It's Oh So Quiet

Sam Dougan passed the sweets among the joyous children, as the bus crawled slowly along the wintry, cold seafront of Scarborough. Sam, even at the mellow age of seventy was still chirpy, and was an energetic character loved by all. All that is except his neighbours, the Lewis family.

    In another age or era, the parents of the children would not have given this old man a second glance, but it was not another era. It was the age of paedophiles and child murders. The parents kept a suspicious eye on the old man, who was dressed as Santa Claus. His natural laugh was an asset to his job. Sam loved everyone, and children in particular. With his kind face, he was an obvious choice as a store Santa. Although his eyes were wrinkled, they still retained the alluring sparkle, just as they did when he had first met Mary.  

    Sam had retained a false show of happiness over the last thirty-two-years, even though his bride of twenty-years was no longer with him. His one regret was that they never had children. Mary was only thirty-eight years old when her maker beckoned her, and Sam blamed himself for her death. Mary had no need to work, as Sam made a decent living with his fishing boat, but she was an independent woman.

    Twelve people had been killed in the factory blaze. Sam often visited the waste ground where the factory once stood. Roger Dyson, the owner of the factory was fined a measly four-thousand pounds for not having sufficient fire exits in the building. The cause of the fire was never disclosed.

    Mary was no longer with him in body, but he cherished her company in the evenings when listening to his beloved radio. He had only ever mentioned her presence to one other person, Father Braithwaite, his one true friend. The priest accepted his friend’s aspiring imagination, believing that Sam’s loneliness and his senility were to blame for the fiasco.

    Their friendship came about through Sam’s help with the church, and his endless charity work. Sam was a popular figure in Scarborough. The black bereted veteran would march through the streets come sun or rain, his arms swinging parallel to his shoulders, his wartime memories still fresh in his mind. The cruel children mocked his military march, but Sam played along to them, smiling and patting their heads, and handing out his never-ending reserve of sweets from the deep pockets of his tatty, green trench coat.

    Everyone who knew Sam believed him to be happy, but his permanent smile hid his anguish. He had never truly recovered after Mary’s death. Her nightly visits should have heartened him, but his frail mind was in conflict with evil.

    Sam never allowed visitors to his home, and nobody had stepped over his doorstep since Mary had died. He, at one time was financially secure; not affluent, but comfortable. His monthly pension and his wages from his part time work should have left him with enough money for luxuries such as meat and fish, but that was no longer so.. The Lewis family had put paid to that.

    Sam loved to work. He often was seen knocking on doors, asking folk if they wanted their lawns cut, or their borders dug. Everyone was aware of his work, but he was never reported to the authorities; mainly because he charged so little, and he was well liked.

     The children waved at Santa, and their suspicious mothers offered him a half smile, whispering to one another as they left the bus.

    Sam was now alone on the bus. Outside, the snow was falling lightly, the light white flakes covering the grey pavements, as if to cleanse their corruptness. The sky was grey, and the possibility of another white Christmas did not hearten the white-haired old man. He stared at his reflection in the bus window and pondered, recalling that dreaded day twelve months ago, when the Lewis family had moved in.

 

Just four days to Christmas and Sam and the merry carol singers were in good voice. Their icy breath was visible, evidence of the cold air that bit at their numbed faces. Sam was well wrapped up, his beret protecting his head, and a long blue scarf wrapped around his weathered neck. His gloved hands held his song sheet as the church choir singers crooned, “Little town of Bethlehem.”  

    A mother and two children smiled and clasped their hands, listening to the words, and oblivious of the coldness that was circulating within their snug abode. A handful of change was gratefully accepted when the children tossed the coins into the decorated bucket.

  Sam had suggested welcoming his new neighbours; a nice looking couple, along with their three children. A delicate, smattering of crisp snow crunched beneath the frozen feet of the carol singers, inhibiting their slow progress. The numerous, colourfully lit window displays, endless flashing lights and decorative reefs adorned the houses. All that is except for the Lewis household. Probably have not had enough time to put up decorations, thought Sam.

    The plain, red soiled curtains were drawn when the group advanced along the path. Shouting and cursing could be heard from inside, and the carol singers looked to each, waiting for someone to begin.
    Sam cleared his throat and sang. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright,”

    The chorus grew, as one by one they joined in, singing from the heart, a content smile on their features.

    “Fuck off!” came the scream from indoors.

    Veronica Titley, a middle-aged old spinster, frowned and shook her head at the suggestion. She looked to Father Braithwaite for support, but the priest just smiled and raised his baritone voice another few decibels.

