by Paul Magrs
At the top we find that there is a theme of Arctic white at the Christmas Hotel. White roses and ribbons and twinkly white lights bedeck the front of the Edwardian palace. Within, the festive elves are in white and gold velveteen. It’s in danger of seeming tasteful.
We are each given a Kir Royale as we step through the revolving doors and I recognise a few faces gathering in the foyer. I feel like they’re looking at me and they all know the gossip about mine and Effie’s ructions.
Like a gigantic seal dripping in theatrical jewellery, Mrs Claus is bundled up in white fur atop her motorised bath chair. She’s carrying on like she’s the star of the show, which I can’t see Effie being very pleased about.
Then I clap eyes on the happy couple. They’re on a love seat beneath the biggest Christmas tree I’ve seen in my life. They’re surrounded by gifts and both look immaculate in matching ivory satin outfits. Jump suits, I’d call them.
‘Brenda,’ says Effie, at my approach. ‘I hope there’s going to be no bad blood between us.’
‘Humph,’ I say, which is really the best I can do. It’s the most gracious I can sound. I look at Keith and he’s sat there flapping those huge ears of his. He’s still wearing his daft little hat. I bend closer and whisper, ‘I’m giving you my blessing. And the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it isn’t you doing all these murders…’
Keith smirks at me. ‘That means a lot to me, Brenda. Thank you.’
‘Yes, well, just you look after my friend. She deserves the best, you know… and… and…’
Keith is holding my hand and I have a very strange sensation creeping over me. Even here… even in the teeming foyer of the Christmas Hotel, with all these wedding guests milling about me… I feel like I’m slipping into one of my reveries about my own hidden past…
‘Brenda?’ Keith’s voice is distorted, echoing.
And I am in a different place.
In a blizzard, on a mountain pass. I’m at the rooftop of the world and sitting on a yak, or some such smelly creature.
Many, many years ago. The gentleman in furs on the path ahead of me… it’s Henry Cleavis, I’d know him anywhere. And Professor Tyler sits astride a donkey further down the path, haranguing sherpas in his most querulous tones.
We are in the Himalayas… on the trail of a deadly cult… we have pursued them across continents, by train and boat… finding horribly strangled, sacrificial victims left in their wake…
And their leader was… their leader was a man such as Keith. With the ears and the trunk. He was the London Monster. Chief worshipper of a loathsome Death Cult. We came face to face with him in the Himalayas… in a terrible temple in the most remote place upon the Earth… where they practised certain vile rites beneath the statue of their many-trunked Goddess – Effulvia!
‘Noooo-ooooo!’ I cry, recalling just how narrowly those adventurous professors and I escaped with our lives.
Seeing again as the deadly cultists worshipped like crazy, and the London Monster led them in their wicked prayers. When he removed his hood we could see him in all his revolting glory.
How his followers howled with joy to see his ears and trunk and little tusks.
‘See?’ Professor Cleavis whispered to me, as we peered out of our hiding place. ‘On top of the monster’s grotesque skull – there’s a very dark tattoo. His mark of belonging. A stylized representation of his own features. All of the monks have one, you see? The icon is on the walls of the temple and all the corridors leading us here. Everywhere! Something I never dreamed of seeing outside of the ancient texts. It is the ghastly face of the demon elephant goddess of destruction - Effulvia!’
Professor Cleavis was lecturing me a little too excitedly in our hidden nook and it was at this point that we were spotted…
‘Quickly, my dear Brenda!’ cried the Professor. ‘We must flee! What’s that my dear? You’ve got what? A… a bazooka…?! And a hidden supply of… rock buns..?!’
Then suddenly – SNAP! – and I’m back at the Christmas Hotel on Effie’s wedding day. The Himalayan adventure and its bizarre conclusion are relegated all at once to the distant past. I am left very troubled indeed. And what’s more, I’m holding up the queue to meet and greet the happy couple.
