmas Eve until New Year’s Day. It had been heavenly when they were children, but now she wondered how the adults had managed to stay sane. Perhaps that was why her Dad and Uncle John had started drinking so early on Christmas morning.

Next year it would all be different.

…

“There it is!” Sam said, sounding as excited as a five-year-old. He indicated and turned off the narrow lane onto a block-paved drive. Mary sighed happily. The cottage was just as lovely as the photos suggested, with beautiful red bricks and fields stretching away into the distance. She turned to look at Sam, and her smile widened when she saw his face. He looked more relaxed than she’d seen him in months.

“It’s beautiful, Sam.” They climbed out of the car, and Mary stretched her arms upward, lowering them again to rub her back. “Oh, God.”

“What? You OK?”

“Yes, I’m just such a cliché. A little Weeble with an aching back.”

“You don’t look remotely like a Weeble. Much sexier.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Remind me of that when we’ve got a newborn, and I feel like I’m made out of rice pudding.”

Sam looked down and rubbed her belly. “It’s a strange thought, isn’t it? Next Christmas, we’ll have a ten-month-old crawling all over the place.”

“Yep. Weird. Anyway, let’s make the most of the peace and quiet and get inside.”

“Your wish is my command, oh Weeble-ish one.”

Mary laughed, reflecting that Sam was lucky she hadn’t picked up her handbag, or she might have walloped him with it. She watched as he took their suitcase out of the boot, opened the passenger door and retrieved her bag from the footwell. They definitely wouldn’t be able to travel this light next Christmas. She realised they’d have the perfect excuse to stay at home.

…

“They’ve left us some teabags and milk,” Sam called as Mary shut the front door behind her. She smiled at his unerring ability to find the kettle wherever they went and followed his voice into the kitchen, where he was already rummaging in cupboards looking for mugs. “I’ll take the case upstairs when we’ve had a cup of tea. What are you smiling at?”

“The fact that nothing starts without tea.”

“Quite right too.”

She wrapped him up in another hug, stroking his cheek as she kissed him.

“Do I need a shave?” he asked, feeling for stubble.

“Nah, you’re OK.” She groaned as he rubbed her back, then felt him hesitate. “Don’t worry, that was a good groan.”

“Did you see the pictures of the bathroom?”

“With the lovely slipper bath? Yes. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to a proper soak. The only problem is, you might have to hoist me out.”

Sam tried and failed to suppress the snigger. “Sorry. Tell you what, let’s have tea, and I’ll check whether I’ve got a signal in case we need to call the fire brigade.” He ducked away as she tried to slap him on the shoulder.

…

Mary followed Sam up the stairs as he carried the suitcase into the main bedroom. It was glorious, with a king-sized bed and views out over the fields to the woods beyond. The listing had said that there were 14 acres of land across the farm, and they were welcome to walk anywhere they liked. Sam had put the case down and was gazing out of the window. She told him that she was going to run a bath and headed across the landing to the bathroom. The smell hit her before she opened the door. She hesitated, half wanting to know what was behind the door and yet not feeling ready to face it. She realised she was standing completely still with her hand on the doorknob and felt faintly ridiculous. Eventually, she decided to stop dithering and turned the knob, pushing the door open in a single movement.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a dead body. She’d been there when Sam’s mum had died eighteen months ago when cancer that treatment had held at bay for three years had finally overtaken her. This was different. Emma had looked peaceful. This man’s life had clearly ended with violence. Even if the rope hadn’t been left, tied tightly around his neck, his face would have told her that. Mary had always thought that people who found dead bodies screamed, but she didn’t feel the need. She was shaking, transfixed by the man’s contorted face.

“Mary? Are you OK? Is anything wrong with the bath?”

She almost called back to tell him that, yes, there was a dead body in it. That made her feel ridiculous, and she giggled, clapping her hand to her mouth at the inappropriateness of it all. She turned and headed back to the bedroom. “Don’t go in there,” she said, “because there’s a dead man in the bath.”

“What? Are you kidding?” He turned to look at her and realised that she wasn’t. “God, you’re shaking.” He took hold of her and sat her down on the bed. “You’re sure he’s dead?”

Mary nodded. “We need to call the police.”

