Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  “Oh no, I’ve no intentions towards her,” Robbie told him, gathering up the cards and dealing them out again. “I just don’t want her to get hurt, that’s all. You forget, Carl, I know all about you. Love ’em and leave ’em: isn’t that your motto?”

  “Yeah, well I guess you’re right,” admitted Carl taking up his cards. “I don’t want her to get hurt. She’s too nice.”

  “Yes, she is,” said Robbie sternly. “And she’s already had her heart broken by a GI she met during the war.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Yes, well, just you think about what you’re doing, that’s all.”

  Carl looked sad for a moment. Then sighed. “Anyway, I can’t be serious with her, or with anyone else come to that.”

  Robbie put down his cards and looked into his friend’s face. There was a look he hadn’t seen there before. He couldn’t quite describe it but, if anything, he thought he looked scared. Also, he noticed the dark lines round his blue eyes were more pronounced than when he had first seen them a few weeks ago. He looked worn out.

  “What on earth do you mean by that?” he asked, concerned.

  “Just that. You see, I’m not going to make old bones. So I can’t ask anyone to marry me. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “What makes you think you’re going to die young?” Even though Carl looked tired, he hadn’t suspected it was anything more than that.

  Carl sighed and threw in his hand. “I’m out,” he said. “Shall we have another game?”

  “Not for the moment. Tell me what you mean by ‘not making old bones’. I’m a doctor, remember? Perhaps I can help.”

  “No one can help, Robbie. I’ve had all the tests. You see, it’s my heart. A faulty valve. Any form of exertion could be fatal I’ve been told.”

  “Oh, Carl, I’m so sorry. I’d no idea.”

  Carl smiled bleakly. “Of course you hadn’t. I never told you. But that’s why I can’t be serious about my affairs with women. But I want to have fun with the time I’ve got left.”

  “It’s so unfair,” Robbie said. “How can someone like you, with such a brain, be doomed like that? We’ve got enough idiots in the world, why not get rid of some of them first? Anyway, who says you’re going to die? I’ll make it my life’s work to keep you alive, you see if I don’t.”

  Carl laughed. “Okay, man, whatever you say. But in the meantime, don’t tell anyone, will you. Especially not Lucy.”

  “Why not tell her? She has every right to know, the way you’ve been buzzing around her. She probably thinks you’re about to propose. You’ve got to put her straight, Carl.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll tell her, but not until after we get back from Norway, eh?”

  Robbie reluctantly agreed. Then he had a thought. “I say, are you okay to travel all the way to Norway?”

  “Oh sure. I’ve made it to Edinburgh and back, haven’t I? Life has to go on, you know. Well, until it doesn’t, I suppose.”

  “What medication are you on?” asked Robbie.

  “Oh, tons of stuff. I’ll get them for you, if you like.”

  “Yes, please do. And I’m going to give you a thorough examination before we go,” he said with determination.

  “Okay, you’re the boss,” smiled Carl as he left the room to retrieve his medicine.

  In his absence, Robbie put a call through to Bernard and told him about Carl’s poor state of health. Bernard was shocked.

  “The thing is, I’d like it if you’d come with us tomorrow,” said Robbie. “Just for moral support. If anything happens to Carl, I’d rather I wasn’t alone with him.”

  “But I haven’t got a ticket or anything,” protested Bernard. “Anyway, I can’t leave my parish again so soon. How long will you be away?”

  “Only a couple of days, hopefully. There and back.”

  “Look, I really can’t come now. I’m sorry. But I’ll see you both off from the station, if you like?”

  Robbie sighed. “Okay, that’ll help. Do you mind?”

  “No, not at all. I was planning to come and see you off anyway. What time do we leave?”

  “We need to get to Liverpool Street to catch the ten-five to Harwich, so we need to get a bus to the underground for nine o’clock, to make sure we have enough time.”

  “Okay, I’ll be ready.”

  “Thanks, Bernie,” said Robbie gratefully. “I appreciate it.”