I wander away, to snag a second cocktail, and then the rest of the event passes in a blur. We get ushered into the ballroom and there’s an extravagant fanfare and scads of flowers and rapturous applause. I stand somewhere near the back, finding myself beside Jessie, the gloomy waitress who serves high teas here. On her other side is her nephew Robert, a handsome boy who doesn’t look at all impressed by the proceedings. The two of them make catty remarks throughout the service – a little too loudly – and they even manage to make me smile.
‘Such a shame,’ Jessie hisses out of the corner of her miserable mouth. ‘When a sensible woman lets herself down and falls for the blandishments of a ruthless maniac.’
I gasp. ‘You know the truth about Keith too, then?’
‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘He had a go at me, you know. Late one night he jumped out at me when I was coming along Frances’ Passage. I only saw him in silhouette before I scarpered. But those ears and that trunk are unmistakable.’
Her nephew Robert puts in, ‘She only just managed to get away.’
‘I beat him with my brolly,’ Jessie says. ‘I can defend myself. I’m strong as anything from pushing hostess trollies through carpet with deep pile.’
Then she starts telling some complicated story about – believe it or not – a hostess trolley she once thought was possessed by its former owner, but I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about the corroborative proof of Keith’s perverted activities.
‘Have you told the police?’
‘What’s the point?’ moans Jessie. ‘I’d had all sorts jumping out at me in this town. You can’t go putting in complaints about them all.’
‘Folk have been killed…’ I whisper, but there comes another fanfare and it seems the ceremony is over. I’ve missed the bit when I could have shouted out my just cause and impediment and caused pandemonium. Next thing, Effie is gliding back down the aisle looking extremely pleased with herself.
The silly mare has gone and done it.
One of the worst things that the Monster he created ever said to my father was: ‘I will be with you on your wedding night.’
Well, at first, naturally, Herr Doktor Frankenstein had no idea what the heinous creature might mean. Obviously it was a threat and all became clear only when the Doctor found his bride dead on the bed, murdered by the monster, who was revenged at last.
Now I find that I am making the same promise. Not out of vengeance or anything nasty, but out of friendship and a desire to save Effie from herself.
In the Christmas Hotel the celebrations go on all evening. It’s a raucous place at the best of times, but tonight the old age pensioners are kicking up their heels even more wildly and the whole place is jumping. Effie is proof to them all that love and excitement and romance can come to anyone, no matter how old, embittered and shrivelled up they may be.
All I can think is that the clock is ticking for Effie in more ways than one. Now that Keith has stuck that ring on her finger, everything she has is now his. Surely he won’t tolerate her for long. I feel sure that he’s going to do her in on her wedding night.
I’ve already learned from Mrs Claus that she has donated the use of her finest suite for their honeymoon. While she was bragging about that, I made my decision. I knew just what I was going to do.
About fifteen minutes before midnight, here I am creeping out of the shindig. I am out on the freezing prom with the music pounding at my back. I nip round the back of the Christmas Hotel. There’s no one about. There’s no one to hear me clanging and banging my way up the network of metal fire escapes. I’m not too fond of heights, but it’s too late to think about that. I have to think about getting my mission accomplished. I duck past windows and haul myself up frozen railings.
I k
now that the best suite is highest on the tall, gabled roof of the hotel. Six storeys up. From here I can see the sprawling lights of Whitby. The fierce breeze makes my head spin as I stagger about looking for the skylight above the fanciest room in town.
There. About ten feet beyond the end of the ladder I’m on. To reach it I must balance upon the slates of the roof itself.
Across the harbour the tinny chimes of St Mary’s come drifting. It’s midnight. Mrs Claus said she was going to make everyone applaud the newly-weds and send them up the wooden hill precisely on the cusp of the witchy hour. It’s a tradition at the Christmas Hotel, she was saying, for brides to go off in this manner. To be dragged off amid the tumultuous applause of the guests. I’d rather die, I think, than face such mortification. Effie has surprised me today, with her relish of being centre of attention.
So – I shin carefully along the guttering, praying it will take my weight. I’m hanging on by my fingernails, it seems. I could expire on the spot and lie here forever without anyone knowing. Don’t look back, Brenda. Don’t look down. Don’t look blummin’ anywhere. Use your strength. Use your amazing powers of endurance. Call upon the freakish abilities with which you are mysteriously endowed! I bully and cajole myself and manage against the odds to drag my sorry carcass to the window that looks down into the bridal suite.
