What Tom Doyle Saw Last Christmas
By Andy Morris
For Dr Tom Doyle the classic festive image of Father Christmas disappearing down the chimney used to evoke warm sentimental memories. Now, those happy traditional scenes that adorn so many cards and shop windows at this time of year only serve to bring him bleak sentiments that chill his spirit with an icy touch. He had spent the last 12 months trying to forget what he’d seen last year but, unable to shake the disturbing memory, Tom Doyle had decided he would go away this Christmas and leave The New Forest behind him for a little while. Unfortunately, as was often the case with Tom, the Christmas season had crept up on him and caught him completely unawares. He had been forced to make some last minute arrangements and, not uncharacteristically, he was now running behind schedule. Lost in his own thoughts, he sped down the narrow, yet thankfully empty, B3055 in the New Forest. This part of the Forest was sparsely populated and the nearby Roundhill Campsite would be closed now. So despite having enjoyed a small nip of whiskey earlier, he knew he could afford to drive quickly because there wouldn’t be anyone else out at this late hour. Besides, his Satnav gave him ample warning of all the approaching twists and turns in the road.
He didn’t really need the Satnav because he drives around this part of the New Forest quite often but for some reason, the Satnav automatically turned itself on whenever the engine started up and he hadn’t quite got around to figuring out how to turn it off. It’s probably very simple, he mused, especially for an experienced Consultant Radiologist such as himself. Still, it wasn’t a huge problem and Tom Doyle preferred to deal with problems only when they needed to be dealt with and not before. He found he did his best thinking when he was put on the spot and needed to make quick, immediate decisions. As a rule, planning ahead and organising anything that was more than an hour or two in the future, wasn’t one of Tom Doyle’s strengths. It was just as well because he didn’t consider it a useful asset to possess anyway. Life can throw unexpected things into your path at any time without warning; upsetting plans and changing lives. Things change so quickly there’s really no point in planning too far ahead because one never knows what’s around the corner. This thought triggered something inside him and Tom Doyle began to feel that creeping and, all too familiar, tendril of anxiety begin to coil itself around his mind once again. He coughed loudly before the thought could take hold and he tried to focus on something else: His nephew’s upcoming wedding.
The young lad was getting married the day after Boxing Day, in just four days’ time. The wedding provided the perfect excuse for Tom Doyle to get away from things around here. He had received the invitation back in the spring but, with no good lady wife of his own to remind him; the wedding and Christmas, in general, had crept up on him almost out of the blue. It was only this afternoon while he’d been in Brockenhurst, passing the time in The Huntsman that he’d actually realised how soon both events were. So, following a hurried phone call to a lovely young lady in Customer Services and an anxious few minutes waiting while she checked the flights to Ireland; Tom Doyle had managed to secure the last ticket on the Ryanair flight back to Cork at 08:30 tomorrow morning – Christmas Eve. He’d need to be up early which was why he was now racing back down the dark twisting lanes towards home to pack his things and try and get a couple of hours’ sleep before setting off early for his flight. He must remember to set that infernal alarm clock properly as well, he reminded himself. Like the Satnav and most of Tom’s electronic gadgets, his alarm clock never quite worked the way it should!
Glancing down at the bottle of whiskey in the footwell beside him Tom Doyle's thoughts meandered from the wedding to his childhood Christmas’ back in Ireland. He had fond memories of Christmas and the large family gatherings they always had, despite Granny Doyle’s annual and somehow rather sinister words of wisdom. Every year his late grandmother would say to Tom and his siblings; “Now children. You’ve all been good boys and girls this year haven’t you? Because if not; your sins will always catch up with you at this time of year.” She said it every Christmas and Tom had always felt a little disturbed at the subtle threat in her words. They weren’t very Christmassy and they had frightened him as a young child but as he grew up he and his siblings would laugh at her and imitate her behind her back.
Yes, a trip to the Old Country is just what’s needed this year, he affirmed. He’ll stay away for a few days and forget everything until the season passes and life can get back to normal.
Roll on January!Tom laughed to himself. You don’t hear many people saying that!
Outside the car, rain began to hit the windscreen more forcefully and the wipers automatically adjusted their speed to compensate. The Jag glided onwards, its powerful headlights illuminating the road and reflecting the rain splashing up before him. The driving conditions reminded him of that night last year when he’d been coming home from that Christmas party in Salisbury…
For the second time, Tom Doyle had to push that devious memory away. He did so with a sense of irritation now. These unwanted reminders of what he’d witnessed had been slowly building over the last few days. They were getting worse the closer he got to the anniversary of that rather unpleasant event. He couldn’t escape it: That one image of Father Christmas disappearing down a dark black chimney brought it all back, taunting him whenever he saw it. Today the images been stalking him relentlessly and they were becoming quite a nuisance.
Think about something else, Tom.He sighed wearily as he mentally ran through his list of the numerous issues that would be vying for his attention when he returned to work in the New Year. There were people he needed to put off during the first week back and people he needed to avoid. As he ran down the ever-growing list of people to avoid, he found himself humming his favourite Christmas record. Wizard’s warm festive lyrics, reflecting the fantasies of countless children all over the world began stomping through his head:
Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day.
When the kids start singing and the band begins to play.
Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day…
Tom Doyle abruptly cut the song off. Not so much lifting the needle from the record of his mind but wrenching it off sharply. His concentration kept slipping tonight. That track hadbeen one of his favourite songs for many years. It had also been, he recalled all too vividly; the song that had been playing when he’d stopped at the side of the road last year, where all this unpleasantness had first started. Quickly, so as not to dwell on the topic, he selected another of his favourite songs to sing to Mama Mia, by Abba. This band never failed to lift his spirits. It was another of his guilty pleasures that he kept very much to himself unless of course, he'd had a few too many whiskeys. Singing out loud he let himself be carried away by the jaunty tune, paying little attention to the needle on the speedometer. He didn’t notice it creeping up ever so slightly as he surrendered his concentration to this disco classic.
The Satnav emitted another of its random beeping sounds pulling Tom from his musical reverie. The screen showed a nighttime view with the grey B3055 bending sharply to the right. Just around the corner was a small icon flashing in the middle of the road. He couldn’t recall seeing this one before but that didn’t mean much. It looked a red figure standing next to a black circle. Or maybe it was a hole in the ground?
No, that’s not right,he quickly told himself. Before he could ponder it any further though, he was turning into the corner. His headlights picked something up a few meters before him. The rain on the windscreen obscured his vision but it was still clearer than the pixelated image on his Satnav. Standing in the middle of the dark wet road stood a figure dressed in red and dripping wet from the rain. Tom Doyle quickly grabbed the steering wheel spinning it round in an effort to avoid her. He sucked air sharply as the Jag turned, but not fast enough. She was still there in his headlights. The automobile was bearing down on her at an alarming speed. Everything became very slow and very silent. The young woman raised her hands as if to ward off the vehicle. There was a blur of colour and somehow he missed her. The car, on the other hand, was now careening towards the trees lining the road. The brakes didn’t help and the Jaguar skidded, leaving the road and ploughing into the helpless trees. Tom Doyle felt a violent shudder. Glass exploded around him. There was a second, more violent jolt and he was blinded by screaming light before everything went black.
Moments later and a roaring silence howled in his ears. Tom Doyle opened his eyes. Through the smashed windscreen, he could see smoke was escaping from beneath the crumpled bonnet. Everything around him was eerily silent except for the whispering rain pattering down on the car. Nothing else stirred as Tom slowly gathered his wits and quickly checked himself. He was relieved to find no obvious injuries; nothing was broken. That was good. He could still play tennis next week, as long as he had actually booked the court. He’d need to check that sometime.
Another moment passed and Tom Doyle found himself standing outside the car, swaying slightly and observing the wreckage of his beloved Jag. He couldn’t remember climbing out of the vehicle, the memory no doubt lost in his fuzzy disorientation. This wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar sensation for Tom Doyle. In his somewhat disorganised scatter-brained world he often felt removed from reality, as events seemed to take place all around him beyond his control. Things just happened before he had a chance to prepare for them. Just like the way Christmas and his nephew’s wedding had crept up on him. This sense of unreality had seemed to wash over him a lot, almost constantly over the last twelve months. Ever since he’d first seen that body, lying at the bottom of that deep hole last Christmas. Tom Doyle shook the memory away as he peered at the figure through his still-groggy eyes.
The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She was now standing on the corner of the road beneath the spindly naked trees. Their leafless branches offered her little shelter from the rain. Her face was hidden behind her wet lank hair but her red jumper drew his attention. It had a colourful Christmas tree design on the front with tiny silver bells sewn onto the branches that were designed to jingle as she moved. She looked unhurt, which was fortunate but:
Look at the state of my car! It won’t be going anywhere tonight and he’d be lucky if he makes it to the airport in time.
“Look at my car” he heard himself saying out loud irritably, before adding “Oh, and err, what about you? Are you hurt in any way?” Tom Doyle wasn’t a mean person and after all, he was a doctor.
The woman in the red Christmas jumper looked at him from beneath the drapes of her hair. There was something about her, Tom Doyle thought, but before recognition could take hold the woman turned around without saying a word and began wandering away from him into the woods.
“I say; erm. I'd like a word with you, Miss before you go.” Tom Doyle called. “We need to get this, erm, cleared up”, but it was too late, she’d disappeared between the trees. The tiny bells on her jumper were the only sound to stir the silent night.
Oh, the fecking…!Tom Doyle muttered to himself. He was reluctant to leave the Jag and that good bottle of whiskey but it was clear he had no choice but to follow her. Grumbling away to himself he traipsed after her into the dark uninviting woodland. The young Lass was moving at a fair pace and Tom had to be careful he didn’t slip in the wet undergrowth. It was already soaking the bottoms of his brown corduroy trousers.
This is just what I need!“Hey! You need to wait there, Miss” Tom Doyle called again and he was satisfied to see that this time she did stop. She looked back over her shoulder as if waiting for him to draw closer. There was something nagging at the back of his mind but he didn’t have time to deal with it right now. He still couldn’t see the young woman’s face but as he got nearer, he realised he had definitely seen that jumper before or, one likeit anyway! He had almost caught up with her when she turned again and continued walking away from him. The tinkling from the tiny bells kissed the darkness as she moved further into the trees and away from the scene of the accident.
Oh, this is very awkward, Tom Doyle decided as another wet branch hit him across the face. He ducked down, lifting it over his head and continued his lumbering pursuit of the girl. He was so busy concentrating on avoiding more rain-soaked twigs that he barely noticed the scenery around him changing. Hazy orange light from streetlights now cast a lonely amber glow through the dripping trees and it took a moment for him to register them. They were coming to the edge of the woods now.
