A Christmas Carol Revisited
By Phil Rowlands
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Phil Rowlands
All rights reserved.
A Humble Tribute To A Great Man And Social Commentator
Charles Dickens
1812 – 1870
With special thanks to Michele Vrabel
“Praise is like sunlight to the human spirit: we cannot flower and grow without it.”
Jess Lair
Christmas Eve 5.15 p.m.
Through tinted windows Ebenezer Clinton Scrooge III watched the bustling side-walk crowds slip silently into the waiting night like shadowy grey wraiths spirited away on a bitter December wind. The gaudy festive lights served only to emphasize their desperate anonymity. Scrooge leaned back into the plush leather upholstery of the limousine, comforted by the fact he no longer needed to mingle with the madding crowd. It was as the car slowed at the intersection of 52nd Street he first thought he saw ‘the face’.
Someone was standing on the side-walk staring directly at him, which was actually impossible because from the outside the windows presented an impenetrable black veil. Someone the bubbling froth of humanity flowed around like water in a rushing stream as it breaks over an ancient immovable stone. Someone with eyes exactly like…no, that simply could not be! For an instant the chill night air embraced him rendering impotent the luxurious heated interior of the imported Bentley.
He leaned forward striking his face sharply against the glass in a futile attempt to confirm or more likely disprove his initial impression. The figure was no longer there. Ahead the congestion eased slightly and the limousine moved on with menacing grace through the swarming rush-hour traffic. A simple trick of the light that was all. Besides, they say everyone has a double but there had been no mistaking the irascible gleam that always alerted Scrooge to the fact his old partner and adversary had gauged exactly the subtle machinations of his devious mind.
Strange, it was a sensation that momentarily overwhelmed him with nostalgia. He was not a sentimental man, far from it, but he missed the challenge of an equal. In the days and years following ‘the accident’ there had been no one of sufficient intellect and force of character to hinder Scrooge’s ruthless march to power. Control the media and you control the masses. He smiled to think that while the world was to all intents and purposes unaware of his existence he could at will reach inside the minds of men and plant seeds that took root grew and bore fruit, very profitable fruit indeed.
That is what had caused the rift and with each passing day it widened until a yawning chasm opened between them that nothing on this earth could bridge. It was not that either man was opposed to employing manipulation as a perfectly acceptable means of influencing the thoughts and opinions of the vast global audience the company had amassed via its satellite, television and media empire. Mind control through such channels as subliminal messaging was a universally accepted marketing method employed by all the major corporations whether you wanted someone to buy a particular brand of toilet roll or plunge a nation into war.
‘Plunge a nation into war!’
Beads of perspiration began to merge and trickle in tiny rivulets down Scrooge’s brow. As he dabbed at them the source of his sudden unease broke through the surface of his consciousness like a drowning man’s last desperate bid for air. They were words that had once been uttered accusingly in his direction with a vehemence that had momentarily reduced him to silence. Words that had severed the final frayed bond of friendship forever. Jake’s words.
“It’s almost Time Ebenezer.”
The sudden interruption of his reverie by a disembodied voice on the car’s internal intercom startled him. He pressed a button and opened communication with Grainger, his Chauffeur.
“What did you say Grainger?” Although even as he spoke he knew the answer. Grainger would not dare to be so familiar. It had not been Grainger’s voice he had heard.
“Nothing Sir, at least not just then, but I have been trying to speak with you for the last ten minutes. The intercom must be playing up.”
“It would be easier to waken the dead!”
“Pardon!” Scrooge swallowed hard. His throat had become unusually constricted.
“I said the intercom must be playing up, sir. Seems as if we have a few gremlins in our systems tonight. Apparently the lift to your private car park is jammed. We’ll have to stop outside and use the main entrance.”
“With the common herd!”
That voice again. Not Grainger’s but another he knew all too well.
Leaning forward he peered over Grainger’s unsuspecting shoulders into the mirror above his chauffeur’s head. Dark brown eyes stared back at him, eyes that could not be Grainger’s because his were blue. The eyes blinked and they were blue again. Scrooge produced a large silken handkerchief and began to mop his brow. It was oppressively warm; perhaps gremlins had also managed to disrupt the air conditioning.
His head began to throb. Whether as a direct consequence of having struck it against the strengthened glass or the sudden unwelcome revelation that he did not want Grainger to turn around because he was no longer certain the presence seated directly in front of him was Grainger. This was absurd!