  As he replaced the receiver, Carl re-entered the room carrying several pill boxes and a bottle of a luminous-looking green concoction. Robbie studied the labels and nodded sagely. “Well, all I can say is most of these are doing you no good whatsoever, especially not this green stuff. Get your shirt off and let’s examine you now – properly.”

  

  Bernard was as good as his word and accompanied Robbie and Carl to Liverpool Street to see them off. He waved goodbye, watching their two heads and arms protruding from the carriage as the ten-five to Harwich pulled out of the station.

  The platform was nearly empty now, and the unseasonal chilly summer had suddenly bucked its ideas up. It was already very hot at that time in the morning and promised temperatures in the nineties by midday. Bernard felt the heat as he tried to loosen the pressure of his dog collar on his sweaty neck. He was concerned for the safety of his friend. Who knew what dangerous waters he and Carl were heading into? Apparently, there was a maniac on the loose who’d murdered at least one woman, and probably her children too. He should have stopped them going, somehow. He began to feel faint as he headed for the buffet for a refreshing cold drink before starting back home.

  As he approached the buffet door, he suddenly felt a presence at his side. He looked around quickly and there was that weird little man who called himself Diabol standing there. He sported a different jacket this time, a bright red one, but his sparse hair patches and strange, changing coloured eyes were the same. He still had that funny little jerk of the elbows too.

  “Not you again!” Bernard gasped. “Have you come for me this time?”

  “Actually, no,” said the little man, as his eyes flashed as red as his jacket.

  “Did you find the correct Paltoquet by the way?” Although Bernard was horrified at seeing this strange apparition again, he was also very curious.

  “No. He escaped me. But I’ll get him soon, have no fear.”

  “So, what do you want with me now?” Bernard thought he really was going to faint if the man didn’t go away soon.

  “I’m looking for an acquaintance of yours who I was given to understand would be with you this morning.” The man jerked his elbows and scratched his meagre crop of hair while anxiously looking around him.

  “Do you mean Robbie MacTavish?”

  “No. It’s another funny name. I get all the funny names, me. Still, I’m sure I’ll earn my horns one day.” The man gave Bernard a leering grin, which made him feel almost physically sick.

  “Well, I’m all alone, as you can see,” said Bernard, “so I suggest you go and look elsewhere.” Please go, he prayed under his breath. He just hoped God was looking after him this morning.

  “Oppenheimer – that’s the name – Carl Oppenheimer. You know him, I’m led to believe.”

  “Well, slightly, yes.” Oh, dear, he thought. Was Robbie’s friend ill enough to be carried off while he was still so young?

  “So, where is he?” asked the little man impatiently. “I haven’t got all day. I’ve got to escort a Mrs Fanackerpan and a Mr Moses Ofarim before twelve o’clock.”

  “I see what you mean about funny names,” observed Bernard, amused, despite the weird situation, which was growing weirder by the second. “But I’m afraid you’ve just missed him. He was on the train that just pulled out. He’s on his way to Harwich.”

  “Damn! Sorry, I mean Heavens!” exclaimed the man. “Foiled again!”

  “Does that mean Carl won’t be leaving us now?” asked Bernard, hopefully.

  “Yes, at least not for a while. He’s a marginal, in any
case. Now he’s got a reprieve, he may end up upstairs. He’s been a bit of a bad boy with the ladies, but he’s got a heart condition so that could account for his behaviour.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, sometimes, when people don’t think they’ve got long to live, they try and cram as much living in as possible. I presume that’s what your Carl has been doing, so he may get away with it. Mind you, he’d have more fun downstairs, if you get my meaning.” And the little man gave Bernard another of his leering grins.

  Bernard wondered if he was going insane, talking to somebody who wasn’t really there. As he thought this, the sounds of the station crashed in on him and he heard the puffing of a great iron monster as it roared along the platform. The steam from the train engulfed him, and suddenly there were people everywhere, but no sign of Diabol. Bernard ran for the buffet and cursed that it was too early for an alcoholic drink.

