The Twelve Strange Days of Christmas

by Syd Moore

  It had taken them a week, but eventually Bronson and Sam had managed to stack up all the chairs and tables and lodge them in a cellar. There were a lot of them, I had discovered. Cellars that is. Full of exhibits and models in varying states of preservation. I’d stopped counting rooms after number seventeen but my new year’s resolution was to find out exactly how many there were and what they contained. The task didn’t fill me with joy, I had to admit.

  Once Bronson and Sam had stowed the paraphernalia from the Talks Area away, a large party space emerged, which they then proceeded to decorate in a manner which may well have turned gaudy, possibly even vulgar, had I not inserted myself into the role of executive producer JUST IN TIME. Gone now were the mains-powered plastic snowmen, the self-inflating eight-foot reindeer, a nodding Jesus and the giant rusting Santa’s sleigh. The latter they had adorned with models of evil-looking sprites and imps which Bronson had retrieved from an ex-display case in the basement. Sam had also wedged a red pillowcase full of Tupperware boxes into the driving seat and inserted a rather mournful Green Man behind it. He’d put a whip in his hand and fastened upon his head a fur-trimmed hat that had a white beard suspended on elastic. This fluttered about in the various (and many) draughts, lending the nature spirit an air of animation. But even so, the green mannequin was not fooling anyone into thinking he was Santa. Last week I’d extricated him from the sleigh and hauled him into the lobby so he now formed part of a kind of unholy Magi. Positioned beside a dusty Saint Nicholas and a horned Krampus with chains and bells, the three figures gazed down upon a straw-filled manger that contained a little blonde baby doll. Unfortunately, they really did look like they were going to eat it. There had been a couple of complaints, but we were a Witch Museum for God’s sake. If kids were scared of a few old legends like those, then there was no way they were going to make it past the Medieval anus-crackers.

  Didn’t pacify the parents, unfortunately, but you can’t please all the people all the time, right?

  Under my instructions the Santa sleigh had been dragged out and placed at the side of the museum entrance, thus creating a show of festive frippery that you could see from the road. In fact, it was the only source of illumination once the few street lights in Hobleythick Lane were turned off at ten o’clock. The consequences of which meant it constituted a nice bit of advertising to passing motorists and random pedestrians on their way home from the pub. Bronson ran an outdoor electricity cable to it, so I was able to decorate the sledge with lots of LED parcel-shaped ornaments, outdoor fairy lights and a couple of flashing reindeers. Personally, I thought the cable that ran from the ticket office to the sleigh, should be taped down for Health and Safety reasons, but the caretaker insisted it was fine. The whole thing lit it up gloriously, only sparking on occasion when it got damp. When that happened, however, it conjured a scene from Final Destination, which was literally electrifying. Still, Bronson was convinced it was okay, so I let it go.

  Instead of all the tawdry rubbish in the Talks Area, I cut holly and ivy from the garden and decked the hall with boughs and boughs of the stuff, as per the jolly carol. Lengths of icicles criss-crossed the ceiling, transforming the place into a glittering arctic forest, in the middle of which I had suspended a giant wreath fashioned from twigs, holly, gold-sprayed leaves, a dilapidated giant wooden star and mistletoe. Quite the centrepiece, I thought. I’d come across a bunch of grimy wicker stars in another cellar so gave them a bit of a dust and hung them around the garland on varying lengths of ribbon, so you could not miss the mistletoe should you be intending to spread your goodwill and clamp your smackers on that special someone. Not that I had such things on my mind when I erected it, you understand. Oh no no no.

  There were more decorations round the sides of the room. After Krampus-gate I decided to cover up the panels that illustrated particularly nasty episodes of our county’s history: burning heretics tended to put people off their flame-grilled chicken wings. In order to maintain appetites, I had sello-taped sheets of Christmas wrapping paper over the panels. It was only this evening, as I’d given the room a final sweep, that I noticed someone had cut peepholes so that the witches and martyrs could join in and watch our celebratory shenanigans. Which was very considerate if you thought about it. And also a bit weird. Then again, weird stuff was the norm here, which I was just about getting used to.