    The door opened and a young girl, who was wearing a short leather skirt and low-cut green top faced them. The girl, who had a cigarette between her lips, could not have been more than fourteen-years-old.

 
    She was promptly joined by two unscrupulous looking teenage boys; one with spiked jet-black hair and Jed tattooed on his forehead. The other had red-cropped hair and had several rings inserted in his lip. Both were wearing black sleeveless tee shirts, emblazoned with the motto, Satan lives.

    Sam looked across at Veronica Titley, who looked as though she had seen the Devil himself.

    A bushy-bearded man with dishevelled, greasy hair, and wearing a white soiled vest joined them. A roll-up cigarette dangled from his lips. The four of them were standing there grinning, and were joined by a blonde-haired woman, her black roots showing. Her eyes were heavily made up with black mascara, her red lipstick appearing as though it had been applied with a trowel.

    “Sleep in heavenly peace…sleep in heavenly peace.”

    The carol suited the atmosphere, with the immoral-looking family standing and staring; the mother flapping her hands and encouraging them to sing on.

    All eyes were now on the priest, who was searching his song sheet. “As shepherds watched their flocks by night...”

    “Ha!” yelled the boy with spiky hair. “An angel of the lord came down and said those socks are mine.”

    The singing ceased and the offended Veronica Titley rattled the bucket. The family, who were still laughing hilariously at the boy’s lyrics ignored the plea.

    “Would you care to make a donation please?” asked Father Braithwaite.

    The father looked towards Veronica. “Fuck off and stick the bucket up your arse, you stuck up cow. In fact, you’ll probably enjoy it.”

    The door was slammed in the faces of the shocked carol singers. Sam had been introduced to his new neighbours.

 

That night, Sam sat huddled at his radio, spooning the hot tomato soup into his wrinkled mouth. He had his electric fire turned up as much as he dare; the fee from his annual Santa job helping to finance his comfort. He screwed his eyes up and looked at his cuckoo clock. Ten-fifty-five. Five more minutes to go. For some reason unknown to him, Mary always turned up at eleven ‘o’clock.

    The walls were crying out to be stripped of their obsolete, red-flowered wallpaper, which was peeling badly. The threadbare, maroon carpet was badly in need of replacing. Sam had not changed any of his interior decor in thirty-two years.

     Sam sat conveniently towards the end of the brown, dusty sofa, aware exactly where the springs were protruding. All the furnishings, Mary had selected, and to redecorate was never an option in Sam’s mind.
    He blew on his soup and dipped in a piece of bread, his gums aching as the pressure of his dentures sank into the crust. He looked at the large portrait of Mary that was situated above the fireplace. Mary was beautiful. Red wavy hair and narrow hazel eyes, nothing had changed. Even in death, Mary had remained young. He had found it uncomfortable at first that he had aged so much, but Mary still remained a youthful looking thirty-eight years old.

    Sam had made his home a shrine for her, with numerous photographs and portraits occupying the bland room. The temperature fell a few degrees, and Sam smiled and turned up his fire a notch. He put down his soup and looked towards her armchair. Mary had loved that armchair. He leaned over and twiddled with the knobs on the ancient radio. The programme was due to start any minute now.

    The silence was broken by the cuckoo clock, proclaiming to him that it was eleven ‘o’clock. A strange lilac- coloured mist came from the staircase, slowly drifting towards the lounge. Sam did not have to turn his head, as he knew that Mary was on her way. The fragrant scent of freshly cut flowers always accompanied her visits.

    The mist drifted towards the armchair and hovered above. The announcer on the radio spoke and introduced the Golden Hour. The mist faded and Sam covered his knees with a blanket. The coldness was one of the minus points of Mary’s visits, but he would not change them for anything.

    Mary sat on the armchair, as beautiful as the day he had married her. She was attired in the lilac and white-flowered dress that she always wore. In all of Mary’s visits, she never once looked at him. She just sat motionless, as Glenn Miller and his band played, In the Mood.

    Sam directed his words towards her armchair. “They’re playing our song, Mary. Remember when we used to dance to this at Miller’s dancehall. You could really move, Mary. You used to turn heads in those days… I’m working as Santa Claus again at Debenhams. The extra money comes in handy… I’ve bought you a present for Christmas, dear. I’ll place it beside you should I, and you can open it later?”

    Mary never answered…she never did. She just sat in her favourite armchair and listened to the music of another era. Their music.

 

Sam’s peaceful slumber was short lived. He sat up in bed and his eyes strained to read the alarm clock

. “Two-thirty,” he muttered, as he heard the rock music, the vibrations passing through his weary body.