The elves have done a magnificent job. Candles are flickering in the purple room, and rose petals are scattered on the silky sheets. Champagne stands on ice. All of it would be lovely, if I wasn’t thinking about Keith having his wicked way and throttling the life out of Effie. The poor old cow will be expecting the time of her life, not its abrupt cessation!
This is when I hear the growl.
Quite close by. A deep-throated growl. Out on the rooftop with me.
I look around and can’t see anything. I decide it must be the weird acoustics up here; distorting the sound of the sea.
Then I get distracted by sudden activity down below in the room. The newly-weds have arrived, it seems. The door flies open and, heaven help her, Effie is being carried into the suite by Keith. Keith appears to be trumpeting their arrival with his trunk. He dumps Effie on the bed and she lies there, resplendent in her ivory satin jumpsuit with her hair done up in that chic little turban. She seems to luxuriate in the rose petals as Keith dashes off to the bathroom.
I’m about to draw her attention to me, when I hear that growl again.
Much closer this time. It’s right beside me. And unmistakable. It’s not an aural hallucination, after all.
It’s the Crispy Cat.
And it’s caught up with me at last.
The phantom moggy has bided its time. It has followed me all about the town, and at last to the top of the Christmas Hotel. There is no mistaking this green and orange, crackling feline form, baring its yellow fangs at me. I stare into its swirling, radioactive eyes and I know I am about to become its next victim.
It crouches, with its whole body tensing up. I open my mouth to say something pathetic, like promising it special cat food. But I know it’s about to pounce.
Down below Keith has emerged from the bathroom in a kimono. I am only dimly aware of what’s going on down there, while my attention is focused on the Crispy Cat. Nevertheless, I am aware of Keith flomping onto that heavenly bed beside my friend and whispering sweet nothings while she giggles.
And then I see something absolutely awful.
For once Keith isn’t wearing his hat.
His massive skull is bare as I stare down from above.
And there, right on the top of his head, is a very old, dark tattoo. A stylized icon of an elephant’s face. The face of Effulvia – the many-trunked destroyer and demon goddess from the Himalayas!
I was right! I was right after all!
Keith is guilty as sin, and up to his neck in that ancient cult!
And poor Effie is squashed underneath him..!
And here on the roof tiles, the Crispy Cat is making the most horrible noise. He’s going to pounce any second.
In the suite Keith is rolling about on top of Effie. She’s all abandonment and bliss. She wouldn’t be if she knew what I know about him.
Then his deadly trunk flexes itself and, as he leans down to kiss her, it wraps itself – at first tenderly – all about her neck…
And this is when the Crispy Cat springs.
I jump in alarm and the full weight of my body drops onto the skylight. I am spread-eagled on the glass as the cat sinks his claws into me.
Effie is staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes are popping out of her head as she realizes Keith isn’t caressing her, he’s strangling the life out of her.
And now she can see me up here, face down on the double-glazing with a glowing cat on my head.
Effie screams. Keith tries to shush her and choke her quiet.
And then the glass breaks beneath me. It smashes and I’m falling through it, with a glowing, sabre-toothed kitty ripping my black velvet finery to ribbons.
There’s a mad scramble below as Keith lets go of Effie and they both roll off the bed in time.
Surely this can’t be anything like what she imagined her conjugals would be like?
Keith himself is screaming now, as I land with an unholy racket and safety glass flying everywhere.
The Crispy Cat is dazed only for a second. Then he’s rearing up and preparing to tear my face off. Luckily, I still have enough fight left in me to fend him off with a hefty wallop in the chops. I’ve got deeper reserves of strength than anyone might think.
This is when Keith makes his fatal mistake. He picks up an antique chair and brandishes it at the ghostly puss. The cat howls and swings round on the startled groom. Effie shrieks as she realizes exactly what the assailant is. I roll across the furniture like something out of the SAS and try to shelter Effie with my battered and bruised body.