  The focal point of the Talks Area, however, was most certainly the stage. Specifically, the magnificent Christmas tree. Oh, how it sparkled and shined. At least seven feet high, it had been brought in by a donor, who shall remain anonymous on account of the fact they had half-inched it from the grounds of Howlet Hall, the manor of the local Lord. Seeing as that old git was now behind bars for his foiled attempt to murder my good self, and various other shocking depravities that involved my mother and grandma, I thought a tree from his grounds was the least he could bloody do. In terms of reparation it was actually pretty lightweight, legal or not. No one outside of the Witch Museum team knew where it had come from, so Edward de Vere was never going to find out. And it was a beauty. I had decked it with baubles, lashings of twinkling lights, fake snow and various trinkets we found in a box of Christmas decorations. They included a pretty woven snow-flake, a knitted kitty that almost resembled Hecate, our museum cat, wearing a stripy scarf (not that she would ever do something so undignified), and a large, gnome-like figure that might have been a voodoo poppet in a previous incarnation. A couple of Wiccans had kindly sent us some hand-decorated glass balls, which I’d stuck straight on. We’d had something else come through the letterbox a day later. The gift completely baffled me when I unwrapped it, but then I worked out it must be a local custom to donate tree decorations to the museum. It looked like a tooth embedded in a chunk of meat, with dubious brown stains around the base but, seriously, it’s amazing what a job lot of glitter can do. You didn’t notice it hanging there on the lower branches anyway. Not really.

  Trace and Vanessa had done us proud with a buffet table that sagged under the banquet of seasonal goodies, and which, currently, a large contingent of the scout and girl guide leaders were tucking into. I had brought in some outside bar staff so the museum’s team could have a bit of a well-earned knees-up. It looked, however, like this agency had supplied work experience applicants. The adolescent catering assistants were blanching beneath their pimples, blinking rapidly and staring at everyone in a manner that suggested they were … what’s the word? Ah yes – scared. Still, as long as they were topping up the glasses properly. That was the main thing.

  I didn’t really know what their problem was. I mean, everyone was just letting their hair down. Well, a lot of Adder’s Forkers were. Carmen Constable and her vegetarian boyfriend, Florian, were jigging with the middle-aged village bombshell, Neighbour Val. Emboldened by fizz, Terry Bridgewater was doing his best to impress Molly Acton from the neighbouring farm. Audrey, the resident protester, and the woman I had named ‘Pink Anorak’ but who was called Anne by everyone else, had their eyes fixed on the dancefloor. They were doing a half-arsed job of looking disapproving, unaware their feet were twitching to the rhythm of the tune. I followed their gaze over to a laudable demonstration of what can go wrong when you allow geriatric drinkers priority access to the bar. The elderly man, known to the entire community of Adder’s Fork as ‘Granddad’, was enacting something that resembled a cross between an aggressive Morris routine and ‘The Birdy Dance’. His elbow-flapping, butt-twerking partner was Molly’s dad, Bob. Bob Acton’s pitchfork clanged with surprising volume against Granddad’s aluminium crutch, as the two formed a lopsided arch under which the various Adder’s Fork revellers were ducking and whooping.

  Representatives from the local constabulary, the newly promoted Inspector Sue Scrub, PCs Dennis Bean and Shaun O’Neil, stood apart, watching and clapping. They all had fixed grins buttoned onto their faces but Scrub was coming across like a resigned gazelle at a rabid tiger convention. At least they were here, fostering community relationships, though I
was sure Bean and O’Neil would prefer to be anywhere else but.

  Sergeant Bobby Brown had made an appearance too. The bloke, regularly as cool as a cucumber, was staring at the dancers unblinkingly whilst scribbling in his notebook (without looking down – impressive). Chloe Brown, the gothy forensic lecturer who volunteered here, was inching over to him with a drink in each hand. They weren’t related, as far as I knew, but it looked like Chloe was hoping to get familiar. Go Chloe, I thought and wondered if she stood a chance.

  Someone grabbed my hand and tugged me towards the pitchfork/crutch arch.

  I was surprised to see it was Sam.

  ‘Come here,’ he said and pulled me into the centre of the room.

  Was it the mistletoe he was heading for?

  ‘Oh really?’ I responded with a little eyelash flutter.