Sam put on his dressing gown and slippers before descending his rickety staircase. His trench coat was insufficient to keep out the cruel, biting frost. His icy breath was spasmodic as he rapped loudly on his neighbour’s door.

    Jed stood before him, a strange dreamy look in his eyes; a can of lager in one hand and a long reefer in the other.

    “What do your want, Pops?”

    “The music. It’s the music. It’s too loud.”

    “What? Speak up, Pops, I can’t hear you.”

    Sam held a liver-spotted finger to his ear.

    The young girl joined her brother, a bottle of alcopops in her hand. “What’s he want?”

    “Fucked if I know, Debs. I fink he wants to join the party.”

    Debs winked at the old man. “Well, come on in, Gramps. The more the merrier.”

    “No. I must be getting back… Can I speak to your parents?” shouted Sam, over the music, his hands trembling with the icy conditions.

    Jed clutched Sam’s arm and pulled him inside. The house was shabby; the thick smoke unable to conceal filthy the state of their dwelling. The green PVC sofa was torn in several places, and discarded cigarette butts covered the grimy, navy blue carpet.

    Occupying the sofa were the parents, Bob and Maggie. She was sat on her husband’s knee, a long joint smouldering between her fingers. Bob swigged from a bottle of whiskey and motioned for Tommy, the younger of the two brothers to turn down the stereo.

    “All right, mate? We’re your new neighbours,” slurred Bob, dregs of his whisky clinging to his beard.

    “Yes, I know. I met you earlier this evening, or should I say last evening?”

    The drunken father frowned and pawed his wife’s breast as she giggled. “I cannot remember seeing you before. Whereabouts?”

    “I was with the carol singers, remember?”

    Jed faced Sam and stuttered. “Want a blow back, Pops?” He blew a blue plume of smoke at Sam, who coughed and grimaced.

    Bob continued. “Ah, yeah, I remember now. The fucking carol singers… Fucking bible bashers. Hey, Pops, you giving that stuck up bird one or what?”

    “Look, it’s late and I’m very tired. Could you please just turn down the music?”

    “Sure, Pops. We want to be all neighbourly and that kind of stuff, don’t we, Maggie?”

    She was gyrating slowly on his groin. “Oh, yeah. Whatever ye said, baby.”

    “Hey, you’re not getting turned on, Pops are you?” asked Bob. “He fucking is! Look, he’s got a stalker on. You dirty old bastard.”

    “Let him have Debbie, dad,” laughed Jed, taking a pull on his cannabis joint.

    Maggie protested. “Hey, fucking enough of that talk Jed. Our Debs is waiting for the right fella to come along, isn’t that so?”

    Jed was adamant. “He fancies her, Mum. I saw the way he looked at her earlier.”

   Bob shrugged his wife aside. “Is that so? You’re not one of them paedophiles are you?”

    “Look, I really must be going.”

    “Fucking wait there, Pops. Bob pulled his daughter over towards Sam, her nonchalant gaze directed at the ceiling. “Well, Pops, what do you fink? Nice bit of young stuff, eh?”

    Bob seized Sam’s shaking hand and placed it on the young girl’s small breast. Sam struggled, but was no match for the larger and younger man.

    Bob released his hand and grabbed his neighbour by the throat. “I fucking saw that, old man, you dirty bastard. Now, we have two choices. I can take you to the pigs, or we could come to some sort of arrangement.”

    Tears streamed down the face of Sam. “Look, you forced me on the girl. Please let me go?”

    “How much pension do you get, Pops?”

    “It’s a pittance.”

    “What about that church? They must have loads of money stashed away?”

    Sam raised his voice. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll have no choice but to go to the police.”

    “Ah! And tell em what? I have four witnesses here that saw you grope our Debbie. She’s only thirteen, and that makes you a paedophile.”

    “Listen, I have only enough money to live on. My part time job at Debenhams allows me a little extra for Christmas.”  

    The heartless father continued. “So, you’ve got a part time job, eh? I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to give me half of your pension, and all of your wages from Debenhams.”

    “But how will I live?”  

    “That’s your problem, Pops. You should have thought of that before you groped my daughter. Anyway, you’ve not got long to live have you?”

   Sam returned to his home, the music turned up louder than ever.

 

The tears welled up in Sam’s eyes when he gazed at his reflection in the bus window. He had been through a year of torment. Oh, he still put on a brave face, but he was struggling to survive. He had pondered many times, and toyed with going to the police; but who would believe him? Even if they did believe him, a shadow of doubt and suspicion would hang over him.