Yeees…he pondered thoughtfully, feeling the stubble on his chin. This is rather curious. He hadn’t noticed these streetlights earlier. As he went on the trees thinned to reveal a main road, but it wasn’t a road Tom Doyle was immediately familiar with. As far as he knew this part of the New Forest was all trees and heathland. Yet interestingly, there was a main road that stretched from left to right with a parade of streetlights casting their solemn light on each side. Opposite him on the other side of the street was a new housing development still under construction. The new homes, in various states of completeness; sprawled away to his right, encircled by a protective hedge and a wide ditch running parallel to the main road. The ditch ended at the entrance to the housing development where it was replaced by a concrete tunnel, presumably to help rainwater drain away and avoid flooding. Flanking the entrance to the site were two white flagpoles with banners depicting the logo of the building company hanging limply in the damp night. There was no one working and no lights anywhere except for the procession of lampposts. The scene still held a note of elusive familiarity but Tom Doyle still couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. The poor lighting and ghostly quietness leant a dream-like lens to his senses. Something felt out of place here, which added to his sense of disorientation. The girl in the red Christmas jumper was standing on the other side of the road by a large JCB, its arm stretched out and resting on the ground. Inside the cab, someone had hung some silver tinsel around the window lending it a small token of Christmassy spirit. Outside cold rain steadily dripped off the roof and down the yellow sides. The girl had her back to him, facing the new houses but she appeared to be looking down at something on the ground.
Your sins will catch up with you at this time of year. His grandmother’s cautionary words echoed through his mind once again. His grandmother also used to tell him he should try and help people whenever he could, especially at Christmas time.
“Can you hear me, Miss? I, err, I need to talk to you.” Tom Doyle called softly, as he cautiously stepped closer so as not to alarm her. He wanted to help this girl. Last year when he’d seen that body lying at the bottom of the hole he’d done nothing to help. Instead, he’d just driven away without telling anyone. He should have done something back then. For the last twelve months the guilt from his actions, or inactions, had been gnawing away at him. That was why those once-loved images of Father Christmas disappearing down into the dark hole of a chimney served as hideous reminders of that terrible night. He wanted to make amends this time and help this girl, no matter how strange she was acting.
“What are you doing out here, Miss?” he took another small step closer, curious as to what the girl was looking at on the ground. A nervous child-like voice at the back of his mind murmured something about not getting too close to her. For some reason, a sense of apprehension was now starting to take hold of him. He wasn’t sure what it was or where it had come from but what he was certain of was that this cautiousness wasn’t due to fear of alarming or frightening the girl. Not anymore. Something in the night had changed. In the last few moments something in the air had altered but again Tom couldn’t decide what it was. His senses prickled with anticipation. Edging another step closer Tom Doyle saw a circular concrete drainage tunnel near where the girl was looking. The drain’s heavy iron lid wasn’t quite covering the opening and it left a thin crescent of blackness amidst the shadows already covering the ground at the girl’s feet. It was at this point that recognition finally caught up with the old doctor. An invisible gale suddenly battered him in a whirlwind eureka moment, that was anything but celebratory. He’d thought there had been something familiar about the girl’s red Christmas jumper and now he finally got it. She was wearing the same Christmas jumper that had been stalking his dreams for the last twelve months. It was the same red top that the girl had been wearing the night he… The night of the accident, he corrected himself. Tom Doyle paused mid-step. He did indeed now know this housing estate. And this road! It was a village just outside Salisbury; a village he had hoped never to see again.
Music began drifting through the air from somewhere unseen. A faint but familiar tune marched down the ghostly stillness of the lane. The music was muffled as if coming through the windows of a parked car but there were no cars in sight. The music was familiar because he’d been listening to it the last time he had been here. Another gust of confusion swirled around him, assaulting him from all sides when without warning; the girl in the red Christmas jumper moved. She spun around, snapping her head up sharply. The sudden movement caused Tom Doyle to take an involuntary step backwards into the road. The dim light caught her features and for the first time, Tom Doyle saw who she was. Dark circles surrounded her yellow eyes, while purple veins spread outwards over her face. Fluid, that wasn’t rain, ran freely down the side of her head, dribbling from her chin and blending in with the colour of her jumper. He had seen all this before Last Christmas.
Tom Doyle blinked and now, somehow, he found himself standing by the ditch. A moment ago he’d been standing in the road but now his shoulder blades were pressed back against the cold arm of the JCB. The housing development was behind him; the girl was on his left and; down at his feet yawned the deep uninviting hole in the ground. The lid, Tom noticed, had now been moved to the side revealing a black void less than a meter in diameter. The plunging darkness pulled down at him with vertiginous tenacity. The music was louder now, the lyrics clearer as if the driver of the car playing the music had just opened the door. The gravelly voice of Roy Wood chanting:
When you’re skating in the park.
If the snow cloud makes it dark.
Then your rosy cheeks are gonna light my merry way…
“I don’t understand” Tom Doyle heard himself muttering to no one in particular. Before he could respond further he saw that the girl in the red Christmas jumper had moved again. She was no longer standing at his side but was now directly in front of him. He hadn’t even seen her move but now her broken nose and ruined face were just inches from his own. Unspoken accusations burned in her lifeless yellow eyes. Tom Doyle looked down at her cold skeletal hand where it gripped his left arm just above the elbow. Even though his thick blazer he could feel the freezing touch of her dead fingers.