  Sam jerked his head to the stage where my auntie was decked in enough sequins and flashing earrings to make the Christmas tree feel underdressed. ‘Do you think Babs could play something less paganey?’ he asked.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sam,’ I said and rolled my eyes. ‘It’s The Pogues!’

  ‘Yes, but look at them,’ he said, as Granddad hopped past me with a pair of barbecue tongs held high. I didn’t know where he had got them from. I hadn’t put any out on the table. Oh God. I hoped that they were barbecue tongs and made a mental note to check the Heretics Fork display later.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘That’s just them, isn’t it?’ and shrugged. ‘The Adder’s Forkers. They’re ebullient.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Sam and frowned. I didn’t know why. Then he stopped walking and let go of my arm. ‘Could be this, you know,’ and he pointed up at the wreath.

  Mistletoe.

  Bingo.

  Was love, at last, coming through the air tonight?

  ‘Well!’ I said and leaned in steeply. ‘Seems rude not to.’ And then I puckered my lips.

  But Sam didn’t look at all romantic. At least he didn’t look like he had any romantic intentions. Unless having romantic intentions made him squint his eyes, crunch his brow and make a circular motion with his finger. In which case, I could see why he was still single.

  Either way, I wasn’t letting the opportunity slip through my fingers. That had happened far too often. I sashayed my hips and jiggled my bum sexily. It is possible to jiggle sexily, you see. I’m living proof.

  ‘This is no time to start prancing round like a pillock,’ Sam said tetchily.

  I tutted. ‘I’m not prancing, I’m dancing …’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, then looked at me hard. ‘Not you as well?’

  ‘What d’you mean “as well”?’

  ‘Are you feeling . . . er . . . excitable, Rosie?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Always around you, Sam.’

  But he just laughed and said, ‘I don’t know how to take that.’

  I was going to tell him he could take it whichever way he wanted but before I could get it out he said, ‘I think it might be having an effect. There’s an energy in here.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, wondering if he had sprayed on a particularly attractive aftershave. ‘What’s having an effect?’

  ‘The ceremonial circle you’ve drawn. It’s likely to have triggered a response. Even if only a psychological one.’

  That stopped me.

  I stared at him. ‘How do you mean – drawn?’

  ‘Big circle,’ he said pointing to the outer ring of icicles. ‘With this pentacle at its centre, encompassing the wreath, which of course presents a double circle. Very powerful symbology.’

  ‘What pentacle?’ I said looking up and into the garland above us. ‘That’s just some old star I cable-tied onto the ivy.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Sam. ‘It’s the Pendragon Pentagram. I wondered where it had gone. Not sure what century it dates back to, but it’s carved with Enochian symbols thought to aid communication with angels.’ He frowned again. ‘Or other supernatural entities with far less integrity. Generally, it can be used to summon a spirit or traverse celestial planes etc.’

  ‘Oh-er,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Rosie.’ Sam cleared his throat and took a deep breath, which always signified a bit of a lecture was on its way. ‘And these rural pentagrams you’ve added around it do amplify old Pendragon’s purpose. They might look like simple compositions, but they would have been woven with a perfect focus on magic. The outcome that the craftsman—’

  ‘Or craftswoman.’

  ‘Yes, the outcome that he or she wished to achieve – protection, fertility – it’s in there. Most of the villagers will be aware of it. One can almost feel energy radiating out of the pentacles.’

  ‘Antique wicker stars,’ I muttered, looking at them. How was I supposed to know? They looked like shabby-chic decorations to me. ‘Yeah, well. It’s Christmas. Everyone’s excited. And anyway, all that pentacle/symbol malarkey, well, we both know that’s likely to be a load of hocus pocus isn’t it? I mean this stuff doesn’t really work.’

  ‘Well, there’s frequently a psychological effect,’ said Sam and grinned. ‘And to be honest, we’ve never tried out the Pendragon Pentagram, have we?’

  ‘There’s a lot of things we haven’t tried,’ I said and winked. ‘But if we were going to start with one, then this wouldn’t be my first choi—’

  In front of me, Sam clapped his hands over his ears.

