The
next thing
I knew
I woke
up lying
on a
strange bed
in a
strange room
with a
strange man
sitting and
looking at
me with
concern.
“What
the....”
I said
through dry
lips.
“Sorry,”
the strange
man said,
‘I didn’t
mean to
startle you.”
He
was middle
aged, silver
haired, on
the plumpish
side, wearing
suit trousers
and an
unbuttoned waistcoat.
His shirt
was open
at the
collar, tie pulled
down, and
it looked
like it
was a
few days
since seeing
an ironing
board.
I
sat up,
and I
had a
light bulb
moment. “Robert?”
I said.
‘Bob.”
‘Cratchit?”
A
nod, then
“How do
you know?”
“Your
son Timothy.
He hired
me to
find you”
“Hired?”
“I’m
a detective.
Private. You’re
missing, He
suspected that
you might
be involved
in something
dodgy. Hence,
no police.”
I swallowed.
Dry mouth.
“Is there
anything to
drink?”
“Coffee.”
“No.
Had enough
coffee for
now. Something
with a
sealed top.
I looked
at my
watch. The
date-a-day
read 24.
The time,
half ten.
Outside it
was light,
so it
had to
be morning.
Looked like
the goose
and accoutrements
had been
cooked though.
“Christmas eve,”
I said.
He
nodded. So
I had
been out
for almost
a day.
I
felt in
my pockets.
Telephone absent.
“Phone?” I
asked.
He
shook his
head. Course
not. Silly
me.
“Bathroom,”
I said.
He
pointed at
the door
to an
en-suite. I
went and
relieved myself.
Afterwards I
checked the
medicine cabinet.
Corporate hospitality.
There were
new toothbrushes
in cellophane,
and new
combs the
same. I
cleaned my
teeth to
get rid
of the
aftertaste of
the Mickey
Finn, and
combed my
hair because
I could.
Feeling better
I went
back into
the bedroom
and he
showed me
round our
digs like
a estate
agent looking
for a
rental from
a punter.
It wasn’t
half bad
for a
prison as
it goes.
A large
sitting room,
sofas, armchairs,
a dining
table and
chairs, no
bars on
the windows,
but it
was up
at least
half the
building, so
there was
no escape
that way.
A flat
screen plasma
TV mounted
on the
wall was
playing It’s
A Wonderful
Life with
the sound
down. Someone’s
idea if
a joke
I imagined.
The door
was shut
tight with
no handle
or keyhole
on the
inside. Off
the room
was a
small kitchen
with all
the usual
accouterments including
a large
fridge. Inside
I found
a bottle
of Becks
still sealed.
I lopped
off the
top and
dived in.
That was
better. There
was also
a plate
of sandwiches
which meant
we weren’t
supposed to
starve. I
helped myself.
Egg mayo
on whole-meal.
Not bad.
“So,
Robert,” I
said, when
I went
back into
the main
room and
sat on
the arm
of an
armchair.
“Bob.”
“Bob.
Why are
we here?”
“I
made mistakes.
I was
blind. No.
There’s an
old saying
‘none as
blind as
those who
will not
see’. That
was me.
I’m a
rich man.
A very
rich man.
Marley Inc
made me
so. I
have a
wonderful wife,
wonderful children.
I live
in a
house fit
for a
king. But
there was
a price
to pay.
There always
is. Then
one night
I had
a dream.
I dreamt
that I
could see
my past,
my present
and my
future. Not
a pretty
one. I
won’t go
into details.
So, I
looked closely
at what
previously I
had ignored.
Marley Inc
is rotten
from the
ground up.
From the
bottom down.
Right to
the core.”
“In
what ways?”
“Money
laundering, fraud.
Plain theft.
We rake
in money
from the
third world
and decimate
their countries,
then leave
them broke.
It was
all there
and I
collected the
evidence and
put together
a file.
Then I
made my
last mistake.”
“Which
was?”
