A TB Christmas Carol
Chapter Four
As the terrifying, faceless phantom glided towards him, Marquess instinctively dropped to his knees on the pavement. No part of the spectre was visible except for one hand, in which it held an Asp that pointed unmistakably to him.
"Are …are you the ghost of The Bill Yet To Come?" he stuttered, his teeth chattering like a rabid alligator.
The phantom did not reply, but instead pointed onwards with the Asp.
"Is your purpose to show me the shadows of things that have not yet happened but will come to pass?"
The phantom nodded slowly. Its oversized helmet wobbled slightly and Marquess hoped that it would not fall off; it would be rather difficult to take it seriously if that happened.
"Spirit," Marquess said suddenly. "I have seen more than my fair share of ghosts this night but it is you who I fear the most. I acknowledge, of course, that Honey Harman is about as frightening as a bowl of custard, but that aside, you are definitely the one I am most afraid of. However, I know that you are here to do me good and make me a better person, so I am willing to bear your company and will be," he gulped, "grateful for the privilege."
The phantom pointed forward with his Asp and after a short while began to glide onwards. Marquess followed, and together they stepped into a swirling mist which engulfed them completely.
As they emerged, Marquess knew immediately where they were; it was the Carlton studios once more. Christmas decorations still adorned the entrance hall but it was clear the festivities had been over for quite some time now. In a quiet corner of the canteen, a small group of directors, writers and actors were having a hushed conversation that Marquess could hear as he drew near.
"No, that's all I know," a dark haired man with a clipboard shrugged. "All I've been told is that he's finally been sacked."
"When was that?" whispered a shorter woman with round glasses.
"Yesterday, I think," her colleague replied. "They haven't announced the reason yet but I don't think it takes a rocket scientist to work that one out!"
The others suppressed a laugh.
"I don't suppose his leaving 'do' will be packed out," said another, carelessly. "They'll be glad to see the back of him, I'd imagine."
The phantom glided on so suddenly that Marquess had to run a few yards to catch up with it as it slipped silently through a wall and into an office. Inside, the producer of some other programme was sitting back in his chair looking smug, as a young woman entered and looked around furtively, but with a sly grin.
"You got them?" the man asked in a low voice.
"Yup," said the girl, drawing out a handful of papers from inside her long black coat. "Nobody saw me, it was easy."
"Hold on," Marquess started, taking a closer look at the papers. "They're new ideas for The Bill's storylines!"
"I just took 'em right off his desk," the girl continued, flicking her hair and perching on the edge of the desk. "Well, it's not as if he needs 'em any more, is it? I reckon with a bit of work we'll be able to pass these off as our own, no probs."
Her boss smiled evilly as he flicked through them. "They'll need a little … a little 'doctoring'," he said slowly, "With this amount of tragedy and deaths, it wouldn't be hard to work out who wrote it. Nobody else was as cruel to characters as him; he even massacred ones who had been there for years and everyone thought they were safe."
"Hard to feel sorry for him, innit?" the girl smirked. "Ironic really that he's been hindering our progress all this time – the only occasion he's ever done us good is after he's been sacked!"
They both laughed nastily and Marquess felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
"Bloody hell," he uttered, turning to the phantom, "nobody deserves to be remembered like that. They might as well have been talking about me! Ha, ha … ha …?"
He was silenced instantly by what was unmistakably a glare from the phantom's absent face, but as he looked up again he realised that once more, the scene had changed. They now stood in a small, darkened room with no indication of where in the world they might be; there were no windows, no signs, just one small door which the Phantom blocked with its immense stature.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Marquess noticed that on the biggest wall there were many A4 sized frames, each bearing a photograph with writing underneath. He squinted as he leaned in closer to inspect one.
He did not recognise the face or name, but it was when he spotted the titles before each body of text that he started to worry.
"Programme name, appointment date, first major cock-up, nail in the coffin, date of sacking, last episode in charge," he read out loud, his voice beginning to waver. All of the others were similar, each a failed Executive Producer whose mistakes had cost them their positions. He glanced nervously back at the phantom who again pointed eerily with its Asp to a frame at the very end of the wall which was covered with a small veil.