…

DI Fitzgerald and PC Jones had been impressively efficient, arriving within an hour of Sam’s call, shortly followed by a pathologist and two forensics staff. Mary sat on the sofa next to Sam as DI Fitzgerald asked her to tell him about her discovery. She’d been surprised at how easily the details came out; the smell, the position of the body and the cord around his neck. Fitzgerald had nodded encouragingly, watching her with his piercing blue eyes. She wondered what it would be like to be a suspect facing that searching look.

“That’s excellent, Mrs Collins, thank you. Can I ask, have you ever seen him before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What about you, Mr Collins?”

“I didn’t see the body. I’m a bit squeamish, to be honest.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a cough from the doorway. The pathologist had appeared and asked to speak to DI Fitzgerald. They disappeared into the hall, and when the police officer returned, he was smiling.

“I have some good news for you. We’re ready to remove the body. It looks like we might have a possible ID. You’ll be relieved to hear that I won’t be asking you to view the body, Mr Collins. Hopefully, you can both have a restful night, even if you don’t fancy a bath.”

Mary groaned, “I was looking forward to that.”

Fitzgerald smiled. “A warm bath was the only thing that helped my wife’s backache when we were expecting. The forensics officers have almost finished with the bathroom, so we’ll be out of your way shortly.”

…

Mary and Sam wished the departing officers a happy Christmas as the last cars pulled away from the house.

“Alone at last,” Sam said. “They were a lot quicker than I thought they’d be. Are you OK?”

Mary nodded. “I’m fine, and surprisingly hungry. What have we got for dinner?”

…

A large pizza, garlic bread and ice cream later, Mary lay back on the sofa, rubbing her belly. “I think the baby likes pizza; she’s kicking like mad.”

“Don’t you mean he?” Sam teased, sitting down next to her with a glass of red wine. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your bath.”

“I don’t mind. I’m just happy to be here, just the two of us.” She lifted her glass of elderflower fizz and clinked it against Sam’s. “Here’s to the next adventure.”

“Cheers,” Sam replied. His face creased with concern as they heard a knock at the door. “Who can that be? It’s pitch black out there.” He heaved himself off the sofa and put his glass on the table.

Mary felt a shiver go through her. She felt that something wasn’t right, and got up and followed him, reaching the door just as he opened it.

“Mr and Mrs Collins? I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to get to you. It’s been a busy night.”

The two police officers extended their warrant cards into the light.

Posted on 16th December 202116th December 2021 by Kirsty France — Leave a comment

The Christmas Stalking

Christmas lights for a Christmas story — Photo from Pixabay via Pexels

DI Alan McLean sighed and looked at his watch. Only ten minutes until sunset. He could only guess what time Victor Alexander would return home from work and find whatever he was going to find. McLean pulled the file across the desk and opened it again. It was certainly an unusual case. He wondered whether he’d have been sent the file if half of the station hadn’t gone down with a spectacular vomiting bug. Probably not. It wasn’t a major crime yet, although it certainly had potential. At the moment it was a just bizarrely seasonal stalking.

The first photo in the file had been taken on 22^nd December, when Mr Alexander had arrived home to find that the front of his house and two shrubberies had been festooned with fairy lights. It was the Santa dummy on the doorstep that had rattled him. Or rather, the sign around its neck that read ‘what will you be getting for Christmas little boy?’ He wasn’t alarmed – far too level-headed for that – but it was a nuisance. He wanted it on record in case something else happened. The Santa was certainly creepy. A real-life version coming down the chimney would have been enough to send you running away screaming. McLean had taken his daughters to a grotto with a far more avuncular specimen.

He looked at his watch again and wondered what they were doing with their Christmas Eve. Was there a festive movie playing at home? The sky had turned orange and it would soon be dark. Had they talked their mum into making hot chocolate yet? He didn’t yet know what time he’d get home. One call from the officers stationed outside Alexander’s house could give him an idea, but his phone remained silent.

He turned back to the file and another photograph. The 23^rdof December had brought a new display. Mr Alexander arrived home to find a series of photographs showing happy families celebrating Christmas. They all looked happy, eating and drinking or exchanging presents. The photographs had been blu-tacked to his front door, along with a wreath saying ‘Merry Christmas’. The FIs hadn’t found any fingerprints but they’d sent the whole lot for further examination, just in case. McLean wondered whether they’d been decimated by vomit too.

