by ALAN TONER
O’Neil’s mocking grin widened. “A snowman? You’re joking, aren’t you, mate? Looks more like a bloody stick man. Can’t draw for toffee, can you?” He gave such a biting, scornful laugh that David almost felt like jumping up and punching him right on the nose. But, like the good and sensible boy he was, he controlled himself, and instead settled for a verbal comeback.
“I can draw better than you,” David said.
Through the lenses of his glasses, David’s eyes were twin pools of burning hatred. God, with each new offending action this bully showered on him, David loathed O’Neil more and more.
Then O’Neil turned his attention towards Billy’s drawing, but this time his reaction was not so much one of antagonistic sneering as one of surprised disbelief. “Oh my God,” he said slowly. “Why are you drawing weird images, mate, instead of Christmas ones? That supposed to be the Devil, is it?”
You’re a bloody devil yourself, David thought contemptuously.
“It’s Krampus,” Billy said, not even looking up at O’Neil as he continued to work away at his drawing.
“Who the bloody hell is Krampus when he’s out?” O’Neil said, his beady eyes flicking from the drawing to Billy’s bent head and back again.
“No use explaining to you who Krampus is,” Billy said curtly. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”
Grin fading, O’Neil’s face darkened to an expression of annoyance at Billy’s abrupt, unforthcoming reply. He, O’Neil, seemed to struggle for an appropriate counter remark for a few seconds. Then he said: “Oh, who the hell cares who your bloody stupid Krampus is anyway? All I know is that you don’t seem to know what the difference is between a Christmas drawing and a weird one.”
Miss Davenport glanced up from her marking and fixed the boys with a stern look. “Now, now, Gary, behave yourself. What have I told you?”
O’Neil looked over at the teacher and feigned innocence in his usual crafty way. “It’s not me, Miss, it’s these two. You wanna come over here and see what this guy” – he jabbed an accusatory finger at Billy – “has drawn. Horrible it is. Give you the creeps.”
“Back to your seat, Gary, please,” Miss Davenport ordered. “I’m not interested in looking at any of the drawings yet, at least not until they have all been completed.”
O’Neil did as she asked. Once sat back down, he briefly whispered something in the ear of the boy sitting next to him, who gave a conspiratorial titter.
The initial sketching out of Krampus now completed, Billy reached for his tray of paints and brush. Slowly, methodically, eyes never straying once from the drawing, he began to watercolour in his horned creation.
In between painting his own picture, the snowman, David cast the odd glance down at how his friend’s painting was coming along. Though he was impressed by this fresh example of Billy’s consummate art ability, he also felt a pang of unease at just how disturbing and menacing the added colours were making that chain-brandishing beast. In fact, David thought it was the most weird, most strange thing that he’d seen Billy – or indeed anybody – draw in his whole life. Then he recalled what his friend had said earlier about this Krampus character: He takes care of them . . .
Though it was cold in the classroom, the shudder that ran down David’s spine was more due to the unsettling image that his friend was creating on that piece of paper.
An hour later, Miss Davenport finished her marking, looked up at her class, and asked if they’d now all completed their drawings. The reply was a universal yes, so she stood up and walked around her desk.
“Right then, guys,” she said. “I’m coming round to have a look at your drawings. I hope you’ve all managed to come up with some real colourful Christmas pictures for me.”
There came a murmured exchange of voices from Gary O’Neil’s row - something along the lines of “Wait till she sees what Four Eyes and his stooge have drawn” - followed by more sniggering. But O’Neil’s face, as did those of his cronies, immediately straightened when Miss Davenport cast one of her stern, questioning glances in their direction.
After spending a few minutes assessing and praising the paintings of a couple of pupils in the first row of desks, Miss Davenport then started on the second row, which was the row where David and Billy were seated. As she approached David’s desk, she smiled approvingly when she saw what he’d drawn.
“That’s a cute snowman, David,” she said.
David looked up at her and smiled. “Thanks, Miss Davenport.”
“Good way of saving white paint too,” she joked. “Not much to colour in with a snowman.”