  

  When he reached the vicarage later that morning, he was still feeling faint and light-headed. Mrs Harper noticed his pallor at once and poured him a sweet sherry.

  She sat him down in his chair in the study and threw open the windows. “Here,” she said, “get this down you.”

  Bernard gulped the sweet sherry with relief. He smiled wanly and thanked her for her concern.

  “I’ll fetch you some strong hot tea right away,” she said. “Dinner will be in about half an hour.”

  Bernard settled back in his chair and mulled over his second meeting with Diabol. He wasn’t all that scary, he had to admit; he was too comical looking for that. But he couldn’t understand why he had singled him out in this way. He knew, beyond any doubt, that these experiences had been psychic, and he silently apologised to Robbie for ever doubting him. Both men, in different ways, had some kind of psychic gift, which they would have to use carefully.

  He wondered whether he should tell Robbie about his friend’s narrow escape, but he thought better of it. It wouldn’t serve any purpose; it would just make him worry. His friend’s time would come when it would, and there was nothing either he or Robbie could do about it.

  Gradually, he felt calmer and less faint, as he listened to Mrs Harper clattering up the stairs with the tea tray.

  “There you go,” she said, settling the tray on the little table next to him.

  “Thank you, Mrs Harper.”

  Bernard decided to spend the time before his next meal (on the table at one o’clock, precisely) reading his Bible. He had been neglecting the good book lately and was beginning to feel guilty about it. He needed to constantly improve his mind, as well as his knowledge of the Word of God, in order to be a good priest. He hoped he was one already, but sometimes he didn’t feel too sure about that.

  After his substantial dinner of shepherd’s pie and rhubarb tart, he decided to take a stroll over the common, his Bible tucked under his arm. He didn’t want to admit to himself that the meetings with Diabol had shaken him up but they had, and he decided to take them as a timely warning to keep him on the straight and narrow.

  The afternoon, as presaged, was unbearably hot, almost oppressive. He wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t a thunderstorm soon, which he hoped would bring some much-needed rain. His head ached as he walked across the common, stepping between the bodies lying there, basking in the sun. How could they? he wondered. They would get burned. But, if they were under-dressed, Bernard was overdressed, still in his dog collar and tweed jacket. Sweat was pouring off him as he found a secluded and, thankfully, shady bench.

  Mopping his brow, he took out his Bible and opened it at St Mark, chapter 9, verse 24, the bit about ‘helping thou mine unbelief’. Bernard thought this was very apt. He read on, absorbing the words of wisdom that never failed to give him comfort in times of stress.

  “Where did you say this Carl Oppenheimer had gone?” came a voice next to him.

  Bernard nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned to see Diabol sitting on the bench beside him.

  

  The hot weather had broken at last. Rain drenched the drab South London streets from Inkerman Terrace, down Bockhampton Road, and round the corner to the vicarage itself in Canonbie Street. Bernard was completely out of sorts. Even Mrs Harper’s sumptuous afternoon tea did not cheer him.

  “You all right, love?” she asked him, as she placed the tray on the small table by his chair. “You look miles away.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” he replied, making an effort. It was all very well what the Bible told him: to be a Christian and do Christian things, but it wasn’t always so easy. He seemed to feel nothing for the people in need of his ministrations; all he could feel was sorry for himself. “It’s the weather. Looks like the summer is over.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” agreed Mrs Harper, casting a solicitous eye over her young vicar. “It’s cats and dogs out there. Is that all that’s bothering you?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said with even more of an effort, “we ought to do something for the poor of the parish.”

  “That’d be nice,” she replied. “What did you ’ave in mind, like?”

  “Maybe a dinner and dance? Or buffet, rather than dinner. We could sell tickets and raffle prizes, and the takings could go towards a slap-up Christmas dinner for the old age pensioners and anyone else who can’t afford it or are alone at that time of the year. What do you think?”

  “A good idea. And I’ll provide the buffet,” she said proudly.

  “Are you sure, Mrs Aitch? It’ll be a lot of work.”

