Voodoo Christmas

©Copyright KeithWright July 2025

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Frank Barrow didn't want to die at Christmas. Anytime would be inconvenient, sure, but a Christmas demise would mess up that year's festivities for his loved ones and would do so for countless years ahead. He had made it to seventy-four, the same age as his father was when he died, so it seemed to be becoming a theme. He hadn't been given a terminal illness diagnosis, but he could feel it. Frank didn't feel well in himself and saw the signs. It was difficult to put his finger on what it was, but he just felt weak, and everything he did was a struggle. It was like his body was shutting down.

He had ignored the chest pains in recent months even though they traversed across to his arm. He didn't like going to the doctors and was fatalistic that you get these things as you get older, and when the time comes to pop your clogs, it comes, and that's it. Game over. He wasn't a fan of keeping people alive beyond their time. He felt that dementia happened because their bodies were kept going by drugs, extending life and allowing people to live past their 'use-by' date, and so other things go wrong. Once that happens, it is a downward spiral that is never-ending. He thought it cruel to sustain people whose time had long since come and gone, but everyone clung on for dear life like a passenger on an upturned rowing boat in tempestuous seas.

Frank had been surprised by everything that had happened in recent years and had deteriorated rather rapidly mentally because of it. It is strange how the mind can seem to debilitate the body in the wake of sadness, depression, or the lack of a will to live. Frank could remember in great detail memories from his youth, but often struggled to recall something five minutes ago.

He regularly brought to mind his time in the Merchant Navy when he was only just an adult himself and his experiences back then exemplified how the mind can eat itself and kill a person. He was classed as an officer in the Merchant Navy at the tender age of twenty two. There was a reason for the promotions - it gave authority to the white upper deck sailors and prevented any misconceptions when orders needed to be given to those up to their necks in coal, steam and sludge. Frank recalled how many of the below-deck workers were black men from Africa, and those from Togo and some parts of Ghana and Nigeria believed in Voodoo and witch doctors and the like. What was extraordinary was how, as a young officer, he might upset someone inadvertently or otherwise, and the Voodoo believers would nail a dead chicken, some herb combination, or some other symbol of Voodoo doom to the officers cabin door. This was known as a Juju, a charm or representation with a spell attached to bring specific bad events or to curse the recipient. The officers would rip them off and throw them in the bin without a second thought, but were any of the 'believers', to receive one of these charms, they would simply curl up in a corner and die. It was quite extraordinary, and no amount of encouragement could help them out of a self-induced spell. They gave up the ghost. The mind is a strange thing.

Frank remembered upsetting a guy who was supposedly a Togo chief of a small tribe, and he dismissed his cursing and juju spells out of hand. He and Frank never saw eye-to-eye, and the African resented the young man's authority. He was often chastised for glaring at Frank and muttering contemptibly under his breath. He had been warned about his impudence several times.

Frank was puzzled by one voodoo incident that clouded a special gift he bought in Africa all those years ago. He was thrilled with a purchase he had made for his wife-to-be Margaret, when he was on leave in Bloemfontein in South Africa. Frank bought it at a great price from a diamond merchant. Back on the ship, he showed his friends the beautiful necklace when this same Togan fella passed by, noticed the gift and threw some powdery substance onto the necklace. He also gave it some mumbo-jumbo cursing and gurning to emphasise it. The aide to the officers, himself a Togan, explained that, sadly, the Togan Chief had cursed the necklace. The officers laughed it off, none more than Frank. The Togan would be let go at the next port. He was becoming too much of a pain in the backside.

Curiously, Margaret never felt right when she wore the necklace, which was, thankfully, only on high days and special occasions. The first time she wore it, she broke her heel and twisted her ankle, and went to the Accident and Emergency Department at the local hospital. Then, at one of the reunions, another black-tie event, she was caught by the wing mirror of a passing bus and knocked unconscious. She never wore it again, and she swore it was cursed. It wasn't long after this that she dropped dead. By then, she had given birth to two lovely sons but would never get to see them grow into men. She always said that after wearing the necklace, her life spiralled out of control, quoting various misfortunes that beset them. Frank dismissed it as rubbish, but even he had second thoughts when such rotten luck befell them on the fateful day they lost her. The poor man was bereft.

The memories of yesteryear had helped Frank in the sense that he constantly tried to keep himself up, bright, and cheery, as best he could, but with the growing trouble he encountered with his sons, this became more and more difficult and the happy memories were burdened by heavy, dark clouds. Things seemed to prey on his mind much more than they used to. He would dwell on them; perhaps he would brood for longer because of his isolation. Despite his best efforts, he often felt anxious, and so damned lonely, made worse by his inability to stop certain events happening; events with consequences that only he could see approaching on the horizon. Everyone else seemed blind to it all.