“I know,” David said, giving his teacher another smile.
Still smiling herself, Miss Davenport gave David a complimentary pat on the shoulder, then walked past him to have a look at his friend Billy’s drawing. The instant her eyes fell on the hooved, horned, hirsute monstrosity that almost seemed to leap out at her from the sheet of paper, the smile faded from her lips, and her expression became a mixture of shock and distaste.
“Oh my gosh,” she said slowly. “Billy, what on earth have you drawn there?”
Billy looked up at her. “Oh, it’s Krampus, miss.” Then he frowned at her rather questioning expression. “Haven’t you ever heard of Krampus, miss?”
She seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, as if the name did ring some kind of vague bell in her memory. Then she said: “Er . . . no, no. Never heard of him. Who – or should I say what – is Krampus?”
Billy shrugged matter-of-factly. “Oh, he’s just another part of Christmas history, as much as Santa and Jesus are.”
“But he’s not mentioned anywhere near as much as they are, is he, Billy?”
“Oh no, miss. But then again, not many people actually know about him.”
Miss Davenport folded her arms across her chest and eyed Billy interrogatively. “So how did you get to know about him then, young man?”
He shrugged again. “Oh, just by reading up on him in the history books, miss. Y’know, books on Christmas myths and legends and all that. My dad has got loads of them at home in his library.”
Miss Davenport, eyes still fixed on Billy’s face, nodded slowly. “I see.”
“Anyway, to answer your question, miss, Krampus is a kind of goat demon, and unlike Saint Nicholas, who rewards good kids on Christmas Eve, Krampus does the opposite.”
“Oh?” Miss Davenport arched her eyebrows quizzically.
“Yeah, because he punishes the bad kids. D’you want to know what he does – “
“Er, no, no, thank you,” Miss Davenport said quickly, raising a hand to stay Billy’s words. She didn’t know why, but somehow she was getting the odd feeling that the boy was secretly enjoying freaking her out like this with his stories of the darker side of Christmas. “I think I’ve heard quite enough now about this Krampus character. I’m sticking with Saint Nick, if you don’t mind.” And with that, she quickly moved on to the next pupil.
“Hey, Mr Picasso,” came the familiar, irritating voice from a few desks back. The accursed taunting from O’Neil again. God, didn’t that plonker ever shut up?
Billy turned around and shot the bully a look that was even frostier than Christmas snow. “What?” he said through clenched teeth.
“You’d better not hang that weird drawing at the foot of your bed on Christmas Eve night.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well,” O’Neil shrugged, “you might frighten even dear old Santa himself away.” Then he burst into laughter, and this set his equally obnoxious cronies off into fits of amusement too.
Trying not to let the sniggering boys get to him, Billy just shook his head in disgust and turned his back on them, returning his attention to his painting, which he felt so proud of, even though it had shocked Miss Davenport somewhat.
“Bunch of idiots,” David murmured to his friend, scowling at their pathetic behaviour. “It’s them that should get a good fright.”
For a few moments, Billy remained silent, his
face a rather intense mask of deep contemplation as he continued to stare down at his picture of Krampus. Finally, he said, in a tone barely above a whisper, “Yes, you’re right, Billy. A good fright. That’s what they need. The fright of their lives.”
“That O’Neil boy really is going too far, to judge by all that you’ve told me about him.”
The middle-aged man who’d just spoken was seated in a brown leather armchair beside an electric fire, whose homely reddish glow emitted a pleasant warmth through the living room of the large Victorian house, a cosy contrast to the bitter cold of the windy December evening outside.
“I know he is, Dad,” replied the small boy who was sitting in the matching armchair opposite that of his father. That boy was a very depressed-looking Billy Johnson. “He won’t let up. He was really taking the Mickey out of David and me in art class this afternoon.”
Mr Johnson, looking very pensive, contemplative, nodded slowly. “I know what you must be feeling, son. It’s disgusting to have to put up with this sort of idiotic behaviour, especially around this time of year, the season of goodwill.”