  A terrible screech filled the Talks Area as a stylus skidded across vinyl. Everyone winced collectively and stopped what they were doing.

  All heads turned towards the decks on the stage where Tone Bridgewater was wrestling the mic out of Auntie Babs’ hand.

  Swatting Auntie Babs away, Tone managed to free the microphone and wheezed into it. ‘Quick everyone! You’ll never believe it, but there’s a demon outside!’

  By the time we had all stampeded out of the Talks Area, through the folklore section, round the hedgewitch, across the Blackly Be exhibit, stopped and checked our reflections in the ‘There but for the Grace of God’ hall of mirrors, grimaced past the torture display and burst through the ‘Abandon all Hope’ door over the lobby and into the front garden – there was no one there.

  No one, that is, apart from Bronson.

  The caretaker was lying in the middle of the path, flat on his back. His bucket, kicked to one side, rolled gently back and forth.

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Sam and I together and darted to his side. Neighbour Val appeared out of the crowd and flung herself over Bronson, neatly elbowing me out of the way. She had a habit of doing that. I shuffled round his shoulders and put my head to his chest, listening for a heartbeat.

  ‘Crikey!’ said Sam.

  ‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Bronson. Loudly.

  ‘Oh thank the lord for that,’ cried Neighbour Val and for some reason began fanning herself. ‘What you doing down here, Brons?’

  Sam gave me a look and I knew instantly he was as surprised as me by Val’s shortening of our colleague’s name. It betrayed intimacy. Yet the salty old dog hadn’t mentioned any dalliances to us. Then again, he was a man of few words.

  Tone Bridgewater had caught up with the herd and popped out of it to inform us. ‘He must have been floored by the demon.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Bronson as Sam and Val pulled him into a sitting position. ‘It came at me with some force. Well, over me.’

  ‘What did?’ I said, finding it hard to take the whole demon thing on board.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Bronson. ‘One minute it was here, the next it was gone.’ He shrugged. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘But what was it exactly?’ asked Sam again, then clarified. ‘What did it look like?’

  Tone had come over and squatted down beside us. ‘I saw it out the side of my eye,’ he said. ‘When I was having a, er, fag. Didn’t realise Bronson was out here too.’

  ‘And?’ I said.

  Tone nodded and pulled his coat tighter round him. ‘It’s dark and it was too.’

  ‘It was da
rk too?’ Sam tried to pin him down, metaphorically speaking. ‘You mean someone wearing dark-coloured clothes?’

  ‘Sort of. They were flapping.’ Tone swallowed. ‘But it weren’t no man.’

  ‘Oh for gawd’s sake how do you know it weren’t no man if he had clothes on? It weren’t a cow or a pig in drag, was it?’ Neighbour Val giggled inappropriately.

  ‘No, it weren’t,’ said Tone in a grave voice and shook his head. ‘Because as far as I’m aware, pigs don’t fly.’

  ‘This is Adder’s Fork,’ I muttered. ‘You just might not have clocked them.’

  ‘It flew?’ Sam dragged his eyes away from Bronson and regarded Tone with fascination.

  But it was Bronson who nodded. ‘Felt that way to me too, son. Could hear a swooshing. Breeze.’

  There was a murmuring over by the museum entrance then a voice raised into a wail.

  ‘The wages of sin.’ Oh God it was Audrey. Her creaky voice grew higher, ‘“For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord” amen. Repent whilst you still have time. Repent on the eve that Jesus Christ is born.’

  She never missed a trick, that one.

  ‘He flew down, out of nowhere, then sprang off again,’ Tone explained ignoring Audrey’s warning. ‘Up, up into the sky.’

  ‘Seriously though,’ called Nicky from the Village Shop, who was standing beside Audrey. ‘If it’s attacked Bronson someone should call the police.’

  ‘We’re here,’ said Scrub shoving her way to the front of the crowd.

  ‘Bloody hell! That was quick,’ Neighbour Val marvelled.

  Bobby Brown decided to take control with a ‘Nothing to see here, please disperse.’ It had absolutely no effect on anyone. But Chloe had followed him out and added, ‘There’s still 45 minutes left of that free bar,’ which seemed to do the trick. That and the fact that PCs Bean and O’ Neil started shepherding them.