Tom Doyle opened his mouth but no sound would come. Before he could do anything else he felt the floor beneath him shift violently. The world tilted to one side as the ground beneath his feet gave way. Tom Doyle was now lying on the floor. The girl in the red Christmas jumper had hold of both his arms just below his wrists and she was pulling him towards the hole. She dragged him with apparent ease over the cold wet ground. Tiny sharp stones and gravel scratched at his chest and knees as he was hauled closer to the opening. Too late, Tom Doyle realised he needed to get away. His head was over the edge of the drop, staring into the blackness. A moment later he was tipping headfirst over the side. He tried to resist, tried to put his hands out to stop himself falling but his arms were already inside. The narrow drop prevented him from lifting his hands up quickly enough. There was a heavy shove and he slid forward again, his whole upper body now dangling in the blackness. A split second later and he was falling. Gravity seized him and the darkness swallowed him. Rough concrete walls scratched his hands as he slid helplessly down the hole. His face, arms and elbows grazed the sides as he dropped deeper into the ground. The cramped space prevented him from descending at any great speed as he slithered and scratched and lurched his way down. Unable to arrest his fall Tom Doyle bumped and crashed his way to the bottom of the deep pit where his outstretched arms somehow helped to cushion his impact. He now lay crumpled and upside down on a wet uneven floor. He felt the blood rushing to his head as the pressure built behind his eyes. All around him the blackness was pitch. He couldn’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but he could still hear the music; the thick guitar chords overlaying the exaggerated joy of the piano. It sounded further away now but was still there. Tom could barely move in the confined space and he could feel something else down there too. He managed to twist his arm free and tentatively reach up to feel what was leaning next to him. His probing fingers found something cold and smooth like old worn leather. Recognition shuddered through him once again. Soft papery flakes of dead skin and the rotten fabric of a jumper, once bright red in colour, hung in tatters just inches away from him. He quickly moved his head and felt the remains of the girl in the red Christmas jumper brush against his face. Seized by panic Tom Doyle tried to wriggle away; to put some distance from him and the cadaver but he couldn’t retreat. His legs kicked uselessly in the air above him. He pushed back with his free hand but only managed to slide downwards so the back of his head and shoulders were now on the floor while the rest of his body still swayed above him. From his upturned angle, Tom was aware of the circular opening above him – a slightly thinner shade of black encircled by the sheer obsidian darkness of the earth entombing him. His desperation growing he tried to move again. This time his thrashing only served to dislodge the body of the girl causing one dead arm to drop down over his neck while the other arm fell around his shoulder, taking him in a sickening embrace. Tom Doyle felt his jaw drop open. He tried to protest but still couldn’t find any words. His mind reeled as the reality of his situation slowly dawned on him, along with his inescapable recollection:
It had been a year ago. He had been driving home from a Christmas party in Salisbury, heading back into the New Forest. It had been late at night and pouring with rain when he’d turned a corner and hit a girl with his car. It had been this same girl in the red Christmas jumper with the tree and the tiny silver bells. He’d only seen her at the last second. A simple accident, that’s all it was. It could have happened to anyone and even without the alcohol in his system, he wouldn't have been able to avoid her. There was nothing he could have done and besides; she shouldn’t have been in the middle of the road anyway! When he stopped his car and went to examine her, her injuries had been horrific and it had been clear she was dead. He had been in a state of shock when he spotted the open drain cover at the side of the road he saw an opportunity. Dragging her still warm body over to the opening he shoved her down into the ground. No one would find her down there and the rain would remove all trace of the accident. As she dropped into the darkness Tom had watched her with an odd sense of detachment. The image of a figure dressed in red slipping down a narrow passageway, like Father Christmas dropping down a chimney, had subsequently haunted him for the last twelve months. He’d quickly heaved the lid back into place and then driven away into the night. Another bottle of whiskey had helped him forget the incident for a few days. At the time he hadn’t thought about the consequences of what he’d done – he’d just needed to react. It was what he was good at, but if he could go back in time he would have done things differently. He wouldn’t have gone to the party; he wouldn’t have had all those drinks and; he wouldhave called the police. Above him, Tom became aware of a gravelly scraping sound. A moment later the heavy iron lid crashed down into place with a hollow clang and the darkness around him became absolute.
Your sins will catch up with you at this time of year, Tom Doyle!
He couldn’t move at all now, as if the corpse were holding him down.
“I’m sorry”. It took a moment for him to recognise his own voice. “I’m so sorry”, he managed again but he knew no one was listening. Meanwhile, the lyrics to I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Daywere fainter now; dying away into the night as if the unseen car playing the song was fleeing from the scene. Its driver pretending nothing had happened.
“I need some help” Tom Doyle whimpered again, louder this time. “Please, help me!” but his pleas were met by silence and the eternal stillness of the grave and, just like the girl in the red Christmas jumper; no one would know where he was or what had happened to him.
A few hours later, back out on the B3055, the secluded stretch of road was lit up with colourful flashing lights. Police cars had closed the road and paramedics stood by, waiting for the Fire and Rescue Service to cut the body out of the smashed-up Jaguar. Mo Salika was the Rapid Response Driver for the Ambulance Service that night and he had been first on the scene. He had been a paramedic for eight years and he’d attended more than his fair share of road traffic accidents. Mo immediately knew by the way the driver was slumped over the steering wheel that he was already dead. A strong smell of alcohol lingered inside the car and judging by the almost empty bottle of whiskey lying unbroken in the passenger's footwell, the reek of alcohol was definitely coming off the driver. At least this idiot was the only casualty and he hadn’t hurt anyone else, Mo reflected irritably. As a professional, he always dealt with situations with the appropriate balance of empathy and professional detachment, although he had very little patience for drink-drivers. Normally Mo would have expected to finish up at the scene and move on without giving this guy a second thought but that wouldn’t happen tonight. There was something about this guy that chilled the paramedic more than it should have done. It was the expression of absolute terror etched on the guy’s face and Mo shivered as he wondered just what on earth could have caused him such horror in his final moments.