“Huh, O’Neil and his stupid mates don’t seem to know what the meaning of the word ‘goodwill’ is. To them, the only thing that’s “good” is being a constant pain to their classmates, and not just at Christmas but all the year round too.
“Hmm,” Mr Johnson said, his pale blue eyes taking on a faraway, meditative look. At the same time, the corners of his mouth were tight with empathetic displeasure. “It’s not right that you and your poor friend are getting no peace from this clown, just not right at all.”
Outside, the icy December wind was growing stronger, sending the windows rattling in their frames. Inside, the only sound that could be heard, in between father and son conversation, was the steady ticking of the antiquated grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room. Only Mr Johnson and his son now occupied the house, the wife and mother, Stella, having tragically passed away a few years ago from cancer. Both Billy and his dad still missed her terribly, and both felt sure that she would be turning in her grave if she knew what her poor son was suffering at school with all this bullying. Well, if her spirit really was still around, then she probably DID know.
Mr Johnson looked at his son. “So what has the headmaster been doing while all this bullying has been going on?” He spread his hands. “I mean, hasn’t he taken any steps to address the problem, sort this idiot out once and for all?”
Billy shook his head regretfully. “No, not really. Oh, he’s had O’Neil in his office once or twice, told him off. Stop being a naughty boy, O’Neil. Don’t do it again. You know, the usual stuff.”
His father nodded, the grim expression tightening his face again. “Yes, and it obviously hasn’t worked.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Dad.”
Mr Johnson exhaled a long, weary sigh. “They should never have abolished corporal punishment in schools.” He shook his head in disgust. “Those bloody do gooders. And the birch. Yes, the birch. They should damn well bring that back too.” Then his face seemed to take on a kind of strange expression, as if the thought of the birch had triggered an image in his mind, an image that was possibly very appealing, very palatable, to him. In fact, he even looked as if he was actually picturing somebody being birched in his mind right that very moment, for the corners of his mouth had slowly curled into a wicked grin. Was his train of thought now racing down a track that it shouldn’t really be racing down? Quite possibly.
Outside, from somewhere in the windswept town, a drunken voice could be heard in the distance singing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” as whoever it was staggered home. In other part of the street, a young couple could be heard arguing incessantly, the swear words that peppered their language suggesting that their sentiments were laced with anything but the Christmas spirit.
“Dad, you know that old book you were telling me about a few weeks ago, the one that’s supposed to have . . . well, you know, magical powers?”
His father arched his eyebrows quizzically. “Yes, what about it?”
“Well, I was just wondering if it might be of some use with this particular problem.”
“You mean the bullying at school?”
“Yes.”
Mr Johnson sighed heavily, sat back in his chair, rested his chin on his steepled hands, and thought for a few moments. Finally, he said: “Well, I can get it out again and have a good look through it, see if there’s anything in the ancient text that might be suitable for this problem.” But then he raised a forefinger to his son in a lecturely fashion. “I must warn you, though, Billy, that I can’t guarantee that whatever spell or incantation we eventually pick will work.”
Billy nodded quickly, seeming so impatient to get that book out and get started perusing. “I know, Dad, I know. But at least we can give it a go, can’t we?”
His father shrugged amenably. “Of course we can. Short of making a voodoo doll of this O’Neil boy and sticking pins in it, I suppose it’s the only other unconventional means of dealing with him we’ve got.”
Both of them then rose and strode out of the cosy living room, bound for the library, situated just down the hallway. But just before they entered the library, Billy stopped his dad by lightly grabbing his arm and saying: “Hold on a second, Dad. I’ve just remembered something that might just come in useful.”
His father frowned at him quizzically, but just said, “OK.”
Billy left his father standing there while he dashed upstairs to his bedroom. He returned a minute later, carefully holding in his hand a large white sheet of school art paper. On that paper was a picture that could have been painted by a professional artist.
It was the same paper on which Billy had drawn Krampus, the Christmas goat demon, in Art class that afternoon.