‘I
went to
our CEO,
Ebenezer Scrooge
and told
him what
I knew,
and what
I intended
to do.”
“Which
was?”
“Press
one key
on any
of the
keyboards here
and hold
it down
for ten
seconds, then
the file
would go”
“To?”
“Everywhere
I could
think of.
The Bank
of England,
Bank of
America, financial
regulators, newspapers,
TV, radio.
But it
didn’t happen.
Scrooge called
in Sykes
and his
bully boys,
and dragged
me down
here. Then
you arrived.”
“What
do you
think they
have in
store for
us?”
“Not
a merry
Christmas. There’s
millions, billions
involved. I
think they
planned to
dispose of
me. And
now, I’m
afraid you.
I’m so
sorry Mr
Sharman. The
firm closes
down this
afternoon for
a week
for Christmas.
The only
staff on
duty answer
to Sykes.
He’ll be
free to
do his
worst.”
“Call
me Nick.
And not
if I
have my
way,”
“What
can you
do?
That
was a
question I
couldn’t answer
right then.
I
sat and
cogitated, and
Bob stood
by the
window looking
at the
snow falling.
Suddenly he
said, “do
you see
what I
see?
“What?”
“Do
you see
what I
see?”
“Are
we singing
carols?”
“No.
Outside. Look”
I
got up
and joined
him. By
stretching my
neck, I
could see
down to
the street
outside through
the snowstorm,
and which
was swirling
with blue
lights. “Are
they here
for us?”
Asked Bob.
I
didn’t have
a chance
to answer
as the
room door
burst open
and Billy
Sykes burst
in dragging
his dog
behind him
by the
leash in
his right
hand. In
the other
hand he
held that
thick leather
quirt. He
was wearing
the same
costume as
the day
before except
he’d changed
his shirt,
and his
scarf was
blue. “Did
you do
this?” he
demanded, looking
at me.
”Bring in
the police.”
I
shrugged. I
hadn’t a
clue, but
I wouldn’t
admit it
to him.
“Did
you tell
anyone you
were coming
here?” he
demanded.
“I
may have
mentioned the
place.”
“You.....”
But
he was
interrupted as
Ben blew
in through
the open
door, skidded
on the
carpet and
ended up
in front
of me,
bum against
my leg
to protect
me, fur
bristling and
teeth bared
at Sykes.
“Get
him Bullseye,”
ordered Sykes.
But
Bullseye knew,
like I
did, that
Ben was
the alpha
dog in
that room,
like any
other room
he might
be in.
Bullseye pulled
back behind
his master’s
protection only
to get
a kick
from one
of the
riding boot
Sykes was
wearing. ‘Bastard,”
he yelled
and raised
the quirt
to batter
his dog.
But Ben
was too
quick for
him and
launched himself
at his
arm. Cloth
ripped and
Sykes yelled
and went
down on
one knee.
I ran
across and
kicked him
hard in
the ribs,
knocking him
flat, as
Jack Robber
and a
load of
coppers arrived.
Jack was
out of
breath. “Christ,”
he said.
“For a
three-legged
dog he
can’t half
run.”
“How
did you
know?” I
asked as
Sykes was
hauled to
his feet
by a
pair of
uniforms and
relieved of
his quirt
and his
dog.
“Fido
was seen
in your
car. Traffic
warden tried
to get
him out.
Then traffic.
They checked
the reg
and put
out a
call to
find you.
I saw
the telex
and when
I saw
where the
car was
found, and
it looked
like you’d
not been
seen or
heard if
for more
than a
day, I
put two
and two
together and
did what
I’m paid
for.”
“Thank
God you
did. I
think this
crew were
about to
dispatch us
to an
early grave.
By the
way this
is Bob
Cratchit. I
think he’s
got some
intel that
might interest
you and
the fraud
squad.”
Jack
and Bob
shook hands
and I
looked at
my watch.
Just past
eleven. “Bob.