He didn’t really need the Satnav because he drives around this part of the New Forest quite often but for some reason, the Satnav automatically turned itself on whenever the engine started up and he hadn’t quite got around to figuring out how to turn it off. It’s probably very simple, he mused, especially for an experienced Consultant Radiologist such as himself. Still, it wasn’t a huge problem and Tom Doyle preferred to deal with problems only when they needed to be dealt with and not before. He found he did his best thinking when he was put on the spot and needed to make quick, immediate decisions. As a rule, planning ahead and organising anything that was more than an hour or two in the future, wasn’t one of Tom Doyle’s strengths. It was just as well because he didn’t consider it a useful asset to possess anyway. Life can throw unexpected things into your path at any time without warning; upsetting plans and changing lives. Things change so quickly there’s really no point in planning too far ahead because one never knows what’s around the corner. This thought triggered something inside him and Tom Doyle began to feel that creeping and, all too familiar, tendril of anxiety begin to coil itself around his mind once again. He coughed loudly before the thought could take hold and he tried to focus on something else: His nephew’s upcoming wedding.
The young lad was getting married the day after Boxing Day, in just four days’ time. The wedding provided the perfect excuse for Tom Doyle to get away from things around here. He had received the invitation back in the spring but, with no good lady wife of his own to remind him; the wedding and Christmas, in general, had crept up on him almost out of the blue. It was only this afternoon while he’d been in Brockenhurst, passing the time in The Huntsman that he’d actually realised how soon both events were. So, following a hurried phone call to a lovely young lady in Customer Services and an anxious few minutes waiting while she checked the flights to Ireland; Tom Doyle had managed to secure the last ticket on the Ryanair flight back to Cork at 08:30 tomorrow morning – Christmas Eve. He’d need to be up early which was why he was now racing back down the dark twisting lanes towards home to pack his things and try and get a couple of hours’ sleep before setting off early for his flight. He must remember to set that infernal alarm clock properly as well, he reminded himself. Like the Satnav and most of Tom’s electronic gadgets, his alarm clock never quite worked the way it should!
Glancing down at the bottle of whiskey in the footwell beside him Tom Doyle's thoughts meandered from the wedding to his childhood Christmas’ back in Ireland. He had fond memories of Christmas and the large family gatherings they always had, despite Granny Doyle’s annual and somehow rather sinister words of wisdom. Every year his late grandmother would say to Tom and his siblings; “Now children. You’ve all been good boys and girls this year haven’t you? Because if not; your sins will always catch up with you at this time of year.” She said it every Christmas and Tom had always felt a little disturbed at the subtle threat in her words. They weren’t very Christmassy and they had frightened him as a young child but as he grew up he and his siblings would laugh at her and imitate her behind her back.
Yes, a trip to the Old Country is just what’s needed this year, he affirmed. He’ll stay away for a few days and forget everything until the season passes and life can get back to normal.
Roll on January!Tom laughed to himself. You don’t hear many people saying that!
Outside the car, rain began to hit the windscreen more forcefully and the wipers automatically adjusted their speed to compensate. The Jag glided onwards, its powerful headlights illuminating the road and reflecting the rain splashing up before him. The driving conditions reminded him of that night last year when he’d been coming home from that Christmas party in Salisbury…
For the second time, Tom Doyle had to push that devious memory away. He did so with a sense of irritation now. These unwanted reminders of what he’d witnessed had been slowly building over the last few days. They were getting worse the closer he got to the anniversary of that rather unpleasant event. He couldn’t escape it: That one image of Father Christmas disappearing down a dark black chimney brought it all back, taunting him whenever he saw it. Today the images been stalking him relentlessly and they were becoming quite a nuisance.
Think about something else, Tom.He sighed wearily as he mentally ran through his list of the numerous issues that would be vying for his attention when he returned to work in the New Year. There were people he needed to put off during the first week back and people he needed to avoid. As he ran down the ever-growing list of people to avoid, he found himself humming his favourite Christmas record. Wizard’s warm festive lyrics, reflecting the fantasies of countless children all over the world began stomping through his head:
Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day.
When the kids start singing and the band begins to play.
Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day…
Tom Doyle abruptly cut the song off. Not so much lifting the needle from the record of his mind but wrenching it off sharply. His concentration kept slipping tonight. That track hadbeen one of his favourite songs for many years. It had also been, he recalled all too vividly; the song that had been playing when he’d stopped at the side of the road last year, where all this unpleasantness had first started. Quickly, so as not to dwell on the topic, he selected another of his favourite songs to sing to Mama Mia, by Abba. This band never failed to lift his spirits. It was another of his guilty pleasures that he kept very much to himself unless of course, he'd had a few too many whiskeys. Singing out loud he let himself be carried away by the jaunty tune, paying little attention to the needle on the speedometer. He didn’t notice it creeping up ever so slightly as he surrendered his concentration to this disco classic.