  “Pish pash! Not for me. I can get some ’elp, if I need it. Better than paying fancy prices to the bloomin’ caterers.”

  “Well, thank you, dear,” said Bernard. “If you’re sure?”

  “’Course. You leave it to me,” she said, as she left the study. “I’ll start making a list right away.”

  He sank back in his chair and smiled. He was always changing his opinion of his housekeeper. One minute she was a scold, the next a nuisance, the next a saint. But, he supposed, taking her all in all, she was a bit of a treasure.

  He felt cheered to be doing something for someone else. It was true that it was better to give than receive. He felt very pious, now that he was doing the charitable thing. He hadn’t been doing enough of that lately. He just had to pray to God to make him a better person.

  Then his thoughts turned to his further encounter with Diabol the previous afternoon. Even though he’d had his Bible for protection, it hadn’t been proof enough against that horrid little man. He’d come back to ask him where Carl was once more. Bernard had known what that meant, of course; his time was up after all. There had been no reprieve for the Professor.

  He had tried to put Diabol off by saying he had no idea, which was practically true, anyway. But the little man had persisted. He only wanted his confirmation, he’d said, as to where the young professor was going. Bernard had again told him he didn’t know, which was a lie, of course. But it was in a good cause. Diabol had only grinned, though. He knew, anyway. So why had he bothered him? Bernard had then asked. But the man had already disappeared.

  It seemed such a strange way to get premonitions, Bernard had thought, because surely these meetings with Diabol amounted to just that. Had Carl Oppenheimer already died? If so, Robbie would be beside himself. He wished he could call him to find out but, even if it were possible, what good would it have done? And what could he have said? ‘Has Carl died yet?’ No, of course he couldn’t.

  Now, all he wanted was to see Robbie again, to comfort him, if necessary. The problem of the ghostly children would have to be forgotten, too. If Carl was gone, there would be nobody to translate what they had to say, anyway. It would be a double disaster for his friend, of course.

  But it would be a blessing, really. Robbie hadn’t considered the possible danger he was getting himself into. If Carl was dead, Robbie would come home as quickly as possible, wouldn’t he? There was nothing else he could do.

  Mrs Harper returned with the afternoon
post as he came to this conclusion. “Where’s your doctor friend today?” she asked, handing it to him.

  “Oh, he’s gone on another trip abroad,” Bernard told her gloomily, glancing at the letters, but seeing no airmail envelope which would have suggested a letter from Robbie. “He’ll be back soon though, I expect.”

  “You miss ’im when ’e’s away, don’t you?” she observed, almost kindly.

  “Yes, I have to say, I do,” he admitted, flinging the post aside.

  “Vicar?” she said, picking up his empty tea tray.

  “Yes, Mrs Harper?”

  “Tell me to mind my own business, if you like, but ’ave you got a girlfriend?”

  Bernard was taken aback by the bluntness of her question. She was quite right. It really wasn’t any of her concern. “Er, no, Mrs Harper, I haven’t.”

  “It’s just that you’re on your own such a lot. It would be nice for you if you ’ad a girlfriend,” she said.

  “Maybe it would,” said Bernard quietly, thinking about his long-lost Sophie. “But I’ve been too busy to think about it. Time enough, Mrs Aitch, time enough.”

  “You need to get out more,” she observed. “I know some nice young women who’d suit you down to the ground.”

  “Please, Mrs Harper – no matchmaking,” he protested. “I’ll find someone when I’m good and ready.”

  “Well, mind you do,” she said, opening the study door. “It’d do you a power of good.”

  Bernard smiled grimly as the door closed on his well-meaning housekeeper. The last thing he needed was a succession of ‘suitable young women’ paraded before him by Mrs Harper. He was content with his life as it was, thank you very much.

  Except was he – really?

  

  Two days later, Mrs Harper opened the door to a very wet Robbie MacTavish. The rain hadn’t stopped for over three days.

  She sniffed. “So, it’s you, is it?” she greeted him, as if there was a possibility that he could be someone else. “I suppose you’d better come in,” she added grudgingly.