His father smiled wickedly, intently, as he saw what the painting was, and shook his head. “Oooo, you devil, you,” he said.
Christmas Eve. 10.00 p.m.
The hopes of little Mandy Hawkins that they’d get a White Christmas this year now seemed to be coming true, for since teatime it had been snowing quite heavily. And it was now sticking, coating everything in a wonderfully white, glistening blanket. If Bing Crosby were alive now, he would certainly be in his element.
In the small semi-detached house where Gary O’Neil lived, the bully’s father, Ted O’Neil, was slumped back on the sofa in the tiny living room, can of lager in hand, his sixth that evening. On the coffee table in front of him, amid all the empty lager cans, was a large white dinner plate on which were left a couple of sausage rolls. Next to that plate was a slightly smaller one containing a few left mince pies, for Ted couldn’t eat anymore, as he was full.
Ted was enjoying a nice relaxing Christmas Eve night just chilling out on his own in front of the fire, and listening to the music of his favourite group, The Beatles. From the large hi-fi in the corner, one of the Fab Four’s albums played, namely their debut one, Please Please Me, one of Ted’s all time favourite Beatles LPs. His wife had been invited to a friend’s Christmas party, and probably wouldn’t be back till very late. His son Gary was upstairs in his bedroom, playing on his Xbox, the console that, come Christmas morning, would soon be replaced by the very latest model, courtesy of his ever-generous mother and father. And, of course, there would be a few new Xbox games thrown in for the lad’s delight. Unlike his more tolerant wife, who would give her son her last penny, sometimes Ted wondered if they didn’t spoil their son a little too much. And he often thought it was a great pity that the lad never showed them much appreciation and consideration in return for their generosity, instead of always getting into fights and all kinds of trouble and generally acting like one big obstreperous kid. Still, boys will be boys, was the mutually resigned attitude of both parents. He would probably grow out of his hooligan ways as he got older. Well, Ted especially hoped so anyway.
Outside, the heavy snow continued to fall, flakes whirling around in the strong, icy
wind. It was showing no signs of abating whatsoever. Come tomorrow, we could all be snowed in, Ted imagined. Ah well, he thought, with all the blurry apathy of a typical Christmas Eve drunk, who the hell cares? He took another swig from his lager can and let out a contented sigh. As long as he had all his Christmas presents and his delicious dinner and his telly and his family all around him – plus a few drinks, of course – then as far as he was concerned, that’s all that mattered. It could bloody well snow a blizzard out there for all he cared.
He smiled approvingly as the next track on The Beatles album started: ‘Chains’. God, he loved this track. In fact, it was his favourite one on the album. Relaxing back on the sofa, he closed his eyes contentedly, swinging his foot up and down in time to the music.
Then, suddenly, he heard a sound amid the music that caused his eyes to snap open. What on earth was that? he wondered, frowning bemusedly. It had sounded like . . . well, somebody had just rattled a chain. And a rather heavy chain at that. Oh yes, how appropriate, a logical, rather sneering part of his mind seemed to say. You’re listening to The Beatles singing ‘Chains’, and you automatically thought you heard a chain rattle. You’re as bad as old Scrooge hearing the chains of Marley’s ghost rattling. Your mind is just playing tricks on you, matey. You’ve had a little too much to drink too. Better make it the last one for tonight and . . .
But no, no, the more wanton, carefree part of him countered. After all, it is Christmas Eve, isn’t it? I’m entitled to have a few drinks and enjoy myself. All right, I thought I heard chains rattling, but perhaps it was somebody outside messing around in their garden or something. So forget it, mate, he told himself. Just relax again, enjoy your booze, and get lost back in your Beatles music.
So he did . . . and almost immediately his eyes snapped back open as he heard the strange sound of chains rattling again. This time the sound was louder, almost as if those chains were being shaken vigorously in his brain. Jesus Christ!
And that was when the song ‘Chains’ suddenly stopped playing. It was almost as if somebody unseen had just come in and switched the hi-fi off. An almost sepulchral silence fell on the room.
