Christmas Spirit

Cathy Cade

Griller scrambled over the top of the skip and landed beside Shorty on the flattened cardboard that topped the pile of rubbish.

Footsteps pounded along the alley, returning slowly.

Blue lights strobing above them slowly moved away, and the alley was quiet apart from the scurrying of rats.

Griller whispered, “That were close, Shorty.”

As he struggled to sit up, his chunky frame sank further into the pile. Bits of scrap splashed into water at the bottom of the skip sending up a waft of rotting vegetables.

Shorty took out a pack of cigarette papers and fashioned a lean roll-up. “At least we got a good haul of phones.”

“Err…”

“Come on, Griller. I passed you ’arf a dozen I lifted from them carol singers. What’ve you done wiv ’em?”

“I put ’em in the backpack, Shorty. Like you said.”

Shorty grabbed the bag. “It’s empty!”

“I think they come out when I landed in the skip.”

Shorty closed his eyes.

Their lids were twitching, but as he took a deep drag of the roll-up, his other fist loosened and his shoulders relaxed.

“I thought we was out of smokes, Shorty.”

Shorty passed it over. “Was in one of their pockets. ’S good stuff.”

Griller inhaled. The world grew hazy. They shared the spliff in silence, as footsteps echoed in the alley and turned the corner.

Debris shifted.

A large rat sat watching them from a pile of carpet scraps. Griller was no stranger to rats, but this one wore a coat. Between its pointy ears nestled a red hat.

“ ’Allo,” it squeaked.

Shorty was uncharacteristically speechless. Griller filled in. “Who are you, then?”

“I’m the Ghost of Christmas Presents.”

“I seen that film,” said Griller. “The one with ’im what were in The Italian Job.”

“Not that one. I’m the ghost of Christmas presents you’ve been given.”

Griller thought. “I ‘aven’t ’ad any – not since I were a kid.”

“I never had any then, either.” Shorty had found his voice. “I’d leave a note up the chimney, but Santa never took it.” His eyes were glazed.

“Were you naughty or nice, though?” asked the ghost. “That’s the key to getting Christmas presents.”

Shorty snorted. “No chance then, is there?” He blinked. “Some church gave me a useless book once,” he remembered. “It din’t ’ave no pictures in it.”

Griller’s brain had gone cloudy, like soup. “Me an’ me bruvver used hang up our socks and watch for Santa at the window, but we always fell asleep. In the morning the socks was full o’ chocolates wiv a piece of fruit an’ a prezzy. One year I got a tiny teddy bear.” His face drooped. “That were before Dad’s accident. Mum went a bit funny after he died, an’ we was put in a children’s ’ome.”

The ghost wrinkled its brow. – did rats have brows? “You must’ve been given Christmas presents in the children’s home.”

“Weren’t the same,” said Griller. “An’ someone nicked Little Ted.”

“Ah. Right.” In the thickening mist, the ghost looked like a little gnome with his red hat and coat.

Shorty hissed. “Shh. Sounds like the plod coming back.”

Griller froze as heavy footsteps passed the skip and carried on to the end of the alley. They turned the corner and faded. He took a breath. The mist was gone.

So was the gnome.

A cord slipped, whip-like, between cartons, dislodging one. A pile of newspapers with holly-strewn banners slid sideways. Underneath them lay a tiny teddy with one arm raised as if in greeting. Griller stretched out an arm… carefully, in case any more rubbish shifted and swallowed up the bear.

Its shiny black eyes reflected the streetlight. Griller stroked its soft fur, which was surprisingly clean, and felt like a kid on Christmas morning. The old carpet scraps felt warm and comfy as Mum and Dad’s feather bed… until they shifted again.

Shorty had pulled himself up to see over the skip’s side. “Come on, Griller. Let’s go while the gg…” He stared at the opposite wall, speechless for the second time that night.

Griller slipped Little Ted into his pocket. “What is it?”

Shorty stepped back, tripped on a bit of wood, and lay gazing into the sky above the skip.

“That poster…” He blinked. “It’s about free Christmas dinners they’re layin’ on at the community centre.”

“T’riffic!” This was more like Christmas. Griller was surprised Shorty hadn’t mentioned it earlier. “I s’pect when we jumped in ’ere you didn’t ’ave time to read it.”

Shorty whispered, “When we jumped in ’ere, I couldn’t read.”

~ ~ ~