You’d better
hurry if
you want
to get
your Christmas
dinner.”
“I
need to
call my
wife first.
Have you
got a
phone?” he
asked Robber.
“Ours were
confiscated.”
Robber
handed over
his Nokia
and Bob
punched in
a number.
“Mary, it’s
me,” he
said. “I
know. Now
don’t cry.
Thanks to
a Mr
Sharman and
the police
I’m safe.
I’ll be
home soon
I hope.
Got to
go. It’s
not my
phone.”
He disconnected
and handed
the instrument
back to
Jack.
He
held it
up and
said to
me, ”you?”
“Nobody’s
missed me,
but you
Jack,” I
said.
“Shame.”
”So,
what’s the
score with
wild Bill
and his
merry men?”
I asked.
“We’ll
hold them
for kidnapping
for now,
and make
further enquires.”
“Are
Bob and
I free
to go?”
“Free
as air.
For now.
But we’ll
need statements.”
“Come
on then
Bob,” I
said. “Hold
on. Jack,
where’s my
motor?”
“In
impound. Don’t
know whether
you’ll get
it back
before Christmas.”
“Lovely.
Come on,
we need
rides.”
Jack
went and
talked to
one of
the plain
clothes cops
who’d come
in with
him. Then
back to
us. “Let’s
go.”
“What
about Bullseye?”
I said.
“Kennels.
Don’t worry
about him.
We look
after animals
better than
people.”
We
three went
to the
lifts and
headed down.
In the
foyer icy
knickers was
still behind
the jump.
She smiled
when she
saw Bob.
“We were
worried,” she
said. Her
insincerity didn’t
fool me,
or him.
“No
problem,” he
replied, then
said. “Let
me see
your keyboard.”
I knew
what he
was going
to do,
and he
did it.
He held
down a
key, then
came back
to me.
“It’s done,”
he said.
“For good
or ill.”
Robber
led the
way to
his car
and we
all piled
in. “Theobalds
Road,” I
said. ”I
hope we’re
in time.”
We
were barely.
The butchers
were on
the pavement,
fish and
fowl safely
inside, and
the guv’nor
was just
about to
pull down
the shutters.
Bob
dived out
of the
car and
shouted, “hold
on.”
“Mr
Cratchit,” said
the boss.
“Almost missed
us.”
“My
stuff.”
“Ted,”
said the
boss to
one of
the others.
“Mr Cratchit’s
parcels. Look
lively.”
Ted
did as
he was
told and
came back
with three
huge brown
paper parcels
all tied
up neatly
with twine.
“Better
take you
home,” said
Robber as
the snow
kept falling.
“I’d
be obliged”
said Bob
So
we all
jumped back
in Robber’s
car with
the parcels
in the
boot, and
merry Christmas’s
all round.
We
drove through
the snow
to Bayswater,
and Bob
directed us
round to
a beautiful
street full
of beautiful
houses. Bob’s
was one
of an
elegant five
storey terrace.
All white
with Doric
columns outside.
Black railings,
and steps
down to
the basement. “Come
in,” he
said. “And
have a
drink.”
“No,”
I said.
“You need
to get
back to
the family.
They’ve missed
you.”
“Then
do come
for lunch
tomorrow. You’ve
seen the
makings we’ve
got of
a feast.”
I
looked at
Jack. Jack
looked at
me, and
we both
nodded.
Bob
pointed at
his house,
Robber opened
up the
boot and
Bob hauled
out his
parcels.
“Noon
tomorrow,” was
the last
thing he
said as
we headed
off again.
“If
I’m out
tomorrow I
need to
sort a
few things
out,” said
Jack. “Mind
if I
drop you
off? I’ll
get you
a cab.”
We
drove to
Bayswater Road
and as
luck would
have it,
a blackie
was dropping
off a
fare. Robber
turned on
the blue
lights under
his radiator
grille and
pulled in
front of
the lobster.