"A new addition," Marquess muttered, shuddering. "So I see. Can we leave this fearful place now?"
The phantom pointed at the frame once more.
"Of course I'm curious," Marquess admitted, "in fact, I'm desperate to lift the veil and see whose face that certificate bears. But I have no power to do so."
The phantom merely stared at him.
"Does nobody feel sympathy for this man?" Marquess asked suddenly. "If there is anyone out there who feels any emotion for this man's departure, let me see them!"
Almost instantly there came another rush of fog. As it cleared, Marquess found himself once again in The Bill's studio, this time upstairs in CID. But there was no filming going on now; the only light came from a small table lamp on a desk where Debbie McAllister sat, staring into space. She appeared to be waiting for someone, for as a noise sounded from outside, she jumped up and ran to the door.
Phil Hunter entered the room, brushing the snow off his coat and removing a pair of thick woolly gloves. He seemed to be keen to say something wonderful, for he suppressed a smile but paused to get his breath back before he began.
"Phil," Debbie ventured, clearly unable to contain herself any longer. "Tell me. Is it good or bad?"
"Bad," said Phil, shortly.
Debbie sunk into a chair and covered her eyes. "Then this is the end?"
"No," said Phil, allowing the smile to creep over his face. "Debs, there is still hope."
"If he gives in and starts giving us decent storylines," said Debbie, brushing a stray hair out of her face. "And let's face it, the chances of that happening are about the same as Anne Robinson being the face of National Smile Week."
Phil shook his head grimly but still smiled. "He's past that. He's gone."
"Gone?"
"Sacked. I just heard."
"Oh … oh Phil, that's the best …"
"It gets better," said Phil, enthusiastically. "His replacement is going to be …"
"Please … say it's…!"
Phil grinned. "Yup. He's back for good. It's going to be okay now, Debs, we can have a happy Christmas after all. Come on, let's go and join the others!"
Whatever differences they might have had in the past were instantly pushed aside as Debbie leapt up and kissed Phil on the cheek, smiling more than she had in months. Then they skipped merrily out of the door like two excited schoolchildren, laughing and joking as they went.
Marquess looked at the floor. He had not been expecting that; he had rather hoped to see somebody mourning the wretched man's sacking or at least remembering him fondly.
"Please, Spirit," he begged, "let me see at least some compassion related to this man, or the only thing I'll remember is that awful dark room."
The phantom seemed to ponder this for a moment before leading him down the stairs, through custody and into the canteen, where the atmosphere was a far cry from the happiness and carefree fun than Honey had shown him in the present. Not everyone was there, far from it, and the few who did remain sat in small groups speaking quietly or not at all while sipping at lukewarm cups of coffee.
June stood beside the small, rather pathetic Christmas tree, half-heartedly hanging up some ornaments. Tony was absent-mindedly polishing his badge while others stared blankly at scripts or exchanged weary glances from time to time, looking thoroughly depressed.
"Can I help you with that, June?" Eva asked quietly, rising and moving over to her Sergeant.
June put down the glittery bauble she was holding and wiped her eyes with a tissue. "The lights," she muttered, "they make my eyes water, but I mustn't tell Reg that after he went to the trouble of getting them specially. Thanks, Eva, that's kind of you."
"He should be here by now," Tony observed, looking at his watch.
"He'll be along soon," June assured him with a small smile. "I think he's just been driving a little slower than usual these last few days. Oh, that sounds like him now."
And indeed it was. Reg opened the door and emerged into the room with a tray of mince pies he had no doubt managed to find for half-price. Everyone greeted and thanked him with grateful smiles, yet the atmosphere remained tense and subdued.
"How is he?" June asked after an awkward silence.
"Oh, not bad, you know," Reg nodded, matter-of-factly. "I told him that more of us would be visiting him in the New Year, once he's …"
"Yes," said June, "Yes, of course we will."
"I'm just going to, erm …" Reg murmured, indicating the door that led to the dressing rooms and made to leave.
Marquess looked towards the phantom for guidance; it gestured for him to follow Reg, which he did, into a dressing room. The notice on the door had been altered; it read 'Reg Hollis and Jim Carver' except Jim's name had a red felt-tip squiggle through it.