The car pulled up in front of the monstrous edifice that Scrooge recognized at once as home. He exhaled and the tension flooded from him. Get a grip! What an earth had come over him. A vaguely familiar face in the crowd and his imagination had gone off on one Big Time, to quote the vernacular, something he normally avoided at all cost. He sank back into the welcoming folds of the padded interior as the car slowed gently to a stop. Though normally impervious to the pressures that oppress powerful men he had to confess to himself that the recent clandestine ‘arrangement’ made with certain shadowy emissaries of State had provoked in him the first spasms of anxiety experienced since…well, a long time. After Watergate no-one could be considered immune and what if this new ‘venture’ was a bridge too far? Too late now, the dye had been cast; besides the potential pay-off was immense.
“Here we are sir.”
“Final Destination.”
The words jolted Scrooge back into the present scattering his thoughts like a flock of startled crows. ‘Final Destination’, the phrase evoked morbid images of hapless teenagers meeting untimely ends in a variety of ingenious and gruesome ways. Not that he was particularly averse to the idea of such a fate befalling a sizeable portion of the youthful population. What use were most of them anyway? Drugs and sex seemed to be the only activities they indulged in with any enthusiasm. The language they spoke was by and large totally incomprehensible and unless they enlisted in the armed forces, where their energies could be channelled and directed to more constructive purposes, Scrooge saw little to justify their aimless existence.
Grainger opened the driver’s door and Scrooge watched his large bulk disappear onto the side-walk with a growing apprehension that he was unable to exorcise. Normally Grainger’s presence was a source of reassurance, offering protection and exuding intimidation in equal measure. No Caesar felt more secure surrounded by his Praetorian Guard than did Scrooge with the massive figure of Grainger at his side. But not today. An ominous sense of foreboding seeped like fog into the interior of the limousine and he was a child again hiding under his bed while the familiar dread footfalls ascended the staircase before halting deliberately outside his bedroom door. The silence was always the worst holding within itself all the pregnant possibilities of a child’s fear.
Silhouetted against the smoked glass Grainger appeared somehow much smaller and infinitely more menacing. Obeying a primal instinct Scrooge moved hastily to secure the internal lock just as a hand attempted to open the door from the outside.
How many times had Grainger performed this same procedure shielding his master from any possible unwanted media attention with his huge frame as Scrooge emerged warily from his black cocoon? Thousands probably. But today was different and the door was already being pulled open from the outside with irresistible force. There was no bed to cower under so he eased himself out into the grey December twilight.
No one was there. Where was Grainger and if he hadn’t opened the door then who had? Scrooge remained with his back to the limousine reluctant to abandon the potential sanctuary it might yet offer. Then he saw Grainger. He was about 20 yards away seemingly engaged in a one-sided wrestling match with some unfortunate individual who now lay pinned to the floor but obviously not yet fully subdued. Scrooge surveyed the immediate area with mounting alarm. Could there be more than one assailant? He was aware that the latest project he had agreed to pursue was not without risk but had not anticipated that risk being of a physical nature. Certainly not as crude as an assault on the street in broad daylight. And where was Security? Surely they would have been waiting for him to arrive once they knew the private lift had developed a fault. Something was very wrong.
Prevarication was not one of Scrooge’s vices and having assessed the situation he swiftly determined a course of action. Taking refuge in the limousine, although tempting, was not a viable option. Determined individuals bold enough to perpetrate an assault on the very steps of the citadel of his personal empire would not be deterred by a locked door. Obviously ‘they’ had succeeded in jamming communications between the limousine and his supposedly secure communication channel at ‘Interstellar Inc. ‘which would account for the absence of Security and senior members of staff. It would also indicate that whoever had planned this had access to some very serious hardware indeed.
There were no signs of angels or demons on the marble steps that rose like Jacob’s ladder from the frozen side-walk. He was alone and vulnerable waiting for darkness to fall and the call of the Bogeyman. To his left Grainger appeared to have the situation completely under control but why was he marching the unfortunate individual towards Scrooge and not in the opposite direction? Wasn’t Caesar murdered by those he thought most loyal to him? Shadowy figures were beginning to descend the marble steps towards them. Security had obviously gotten their act together at last. He glanced at Grainger who had stopped a few feet away with the unfortunate individual securely and painfully in his grip. Scrooge decided to err on the side of discretion. Leaving the individual in the tender care of Grainger he turned to ascend the steps of his citadel.
Two steps up he paused. There was something not quite right. The figures on the steps were still moving towards him but very slowly. In fact they were moving in step, keeping pace with each other, like mourners he had once watched following a funeral cortège. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. It had been Jacob’s funeral. He stepped back.
