An Alternative Christmas Carol - Episode 3

Between now and Christmas we will be serialising the satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol.

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Still Christmas Eve - but it's now about 1 a.m.

Smooge couldn’t be sure if what woke him was the chiming of the church clock or the strange green glow in the corner of his bedroom. Either way he struggled to consciousness and examined the light more closely. A thick fog drifted around it, making it difficult to see what was at its heart.
  There was a loud coughing and spluttering and the fog started to disperse to reveal a green clad figure waving frantically. “Sorry about that. Damned special effects machine’s on the blink again.”
  The apparition waved some more and Smooge was able to make out a large man with a bushy beard. Crowning his snowy locks was a garland of evergreen leaves, which his waving arms had managed to tilt slightly sideways giving him a rakish appearance. His fur trimmed green suit looked vaguely familiar, as did his shiny black boots, but Smooge struggled to place them, though he felt a sudden desire for a cold fizzy drink.
  “Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing befouling my bedroom?” Snapped Smooge. He supposed he should have felt fear, but for some reason felt only annoyance. 

If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing

​“Oh yes. I suppose introductions are in order. I am one of the three that was foretold. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. I come to you like the last stale sausage roll on the plate which no one will eat.”
  “Very nice for you, I’m sure. Now what the hell do you want?”
  “I come to remind you of the way things used to be, before you turned into the creature you are now, cursed and hated by one and all.”
  “That is an image I nurture and cherish. If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing.”
  “Be that as it may, but you weren’t always like that. Now come, follow me.”
  The ghost rose and walked to the outer wall of the bedroom and continued straight through. When Smooge didn’t immediately follow, he stuck his head back through the apparently solid bricks. “Come on. I haven’t got all night. I’ve indigestion to deliver to half the population of the Western world. Climb out through the window. It’s perfectly safe.”
  Smooge threw up the sash window and climbed through. He stepped gingerly onto thin air and found, to his surprise, that his weight was supported. The ghost grabbed his arm and pulled him upwards and over the roofs of the houses.
  “Where are we going?” Smooge shouted against the wind. He was surprised to find that he had no feeling of cold, despite the steadily falling snow. For some reason Smooge thought he heard singing, an annoying high pitched voice that grated on his nerves. Something about walking in the air, but he couldn’t quite make out the rest.
  “All in good time. Ah, we have arrived.”
  The ghost lowered them to the ground outside a window. The house was brightly lit, all the gas lights blazing and a thousand candles twinkling to add to the brilliance. Smooge peered through the open curtains at the festivities inside. Dancers swirled to the sound of music and there was laughter from a hundred throats rising above.
  “I know this place. It’s the home of my former employer, Mr Fizzypop.”
  “That’s correct. This is his house before you and Jacob Harley drove his business into bankruptcy and bought it back for a fraction of its true value.”​

There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list.

 
“That’s standard business practice. I learnt it from the owner of a major chain of High Street shops. By the way, if this is supposed to be my Christmas past, where am I?”
  “Ah yes. Where indeed Ebenezer?” The Ghost grabbed Smooge’s arm and they drifted upwards and slightly sideways. “Now, look.”
  Smooge found himself looking through the window of what was obviously a bedroom. The turbulence of the blankets covering a large bed indicated that strenuous activity was being indulged beneath them. A ringlet adorned head popped into view on the side nearest to them. A second appeared further away. Both seemed to be gasping for air.
  “The Fizzypop twins. Such nice girls, and so enthusiastic.” A young male head appeared between the two females, handsome despite its dishevelled state and also gasping for breath. “And there I am. I remember it well.” Smooge leered at the ghost.
  “Do you recall what happened to them?”
  “On the night? I remember the noises they made. What a pair of wild cats. Their father nearly caught us. I had to hide in a cupboard. But after that? No. I seem to recall that I lost track of them. What became of them?”
  “Well, of course, when their father lost his business the whole family was thrown onto the street. Eugenie, that’s the nearer one, found herself pregnant. By you, before you ask. She gave birth in the workhouse and died of complications and bad hygiene. She should have gone private but they couldn’t afford it. Her son was named Oliver. He was given the last name of Twist. A term to do with financial trickery, I believe.”
  “And the other?” Smooge struggled to recall her name. “Bridget. She was called Bridget.”
  “Beatrice actually. She fared no better. In order to support her destitute father and mother she took to a life of prostitution. She died gin soaked and disease ridden. You passed her in the street once and didn’t even recognise her.”
  “That could hardly be my fault. Fizzypop was an incompetent fool. Harley and I did no more than any self-respecting usurers would have done.”
  “There is no need to be so defensive. No one blames you. Indeed old Fizzypop’s last words before he expired were ‘I don’t blame Harley and Smooge. They did no more than any other greedy unethical bankers would do.’”
  “Well, my friends in Parliament didn’t think we had done anything wrong. Had they done so they would have shunned us. Instead they allowed us to make even more profit. You know, it’s amazing what a donation to party funds, the funding of a private office or the sponsorship of an MP can get you in return. For a pair of Wimbledon tickets I can get a question asked in the House, you know and dinner at the Garrick Club will get me the ear of the Prime Minister. There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list.”
  “Yes, indeed it can get you a lot in return. I’m sure the Pope will summon you to be canonised as the first living saint. How many former MPs now sit on the board of Smooge and Harley?”
  “Quite a few, but that is mere coincidence. In fact that reminds me, it’s time we culled the more useless ones.”
  “Then I doubt it will leave many still serving you. Now, it’s time for us to leave.” The house faded into the night and Smooge found himself back in his bedroom, sitting on his bed.
  “When the clock chimes two.” The ghost droned, “You will be visited again.”
The room filled with fog once more and the ghost disappeared in a fit of coughing and spluttering.

Episode 4 will be posted on Saturday 27th November. If you can't wait until then, you can buy the whole book by clicking on the button below.

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