The cabbie
gave a
look through
his window
like he’d
just had
a demand
from the
revenue. Robber
hopped out
and shouted.
“Got a
fare for
ya”
“I’m
just off
home,” came
the reply.
Where’s
home?”
“Peckham.”
“So,
you can
drop my
mate off
in Tulse
Hill.”
“South
of the
river?” said
the cabbie.
“Is
that a
joke?”
“Sorry.
Just having
a laugh.
Come on
then.”
I
got out
with Ben
and we
dived into
the cab,
and were
regaled with
tales of
who this
geezer had
had in
the back
of his
taxi, including
a minor
royal who
had his
hand up
his companion’s
skirt from
Paddington to
the palace
all the
way home.
I
looked at
Ben and
he looked
back, but
neither of
us spoke.
Our
road was
deep and
crisp and
even when
we got
there, but
had been
gritted so
we were
good to
be dropped
off at
the garden
gate. ‘How
much? I
asked the
driver “Have
it on
me mate,”
he said.
“I never
charge the
Bill.”
“I’m
not the
Bill.”
“Close
as, by
the looks
of it.
And your
dog could
pass for
police.”
“Army,”
I said.
“Me
too,” and
he threw
me a
salute as
he did
a three-point-turn.
“Merry Christmas.”
“You
too,” I
said as
we went
into the
front garden
where Ben
turned some
snow yellow
before we
went indoors.
Upstairs
the flat
was freezing,
so I
ramped up
the thermostat
and got
out the
gold watch
for me,
and a
beer for
Ben, There
was a
bag of
albums I’d
bought from
my friend
Al next
to the
stereo, so
I put
in my
thumb and
pulled out
a plum.
The Blue
Note Christmas
album, Yule
Struttin’. Everyone
from Baker
to Basie.
Fantastic. Then,
all the
hits from
the Orleans,
a fantastic
dance album
that had
me up
showing a
few moves
much to
Ben’s disgust,
followed by
Etta James
live in
the house,
on British
Chess. Rare
as hen’s
teeth, and
twice as
expensive.
Later
on, I
cooked what
was going
to be
our Christmas
lunch for supper.
A sausage
bap. I
had ketchup
on my
bit, Ben
had brown
sauce. I
shook my
head at
his choice,
but said
nothing
Next
morning after
just coffee
for breakfast
for me,
and Bonio
for him,
we took
a taxi
up to
Bloomsbury. Double
fare for
Christmas Day,
but I
didn’t complain.
The Cratchit
house was,
as Bob
had said,
fit for
a king,
and the
size of
a palace,
and it
needed to
be, the
number of
Cratchits en
famile. There
was Mrs
Cratchit, Mary,
Timothy, Martha,
Peter, and
some whose
names slipped
past me,
plus grannies
and grandads
and sisters
and brothers,
in and
out of
law.
Robber
had arrived
just before
me and
was already
guzzling a
Buck’s Fizz.
A maid
rushed to
get me
one too,
and a
bowl of
water for
Ben. It
was too
early for
beer for
him.
I
was introduced
to Mrs
Cratchit in
the kitchen,
which was
big enough,
and full
of enough
equipment to
cater for
a small
hotel, where
she was
overseeing a
chef and
a couple
of helpers.
“I hope
we’re not
intruding,” I
said. “Seems
like you
have more
than a
full house
already.”
“Nonsense,”
she said
back, whilst
tasting from
a pot
full of
bubbling gravy.
“You and
Jack and
Ben between
you saved
Bob’s life.
The Lord
only knows
what would
have happened
if you
hadn’t turned
up.”
“Fair
enough.”
She seemed
to have
gotten over
the trauma
of her
husband’s disappearance
quite well,
and I
sensed the
steel beneath
her calm
exterior.
“And
there are
presents for
all of
you under
the tree,”
she said.
“Thank
you. You
shouldn’t.”
“Oh,
I should.”
“How
did you
manage to
organise that
at such
short notice.”