Grainger was still standing several feet away holding a scruffy individual who had now stopped struggling and succumbed to the inevitable. His face was almost hidden beneath long greasy strands of what Scrooge determined must have once been blonde hair. His beard was matted and hid what appeared to be a mass of ugly scarring that tugged the skin around his eye down towards his disfigured cheek. Scrooge observed with some distaste that he was missing a left forearm.
He smiled, this was no hired assassin sent on a mission to destroy only a common beggar chancing his arm, or what remained of it. A diseased symptom of the times. New York was infested with such hopeless individuals seeking solace and oblivion in alcohol or drugs, authors of their own destruction, and as such deserving of no sympathy or special favours. Still they never usually surfaced in this district preferring instead to haunt the more stagnant cess-pits of the city. Perhaps the fact it was Christmas Eve had emboldened this particular specimen into venturing further afield in the false hope that honest citizens would be more inclined to lunatic displays of charity many being so imbued with festive spirits they would carelessly part with their hard earned dollars.
The man had the audacity to stare brazenly at Scrooge as though faced with an equal. Why hadn’t Grainger simply sent him packing? Attuned by long years of service to his master’s thought’s Grainger responded quickly.
“I would have sent him on his way Sir, but he says he knows you.”
“Have you completely lost it man? Does he look remotely like someone who mixes in the same social circles?”
But even as he uttered the words an awareness rose like an unsettling mist from some dark subterranean reservoir of his mind that somewhere in a previous existence he had crossed paths with this wretched creature. He extinguished the thought as easily as a lit candle.
Suddenly conscious of his plight the beggar averted his eyes, now dark and heavy as though their light too had dimmed.
“I thought…“
“I know what you thought.” Scrooge’s every word dripped with contempt, “The same your sort always thinks.”
To his astonishment the creature lifted it’s gaze and eyes no longer cowed held Scrooges scornful gaze until it was he who almost felt compelled to look away.
“Merry Christmas.” The stranger spoke the words with a slow deliberation as though he sat in judgement and pronounced sentence on a man found guilty of a heinous crime.
Anger surged through Scrooge robbing him of speech and forcing his hands into tightly clenched fists. He stepped forward one hand raised above his head poised to strike the blow his impotent tongue was incapable of delivering.
“Leave this to us Sir.”
Large ominous shapes brushed past Scrooge and took hold of the unfortunate individual who had dared carry the pungent odour of failure and despair to the very steps of this towering capitalist monument they had been chosen to protect. Security had arrived and not before time. In truth, Scrooge was mightily relieved, physical violence had never been his forte and the thought of actual contact with that foul individual made his skin crawl. Instead he watched with quiet satisfaction as the lowlife was manhandled down the side-walk before being sent sprawling on his way.
Had he bothered to watch the young man struggle painfully to his feet he might have been somewhat surprised by the sad shake of the head as his eyes followed Scrooge’s regal ascent up the marble staircase. By the time Scrooge had reached the summit he had already disappeared into the encroaching darkness.
Security had cleared the lobby. A Christmas tree adorned with twinkling lights and red bows enjoyed its transient celebrity status amid the opulent surroundings. The day after tomorrow, stripped of its baubles, it would be cast aside as trash as though it had never been. With a dismissive gesture he waved Security away and crossed the deserted lobby alone. This was his domain he needed no protection and the sound of his footfalls reverberating off the marble floor comforted him. In truth the encounter with the vagrant had unsettled him as had the journey through the city’s crowded streets. He had fallen asleep and experienced an unusually vivid dream, that was all. Now he was almost home.
His private lift was situated at the end of a corridor that could only be accessed via a concealed alcove. Very few people were even aware of it’s existence and that was the primary reason the sight of a young child standing by the steel doors stopped Scrooge dead in his tracks. The girl had her back to him. Long auburn hair flowed over the back of her pink party dress. Scrooge estimated her to be about nine or ten years old. Had one of the staff organized a party without his knowledge? If so there would be repercussions.
“Children and business don’t mix.”
A familiar voice startled him and he half turned to see who had taken the liberty of following him. Probably the same idiot who had brought the child into the building in the first place. Scrooge blinked, then rubbed his eyes as though attempting to clear away a persistent fog that obscured his vision. It made no difference, the corridor behind him was empty, not a soul in sight. He was obviously sickening for something. What he needed was a neat brandy. The sooner he got to his suite the better.