    He reached into his pocket and counted the loose change. One pound and sixty-eight pence to last him a week. He fingered his wage packet in his other pocket and contemplated taking a pound or two; but as always, he was afraid. Afraid of Bob Lewis and his threats.

    Sam had resorted to taking a nap on the afternoon, as sleep at night was impossible, due to his unruly neighbours, who played their music late into the morning. Other neighbours had complained, but backed away when threatened by the unsociable bully. Besides, their houses were not adjoining the Lewis family’s evil abode.  

    “Last stop, guv!” yelled the bus driver.

    “Thank you very much,” said Sam, as he alighted from the bus. His feet felt like anchors were tethered to them when he trudged through the deep snow. Thankfully, he did not have too far to walk after missing his stop. He marched along the sea front, his swinging arms not reaching their usual position, his heart tainted.

    The aroma of a Christmas lunch was no solace to Sam. His stomach rumbled when he imagined sitting at the table with Mary. Turkey, stuffing, roast potatoes, oodles of vegetables, and a cracker to pull.
    Sam’s mask of deceit was slipping, and he felt the tears rolling down his freezing face. Father Braithwaite had enquired many times about Sam’s welfare, and had even offered to have him over for Christmas lunch, but the proud veteran refused. His payments to the Lewis family were his secret, and he would no doubt take them with him to his grave.

    Sam gripped the icy railing and looked out to sea. He forced a smile, as he recalled the days a thousand years ago when the sea was his welfare. The waves crashed onto the rocks below, the spray drenching him, but he remained distant; his memories overcoming the discomfort.

    He felt something hit him on the back of his head and turned to see the giggling children, wrapped up against the cruel elements, innocent and ignorant of the old man’s emotions. Sam grinned and crouched down like a goalkeeper preparing to save a penalty. He encouraged the joyous children to pound him with their missiles, catching the odd one, but more often than not, they found their target.

    The children waved at him when he continued on his way, wiping the remnants of snow from his drenched body. He crossed the main road and peered into the sweet shop window, and then the bakers next door. He licked his lips, watching the baker remove the hot sausage rolls from his oven. He again counted his change and stroked his chin. The decision was made. He placed the change on the counter and filled his deep pockets with the sweets. What would the children do without their sweets?

Sam fiddled with the knobs on his radio, his escape from the uncaring cruel society. Fifteen minutes yet before Mary was due. He opened his food larder and examined the sparse offerings. He reached for the cream crackers and an oxo cube and filled his kettle.

    He dipped his cracker into his oxo and stared at the Christmas present that was still unwrapped. His hope was that one day Mary would acknowledge him and possibly even open her present. It was never much. Every Christmas for the last thirty-two years, he had placed the present besides her armchair. He had even forgotten what it was.

    The loud music started and Sam closed his eyes and cringed. “Please, God, not tonight. Not on Christmas Eve,” he whimpered.

    He swallowed the dregs of his oxo, his first meal of the day. Sam pounded his frail fists on the wall as he watched the cuckoo clock. All he wanted this evening was some peace and quiet. The Golden Hour was due on and it was to be a Christmas special. His pounding was in vain, so he returned to his armchair.

    He smiled when the fragrance of freshly cut roses wafted into his lounge. He wrapped the blanket around him tightly as the temperature dropped rapidly. He eyed the slight glow coming from his fire. One bar was all he could now afford.

    He saw the lilac-coloured mist out of the side of his eye and combed his white hair. The spirit of Mary replaced the mist and the announcer introduced the start of the show. White Christmas filtered from the radio as Sam strained his ears. As usual, Mary sat motionless, looking ahead and showing no reaction to the loud music from next door.

    “I’ve bought you a present, Mary,” said Sam loudly, trying to make himself heard. “Aren’t you going to open it? It’ll be Christmas day in one hour.”

    He expected no response and got none. He wrapped his arms around his body and rocked gently, his teeth chattering. “You love Bing Crosby don’t you, dear?”

    Sam looked up at the wedding photograph and wept when the picture came to life. She looked beautiful in her white wedding dress, and clutching a posy of lilac flowers. Sam began to sob, his shoulders shrugging, moving with the rhythm of his despair.

    Mary did something she had never ever done before. Her head turned to Sam and her mouth moved, but no words were formed. She rose from her armchair and drifted slowly towards her husband. Sam was by now sobbing uncontrollably, as he felt Mary’s cold hand touch his cheek.

    He stared into her serene eyes and she smiled softly, her narrow, hazel eyes twinkling, her long, red hair moving as though in a gentle breeze.

