Welcome to Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' retold in the world of The Bill. The disclaimer for this story is a little awkward because it does feature a few non-fictional characters and that might be enough to have this story removed and me sued. However, in my defence, this is a complete work of fiction and the circumstances/descriptions of the non-fictional characters are in no way intended to offend ormisrepresent them. This is purely for fun and I promise faithfully that there is no malice intended towards anyone.
Paul Marquess is the Executive Producer on The Bill, notorious for killing off rather a lot of characters. But I'm sure he's really a nice bloke all the same.
Esther is (or at least, was), his Personal Assistant. I've met her and what a sweetie she is too.
Richard Handford was a long-serving previous Executive Producer of The Bill. He was responsible for killing off seven characters in an explosion, shortly before he left.
Carson Black worked alongside Paul Marquess for a while, I believe, and could have been a future Executive Producer, but he left. I do not know and will no speculate on the circumstances - that's his business.
Geoff McQueen was the creator of The Bill. Praise be to the Holy Father.
The rest of the cast are characters from The Bill, though the implication is that they are not actors but in fact playing themselves.That sounds complicated but it's not really - just read along and you'll get the gist soon enough. It is also really helpful if you have read the original Dickens' novel recently. Not essential, but it helps. Honest.
So, on with the show!
Dramatis Personae
Ebenezer Scrooge............Paul Marquess
Fred............. Esther
Bob Cratchit................Reg Hollis
(Ghost of) Jacob Marley...........Richard Handford
Ghost of The Bill Past...........Juliet Becker
Fezziwig....................Geoff McQueen
Belle (equivalent, anyway!).......................Carson Black
Ghost of The Bill Present.............Honey Harman
Emily Cratchit..............June Ackland
Tiny Tim....................Jim Carver (Tiny Jim!)
Ghost of The Bill Future.........Nobody knows...!
Chorus
Various members of The Bill cast and crew, cast and crew from other programmes and various guest artistes!
oOo
Chapter one
To begin with, Richard Handford had left. There was no doubt about that. After years directing The Bill, the time had come for him to leave and he had done so, and now one Paul Marquess ruled the roost at Bosun House. The legacy that Handford had left still lived on; several of his characters and ideas remained and he would certainly never be forgotten. Indeed, his name had not even been removed properly from the Executive Producer's office door; but it must be understood that Handford had left or this story will not seem particularly exciting at all. It might not anyway, but hey, you get the idea.
Marquess hadn't bothered to remove Handford's name from the office door because it seemed unnecessary. Everyone who mattered knew that he was in charge now and nothing as trivial as a door plaque was required to convey this information. Handford was gone and Marquess wore the crown.
But Marquess was quite unlike any Executive Producer that The Bill had ever seen. Though it could be admitted that Handford had set the ball rolling, Marquess had done things that fans had never supposed would happen. Such as the killing of regulars such as Matthew Boyden and new ones who had barely sat down, such as Juliet Becker - indeed anyone he felt had run their course. Nobody was ever just transferred any more; they were sometimes arrested themselves, fled the country, or resigned after a traumatic experience; but more often than not, they died. More had died in the first two years of his reign than in all previous years put together! Then there was also the fact that there never seemed to be any storylines these days which did not personally involveme at least one officer and hardly any crimes that didn't involve sexual assault in some shape or form.
Despite this, there was no doubt that The Bill was doing well. Higher ratings, new cast members, a live episode – oh yes, it was doing well, but at what cost? The realism was gone; the light-heartedness, the real crime, the professionalism of the officers …
Marquess did not care about that. He was producing a prime-time show whose ratings had risen dramatically since his arrival and apart from the cost of installing a revolving door at the entrance, it was a well-paid job. The small matter of keeping the programme realistic was not his concern. The days of lighter, more cheerful episodes were long gone and even as Christmas rapidly approached, not a cheerful storyline was in sight and there was no mention of an out-takes show or charity spoof as the likes of Casualty and Eastenders had done. Christmas specials were a mere distraction from hard-hitting, sensational storylines in his eyes and were best avoided, no matter what anyone else might think. This year, viewers were to be treated to the madness of Cathy Bradford, Sheelagh losing her baby and a few full-blown riots.
Our story therefore begins one cold December evening, the eve of the Christmas episode. Reg Hollis perched on a chair in the corridor waiting for an appropriate moment to have a word with his boss while Marquess sat alone in his office, polishing the handle of his well-sharpened axe and reliving the satisfying memories of all those who had perished by his hand. He was so absorbed by these thoughts that his first acknowledgement that anyone had entered his office was a cheery voice which greeted him "Merry Christmas, Paul!" It was Esther, one of his young assistants who always seemed to bear a cheerful smile and the hope for happy storylines.
