Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  He didn’t want to be impolite and ignore the man, however. After all, the poor chap couldn’t help looking the way he did. “Yes, indeed,” Bernard replied. “I have been travelling on buses all day and now I’m quite ready to go home. I’ve been waiting a good twenty minutes already for this one.”

  “Dear, dear, as long as that?” asked the man, giving a funny little jerk with his elbows. “I can’t get behind with my schedule.”

  “Your schedule?” asked Bernard, too tired to wonder what such an odd little man would want with a schedule.

  “Yes, I have a strict schedule to adhere to, you know, and I must say I hadn’t bargained for waiting for buses. I hadn’t factored it in. Are they always so late?”

  “I can’t really say,” Bernard replied, “I’ve only just moved here from Yorkshire. Mind you, buses were non-existent there.”

  “I see. Hmm.” The little man seemed confused. “Right, anyway. It is a pleasant enough evening to wait, despite the clouds. It isn’t as cold as it was yesterday.”

  “No, indeed,” agreed Bernard. “Perhaps spring is coming after all.”

  “Let’s hope so, but I don’t suppose it need bother you anymore.”

  Bernard looked at him in puzzlement. “Why do you say that?” he asked, staring anxiously down the street for his bus yet again.

  Their innocuous conversation had suddenly taken a strange turn, and Bernard wasn’t sure if the man was all there. Still, he admonished himself, one mustn’t judge people until one knows them better. But he really didn’t want to get to know this man better at all.

  “No, not anymore,” repeated the man. “According to my schedule, that is.”

  “What sort of schedule is it, if you don’t mind me asking?” asked Bernard, his tiredness now forgotten.

  “Oh, nothing to bother your head about, Mr Paltoquet,” said the man, giving another funny jerk with his elbows. “My name’s Diabol, by the way.”

  “How on earth do you know my name?” Bernard was now thoroughly disorientated. The man was beginning to seriously frighten him.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said the man, ignoring his question. “Diabol by name and diabolical by nature.” He laughed. It wasn’t pleasant. “The schedule tells all, my dear fellow,” he replied, tapping his nose with his index finger. “It is the fount of all my knowledge. Mind you, I must admit, your dog collar has thrown me, rather.”

  “My dog collar? What’s my dog collar got to do with anything?” This man was definitely unhinged, what his late father would have called ‘a rum cove’.

  “Well, I don’t usually play host to men of the cloth. They’re usually waited on by the people from the other place. Upstairs.”

  “The ‘other place’? ‘Upstairs’? Forgive me, but are you actually sane at all?”

  “But I thought you would be expecting me. Maybe not at this particular bus stop, perhaps. My schedule isn’t usually wrong, although it’s not the first time it’s let me down. My schedule – ”

  “Stop going on about your schedule!” yelled Bernard. “If this is some kind of a joke, it’s gone a bit too far, so I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone.”

  “But, my dear sir, I can’t. The schedule – ”

  Bernard was sorely tempted to grab him by the throat and shake the ‘schedule’ out of him, through the top of his head, if need be. However, the man suddenly looked very confused and apologetic.

  “Your name is Paltoquet, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, you know it is.”

  “Michael Paltoquet?”

  “No, Bernard Paltoquet.”

  “Oh dear, there’s been some dreadful mistake. Lucifer is always employing young people to do the administration. They’ve usually just arrived downstairs, after falling off their motorbikes or coming off worst in gang fights. And, of course, there is a rather large contingency of dead Nazis to allocate jobs to now. They’re all at sixes and sevens, if you ask me.”

  “I think maybe you should seek professional help,” advised Bernard, although he thought a psychiatrist, no matter how experienced, would have his job cut out with this one. “Now, will you please go away? Go to the end of the queue. I think you’re just talking to me so that you can get on the bus quicker.”

  “No, that was not my purpose. And I realise now that I’m talking to the wrong person. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Bernard looked once more for a sign of a bus as the man said this, then turned to address him. There was no one there. He must have gone at quite a lick to have disappeared so quickly, thought Bernard. As he was thinking this, he saw the bus coming towards him and he realised that, all the while he had been talking to the funny little man who called himself Diabol, he hadn’t heard any background noises or seen any other people or traffic. Everything had just gone away somehow, and now it was all back with a vengeance. People’s voices seemed too loud and the hooting of the traffic was practically splitting his eardrums. He thought he was about to faint as the bus pulled up. His legs felt so wobbly, he decided not to attempt the upper deck and was relieved to take the last seat inside on his final journey home.

  

  Stepping off the bus, Bernard’s legs practically gave way beneath him, and the thought of walking the distance from the bus stop to the vicarage seemed impossible at that moment. Looking across the road, he saw a welcome sight – the Bricklayer’s Arms, fully lit up and inviting. He managed to negotiate his way through the rush hour traffic towards the saloon bar door, stepping inside with relief. What greeted him was almost as daunting as trying to walk home. It was the usual sights and sounds to be found in any pub but, to Bernard, the noise was deafening. There was a jangling piano competing with a group of men who were singing a well-known ballad of the day at the tops of their voices. They were also very out of tune.