The Satnav emitted another of its random beeping sounds pulling Tom from his musical reverie. The screen showed a nighttime view with the grey B3055 bending sharply to the right. Just around the corner was a small icon flashing in the middle of the road. He couldn’t recall seeing this one before but that didn’t mean much. It looked a red figure standing next to a black circle. Or maybe it was a hole in the ground?
No, that’s not right,he quickly told himself. Before he could ponder it any further though, he was turning into the corner. His headlights picked something up a few meters before him. The rain on the windscreen obscured his vision but it was still clearer than the pixelated image on his Satnav. Standing in the middle of the dark wet road stood a figure dressed in red and dripping wet from the rain. Tom Doyle quickly grabbed the steering wheel spinning it round in an effort to avoid her. He sucked air sharply as the Jag turned, but not fast enough. She was still there in his headlights. The automobile was bearing down on her at an alarming speed. Everything became very slow and very silent. The young woman raised her hands as if to ward off the vehicle. There was a blur of colour and somehow he missed her. The car, on the other hand, was now careening towards the trees lining the road. The brakes didn’t help and the Jaguar skidded, leaving the road and ploughing into the helpless trees. Tom Doyle felt a violent shudder. Glass exploded around him. There was a second, more violent jolt and he was blinded by screaming light before everything went black.
Moments later and a roaring silence howled in his ears. Tom Doyle opened his eyes. Through the smashed windscreen, he could see smoke was escaping from beneath the crumpled bonnet. Everything around him was eerily silent except for the whispering rain pattering down on the car. Nothing else stirred as Tom slowly gathered his wits and quickly checked himself. He was relieved to find no obvious injuries; nothing was broken. That was good. He could still play tennis next week, as long as he had actually booked the court. He’d need to check that sometime.
Another moment passed and Tom Doyle found himself standing outside the car, swaying slightly and observing the wreckage of his beloved Jag. He couldn’t remember climbing out of the vehicle, the memory no doubt lost in his fuzzy disorientation. This wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar sensation for Tom Doyle. In his somewhat disorganised scatter-brained world he often felt removed from reality, as events seemed to take place all around him beyond his control. Things just happened before he had a chance to prepare for them. Just like the way Christmas and his nephew’s wedding had crept up on him. This sense of unreality had seemed to wash over him a lot, almost constantly over the last twelve months. Ever since he’d first seen that body, lying at the bottom of that deep hole last Christmas. Tom Doyle shook the memory away as he peered at the figure through his still-groggy eyes.
The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She was now standing on the corner of the road beneath the spindly naked trees. Their leafless branches offered her little shelter from the rain. Her face was hidden behind her wet lank hair but her red jumper drew his attention. It had a colourful Christmas tree design on the front with tiny silver bells sewn onto the branches that were designed to jingle as she moved. She looked unhurt, which was fortunate but:
Look at the state of my car! It won’t be going anywhere tonight and he’d be lucky if he makes it to the airport in time.
“Look at my car” he heard himself saying out loud irritably, before adding “Oh, and err, what about you? Are you hurt in any way?” Tom Doyle wasn’t a mean person and after all, he was a doctor.
The woman in the red Christmas jumper looked at him from beneath the drapes of her hair. There was something about her, Tom Doyle thought, but before recognition could take hold the woman turned around without saying a word and began wandering away from him into the woods.
“I say; erm. I'd like a word with you, Miss before you go.” Tom Doyle called. “We need to get this, erm, cleared up”, but it was too late, she’d disappeared between the trees. The tiny bells on her jumper were the only sound to stir the silent night.
Oh, the fecking…!Tom Doyle muttered to himself. He was reluctant to leave the Jag and that good bottle of whiskey but it was clear he had no choice but to follow her. Grumbling away to himself he traipsed after her into the dark uninviting woodland. The young Lass was moving at a fair pace and Tom had to be careful he didn’t slip in the wet undergrowth. It was already soaking the bottoms of his brown corduroy trousers.
This is just what I need!“Hey! You need to wait there, Miss” Tom Doyle called again and he was satisfied to see that this time she did stop. She looked back over her shoulder as if waiting for him to draw closer. There was something nagging at the back of his mind but he didn’t have time to deal with it right now. He still couldn’t see the young woman’s face but as he got nearer, he realised he had definitely seen that jumper before or, one likeit anyway! He had almost caught up with her when she turned again and continued walking away from him. The tinkling from the tiny bells kissed the darkness as she moved further into the trees and away from the scene of the accident.
Oh, this is very awkward, Tom Doyle decided as another wet branch hit him across the face. He ducked down, lifting it over his head and continued his lumbering pursuit of the girl. He was so busy concentrating on avoiding more rain-soaked twigs that he barely noticed the scenery around him changing. Hazy orange light from streetlights now cast a lonely amber glow through the dripping trees and it took a moment for him to register them. They were coming to the edge of the woods now.
