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| The Long Gallery, Hardwick Hall |
“I’m bored,” said Jacob levitating just a few centimetres above the floor of the long gallery. “I’ve done all mi training and mi work experience like and I still can’t go ’aunting until next year. It’s not fair.” He plopped onto the ground and sat up.
“Well, go on strike then,” said Wayne, who had recently completed his course of tuition with the Association of Ghostly Haunting, Apparitional and Spectral Training.
Jacob frowned. “Strike? Wot’s the point of that if you’re only allowed to ’aunt on one night a year?”
“So, go on strike on your haunting night, then.”
Jacob wasn’t listening. A strange rustling in the chimney breast and a fall of soot onto the hearth had captured his attention. Jacob grabbed the poker from the nearby set of fire-irons. Holding the black implement tightly in both hands, he stood ready to pounce.
A large red sack dropped onto the hearth amidst a cloud of ash and soot. In the next moment, a large, red-suited figure dropped with some weight into the grate. Jacob raised his weapon, and before the wearer of the suit could turn around, the poker had landed square on the red-capped head.
“Gotcha!”
“Oh my God, you’ve just killed Santa,” wailed Wayne.
“Who?”
“Santa. You’ve just murdered Santa Claus. That means all the living kids aren’t going to get any presents this year.”
Jacob dropped the poker and rolled his shoulders. “Wot do you mean presents? Nobody breaks into an ‘ouse and brings presents, Wayne. Robbers break in and take stuff. Look around yer. There’s a right load of valuable stuff ’ere in this ’all.”
Wayne jumped down from the oversized chair he’d been using as a climbing frame. “He’s wearing a bright red suit, dumbo.” Hands-on his hips, Wayne pulled out his tongue.
Jacob looked from his friend and colleague down to the prone figure on the hearth and back again.
“S’pose you’ve got a point there. It wouldn’t make much sense to go burglering dressed like that.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
Jacob scratched his head. “Shove ’im back up the chimney?”
“But what about the presents? It’s Christmas Eve. He’s got to deliver all the presents.”
Jacob recognised the jutting bottom lip and the look on Wayne’s face. He knew the youngster would have tears streaming down his face in a few more moments.
“Alright. But wot’s all this presents lark?”Jacob slumped down on the floor and started pulling the parcels out of the sack.
Wayne ran across and slapped Jacob’s hand away. “Stop it. They’re for the living children. If Santa doesn’t wake up and take them to every kid, then tomorrow there’ll be wars and riots and stuff, and we’ll be for it.”
“Is that right?” Jacob had a nucleus of an idea. “Is that right,” he said to himself as the nucleus divided and grew into a plan of action. He grabbed the poker.
“Wayne, sit on ’im and keep ’im down. I’m going to use this, ’ere.. er wots ’is name?”
“Santa Claus,” said Wayne as he settled himself down for a sit-in on the middle of Santa’s back.
“Righto.” Jacob had a wide grin on his face. “’Ere take this.” Jacob handed Wayne the small iron shovel. “Any nonsense from Santa, threaten ’im and keep ’im down. We’re fighting for our right to ’aunt.”
With the poker resting against his shoulder, Jacob began marching the length of the hearth.
“We demand our right to ’aunt. We want to ’aunt,” he chanted as he paced backwards and forwards.
“It’s our human rights,” shouted Wayne.
“Wots them then?”
“Dunno. It’s what mum and dad used to shout when they took me out protesting.”
Jacob nodded. “We demand our ’uman rights. We demand the right to ’aunt. We demand our ’uman rights—”
“ENOUGH!” roared Big Lizzie as she stepped out of the frame of her portrait and stormed—
“And YOU. Yes, I’m talking to YOU with that alphabet thing in front of you. Address me by my proper title.”
“ENOUGH!” roared Big Lizzie Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the First as she stepped out of the frame of her portrait and stormed the length of the long gallery.
Jacob froze as the disembodied head of Mrs Anne Tudor appeared from a corner of the room.
“It’s alright, your majesty. I will deal with this.”
The queen remained where she was, her left foot tapping out her impatience.
“Jacob, neither you nor Wayne have any human rights,” said Mrs Tudor. “You lost yours four hundred years ago when you died, Jacob. Wayne, you lost your human rights in 1964 when the accident happened. So, what is this all about?”
Jacob dropped the poker and stood to attention. “We’re protesting, Mrs Tudor, because we want to do more ’aunting, and if our demands are not met, the old bloke in the red suit gets an even bigger ’eadache.”
“Jacob, show some respect. Santa Claus is very important to the living, and we ghosts are tolerant of that.”
Jacob thought for a moment. “So, if we let ’im go, does that mean we can have more ’aunting?”
“No, Jacob. You will still only be able to haunt on the anniversary of your death. That is all.”
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| Portrait of Elizabeth I, Hardwick Hall |
“That’s not how we do things here, your majesty,” said Mrs Tudor as the rest of her body manifested itself. “We explain and encourage rather than order and direct,” she continued as she fixed her head on her shoulders.
“Stuff and nonsense,” harrumphed her majesty. “Get rid of them and YOU, yes YOU with the alphabet, any more of this rubbish, and I’ll put you in the tower.” With that, the queen turned on her heel and marched back to her painting.
Santa Claus groaned. “Help him up, boys,” said Mrs Tudor.
Santa shook his head, dusted off his hat and secured it on his head. He looked around.
“Hmm, the new sat nav isn’t working as well, I thought,” he said. He shouldered his sack of presents. “I think I’m a little behind, so I’ll be on my way.”
“But wot about presents for us?” asked Jacob. “I ain’t never ’ad a present before.”
The old man smiled and sprinkled some magic dust. “Perhaps even your wish might come true, Jacob.” With a wink at Mrs Tudor, Santa was gone.
This story first appeared on the UK Crime Book Club Facebook page on December 21st.
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