‘What’s happening, Brenda?’ she shrieks down my ear. ‘What on Earth have you done..?’
I don’t even try to answer this. Besides, it’s much too noisy in here. Keith and the Crispy Cat are slugging it out. The cat’s claws flash and Keith bellows in pain. His trunk grabs the cat by the throat and begins its deadly squeezing… but is it even possible to throttle a phantom?
Effie calls her husband’s name, even though he has just tried to murder her. She still feels concern for him. I tell her that she oughtn’t to look. The battle is too horrible. Too fierce and bloody.
There is frantic knocking at the door. People outside have realised that something ghastly must be going on. This is way noisier than any honeymoon this place has ever borne witness to.
Suddenly Keith drops. He’s bleeding badly and is cut to pieces. To me he looks mortally wounded. The Crispy Cat howls its primitive triumph and bats Keith’s trunk about a bit, until it’s quite sure he’s defeated. The cat’s badly injured too. His glowing seems dimmer somehow in the candlelight.
The candlelight! This licking flame isn’t just from nightlights. Everything was knocked over when I fell through the roof. Sheets of flame are springing up all over the honeymoon suite. The silk sheets turn out to be polyester and there’s a horrible smell as they melt and burn. Black fumes are starting to engulf the blummin’ lot of us!
‘Brenda!’ Effie shrieks. ‘Where are you?’
I stand up and take stock. The Christmas Hotel is on fire and the latterday London Monster Keith is dead. I check his pulse. Poor Effie. The door flies open and shocked-looking elves come storming in to rescue us. Effie’s passed out, which is probably for the best.
At the very last I lock eyes again with the Crispy Cat and all I can see there is feral hunger. A horrible sight. Then it fades away, suddenly, as if it had never been.
A new urgency overtakes me. Just what we need – another inferno! We have to get out of here at once.
By rights I should be half dead. But I heft up Effie – bony, unconscious, disappointed Effie – and I get us both out of there.
The Christmas elves bring h
oses and extinguishers and are trying to resuscitate Keith, but it’s too late.
I drag my best friend out of that hellish bridal suite at last.
Mrs Claus and all the guests are waiting outside the Christmas Hotel. They’ve been hurriedly evacuated at the first signs of fire. Now they’re in the freezing cold, looking shocked and terrified.
An ambulance comes screaming to a halt and Effie is loaded aboard. She’s all right. They just want to check her over for smoke inhalation. My heart goes out to her. Strapped down to a gurney in her flashy wedding outfit, her turban partially charred and her face white and wild-looking.
‘Keith didn’t make it,’ I tell her, as they push her stretcher into the van.
‘W-who?’ she asks, in a vague sort of tone.
So she’s lost her memory. The shock has robbed her of her wits. Well, perhaps that’s just as well.
The paramedics want me to come to hospital too. But I roughly refuse. No one’s getting a look at me. This one looks after herself.
I watch the ambulance race off and then, before anyone can ask me anything else at all, I stumble off through the back alleys to my B&B. My blessed sanctuary.
And so… It turns out that the Christmas Hotel isn’t razed to the ground after all. It just gets a nasty hole in the roof and has to have a new bridal suite put in. Mrs Christmas is, of course, insured up to the eyeballs.
The only thing I care about is Effie’s safety. They let her return home on the following day. She looks pale when I see her. I can tell that the memory of recent events has returned to her. And she’s in mourning for the mad cultist who briefly married her and tried to finish her off with his trunk.
‘You were right, ducky, and I was wrong.’
‘Never mind that now.’ I pass her a small schooner of sherry. I change the old jazz record on my turntable. Nina Simone will buck us up, I reckon.
‘I should have listened to you, Brenda. You’re my best friend. I’ve never had a best friend before.’
I have, of course. I smile as I sit back in my armchair and bask in the cosy warmth of my attic sitting room. I don’t tell Effie about the wonderful best friends that I had before her. Joe Merrick. Henry Cleavis. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’ve had a good many friends in the course of my long, long life. And the thing about those friends is that you have to be able to trust them absolutely and depend on what they say. Sometimes that can become a matter of life and death.
