God Fuck Ye Merry Gentlemen

I could tell Jo had been drinking whilst writing her Xmas Cards, on catching sight of my enveloped address. It tilted like a capsizing ship.  

Jo’s perennial greetings seemed to mark a gradual descent into an alcoholic abyss. Her reputation as a ‘party-girl’ at College had been built on an appetite for drinking. Jo’s nickname, The Dentist, reflected her ability to offer simultaneous blow-jobs.  
 
She disliked the moniker at the time, and as the years unfolded, she grew to harbour resentment towards its continued use. In the manner of things, the more she protested, the louder came the barrage of The Dentist. I guess this is why she stopped attending reunions. She actually stopped. Full stop. Retreating to a hermit existence on the South Coast.  
 
Jo’s cards were invariably replete with pithy missives. She avoided formalities - ‘Hope the family are well’ – preferring a more sardonic and comedic tone. This year, however, her scribble caused me to stumble over my coffee:  
 
Hi Wanker  
Enjoy Christmas  
It will be your last  
 
Wendy staggered into the kitchen, her hangover met my lips. Looking at the envelope on the table, she breezily asked, ‘how is Jo babe?’  
 
‘Oh fine,’ I lied. ‘Mighty fine.’  
 
***  
 
‘Doesn’t Bobby look cute in his Christmas jumper?’  
 
Bobby smiled from behind a sea of reindeer, who looked like they had been savaged by a pack of aggressive Pac Men. The Gospel according to the football disciples: Thou shall not plan a man’s Saturday. Unless, of course, the Weekend Gods are adorned in Christmas shopping bags,  
 
So it came to pass that I found myself in a Shopping Centre, the size of a reasonably populated island in the Caribbean; when I should have been enjoying pre-match pints, before watching twenty two men kick a bag of leather around. Life can be cruel sometimes.  
 
There was a time when escalators had the allure of the moon to Neil Armstrong. They were now just an inconvenience for the minute trudge from perfume to toys and back again, via dresses and shoes. ‘For fuck sake Wends, couldn’t we have done all this on line.’ But Wendy was dragging Bobby to the fleet of dancing bears, trying to drink through furred mouths.  
 
‘Back of the net.’ A familiar voice boomed over God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and a scuffle between shoplifters and security guards. Wardy was the kind of bloke who’d fall in a barrel of shit and come out smelling of roses. His wife, Sophia, was from Florence and could cook pasta sixteen different ways. She was also, in common vernacular, loaded. Her Father owned a couple of vineyards.  
 
We engaged in that kind of male-bonding which would be considered foreplay in a vanilla porn film. Sophia and Wendy just smiled, shrugged and uttered ‘Christmas’ every ten seconds with a synchronised rolling of eyes. A secret language adopted by females, which is alien to males.  
 
We spoke of nappies, football and films. ‘Shame about Jo eh?’ His words transported me back to the living. He took my silence as a cue to address my ignorance. ‘Yeah. Topped herself in March.’  
 
He poked his head forward like an inquisitive chicken. ‘Head in the oven. Like Platt.’  
‘Platt was a footballer,’ I countered. ‘You mean Plath.’ As a response to news of a death, my response was akin to the reporter who asked Mrs Abraham Lincoln, ‘did you enjoy the play though?’  
 
On return from Shoppinghellsville, I glanced at Jo’s hidden card on the mantelpiece. The envelope sat near the bottom of the bin. It was clearly stamped December. I parked my confusion at the foot of the Advent Calendar.        
 
That night I dreamt briefly of Jo. It was the closest I’d felt to her in years. The words ‘Last’ and ‘Wanker’ settled on my eye lids and prevented little further sleep. Our last proper conversation all those years ago, played out as a Fellini film. “I’m sick of our little secret,’ her head nestled under my shoulder. “I’m tired of this Dentist crap. I’m only human. All I need is love.”  
 
“It will all be ok,” I mumbled and kissed her lips for the very last time.  
 
***          
 
Christmas Eve wine had played havoc with my internal alarm clock. Wendy’s side of the bed was empty and I could hear the ripping of paper downstairs. My parched throat craved orange juice. ‘No more wine,’ I muttered to myself. It seemed to take an eternity to complete the art of placing slippers onto the correct feet.  
 
Bobby was hidden under a mound of paper and gift tags. The trail of presents sat as empty cars leaving a car-wash. ‘Yip,’ I spoke in his direction, ‘next year we’ll just buy you paper.’ His laughter reached screech levels.  
 
‘Wendy. Put the kettle on…..Wendy? Wendy?’  
 
My slippers crunched through paper and settled at the kitchen door. As it swung open, my lips were on the verge of singing ‘Ding Dong, merrily on high’. I’d secretly hoped she would be wearing the lingerie which had been clumsily wrapped. ‘Oo not in front of Bobby,’ she would have grimaced.  
 
Slumped in a wooden chair, her hands and legs tied to the rails, was Wendy’s lifeless body. Her head pulled back as if she was in a dentist’s chair.  I’d watched enough television to instantly recognise her throat had been slashed. Her pyjamas were soaked in blood, a grotesque caricature of Santa costume.    
 
‘Mummy. Daddy. Come and play.’  
 
‘In a moment,’ was all my shocked voice could muster.  
 
In the half-light of a pale December sun, I noticed there was something in Wendy’s mouth. It looked so familiar. So very familiar. A sudden pain emanated from my groin and blood streamed down my legs. My body trembled as a bridge collapsing.  
 
The sun began to slip from the sky and the words ‘Last’ and ‘Wanker’ were spelt on the window in red. ‘I’m sorry. So fucking sorry,’ but there was no-one to hear my final words.  
 
‘Mummy. Daddy. Come and play.’