Now it was Christmas Eve. Time to find out whether Mr Alexander would come home to another prank or something more serious. He read Alexander’s statements again. He was the senior partner in a firm of accountants based in Leicester city centre. It clearly paid well – the house was large and in an affluent part of town. Yet he lived alone. Conversations with his neighbours revealed a man who worked long hours and didn’t socialise. Perhaps that was why they hadn’t noticed the new decorations being added to his house. McLean wondered whether he should feel sorry for the man, or whether he liked things that way. He drummed his fingers on the desk. It was finally dark. Surely something had to happen soon. There were two plain clothes officers in a car outside the house and a patrol car nearby. His phone buzzed. Mr Alexander had arrived home and there was no obvious sign of any interference with his property. Maybe it had just been a strange practical joke that had fizzled out. Hopefully that meant that he could go home soon. He liked Christmas Eve better than Christmas Day; there was something wonderful about the anticipation. He’d loved sharing the traditions from his childhood in Glasgow too. Most of them had been the same as the English customs, except one. His wife had never heard that you should light a candle and put it in your front window to welcome strangers. Their children had turned it into a candle to welcome Santa instead. He smiled, wondering if the candle would be there to light him home. The phone rang.

“Go ahead. Understood. I’m on my way.”

…

Alexander’s house looked even more impressive in real life than it did in the photos. The fact that there was a top of the range Jaguar parked in the drive didn’t hurt. McLean knew the plain clothes officer who answered the door.

“Evening sir. We found him in the garage, turning off the power. He’s in the living room now. Mr Alexander wanted a word.” He ended on an eye roll. It had obviously been a trying night already.

As McLean entered the room, his eyes were immediately drawn to the display on the wall next to the fireplace. ‘How does it feel to spend Christmas alone in the dark?’ It had been created by a projector that sat on the carpet.

Another officer rose from the sofa as he entered the room. He’d been sitting next to a pale young man in handcuffs, who was shaking so much McLean wasn’t sure he was capable of standing. It was a stark contrast to the beetle-browed man in the armchair. McLean knew it was Victor Alexander before he stood up to identify himself and shake hands. He had a firm handshake and a piercing gaze. McLean remembered his neighbours’ comments and wondered what it would be like to work for him. You certainly wouldn’t argue with him. The man was physically unremarkable yet somehow, he had force.

“I know it’s not the usual form, but I wanted to hear his explanation before you took him away.”

McLean nodded. “Have you had an explanation?”

Alexander shook his head. “I’m waiting for him to stop trembling. Come on, pull yourself together man!”

There was another chair opposite the sofa and McLean sank into it. He looked into the eyes of the handcuffed man and saw the effort that he was making to form a sentence. Finally, with a gulp and a deep breath, he spoke.

“He doesn’t remember who I am.”

“Should he?”

“We’ve met a few times. I used to come and pick Fiona up when she was working late, save her getting the bus home.” He glanced at Alexander. “That happened quite a lot.”

“Fiona?” Alexander said. “Do you mean Fiona Mitchell?”

“My wife. I’m Mark Mitchell.”

“She was a good worker; I was sorry to lose her.”

“I bet you were. All that overtime for no extra pay.”

“She was dedicated.”

“She was overworked!”

“Is that what this is about?” McLean asked. “Getting your own back on your wife’s old boss? Why?”

Mark was shaking his head. “That’s not it. Let me explain.”

He fell silent until Alexander ran out of patience and told him to get on with it.

“I met Fiona when she was a trainee accountant. She was already working for Mr Alexander’s firm and they were paying for her training. I had quite a few friends who’d gone into law and finance so I knew you had to work hard to make it. The trouble was it never stopped. She told me that once she was qualified, she’d have more of her own clients so she could plan her workload. No more late nights because one of the partners needed her to do something urgent. Except it didn’t work that way. She became a safe pair of hands, someone he,” he nodded at Mr Alexander, “could rely on for sensitive work.”

Alexander nodded. “That’s true enough.”