    As if someone had turned the volume to full, the chanting of Santa Claus is coming to town, drowned out the music of Meat Loaf.  

 

Jed, still clutching a can of lager was standing over the toilet bowl and shaking off the drops. He flushed the toilet and faced the bathroom mirror, admiring his tattoo on his forehead. He ran his heavily ringed fingers through his lacquered, jet-black spiky hair.   He froze when he gawped at the reflection, open-mouthed.

    Somebody was standing behind him. It was a lady, dressed in lilac. Jed gulped when he stared at her disfigured features. Her face was devoid of skin and was burnt beyond recognition. Tufts of red hair protruded from her scalp, her black sockets devoid of eyes.

    He let out a muted scream and scrambled for the door. He cleared the staircase in two leaps and fell into the lounge, knocking a table full of empty cans to the floor.

    “What the fuck’s going on, Jed?” asked his father, who was clutching a bottle of whiskey.

    “I th-think I saw a ghost,” stuttered the distraught boy.

    His mother slapped his face hard. “Have you been on that fucking acid again? How many times have I told you? Stick to the weed?”

    “B-b-but, I haven’t been on the acid. I saw a tart with her mush all burnt. Honest.”

    Bob pointed an accusing finger. “You silly bastard, Jed. You’re stoned.”

    “I know what I fucking saw. If you don’t believe me, go and have a look for yourself.”

    “Yes, go on, Bob,” prompted his wife.

    “Well, all right then. I will!”

    When Bob reached the bottom of the staircase, the music from the stereo slowed down and the lights began to flash all over the house.

    “Fucking hell, Dad, what is it?” quizzed Debbie, dropping her lager can to the floor.

    “It's a power cut,” butted in the scarlet-haired Tommy.

    Bob turned to his son. “How the fuck can it be a power cut, Einstein? The power’s still on.”

    The lights were now flashing rapidly, and they heard loud tapping noise coming from the kitchen. Bob approached the fridge cautiously, the tapping definitely coming from inside. A hand touched his shoulder and he jumped. “You twat, Tommy. You put the shits up me there.”

    “What can it be, Dad?”

    “How the fuck do I know? Perhaps the turkey wants to go for a walk.”

    “But the turkey’s dead isn’t it, Dad?”

    Bob slapped his son across the head and looked to the ceiling. He gripped the fridge door and slowly opened it, his breathing heavy. The stench was unbearable. The food was rotten, the milk had turned to cheese, and the turkey was infested with maggots. On closer inspection, the trifle was laden with dead flies. Bob slammed shut the fridge door.

   Maggie  joined them. “The butcher said that turkey was fresh. Wait until I get my hands on him.”

    The lights stopped flashing and the music returned to normal. Even the contents of the fridge were restored back to their original condition.

    The family switched off the music and huddled around the fire.
    Maggie broke the silence. “Maybe we’ve got ghosts, luv.”

     “Shite, there’s no such thing, responded Bob.”

    “Well, how do you explain what’s happened?”

 

Debbie, even though she had left the light on, was cowering beneath the blankets. Every sound, every twig rattling against her window unsettled her. A strange scraping noise could be heard, and she chanced a peep over her quilt.

    She watched stunned, when her drawers opened slowly. The light began to flash rapidly, as her clothes exited her drawers and fluttered around her bedroom, slowly at first, and then with more purpose. The clothes took the form of animals, each one stopping inches from her face, before continuing their rotation of the bedroom.

    An elephant, giraffe, monkey and lion. They all made a frightening appearance. Debbie attempted to scream, but no sound left her lips.

The bedroom was strangely cold when Maggie snuggled up to her husband.
    “Christ, girl, have you left a window open?” he moaned.

    Bob pulled at the quilt when he felt it moving slowly down his body. “What’re you doing, Maggie? It’s bloody freezing?”

    “It’s not me, luv. How can it be? My arms are around you.”

    The moonlight illuminated the bedroom, and they lifted their heads in unison, to see a woman shrouded in a lilac mist, and hovering inches from their faces. She was horribly disfigured, her hair only red wisps.

    “Who are you? Go away!” screamed Bob.

    The ghostly figure drifted away, pointing her finger at the frightened pair. They watched until she eventually faded away.

 The next morning, Sam peered through his frosted window to see what the commotion was. The Lewis family were loading their luggage into their car and their furniture into a van. Sam grinned when the car disappeared from view. He whistled a tune as he entered his kitchen and opened his fridge door. He fondled the plump turkey, before dipping his finger into the trifle and savouring the delicious offering. Perhaps, he would have Christmas lunch after all.