Reg pushed the door to behind him, but Marquess stepped through the wall so that he might see what troubled one of his oldest employees, and indeed everyone else, so much. Reg set his coat and scarf down on the back of his chair and gave no obvious clues as to what had happened until he spotted a TV listings magazine on the floor and picked it up to read the headline plastered across the front cover.
"THE BILL'S JIM KILLED OFF AFTER 21 YEARS"
Marquess's eyes widened. He turned and ran back through the canteen to where the phantom stood, looking rather covetously at the mince pies.
"Spirit," he gasped. "Jim, killed off? Tell me it's not true!"
Before he could say anything else, Reg returned and sat down heavily in a plastic chair opposite June and Tony and began to tell them of the kindness and sympathy of none other than Carson Black.
"He stopped me in the street and asked me to tell you all how sorry he is for what has happened. He acknowledges that there are some things he cannot change, but he swore that he will strive to set things right as far as his power allows him. He even said that he will have words with the other 'powers-that-be' out there and do his best to find Jim a new contract with a well established, secure team."
"Oh, Reg," June smiled. "How kind of the man! And after we have only known him for such a short time!"
By now everyone was listening and a few more faces had arrived, all gathered around Reg and listening to the comforting news he had brought. It was comforting, no doubt, for now there were more smiles and even if they were sad, at least now they contained hope for the future.
"We're so like family," said Reg, after a moment's thought. "No doubt over the coming years there shall be more instances in which we will be parted, but I do hope that none of us will ever forget Jim or indeed anyone else who has been untimely taken away from us."
There were several murmurs of "No, never; never forget" around the room.
"He put up with unhappy storylines for so long, with little or no complaint even if he had good reason and could easily have been forgiven for doing so," Reg continued, "and I dearly hope that in future we will not quarrel amongst ourselves and so forget him."
"Never, never" the others murmured again.
"We can be happy now," said Reg, smiling genuinely. "We can be grateful for what we have and raise a glass to everything we used to have. Merry Christmas, everyone!"
Marquess turned suddenly to the phantom and took a deep breath.
"Spirit," he said, trying to muster his courage. "Who was that man whose name and picture were on that shrouded certificate?"
In an instant they were back in the darkened room where the rows of certificates still hung on the wall, the last still covered by a veil. The phantom raised its hand and pointed at it, miming a 'pulling' action with its ghostly hand.
"Before I do," Marquess said, standing before it, "tell me, are these the shadow of what will happen in the future, or only those which may come to pass? You know, cause and effect; if something changes in the present, surely the ends will be different! Is that true in this case?"
The phantom said nothing but stayed still as a statue, pointing at the veil.
Marquess could bear it no longer; he reached up and pulled it off in one swift movement to reveal a photograph that was all too familiar and his own name.
'PAUL MARQUESS – February 2002 - December 2004.'
"No!" Marquess cried. "Oh, no! Please, no!"
He did not read the rest thoroughly; he did not want to know the details of the awful things he would come to do in the future that were so terrible that ultimately, he would be sacked. The sacking of Jim Carver, the Eastenders crossover, the attempt to represent every possible minority via the introduction of a black, wheelchair-bound, lesbian adoptee with a speech impediment; and of course the ultimate nail in the coffin; Tony Blair's guest appearance.
"Hear me!" Marquess sobbed in despair, kneeling before the phantom and clutching at his stab vest. "I am not the Producer I was! I will change! Why would you have shown me these visions if I was beyond all hope?"
The phantom lowered its Asp as its hand began to tremble.
"Tell me that I may prevent these terrible things that you have shown me this night! Be assured that given another chance I will be a changed man!"
The Asp dropped to the floor.
"I will honour Christmas episodes always," Marquess promised. "I shall make sure that the past, present and future are intertwined to make of it the best that anyone could and please others! I will not shut out the lessons that you and your fellows have taught me. Oh, Spirit! Tell me that I may take my Tippex to that certificate and cover up the words forever!"
In desperation, he reached up and grabbed the phantom's hand and begged once more for him and The Bill to escape their terrible fates. But as he touched it, there was a flash of light and the hand shrunk, dwindling in seconds into a small bedside torch.