“When we got married, she had to beg for two weeks off to go on honeymoon. Her Dad had a heart attack and he rang her to ask her to come in while he was still in surgery.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t. You don’t exactly encourage personal confidences. But how hard is it to realise that you don’t call someone into work on a day their relative is near death?”

Alexander didn’t reply.

“Christmases were the worst. They always open because tax returns are due at the end of January and their clients often use their Christmas down time to get up to date. Somehow Fiona always ended up working because she didn’t have children.”

“That wasn’t my decision. I left all of that to the office manager.”

“Yeah, but plenty of people asked you to intervene because it was unfair. You could have done that, but you just closed your office door and let the office manager’s cronies get their own way. Every Christmas I’d have to go and visit my family on my own. Every year I’d sit there, seeing the sideways looks between my aunties. Their poor neglected nephew with a career woman for a wife. As if she had a choice. All because you don’t need a break if you haven’t got kids. The irony is, we really wanted them. It wasn’t for a lack of trying.”

“Is that why she left?” McLean asked.

“Yeah. She got home from work one Christmas Eve and just sobbed; she was exhausted. We had two days leave together before she had to be back in the office. I wanted to wrap her in a blanket and sit her on the sofa but she needed to see her family. We spent the whole time travelling around to visit everyone, then she went back to work. She handed her notice in a couple of weeks later.”

Alexander was nodding. “I remember. I still don’t understand why you did all of this. Were you trying to give me a terrible Christmas as some sort of revenge?”

“No. That wasn’t it. Have you read ‘A Christmas Carol’? Charles Dickens?”

Mark looked around the room, addressing the question to all of them. Someone muttered that they’d seen the film and McLean wondered if they meant the Muppet version. “Scrooge didn’t understand Christmas. He thought that life was all about money so he ended up alone and friendless, with no-one to mourn him. You reminded me of that story. You’re all alone in this lovely house until you go back to work. Maybe you’re happy that way, I don’t know. It sounds daft now I say it out loud, but I thought that if I could recreate the ghosts, it would help you to understand what Christmas is for. That it might make you think about your employees and look after them a bit better.” He went quiet but McLean had a strong impression that he was holding something back.

“Did you have something else to say?” McLean asked. “Now’s your chance.”

“It’s just – are you happy Mr Alexander?”

Alexander looked surprised. “I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me that. No, I don’t suppose I am. I grew up in a family where hard work and fun were equally important. Oh, we had the most wonderful Christmases back then.” His eyes shone as he spoke. “My father used to dress up as Father Christmas for the children’s party at the factory and I had to pretend I didn’t know it was him. Then over the years, hard work took over and the fun stopped. My wife, Belinda, died.” His voice faltered. “She had breast cancer. We didn’t have children so when she went I was all alone. It’s easier to bury yourself in work than to submit to the sympathy of well-meaning neighbours. Then one day you find that work is all you have.”

He looked up at Mark. “I’m sorry about Fiona, I didn’t realise she was so unhappy. The truth is, I liked it when she came in over Christmas. I don’t suppose she liked me very much, but she was kind. It reminded me of Belinda. She was good at looking after people, I expect Fiona’s the same.”

Mark nodded. “She is. Everyone except herself. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He looked up at McLean. “I don’t think I want to press charges. Am I able to do that? Can you just let him go?”

“We can. He broke into your garage, but that’s his only offence.”

“Good.”

Everyone stood up and the sergeant removed Mark’s handcuffs.

“There was one other thing.” Alexander said. “Why now? Fiona left nearly two years ago, what prompted you to visit me this year?”

Mark smiled and reached into a pocket for his phone. He found what he was looking for with a few taps and held it out towards Alexander. “This is our daughter, Angela. It’s her first Christmas.”

…

The sergeant went ahead of McLean to stand down the patrol car that had pulled up in front of the house. Victor and Andrew shook hands on the doorstep.

“I can’t supply you with a giant goose, but I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”

“Thank you. The whole family are descending tomorrow so it’ll definitely be busy, but at least we’ll have a few quiet days afterwards. What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

As they walked down the path, a woman of about fifty walked up. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I saw the police car; is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” Victor replied. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, that’s good.” McLean saw her hesitate, biting her lip. “Look – I know we don’t really know each other, but Belinda was a good friend to me. I loved her very much and I don’t believe she’d want you to be on your own at Christmas. Would you like to come over for a drink?”