Marquess barely raised his eyes from the sacking form which lay upon his desk; he had been experimenting with a new logo, namely a skull and crossbones motif at the top and a rather elaborate tombstone border. "Bah," he grunted. "Warheads!"
"Warheads?" Esther repeated, puzzled.
"Surely you remember," Marquess snapped, narrowing his eyes. "A strange Australian sweet that a few of your godforsaken 'forummers' sprung on some of the troops last summer. They're incredibly sour, apparently, and make you pull the kind of face that most people only make while watching Eldorado. Debbie, Alex and Di seemed to think it was funny," he continued, "but I don't have time for such antics. There's too much of that around these days; people having fun, it encourages such 'happy' (he grimaced) storylines and that's the last thing we need here."
"Oh, but Paul," Esther retorted, still smiling but this time in disbelief. "The forummers are a lovely bunch; they don't do any harm! They sometimes bring TimTams," she added, licking her lips at the thought. "And anyway, it's Christmas! Every programme has festive, light-hearted episodes around this time of year; surely you don't want yours to be the odd one out? It's a time to be cheerful and loosen up a bit!"
"Don't get too complacent," Marquess raised an eyebrow while determinedly colouring the tip of the axe motif blood red. "If I let up on the rules, the ratings will plummet, mark my words, and you'll be out of a job! The only way to keep it going is with plenty of murders, illicit relationships, sieges…"
"But Paul…"
"Esther! That is the way things are now. If you're longing for the old Christmas episodes I suggest you go and watch 'Twanky', but that's not the way we do things now! Keep Christmas in your way and let me keep it in mine."
"But you don't keep it! You barely acknowledge it exists!"
"It's never done me any harm so far," Marquess snorted. "And nor do I see that it's ever done you any good."
"Well," Esther paused for a moment. "Maybe that's partly true; Christmas episodes have never sent The Bill's rating's soaring or made a huge profit, but what of that? It's about the spirit of things, showing people happy programmes at this time of year, forgetting the trouble and strife of the real world and uniting in friendship for one day of the year! Maybe it has never benefited us in a financial way but I still believe it has pleased the fans and done good, and I say God bless it!
Just outside the door, Reg unintentionally applauded Esther's speech, but quickly realised his mistake and hastily bent over his script.
Marquess raised an eyebrow. "Any more of that, Hollis," he growled, "and you'll celebrate Christmas by finding a new job!"
"Don't be like that, Paul," Esther interjected, hoping that her outburst had not endangered Reg's career. Look, why don't you come down the pub with the rest of us tomorrow afternoon after the Christmas episode? It's going to be so much fun, everyone's coming."
"On that day," Marquess said slowly, "Satan will be skating to work! Good afternoon."
"But Paul…"
"Good afternoon. Close the door on your way out."
"I can see I'm not going to change your mind, Paul," Esther shook her head sadly. "But I will still wish you a very merry Christmas and hope that some day you will see the true meaning and join us in celebration."
"Good afternoon," Marquess snarled, pressing down the tip of his pencil crayon so hard that it snapped.
On her way out, Esther wished Reg a Merry Christmas which he returned gladly as he held the door for her, relieved that Marquess's bad mood had not seemed to have dampened her spirits. As she departed, however, two men entered and removed their hats as they asked to see the Executive Producer. They were duly shown through to his office and stood before him, a little uneasy perhaps as he hung his axe back on the wall and then turned to them with a look of suspicion.
"Um, good afternoon," one of the men stammered nervously. "You are the Executive Producer of The Bill? Mr Handford?"
"Mr. Handford left years ago," said Marquess, narrowing his eyes. "But I am the new Executive Producer, Paul Marquess."
"Oh, right," the man replied, shuffling the papers on his clipboard. "I do apologise; these must be a little out of date. Still, The Bill lives on successfully through you, eh?" he added, with a friendly laugh.
Marquess did not smile. "Indeed it does," he said pointedly.
"At this time of year," the other man interjected bravely, "It is customary among the senior staff of many such, er, successful and long running programmes such as this to make some provision for the drama schools of the area…? Provide some much welcomed help for the cast members of the future who are often out of work and in heavy debt?"
Marquess thought for a moment. "Are there no ASDA adverts?"
