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Well, maybe it was Santa Claus, said Polo, attempting levity.
He parcelled up the pieces of the vase and wandered through
into the kitchen, certain that he was being shadowed every step of
the way. What else can it be? He threw the question over his
shoulder as he stuffed the newspaper into the waste bin. The only
other explanation here he became almost elated by his
skimming so close to the truth, the only other possible explanation
is too preposterous for words.
It was an exquisite irony, denying the existence of the invisible
world in the full knowledge that even now it breathed vengefully
down his neck.
You mean poltergeists? said Gina.
I mean anything that goes bang in the night. But, we re grown-
up people aren t we? We don t believe in Bogeymen.
No, said Gina flatly, I don t, but I don t believe the house is
subsiding either.
Well, it ll have to do for now, said Jack with nonchalant
finality. Christmas starts here. We don t want to spoil it talking
about gremlins, now do we.
They laughed together.
Gremlins. That surely bit deep. To call the Hell-spawn a
gremlin.
The Yattering, weak with frustration, acid tears boiling on its
intangible cheeks, ground its teeth and kept its peace.
There would be time yet to beat that atheistic smile off Jack
Polo s smooth, fat face. Time aplenty. No half-measures from now
on. No subtlety. It would be an all out attack.
Let there be blood. Let there be agony. They d all break.
Amanda was in the kitchen, preparing Christmas dinner, when
the Yattering mounted its next attack. Through the house drifted
the sound of King s College Choir, 0 Little Town of Bethlehem,
how still we see thee lie. . .
The presents had been opened, the G and T s were being
downed, the house was one warm embrace from roof to cellar.
In the kitchen a sudden chill permeated the heat and the
steam, making Amanda shiver; she crossed to the window, which
was ajar to clear the air, and closed it. Maybe she was catching
something.
The Yattering watched her back as she busied herself about
the kitchen, enjoying the domesticity for a day. Amanda felt the
stare quite clearly. She turned round. Nobody, nothing. She
continued to wash the Brussels sprouts, cutting into one with a
worm curled in the middle. She drowned it.
The Choir sang on.
In the lounge, Jack was laughing with Gina about something.
Then, a noise. A rattling at first, followed by a beating of
somebody s fists against a door. Amanda dropped the knife into
the bowl of sprouts, and turned from the sink,
following the sound. It was getting louder all the time. Like
something locked in one of the cupboards, desperate to escape. A
cat caught in the box, or a Bird.
It was coming from the oven.
Amanda s stomach turned, as she began to imagine the worst.
Had she locked something in the oven when she d put in the
turkey? She called for her father, as she snatched up the oven
cloth and stepped towards the cooker, which was rocking with the
panic of its prisoner. She had visions of a basted cat leaping out at
her, its fur burned off, its flesh half-cooked.
Jack was at the kitchen door.
There s something in the oven, she said to him, as though he
needed telling. The cooker was in a frenzy; its thrashing contents
had all but beaten off the door.
He took the oven cloth from her. This is a new one, he thought.
You re better than I judged you to be. This is clever. This is
original.
Gina was in the kitchen now.
What s cooking? she quipped.
But the joke was lost as the cooker began to dance, and the
pans of boiling water were twitched off the burners on to the floor.
Scalding water seared Jack s leg. He yelled, stumbling back into
Gina, before diving at the cooker with a yell that wouldn t have
shamed a Samurai.
The oven handle was slippery with heat and grease, but he
seized it and flung the door down.
A wave of steam and blistering heat rolled out of the oven,
smelling of succulent turkey-fat. But the bird inside had apparently
no intentions of being eaten. It was flinging itself from side to side
on the roasting tray, tossing gouts of gravy in all directions. Its
crisp brown wings pitifully flailed and flapped, its legs beat a tattoo
on the roof of the oven.
Then it seemed to sense the open door. Its wings stretched
themselves out to either side of its stuffed bulk and it half hopped,
half fell on to the oven door, in a mockery of its living self.
Headless, oozing stuffing and onions, it flopped around as though
nobody had told the damn thing it was dead, while the fat still
bubbled on its bacon-strewn back.
Amanda screamed.
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