“Thank you, I’d like that.”

McLean smiled. It was a lovely gesture but he still felt as if he might throw up. He checked his watch. If he was lucky, he’d be home in time for hot chocolate.

Posted on 7th December 20207th December 2020 by Kirsty France — Leave a comment

Zoom can be murder

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes but I can’t see you, you need to turn your camera on.”

“Diane, you’re on mute.” Emma watched as Chris gesticulated wildly trying to send a signal to Diane.

“Wow, Zoe, is that your new house? It’s lush!”

“Thanks. We’re starting to feel settled now.”

“Well, you’ll certainly have had time to do it up since we’ve all been ‘working from home’.”

Emma sighed and saw Zoe roll her eyes. She had never met anyone who did quote marks with their fingers until she started working for Chris’ team. It was ironic that his hand signals were so irritating, given that he tied himself in linguistic knots trying not to offend anyone. She watched as more of her colleagues appeared on the screen. The wine expert was sitting quietly, looking slightly awkward. He looked younger than she’d expected. Most of the wine buffs she knew were well over 40 with a slightly florid complexion. He wasn’t that much older than her. She looked over her shoulder as Tom appeared from Cara’s bedroom and gave her a thumbs up. That was a relief. If she was sparked out already that meant she wouldn’t appear wanting milk in the background of the Zoom call.

Matt’s face appeared on the screen. “You alright Matt? You look a bit groggy babe.” That was how Sophie talked to everyone. Even the chief executive was ‘babe’.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Had a disco nap on the sofa and woke up with a bit of a headache.”

Sophie screeched with laughter. “You’re a proper party animal, aren’t you?” Matt just smirked. Emma could see that the image was a bit fuzzy, but he did look bad.

“Right then, have we got everyone?” Chris had adopted the manner that he used to bring team meetings to attention. Emma could see Zoe’s eyebrows heading upwards again. “Thank you all for coming tonight. I know that we’d much rather be having a team do in person, but I think a Zoom version will make an excellent substitute. I’m sure we’ll be back to a Christmas party with everyone from the office this time next year. Sorry, did someone say something?”

Emma was fairly sure she’d heard a snort of derision from Diane. She’d be retired this time next year and would be spared the annual meal with interminable speeches from everyone in senior management.

“Anyway,” Chris continued, “I’ll hand you over to Adam, our wine expert.”

“Thank you. As Chris said, I’m Adam. I’m a certified sommelier and in normal times I run parties like these in person. Zoom is a new innovation for us but it’s been great to bring people together. Can I just check that everyone has had their catering box delivered?”

A mixture of nods and thumbs up filled the screen.

“Great. Please open them up if you haven’t already.”

Emma had never been to an organised virtual party before. She didn’t feel that drinking gin with her sister-in-law over FaceTime really counted. Earlier that afternoon a delivery driver had turned up bearing a large cardboard box with a clear window in the top. She’d been able to see a selection of cheeses, but as she opened it up she discovered that there were a series of miniature bottles underneath, each with a different variety of wine. Everything was labelled so they could match up the two. She opened the first bottle and poured it into her glass.

…

Emma was having more fun than she’d expected to. Adam knew his stuff. He was also better at audience participation than his non-COVID job suggested he would be.

“Soph, you’ve frozen again.”

“I don’t think she can hear you Chris.” Sophie was a still image, paused with a glass of wine fixed to her lips.

“You were all statues then” she laughed, “sorry about this, my internet connection’s rubbish.”

“Matt, are you having any crackers with that?” It was the first time Zoe had spoken. Emma thought it was an interesting choice of words to break the silence.

“Nah. Not a fan. No carbs before Marbs and all that.”

“Yeah, because we’ll all be jetting off any time now.”

“Let’s hope, hey?” Emma felt that Zoe’s sarcasm often flew entirely above Chris’ head.

“Right then, let’s move on to the next pairing. This is a Californian Pinot Noir. It’s a lovely light red wine and goes beautifully with – Matt, are you OK?”