Yeees…he pondered thoughtfully, feeling the stubble on his chin. This is rather curious. He hadn’t noticed these streetlights earlier. As he went on the trees thinned to reveal a main road, but it wasn’t a road Tom Doyle was immediately familiar with. As far as he knew this part of the New Forest was all trees and heathland. Yet interestingly, there was a main road that stretched from left to right with a parade of streetlights casting their solemn light on each side. Opposite him on the other side of the street was a new housing development still under construction. The new homes, in various states of completeness; sprawled away to his right, encircled by a protective hedge and a wide ditch running parallel to the main road. The ditch ended at the entrance to the housing development where it was replaced by a concrete tunnel, presumably to help rainwater drain away and avoid flooding. Flanking the entrance to the site were two white flagpoles with banners depicting the logo of the building company hanging limply in the damp night. There was no one working and no lights anywhere except for the procession of lampposts. The scene still held a note of elusive familiarity but Tom Doyle still couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. The poor lighting and ghostly quietness leant a dream-like lens to his senses. Something felt out of place here, which added to his sense of disorientation. The girl in the red Christmas jumper was standing on the other side of the road by a large JCB, its arm stretched out and resting on the ground. Inside the cab, someone had hung some silver tinsel around the window lending it a small token of Christmassy spirit. Outside cold rain steadily dripped off the roof and down the yellow sides. The girl had her back to him, facing the new houses but she appeared to be looking down at something on the ground.
Your sins will catch up with you at this time of year. His grandmother’s cautionary words echoed through his mind once again. His grandmother also used to tell him he should try and help people whenever he could, especially at Christmas time.
“Can you hear me, Miss? I, err, I need to talk to you.” Tom Doyle called softly, as he cautiously stepped closer so as not to alarm her. He wanted to help this girl. Last year when he’d seen that body lying at the bottom of the hole he’d done nothing to help. Instead, he’d just driven away without telling anyone. He should have done something back then. For the last twelve months the guilt from his actions, or inactions, had been gnawing away at him. That was why those once-loved images of Father Christmas disappearing down into the dark hole of a chimney served as hideous reminders of that terrible night. He wanted to make amends this time and help this girl, no matter how strange she was acting.
“What are you doing out here, Miss?” he took another small step closer, curious as to what the girl was looking at on the ground. A nervous child-like voice at the back of his mind murmured something about not getting too close to her. For some reason, a sense of apprehension was now starting to take hold of him. He wasn’t sure what it was or where it had come from but what he was certain of was that this cautiousness wasn’t due to fear of alarming or frightening the girl. Not anymore. Something in the night had changed. In the last few moments something in the air had altered but again Tom couldn’t decide what it was. His senses prickled with anticipation. Edging another step closer Tom Doyle saw a circular concrete drainage tunnel near where the girl was looking. The drain’s heavy iron lid wasn’t quite covering the opening and it left a thin crescent of blackness amidst the shadows already covering the ground at the girl’s feet. It was at this point that recognition finally caught up with the old doctor. An invisible gale suddenly battered him in a whirlwind eureka moment, that was anything but celebratory. He’d thought there had been something familiar about the girl’s red Christmas jumper and now he finally got it. She was wearing the same Christmas jumper that had been stalking his dreams for the last twelve months. It was the same red top that the girl had been wearing the night he… The night of the accident, he corrected himself. Tom Doyle paused mid-step. He did indeed now know this housing estate. And this road! It was a village just outside Salisbury; a village he had hoped never to see again.
Music began drifting through the air from somewhere unseen. A faint but familiar tune marched down the ghostly stillness of the lane. The music was muffled as if coming through the windows of a parked car but there were no cars in sight. The music was familiar because he’d been listening to it the last time he had been here. Another gust of confusion swirled around him, assaulting him from all sides when without warning; the girl in the red Christmas jumper moved. She spun around, snapping her head up sharply. The sudden movement caused Tom Doyle to take an involuntary step backwards into the road. The dim light caught her features and for the first time, Tom Doyle saw who she was. Dark circles surrounded her yellow eyes, while purple veins spread outwards over her face. Fluid, that wasn’t rain, ran freely down the side of her head, dribbling from her chin and blending in with the colour of her jumper. He had seen all this before Last Christmas.
Tom Doyle blinked and now, somehow, he found himself standing by the ditch. A moment ago he’d been standing in the road but now his shoulder blades were pressed back against the cold arm of the JCB. The housing development was behind him; the girl was on his left and; down at his feet yawned the deep uninviting hole in the ground. The lid, Tom noticed, had now been moved to the side revealing a black void less than a meter in diameter. The plunging darkness pulled down at him with vertiginous tenacity. The music was louder now, the lyrics clearer as if the driver of the car playing the music had just opened the door. The gravelly voice of Roy Wood chanting:
When you’re skating in the park.
If the snow cloud makes it dark.
Then your rosy cheeks are gonna light my merry way…
“I don’t understand” Tom Doyle heard himself muttering to no one in particular. Before he could respond further he saw that the girl in the red Christmas jumper had moved again. She was no longer standing at his side but was now directly in front of him. He hadn’t even seen her move but now her broken nose and ruined face were just inches from his own. Unspoken accusations burned in her lifeless yellow eyes. Tom Doyle looked down at her cold skeletal hand where it gripped his left arm just above the elbow. Even though his thick blazer he could feel the freezing touch of her dead fingers.