The problem with age in Western society is that you seem to lose credibility for no apparent reason. Instead of appreciating a lifetime's experience, people seem to discount the elderly as irrelevant or unable to understand the modern world. Because young westerners have not experienced the past, they don't appreciate how fundamentally close it is to the present. Technologies may change, but human nature does not. The downside to Frank's concerted efforts to protect himself was that the effort seemed to make him quite forgetful and disorientated at times. It was like he only had so many brain cells with diminishing returns, and over-taxing them weakened the remainder, hence his growing confusion over simple matters. It was probably just the ageing process, but this impacted his ability to explain what he thought was happening to his sons. It was frustrating and became a vicious circle. His boys could not see what he could. They never said as much, but he could tell by their faces and secretive glances towards one another that they thought he was talking nonsense and were no doubt ridiculing him behind his back. That made him sad to the bone, but he didn't say anything.

His sons seemed to have had their memories wiped; they could only see the man today, frail, unkempt, forgetful, and somewhat disconnected. They forgot that wrapped inside that bundle of bones was a young Merchant Navy officer, a lover, a fighter, and a humorous raconteur holding court in the pubs and clubs with a circle of fascinating friends and influence in many quarters. His sons couldn't see the grafter, the grifter, the endless woes in the fight to survive to keep his boys safe when the chips were down and there was just him in the ring swinging for them. Taking the blows and never going down.

They didn't know the man inside, nor did they appreciate that a person's history and lived experience in earlier years were just as valid as their experiences in the here and now. It should not be diluted merely because of the passing of years. The years were both friend and foe; friend because they made him who he was and foe because they reduced his mental and physical capacity. His sons just didn't get it, and that was a shame. He deserved better.

Frank was well aware that he spent too much time in bed nowadays, and despite knowing it, he still struggled to motivate himself to get out and move around the house or go out and about in society. Like now, he sometimes spent time in a semi-dream-like state, reliving memories and playing them back in his minds eye, watching them like an old and familiar movie from back in the day. His favourites were when his boys, Peter and David, were little, and the pure, unadulterated fun they all had together; play fighting, tickling, teaching them to walk, to run, to play football, and all of those building blocks that we take for granted. The memories were so intense that sometimes, when he woke, he thought he was back in those times, at least for a little while. He once went into the bedroom to shout the boys up for school and felt such a fool. They were grown men now and had long since fled the nest.

It was difficult when they were little; Frank, as a single parent, was trying to work, bring in money on nights, and be available for them when they were not sleeping. This meant he lost out on his own sleep and exhausted, he often dozed off in the chair. The boys would tease him when they were a little older, maybe nine or ten, and clip clothes pegs to the bottom of his trousers. He would walk around, oblivious as to why they were giggling. Happy days.

Their mother had died suddenly from an embolism when the boys were only two and three years old, respectively. They had no recollection of her other than the photos Dad kept around the house in unpolished silver-coloured metal frames. They didn't know her touch or the sound of her voice, but they seemed to thrive nonetheless because of Frank's efforts. They were resilient and much better at carrying on than Frank, because they didn't really understand what was happening. His grief was a thick, sluggish tar, toxifying his brain, immovable and holding fast because his grief was love with nowhere now to go. It was a grief that could never be fixed. He'd had a lot of love for Margaret, and now it was mirrored by the extent of his grief. It knocked him sideways for a long time, and he never really got over the loss of someone so close. Who does?

Frank was a simple man at heart, yet he wanted so much to provide an environment for his children that he never had. His childhood had been one of fear from his overbearing father. Everyone walked on eggshells when he was around, and anyone who might speak of things his father didn't understand or disagreed with would be squashed like a fly on the dinner table. His world was dedicated to closing down an enquiring mind, while Frank was determined that his children would enjoy freedom of mind and expression in a way he could have only dreamt. He encouraged inquisitiveness in his two boys. He wanted them to have an open mind to everything, to question everything, and to broaden their horizons at every opportunity. Frank didn't expect it to backfire like it did, though. It never once occurred to him that it might. Somewhere along the line, his sense of values seemed to get lost with his boys.

The boys were decent people, but their modern twenty-first century views were so bizarre, encouraged by their schooling, and so obviously nonsensical to Frank that he feared what he had wrought. It was weird stuff that made no sense, but somehow, it was encouraged. Their minds were so open that a lot of rubbish was poured into it. It was 'Emperor's New Clothes' territory. Maybe his forefathers knew how to keep a lid on things. Every village had an idiot, but in the modern world of social media, the idiots could form together with otherwise laughable concepts, given strange credence, and be allowed to grow into something considered normal. It was odd, and Frank had no doubt that in years ahead, people would study how this was allowed to happen and point at the social elements conspiring to bring it about. That didn't help him or his kids in the here and now, though.

Still, he told himself that the most important thing was that they were happy, intelligent, and making the most of their lives. They were successful in this regard, but curiously, his own sense of open-mindedness and tolerance for others' views did not translate to his lovely boys. As they became young adults, they were sometimes critical of him and teased him, laughed at him, as if he was stupid. Far from being loyal, defending their father, and respecting all his effort and sacrifice over the years, he became almost an object of ridicule. At least, that was how it felt. It was tough. And it wounded him deeply.

Poor old Frank had no money. He had been unable to save; the concept was laughable, but he had a modest pension from the state. He had to live hand-to-mouth over all those years, bringing the boys up, and he had to avoid going under financially, never mind saving any money. That was a pipe dream. He had their little home, food on the table, and love in his heart. He made a welcoming, cosy nest albeit with no nest egg.