  Realising it had been a bad idea, after all, he turned to leave but was prevented from doing so by a tall, sandy-haired individual entering at the same time as he was trying to exit.

  “Excuse me!” exclaimed Robbie MacTavish, as Bernard practically fell into his arms. “Are you all right, man?”

  Bernard remained upright with difficulty. “I’m very sorry, I feel quite faint. I think I need to get some air.”

  “Nonsense, you need a double whisky inside you.” Robbie could see the young and very pale vicar was about to demur. “Trust me, I’m a doctor,” he said.

  “You are?” murmured Bernard, as Robbie helped him to a seat in a corner alcove away from the general hubbub.

  “Yes, I am and my diagnosis for your ailment, my friend, is whisky. It never fails.”

  Leaving Bernard to gratefully ensconce himself in the alcove, Robbie went to the bar and ordered the drinks. Returning with two double whiskies, he watched with concern as the pale young man tentatively sipped it. He was obviously unused to strong liquor.

  “Get it down you, man,” he ordered. “It needs to be polished off in one go to do you the most good.”

  “I see – right.” Summoning up his courage, Bernard did as he was bid. Swallowing the whisky, he managed to choke on it, and coughed and spluttered into his handkerchief for a good five minutes.

  “Not used to it, eh?” Robbie observed, patting him on the back.

  Bernard nodded, as he began to control his coughing fit and wipe his streaming eyes. “No, I’m afraid I’m not.”

  Robbie laughed. “Never mind. It looks as if it’s done you good already. The colour has come back to your cheeks.”

  Bernard politely refrained from pointing out that the colour in his cheeks was probably more likely due to his coughing fit rather than the efficacies of the whisky. “Er, it’s strong stuff, that’s for sure,” he hedged. “Anyway, thank you for your assistance this evening. My name is Bernard Paltoquet, by the way. How do you do?” He held out his hand to the doctor who shook it heartily.

  “Robbie MacTavish to you,” he said. “I’ve just set up in practice in the neighbourhood.”

  “What a co
incidence! So have I – as vicar, I mean.”

  “I think I got that,” winked the doctor, looking at his give-away dog collar. “Anyway, man, what on earth was the matter just now? You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “Funny you should say that because ...” Bernard stopped. Should he relate his experience at the Battersea bus stop? he wondered. Wouldn’t his new friend think he was completely mad?

  “Go on,” encouraged the doctor. “Oh, wait, before you do, let me get us another couple of drinks.” He made to get up, but Bernard stopped him.

  “Not for me, thanks. I feel quite drunk, as it is. Anyway, it’s my turn.”

  “Nonsense!” insisted Robbie, pushing him back into his seat. “My treat, I insist. What about a soft drink instead? Orange juice or something?”

  “Er, well, an orange juice would be most welcome,” Bernard replied. If only to take away the taste of the whisky, he thought. “Thank you.”

  While Robbie was at the bar, Bernard continued to debate with himself whether to tell him what had happened. The man knew something had, because of the state he had been in when he entered the pub. Yes, he decided. He’d tell him and let him draw his own conclusions.

  Robbie listened to his story without interruption. He lit his pipe and sucked on it, all the while giving Bernard his full attention.

  “Well, what do you think? Am I going mad? Was it all just a figment of my imagination?” Bernard asked, picking up his orange juice with a shaky hand.

  Robbie didn’t speak for a moment. “No, not at all. Why would you make up a story like that? As a man of the cloth, I’m sure you don’t make a habit of lying.” He grinned at him. “There are more things in heaven and earth etcetera, don’t they say?”

  “Well, William Shakespeare did once, I believe,” said Bernard with a hint of mockery. “In Hamlet, wasn’t it?”

  Robbie’s grin widened. “Probably, man. English literature wasn’t my strong suit at school.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be pedantic. Anyway, what do you think, really?”

  “I think it might have been Macbeth.” They both laughed.

  They concentrated on their drinks for a moment, then Robbie continued, “It may interest you to know that I’m very interested in the occult and that sort of thing. I’ve read lots of books on the subject, and there are many cited cases of people having just the kind of experience you’ve had.”

  “Really? What, like seeing someone who wasn’t really there and having a conversation with him and all that?”

  “Well maybe not quite that. But I’d be interested in your take on the matter. Who do you think this strange man was? Diabol? That sounds like a devil’s name.”

  Bernard ruminated for a few seconds before replying. “Hmm, I know, but he didn’t seem particularly frightening. Just odd.”

  “So, what do you think he wanted with you?”

  Bernard paused before replying. Then he told Robbie about the name mix up and what he dared not think would have happened if Diabol had really come for him.

  “Do you mean he was going to, well, take you back with him?” Robbie looked less sanguine now.

  “I know it sounds far-fetched, but I suppose that’s the only conclusion to draw.” He paused again and watched Robbie’s reaction.

  “So, you’re saying that you would have died and been carried off to Hell or whatever they call it. The other place? Down below? Fire and brimstone?”

  “Well, in the Christian church we believe there is a Heaven and a Hell. Although, not literally. But, yes, that’s what it amounted to. It was just lucky for me my name’s Bernard and not Michael.”