"Pardon me?" the man said, looking bewildered.
"Are there no pantomime cows required? Does Howard from the Halifax need replacing?"
The men exchanged glances and backed away slightly. "Places are limited, it is true," one ventured. "And many would rather give up the profession altogether than resort to..."
"Then let them get on with it and decrease the surplus number of actors," Marquess snapped. "There are far too many new, keen faces around when rejects from dying soaps will do the job just as well."
Realising that any further pleas would be futile, the two men bade Marquess a quiet and mumbled 'Merry Christmas' and departed, pulling their coats around as they ventured out into the bitter cold evening the afternoon had become.
A short while later, a familiar tune filled the air and Marquess peered out of the window to see a small group of young people with autograph books and reindeer antler headbands merrily singing some Bill-related carols.
"Carolling forummers! That's all I need," he growled, slamming the window shut and picking up the phone. "Security?" he said briskly. "Throw a bucket of water over those tuneless idiots, will you?" He slammed the phone down without waiting for a response and turned back to his work.
Eventually the clock struck five and Marquess yawned, got up, tidied away his sketches and started to put on his coat, but then a small cough came from the door. It was Reg, who had only just plucked up the courage to attempt a word.
"Yes?" said Marquess, impatiently. "Oh, it's you. And I know what you're going to say. You want a part in the Christmas episode, don't you?"
"If it's convenient, Sir," Reg nodded nervously.
"Of course it's not convenient," Marquess snapped. Golden oldies like you should have no place in such episodes; you're too nice. And it means I'll have to pay you for the privilege. But I suppose I shall be roasted alive if I don't at least have you standing in the background somewhere. Very well, you shall take part in it. But only a small part, mind you, and if you're hoping for any comedy like naked Christmas Trees and Barbershop singers you'll be sorely disappointed."
Reg thanked him heartily and set off immediately to tell his colleagues the good news and celebrate. But Marquess left Bosun House alone and drove home in high dudgeon as the snow fell thickly and an eerie fog descended over Canley. He picked up a takeaway and headed for home, a large first-floor flat in the town centre, just off the street.
As he pulled his front door keys out of his pocket, caught up in tissues, fake blood capsules and three crumpled up sacking forms, his gaze drifted to the screen of the intercom. It was the sort whereby the occupant of the house is able to observe the caller by means of a camera while the caller merely sees their own reflection. And at first, Marquess did see his reflection, but suddenly the screen grew misty and he stepped backwards in shock as it was replaced by the face of none other than Richard Handford. He did not look angry or unnatural, yet stared back into Marquess's eyes with an unnerving presence as his hair stirred lightly in the wind.
Marquess looked behind him, half expecting some enterprising prankster to be standing there laughing but there was nobody. And as he turned back to the door, the face on the intercom was his once more, as normal as it ever had been.
To say that he wasn't shaken or for a split second wondered if he would shortly need a change of underwear would be a lie; but after a moment he shook his head dismissively and opened the door, supposing that someone must have slipped something funny into his coffee. "Bah, Warheads," he muttered, a little more nervously than usual. Still, he locked the door with much more caution than usual and checked every possible hiding place in the flat that he could think of - including in the washing machine and in the airing cupboard – before he could put on his dressing gown and slippers and sit down with his takeaway and small glass of brandy to steady his nerves.
He turned the television on but quickly back off again on finding that every channel was sporting Christmassy-themed programmes. He was considering an early night as he took a last sip of brandy when something made his eyes turn to an old police car's siren he kept over the fireplace for decoration. It was not plugged into anything and not worked for years, but as his gaze fell upon it, it slowly began to spin. Round and round, faster and faster, lighting up the whole room with red and blue flashes of light, accompanied by the incessant wailing sound that all of a sudden seemed very creepy indeed.
"Warheads!" Marquess stuttered, his eyes wide with fear. "I won't believe it!"
But then, from somewhere downstairs there came a horrible clanking sound that reminded Marquess of the sound effects in haunted houses at the fair. But what could this be? His house certainly wasn't haunted … was it? Then a crash – the ground floor door had been flung open – and the clockwork-like sound was coming up the stairs.
"It's still Warheads!" Marquess said aloud to himself, trembling.