“It’s
amazing what
a Harrod’s
platinum charge
card can
magic up
on Christmas
Eve. Now,
off with
you, I’ve
got to
make this
meal happen
dead on
time.”
She
kissed my
cheek and
showed me
out, and
I went
back to
the sitting
room which
was big
enough to
hold my
whole flat
twice over,
where a
monstrous Christmas
tree held
pride of
place next
to a
roaring open
log fire
where Ben
had found
his natural
home from
home, and
two kids
whose names
I hadn’t
got were
rolling round
next to
him. Someone
had found
a Santa
hat and
he was
happily wearing
it on
the side
of his
head.
Jack
was sitting
in an
armchair nursing
his champagne
glass. He
was wearing
a Santa
hat too.
I declined.
Why spoil
perfection?
Christmas
dinner was
served on
the stroke
of two.
The dining
table could
have landed
a jumbo
jet. And
what a
spread. The
goose took
centre stage,
next to
the beef
rib and
a rabbit
pie. There
was a
mountain of
roast potatoes,
a tub
of mash,
sprouts, carrots,
fine beans,
roasted radishes,
Jerusalem artichokes,
sauces and
gravies enough
to float
a boat.
On a
side table
was the
vegetarian option
for Timothy’s
benefit I
imagined. A
nut roast,
and more
vegetables and
a veggie
gravy, the
chef informed
us. The
chef carved,
and his
two helpers
served. Bob
sat at
the head
of the
table, Mrs
Cratchit at
the foot.
There were
fine wines
enough to
fill a
swimming pool,
and pigs
in and
out of
blankets.
Dessert
was a
flaming Christmas
pudding set
on fire
as the
lamps were
lowered, plus
mince pies,
an apple
pie, custard,
ice cream,
brandy butter
and cheese
from every
corner of
the globe.
Coffee and
liqueurs completed
the meal.
Bob
made a
speech and
thanked Jack,
me and
Ben.
Timothy
stood, glass
in hand
and asked
God to
bless us
everyone.
What
a day!
So
that was
that. As
usual, there
were no
papers on
Christmas Day,
but the
story was
the lead
on the
news that
evening. Boxing
Day it
exploded.
Marley
Inc tanked
in the
new year.
Scrooge,
Sykes, Dodge,
and a
whole bunch
of others
went to
jail. Fraud,
money laundering,
kidnap, false
imprisonment, perverting
the course
of justice,
were amongst
the charges.
Bob
turned Queen’s
and got
away with
a slap
on the
wrist and
a suspended
sentence. He
works for
a charity
now, and
is famous
for his
good works
amongst the
underprivileged in
east London.
The
Cratchit family
keep in
touch. Always
a Christmas
card and
lunch invitation.
The presents
Mrs Cratchit
got us
that day
were top
notch. It’s
amazing what
you can
get on
Christmas eve
with a
Harrod’s platinum
card. Jack
and I
got Pateke
Philippe gold
watches with
leather straps.
Oblong, with
an ivory
coloured face.
Beautiful pieces
of kit.
Mine had
Nick, Christmas
1998 engraved
on the
back, Jack
with his
name and
the date.
Of course,
being a
serving police
officer, he
should have
refused the
gift. “Bollocks,”
he said,
“it’s mine.”
And I
don’t blame
him. Ben
didn’t need
a watch,
so instead,
he ended
up with
a furry
teddy bear
that squeaked
when it’s
middle was
pressed. He
seemed satisfied.
The
kite in
my office
drawer was
for five
grand and
flew like
bird. Good
result.
A
good result
for Bullseye
too. Seems
Sykes was
a regular
at the
butcher’s shop,
and the
top man
was fond
of the
dog, when
he heard
he was
in kennels,
he made
an offer
and the
dog was
his. Fit
as a
butcher’s dog,
as the
saying goes.
Ben
and Jack
are in
fine form.
Me too.
Bueno
Natalie.
© 2019 Mark Timlin
