A CHRISTMAS TALE IN 25 PARTS: PART SEVEN

Centuries earlier, that other Mr Snatch (who we last left in such dire peril) slammed the hostelry door shut behind him and tried as best he could to catch his breath. He was shaking from head to foot due to his narrow escape. From behind him, inside, in the warm, he heard people laughing, presumably at him and his ineffectual way of dealing with the unstoppable force which had chosen to bar his swift exit.

“I’m a nice idea” he thought, “but I’m already redundant as far as the plot is concerned” was a thought that failed to pass across his mind as he headed out into the snowy evening of that generic Victorian world which had once seemed so appropriate to the season in which the story was supposed to be set, but which was already fading in importance as other parts of the plot and more “interesting” ideas swept the story along in other directions.

Why he didn’t think that is because, quite naturally, he didn’t have the self-awareness to consider that he was in himself a fictional character, but then, very few of us consider that possibility as we pass through the narratives of our own lives.

Meanwhile, the time had come to make himself seem significant and important again.

His recent humiliation in that Public House had to be made to count for something, and the sense of anger and frustration would go on to shape the attitudes of generation after generation of the Snatch family as they stained the future, and a great deal of their resentment and selfishness had all begun because of that one unfortunate encounter in a lonely Ale House.

Not that any of them would ever know it.

Well, at least not until one magical night a century later when the true events of that evening might have been revealed to one of his more successful descendants if the plot had required it.

But that was all still merely an option to be considered in the far future, and unknown and unknowable to the angry Mr Snatch whose sense of humiliation was already transforming into fury as he left the scene of his embarrassment. He chunnered and raged to himself about what he ought to have done, and what he might have done, and what he could have done, and what he should have done, and as he stamped his furious way through those grey and soggy streets, he swore that he would never, ever, EVER allow himself to be treated in such a contemptuous manner ever again.

In between those thoughts, those strange words which the ruffian had uttered continued to haunt him, and he muttered them just loudly enough for passing strangers to hear him and hurry themselves and their young ones away with their ears covered against the possibility of hearing such profanities from an obviously drunken gentleman who really ought to know better.

He stopped, stock-still and bellowed at the sky “Do I want to sleep in hell?” causing whatever shocked mothers that were still abroad upon the streets that evening to scurry on home with their tongues wagging at having seen old Jack himself roaming the streets that night and that they would not be at all surprised to find the broadsheets full of tales of murder and ladies of the night.

After his outburst, Mr Snatch looked about him and the few people who were standing and staring at him as a result of his outburst, and realised, to his shame, that he had drawn exactly the sort of attention to himself that might have led to him being dragged off to Bedlam if he continued with such behaviour, and felt embarrassed all over again. To try and diffuse the tension he coughed discretely, tapped his chest with his fist, smiled the closest approximation of a smile that he could manage, and went on his way, faking a swaying walk ever-so slightly, and humming a vaguely familiar Christmas tune with the hope that his observers might just assume that he had been making far too merry since the close of business.

Ten minutes later he arrived home and began the process of making  for himself an absolute fortune.