Tom Doyle opened his mouth but no sound would come. Before he could do anything else he felt the floor beneath him shift violently. The world tilted to one side as the ground beneath his feet gave way. Tom Doyle was now lying on the floor. The girl in the red Christmas jumper had hold of both his arms just below his wrists and she was pulling him towards the hole. She dragged him with apparent ease over the cold wet ground. Tiny sharp stones and gravel scratched at his chest and knees as he was hauled closer to the opening. Too late, Tom Doyle realised he needed to get away. His head was over the edge of the drop, staring into the blackness. A moment later he was tipping headfirst over the side. He tried to resist, tried to put his hands out to stop himself falling but his arms were already inside. The narrow drop prevented him from lifting his hands up quickly enough. There was a heavy shove and he slid forward again, his whole upper body now dangling in the blackness. A split second later and he was falling. Gravity seized him and the darkness swallowed him. Rough concrete walls scratched his hands as he slid helplessly down the hole. His face, arms and elbows grazed the sides as he dropped deeper into the ground. The cramped space prevented him from descending at any great speed as he slithered and scratched and lurched his way down. Unable to arrest his fall Tom Doyle bumped and crashed his way to the bottom of the deep pit where his outstretched arms somehow helped to cushion his impact. He now lay crumpled and upside down on a wet uneven floor. He felt the blood rushing to his head as the pressure built behind his eyes. All around him the blackness was pitch. He couldn’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but he could still hear the music; the thick guitar chords overlaying the exaggerated joy of the piano. It sounded further away now but was still there. Tom could barely move in the confined space and he could feel something else down there too. He managed to twist his arm free and tentatively reach up to feel what was leaning next to him. His probing fingers found something cold and smooth like old worn leather. Recognition shuddered through him once again. Soft papery flakes of dead skin and the rotten fabric of a jumper, once bright red in colour, hung in tatters just inches away from him. He quickly moved his head and felt the remains of the girl in the red Christmas jumper brush against his face. Seized by panic Tom Doyle tried to wriggle away; to put some distance from him and the cadaver but he couldn’t retreat. His legs kicked uselessly in the air above him. He pushed back with his free hand but only managed to slide downwards so the back of his head and shoulders were now on the floor while the rest of his body still swayed above him. From his upturned angle, Tom was aware of the circular opening above him – a slightly thinner shade of black encircled by the sheer obsidian darkness of the earth entombing him. His desperation growing he tried to move again. This time his thrashing only served to dislodge the body of the girl causing one dead arm to drop down over his neck while the other arm fell around his shoulder, taking him in a sickening embrace. Tom Doyle felt his jaw drop open. He tried to protest but still couldn’t find any words. His mind reeled as the reality of his situation slowly dawned on him, along with his inescapable recollection:
It had been a year ago. He had been driving home from a Christmas party in Salisbury, heading back into the New Forest. It had been late at night and pouring with rain when he’d turned a corner and hit a girl with his car. It had been this same girl in the red Christmas jumper with the tree and the tiny silver bells. He’d only seen her at the last second. A simple accident, that’s all it was. It could have happened to anyone and even without the alcohol in his system, he wouldn't have been able to avoid her. There was nothing he could have done and besides; she shouldn’t have been in the middle of the road anyway! When he stopped his car and went to examine her, her injuries had been horrific and it had been clear she was dead. He had been in a state of shock when he spotted the open drain cover at the side of the road he saw an opportunity. Dragging her still warm body over to the opening he shoved her down into the ground. No one would find her down there and the rain would remove all trace of the accident. As she dropped into the darkness Tom had watched her with an odd sense of detachment. The image of a figure dressed in red slipping down a narrow passageway, like Father Christmas dropping down a chimney, had subsequently haunted him for the last twelve months. He’d quickly heaved the lid back into place and then driven away into the night. Another bottle of whiskey had helped him forget the incident for a few days. At the time he hadn’t thought about the consequences of what he’d done – he’d just needed to react. It was what he was good at, but if he could go back in time he would have done things differently. He wouldn’t have gone to the party; he wouldn’t have had all those drinks and; he wouldhave called the police. Above him, Tom became aware of a gravelly scraping sound. A moment later the heavy iron lid crashed down into place with a hollow clang and the darkness around him became absolute.
Your sins will catch up with you at this time of year, Tom Doyle!
He couldn’t move at all now, as if the corpse were holding him down.
“I’m sorry”. It took a moment for him to recognise his own voice. “I’m so sorry”, he managed again but he knew no one was listening. Meanwhile, the lyrics to I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Daywere fainter now; dying away into the night as if the unseen car playing the song was fleeing from the scene. Its driver pretending nothing had happened.
“I need some help” Tom Doyle whimpered again, louder this time. “Please, help me!” but his pleas were met by silence and the eternal stillness of the grave and, just like the girl in the red Christmas jumper; no one would know where he was or what had happened to him.
A few hours later, back out on the B3055, the secluded stretch of road was lit up with colourful flashing lights. Police cars had closed the road and paramedics stood by, waiting for the Fire and Rescue Service to cut the body out of the smashed-up Jaguar. Mo Salika was the Rapid Response Driver for the Ambulance Service that night and he had been first on the scene. He had been a paramedic for eight years and he’d attended more than his fair share of road traffic accidents. Mo immediately knew by the way the driver was slumped over the steering wheel that he was already dead. A strong smell of alcohol lingered inside the car and judging by the almost empty bottle of whiskey lying unbroken in the passenger's footwell, the reek of alcohol was definitely coming off the driver. At least this idiot was the only casualty and he hadn’t hurt anyone else, Mo reflected irritably. As a professional, he always dealt with situations with the appropriate balance of empathy and professional detachment, although he had very little patience for drink-drivers. Normally Mo would have expected to finish up at the scene and move on without giving this guy a second thought but that wouldn’t happen tonight. There was something about this guy that chilled the paramedic more than it should have done. It was the expression of absolute terror etched on the guy’s face and Mo shivered as he wondered just what on earth could have caused him such horror in his final moments.