Matt was clutching his head. Emma had the distinct impression that he was trying to dig his brain out with his fingers. He groaned, then disappeared as he fell off the sofa.

Sophie made a sound then her camera froze again. Everyone else was silent.

“Matt? Matt, can you hear me?” Chris was trying to sound authoritative but his voice was pure panic.

Zoe spoke next. “Either his screen’s frozen or he’s not moving.”

Emma looked at the faces of her colleagues. Everyone seemed to be frozen and they couldn’t all have a dodgy internet connection. “Well, we need to do something. He lives on his own, doesn’t he? Does anyone live nearby?”

Adam had gone pale but appeared to be taking action. “I’m just trying to get hold of the boss. What if it’s the food?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the response we need.” Zoe was back to her usual self.

“Chris.”

“Yes Diane?”

“Do you have an address for him?”

“There might be one on the system, but am I allowed? I mean – GDPR…”

Emma wanted to throttle him. He’d been obsessing over GDPR for the last two years. “I can’t remember the details but I’m sure getting him medical attention counts as a legitimate reason.”

Sophie’s screen came back to life. “I’ve called an ambulance. I went to his for pre-drinks before the summer party.”

“Do you think that could be the cause?” Diane asked. “Too much to drink beforehand combined with not enough food?”

“If he’d had some crackers it would have soaked it up a bit.” Chris agreed.

“I don’t know,” Emma replied. “He didn’t seem drunk. He seemed drowsy, said he had a headache and it looked like he was sweating. Those symptoms ring a bell but I can’t think why.” She had a dim and distant memory of having read about them somewhere in case she needed to recognise them. Why would she have done that?

Adam had lowered his phone. “Can I just check? Did everyone receive a sealed box?” They all nodded and he lifted the phone again. “Yes, they were.” Down the phone went. “Do we need an address for him or is that sorted?” Emma told him an ambulance was on its’ way and he spoke briefly into the phone before hanging up. “It should be obvious if a box has been tampered with. Apparently the delivery driver couldn’t get an answer at Adam’s so he left it with one of his neighbours. He obviously got it OK though.”

“I’ve got it!” Emma cried as the pieces of her memory organised themselves. She registered a uniform row of startled expressions on the screen. “He’s got the symptoms of hypoglycaemia. My granny had type 2 diabetes. I remember looking up the symptoms in case she ever had an attack when I was with her. Zoe, you’re type 1 aren’t you, do you think it could be that?”

“Well maybe, but he isn’t diabetic. If he was he’d know how important it is to dose his carbs properly, especially when we’re having a drink. And let’s face it, if he was we’d all know about it.”

Something in her voice made Emma look at Zoe more closely. She was always heavy with irony but there was something else. It almost sounded like bitterness. She minimised her Zoom screen and opened Facebook. She was friends with Zoe but had muted her early on in lockdown. Editing whose posts she saw had been an essential tool for managing her mental health. If anyone whinged too much she removed them, at least temporarily. She found Zoe’s account and scrolled through. It was relentless. If a post wasn’t something about the NHS it was a complaint about her neighbour and the incessant noise, the state of his garden or the endless procession of delivery drivers.

Sophie had unfrozen again. “Finally! Can anyone hear sirens? Zoe, you live near him now don’t you? Since you moved? He’s in a terrace on Stubbs Road, one of those ones with the stone fan thingy over the door?”

Emma had expected Zoe to scoff at Sophie’s lack of architectural knowledge, but her face was a mask. It reminded Emma of the scene at the end of Psycho where Norman Bates stares silently at the camera. What had she done? Emma returned to Facebook and carried on scrolling until she found a photo of Zoe with the caption ‘our new home!’ It was a terrace with a fan thingy over the door. Emma could hear the sirens sounding somewhere through the speakers.

“Does he leave the back door unlocked Zoe?”

“What?”

“Matt. He’s your noisy neighbour, isn’t he? They left the box with you and you went round to deliver it. I’d guess that you found him asleep on the sofa and took the opportunity to go and fetch your insulin. Is that how it went?”

Zoe laughed as the sirens got closer and Emma realised she could hear them from two different computers at slightly different times.

“Zoe, what did you do?”

“Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”

Her screen went black.