  “Two things strike me here,” said Robbie.

  “Which are?”

  “One, you, being a vicar would hardly be a candidate for the ‘other place’.”

  “One would hope so,” interrupted Bernard with a grin.

  “Yes, all right, man. Don’t interrupt. Two, your name. It’s strange enough. I certainly have never heard of it. So it amazes me that there’s at least two of you knocking about.”

  Bernard laughed at this. “Yes, well. There you are.”

  “I hope he didn’t find this Michael,” observed Robbie. “He’s not a relation of yours, is he?”

  “Not to my knowledge. So, you really believe me?” Bernard was both surprised and delighted. He liked this bluff doctor very much already.

  “I do. And I’ll let you into a little secret,” he said in a confidential tone, leaning towards him. “I’m a bit psychic, too.”

  “But I never said I was psychic,” protested Bernard.

  “But you are, man. You are.”

  Bergen, March 1948

  Birgitta peeped through the crack in the cupboard door but could see nothing out of the ordinary. The kitchen seemed deserted, what she could see of it, and there was no sign of any disturbance. Her brother had instructed her to stay there, but she didn’t know for how long. He had told her to get in the cupboard when that man arrived carrying the gun. The man was a friend of her mother’s, but she had never liked or trusted him. He was big and stocky with dark hair and a thick moustache. He was very ugly and had slobbery lips. She particularly didn’t like his slobbery lips.

  When she had heard raised voices coming from her mother’s bedroom, she had become frightened. Halle had told her not to worry, they were always arguing. But not like this. Their voices had got louder and louder, and Halle had then told her he would go and see what was happening. He, too, had become frightened and that’s when he had told her to hide in the kitchen cupboard, just in case. In case of what? she had wondered but had obeyed all the same.

  Then she had heard a shot being fired, her mother’s screams, and Halle running down the stairs. She had heard him run out of the house, slamming the door. She had then heard the big man’s footsteps run down the stairs and the front door slam again. Then all had become quiet. She had continued to hide in the cupboard, too scared to come out, even though she was on her own now. But she had been terrified the big man would return and find her.

  She had no idea how long she had been in the cupboard. What had happened to her mother and little brother? The house was eerily silent. She needed to answer the call of nature now, and she started to cry as she felt pins and needles creep up her legs. But she mustn’t move, not until Halle came back, she told herself. She waited a few more minutes, then decided. She wasn’t going to pee her pants. Her mother would be very cross with her. Finally, she stepped cautiously out of the cupboard.

  When she had relieved herself, she proceeded slowly towards her mother’s bedroom door. She stood outside for a moment, afraid to call to her. She couldn’t hear any sounds from inside. Pushing it gently, she heard its familiar creak, as she saw her mother’s body slumped across the bed. Her clothes had been ripped off and there was a dark red stain in the middle of her breasts. Birgitta’s tears made clean rivulets down her dirt-smeared face, as she tried to cover her mother’s nakedness with the tattered garments.

  “Mummy?” she said softly. “Are you awake?” No answer.

  She stroked her hair and then her face, which looked quite calm and still. She tried not to look at the stain now oozing through the dress she had covered her with, but she was an intelligent little girl. She knew that she had been shot by the big man with the gun; the man who had come to see them on many occasions before. He had worked on the farm and she recalled how her mother had seemed pleased with him.

  She couldn’t understand why her mother didn’t wake up and tell her it was all a mistake. The blood wasn’t blood at all. Maybe she had spilt some paint on herself. Maybe she and the big man had played a game that had been rough and got out of hand. But the blood was real. Her fingers were wet with it and it was still warm. There was no mistake about that.

  

  Birgitta tried shaking her mother awake knowing, as she did so, that it was no use. She would never open her eyes again. Her mother was gone from her forever; she wasn’t there anymore. O
nly her dead, useless body that would no longer hold her when she cried or tickle her to make her laugh. She sat there, stroking the dead woman’s matted hair, sobbing her heart out. It was dark outside now. She felt lonely and afraid.

  She began to wonder where her brother was. Where had he run off to? Had the man followed him and caught him? Maybe Halle was dead too? She couldn’t bear to think that. She had to find out what had happened to him.

  She thought about her dead father. Killed by a Nazi storm trooper. It was then that things had started to go wrong. Her bereaved mother had struggled to keep their little farm going but, without her husband, she had found it impossible. She had tried to get one of the lads from the next village to come and help out, but he turned out to be a disaster. He never arrived in time to milk their two cows and complained of backache after planting only half a row of potatoes. Then another lad had come who had been much better, but he had received his call up papers after only two weeks.

  Then that slobbery-lipped man had arrived on the scene. He seemed all right at first. He had brought her mother armfuls of flowers practically every other day and had even given her a doll and Halle a kite. He had made himself useful about the farm too, for which they had all been grateful. When their mother had asked him why he hadn’t been called up, he had whispered something about a medical condition. Birgitta and Halle had wondered about this, but they supposed it was all right. Anyway, he was too useful to bother about this too much. Their mother had told them it was all right and not to worry. So they hadn’t.