A CHRISTMAS TALE IN 25 PARTS: PART TWO

There really had to be a creak on the stairs, or something, in that otherwise empty world, not least because, if you’re hoping that people will come back for more, you really do have to finish on a cliffhanger. Of course, this does now mean that I’m going to have to think of another twenty-three of the wretched things, but, so be it. In storytelling terms, they’re very artificial constructs anyway, a quick bit of false jeopardy put in as an excuse to not have to actually finish off a thought, and so, for the moment, we’ll leave old Mister Snatch where he is for the moment and think about adding another strand to our tale.

One hundred years or more earlier, another Mr Snatch sighed deeply. “T’was the season” and all that, but he really did not feel in the mood for fun and games.

Ah, now, that’ll fox them, leaping immediately to another time zone and all that it entails.

Hah!

Although… Now I’ve dug a hole for myself and I’m going to have to come up with a terribly clever and not-at-all disappointing reason for this that ties everything together in a satisfying way. Or, I could just treat them all with utter contempt and ignore it, on the not unreasonable assumption that they’re not going to remember anyway or that there’s more than a slight chance that they haven’t yet, and are never likely to, read the other parts anyway.

Well, they won’t now, will they, you idiot…?

Okay, okay, it’s bound to get confusing having at least two Mr Snatches running around in our little plot, but it’s also bound to become significant and lead to all sorts of hilarious misunderstandings and jolly pranks, I’m sure.

Anyway, this Mr Snatch is completely distinguishable from the other one by dint of being completely identical to him in almost every way, except for the fact that his clothes are far more tidy and elegant, so that’s cleared that up, anyway.

He was sitting in a dark corner of a lonely tavern hoping against all hope that the various revellers who were stalking the streets and threatening to box the eardrums of all and sundry with various merry renditions of seasonal songs would bypass this notoriously unwelcoming den of iniquity. He was sipping at a particularly rough port in a tiny glass and making a point of glaring menacingly at anyone who even looked as if they might be considering approaching the battered old piano that loitered optimistically against the wall directly in front of him.

Not that there was any danger of anyone extracting a tune out of the thing anyway. Not since the infamous Notting Hill Garrotting Murderer had been arrested in that very establishment not three weeks before, and the investigating detective had ripped open the back of the instrument in order to expose his preferred weapon of choice.

Or rather the lack of several of them.

It appeared that he had already worked his way through most of “Greensleeves” and was making serious inroads into “Ode to Joy” when he had been caught by the sterling efforts of an off duty constable and music-lover who happened upon him as he had a poor unfortunate at his mercy one night after choir practice.

The innkeeper, who was a wily old cove and was well aware of the needs and demands of his regulars, had failed utterly to capitalise upon the sudden notoriety of his establishment amongst the ghouls and sleaze-merchants of the city, and this had earned him the undying gratitude of many of them, who singularly failed to embellish their own bawdy tales of adventure with any oblique references to the crime, and so the “Hanged Man” remained a strictly under-frequented hostelry which suited everyone – especially the dapper Mr Snatch – just perfectly.

As his drink began to crust over in the bottom of his glass, Mr Snatch pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and examined the time before yawning discretely and getting smartly to his feet, with only the faintest snap of his watchcase to indicate to anyone of his fellow imbibers that he was about to make his exit.

He retrieved his overcoat, silk topper and comforter from the peg upon which he had hung them not two hours earlier, shrugged his meagre body into them, and braced himself to face the cold night air beyond the less than welcoming doors.

He was just about to reach out his hand to pull at the worn brass of the door handle when a huge figure burst in through the doors and almost sent him cartwheeling backwards into the barely polished bar counter behind him.

He steadied himself and turned back to face the giant, compositing in his head the words he would choose which were designed to put the ruffian in his place. The man seemed to sense that he was about to be challenged by this slight fragment of a man in the expensive clothes and stood his ground, blocking the way out and generally daring Mr Snipe to excuse him.

Mr Snipe narrowed his eyes. He’d had to deal with people of this man’s sort on numerous occasions in the past, but usually upon his own terms and in his own Chambers. This was different. This situation required knowledge of the language and mannerisms of the streets, and that had never been his strongest suit.

He chose what he believed to be the wisest course of action and stepped aside in order to allow the hooligan a direct route to the bar. He even made a slight gesture to indicate the same, but the villain merely stood his ground before uttering, with a quiet menace which chilled Mr Snatch’s blood, “Want to sleep in hell?”