His mind was soon changed, however, when his door promptly flew off its hinges and a strong gust of wind sent his collection of sacking forms flying across the room in disarray as the tall, ghostly-white figure of Richard Handford stepped into the room. Apart from the fact that his body was transparent he was exactly the same as the last time Marquess had seen him … except he suddenly noticed what had been making the clanking sound. A chain was fastened around Handford's waist and snaked back out of the door behind him like a tail. Attached to the chain were various pairs of handcuffs, truncheons, a couple of fire extinguishers, even a few small filing cabinets overflowing with redundancy notices and letters beginning with the sentence; "We regret to inform you…"
"Wha … what do you want with me?" Marquess stammered, unable to tear his eyes off the spectre.
"Quite a lot, actually," Handford said, raising an eyebrow. "You know who I am, don't you?"
"I know who I you'd like me to believe you are," Marquess replied, taking a step backwards. "But I don't believe it! I won't! You're a dream, or whatever somebody slipped into my drink earlier. Or maybe the takeaway was off; I thought that onion bhaji tasted a bit funny …"
At this, the apparition opened its mouth and let out a horrible and incredibly loud roar that reached every corner of Marquess's flat and made him fall back in his chair, terrified and all too aware that this vision was indeed real.
Once the din had ceased, Marquess surrendered and fell to his knees before the spectre and begged for mercy.
"Ok, ok, I believe in you," he nodded frantically. "But why do you trouble me? What do you want from me?"
"When we have not done the best we can during our time in a position of authority, and have not walked among our fellow men, we are condemned to do so after we have moved on, unable to do anything about it. This chain," he indicated, "I forged myself over the years, link by link. And since I left my position I have been travelling, dragging it with me everywhere I go. Mine is bad enough; a few dire episodes and killing the firebomb seven saw to that, but I have to warn you that yours is already twice as long and heavy as this.
"Thanks a lot," Marquess remarked. "Have you no comfort to speak to me?"
"Nope," Handford shook his head. "I am not at liberty to disclose to you what I would like to. All I am permitted to tell you is this. Since the day I left I have been unable to rest with this great shadow of my past hanging over me and you are heading exactly the same way!"
"But you started off well," Marquess protested, "You used to be really good! The ratings were rising, the money was rolling in ..."
"But the realism was left behind!" Handford cried in frustration. "I had a duty to carry on The Bill in the way we all knew and loved, but I thought I knew best. I brought in all the new characters, hyped up the storylines but it wasn't what anyone wanted! And now I stand watching the farce that it has become, unable to do anything about it!"
Marquess shifted uncomfortably.
"I have not long left," Handford said, more quietly as he glanced towards the clock. But before I leave I am to tell you that it is possible you may yet escape my fate."
"Phew," Marquess released a breath he had been holding inadvertently for the past few minutes. "Thank you, that's a relief!"
"I haven't finished yet," said Handford, lowering his eyes and surveying the younger man who suddenly started to tremble again.
"You are going to be haunted," he began, "by three spirits."
Marquess's jaw dropped open.
"Dare I ask why?"
"They can show you things that I cannot," said Handford, gathering his chain about himself. "Without their messages you will not escape my fate. Expect the first this very night when the clock strikes one. The second the next night at the same time, and the third on the next when the hour is twelve."
"My clock doesn't strike at all, actually," Marquess admitted, "it's digital."
"Handford narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer. "You know what I mean, Paul," he said in a low voice, as Marquess nodded apologetically.
"And I couldn't see all three at once, just to get it over with?"
"Don't push your luck, Paul. Now I must go. Remember what I have said tonight, for your own sake."
The apparition walked slowly to the television and picked up the remote control. He aimed it at the screen and pressed the 'on' button twice but nothing happened.
"Richard," Marquess ventured nervously, "That's my mobile, actually."
"Ah," the spectre nodded, his cheeks turning a very slight shade of pink. "That would explain it." He picked up the real remote control and turned on the television. Normal programmes appeared as he channel-flicked, but in each one there were white, transparent figures floating in mid air, seeming unseen by the actors or presenters. And each time a cheesy line was said, a deceased character was mentioned, or even worse, Simon Cowell appeared, one or two of these figures would reach out futilely or weep for the fate of such programmes, knowing they were helpless to alter their course.
As his eyelids began to droop, Marquess suddenly became aware that Handford was gone. And looking quickly back at the television, so too were the ghosts, if that was what they were.
He turned it off and checked his front door, which was exactly how it had been before Handford's appearance; securely locked. He traipsed through to his bedroom, still not quite sure what to believe but before he had a chance to consider the matter further, a wave of exhaustion overcame him and on reaching his bed he fell straightaway into a deep sleep.