The child was still standing by the lift but now she was staring straight at Scrooge through sapphire blue eyes that reminded him of the feral Persian cat that had once slipped into the building unobserved until he had come across one of the cleaners feeding it scraps. That had been the end of the cat, and the cleaner. He opened his lips to demand an explanation for her presence but he found his lips were dry and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. As he stood and watched the elevator doors opened and she slipped inside. This was intolerable.
Scrooge sprinted towards the lift just in time to hold and open the doors. He almost tumbled inside. Perspiration trickled down his forehead stinging his eyes. His breath came in short, heavy gasps. There would be a reckoning once he discovered who the girl’s father was. Bringing a child to work and allowing it the freedom to run wild through his private areas. The lift was empty. At first he refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes. He closed them, counted to three and opened them again but the child was gone. His collar was unusually tight, constricting his breathing. He loosened his tie and slumped back against the cold hard steel. His blurred image reflected upon the opposite side of the elevator also loosened its tie but there was one difference. Someone stood beside his reflection, looking up intently into his face.
A child with auburn hair. The reflection was indistinct as though he was viewing the scene through misted glass yet he thought her face expressed a deep sadness and he himself was its source.
The doors opened and the familiar glow of his personal reception foyer beckoned him home.
“Good evening Sir. Is something the matter?”
Eva Perry, his personal secretary, stood outside the lift a look of professional concern on her face but Scrooge did not notice her expression. He was staring into the empty confines of the elevator. Miss Perry moved forward and did the same.
“Have you lost something?”
“What?”
With difficulty Scrooge tore his gaze away from the reflection of the child who now stood alone her face still turned towards him. “Would you mind taking a look inside
Miss Perry.”
She glanced at her employer as she stepped into the lift.
“Well?”
The urgency his voice conveyed could only mean that something of great significance was missing.
“What exactly am I looking for Sir?”
“You don’t see her?”
“See whom? You were the only person in the lift Mr. Scrooge.“
“A child. A little girl with auburn hair. Wandering around unaccompanied.”
“No one is allowed on this level without your express permission and security
clearance.”
Was it possible he had been drinking this early? She knew his habits intimately, he was a man of strict routines and never took a drink before six at the earliest. Still this was the festive season and folk were more likely to drop their guard and over indulge at this time of year than any other. No, this was Scrooge after all, he was less likely to over indulge at Christmas than any man alive.
“I am fully aware I was the only person in the lift Miss Perry. I just wondered if you had seen the child I described or some evidence that she had been inside the elevator. “
“No, no children of any persuasion Sir.”
He was lying, of that she was certain, but why?
Scrooge watched the elevator doors close. The child stood there watching him, trapped like a body floating beneath the surface of a shimmering metallic pool, until the doors closed completely and she was gone forever.
“There is someone waiting to see you though. He’s been waiting quite some time…
A corpulent individual was seated in large chair in the foyer. He stood when Scrooge exited the lift. The movement had caught his eye.
“Then he’ll have to wait a little longer. Make sure I’m not disturbed for at least an hour.”
The figure slumped back down assuming a distinctly dejected posture.
Without even acknowledging the individual’s presence Scrooge crossed the foyer and entered his private quarters. The solid mahogany doors closed behind him with a reassuringly solid thud.
Christmas Eve 6.00 p.m.
Tatters of desperate fog clung to the tower buildings stubbornly resisting the freezing tug of the implacable wind. Like the hulks of submerged haunted wrecks emerging from some anonymous watery grave the dark outline of the city took shape and grew. Wisps of grey fog drifted mournfully past the windows of the monolith that seemed almost to push and elbow its way above the mass of surrounding tower blocks as though the very elements themselves shrank back from contact with the cold indifferent stone.
Scrooge gazed out of the window. Somewhere below, the river flowed blacker than the Styx through the city’s dark heart into the eternal depths of the poisoned oceans. But Scrooge’s eyes were fixed upon another river. The unceasing flow of humanity condemned as surely to follow the course of existence to its inevitable conclusion as the river was compelled to flow into the embrace of the blind and restless sea.
Christmas held out hope that the journey was not in vain. That was one of the reasons he despised it. Christmas was for the weak, for sentimental fools who had never grasped that salvation in this world was something to be wrung forcefully from life’s unwilling grip. Once the presents had been opened and the parties were over what was left apart from hangovers and a bigger overdraft? He smiled. He was above that now, had been for years. Just as detached and aloof as the gigantic reflection of himself superimposed on the vista upon which he cast such a scornful eye.