Frank could have advanced to a more senior position in the civil service after the merchant navy, but he knew it would be untenable given his need to be available to his sons. So he refused the promotions and willingly forsook the high salary and status he could have had so that he could be a presence in his boys' lives as they were growing up. Paradoxically, in later life, this lack of status, rather than an appreciated sacrifice, somehow disadvantaged him, as it appeared he was an embarrassment to his sons, whose friends ' parents were all middle class and relatively wealthy. He felt he was seen as a poor relation. They were often at friend's houses but they never brought anyone home to theirs.

His boys, post-university, had made a bit of money and were doing rather well. This meant that they might go on holidays or do activities in places beyond Frank's reach financially and, latterly, physically, especially with his now dodgy hip, and slowly but surely, he found himself excluded. He knew they had their own lives to lead, so that was not too big a problem, but things began to go awry when Peter, his eldest, met a girl online. Her name was Poppy, and she came from relatively well-off parents. Frank was thrilled at first, but the visits became less and less, and Peter seemed to be embarrassed whenever Frank spoke, making him guarded that his father might put his foot in it and somehow shame the lad. That hurt. Was he so brittle? Was she? They seemed unable to understand generational differences and the simple courtesy of allowing someone to take a different view from theirs. Sometimes, they were almost tyrannical in the set views imprinted upon them and could not 'live and let live' in the manner that Frank had instilled in them, or at least thought he had. The paradox was the illiberal nature of their response to anyone disagreeing with them, so fervent were their beliefs. It was cult-like, and Frank didn't like it. It numbed their individuality, it diminished them, and it was hard to witness.

Frank didn't like their weird bullshit for that matter, but that was fair enough; he came from a different world to them. What he did not like and took umbrage about was the ardent and dismissive attitude towards him, an almost mocking sneer in their tone. Frank bit his tongue too many times to remember, and maybe that was where he had gone wrong. In giving them the riches of an education, he steadfastly did not challenge their strange views because he wanted to enable them to mix with the university classes. He should have been more resolute, perhaps.

His lack of understanding of university life meant that Frank garnered a false trust in the professors and powers that be in these establishments. He mistakenly thought they were wise, philosophical ruminators, possibly smoking a pipe in a tweed jacket with elbow patches. It turned out they weren't. They were twisted, out of sync, and living in a self-fulfilling fantasy world of academia which callously excluded anyone who was not part of it. Frank thought this exclusion of dissenters lacked manners and class and contradicted itself. It lacked common courtesy and inhibited common sense so much that their students had to be told what to think rather than be given options to choose and think for themselves. Their students were blank pages for anyone with sinister motives to write upon; the latest guinea pigs for the fad of the day. If they had been hit over the head with a hammer he could sue, but theft of personality was not something he could present to a court. It was a regret, and Frank wondered what he should have done differently. He hardly recognised them as his own sometimes. Had he ruined them? Had he lost them?

Regardless, he loved them dearly and clung to the shared adversity they had endured through extremely difficult times. At least, he thought they did. It turned out they resented their 'terrible' childhood. Despite all his efforts to protect them, in later life, they decided to victim-claim their single-parent upbringing and pretend that their lives had been some living hell when this simply was not true. All Frank remembered was children's laughter and fun and love. Victimhood gave them a badge of honour amongst their peers and seemingly enhanced their status as tough fighters who beat all odds and became successful, which was pure fantasy. Frank knew all things were relative, but to imply that they had been anything other than happy, giggling boys showered with love and protection was a lie, and it hurt Frank. It was a spear to the stomach and a betrayal he could never countenance committing himself. He wouldn't dream of treating them like that.

As Frank lay there in his bed, in the darkness, swamped by the night air and the dimming of his life's flame, all of these thoughts, memories and emotions swirled around his head again, clamouring, ringing a clanging bell and raucous in the still of the night. Frank's nights became a trial between bouts of fitful sleep, dreams, or nightmares. He used to hate going to bed sometimes. It was a darkened lair where the dragons be. Once he was under the covers, he was susceptible to the curses of the mind in his semi-conscious, dream-like state. Only when fully awake could he control the beasts that dwelt within. Night time was a bad time for poor Frank Barrow. Maybe that was why he sometimes struggled to get out of bed. Getting out meant he had to get back in, and it would take a while to regain control of his emotions and fears.

**

Peter Barrow was enjoying his Christmas with the lovely Poppy. Her father, Winsom, was a child of the sixties and had been brought up in the 'peace and love' brigade by his hippy, arty-farty parents, so it was pretty easy for him to blend in with the current liberal thinking of love to all. (Unless you disagree with us – then burn in hell!).

Winsom, like many of his ilk, was not quite what he seemed at first glance. His outwardly gregarious and inclusive personality was a mask to an insidious, controlling nature. It was barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but Pete's father, Frank, had spotted it early. He couldn't mention it because he feared it would isolate him further from Peter. Winsom used money and benevolence to control those important to him. It was a soft power offensive disguised as generosity. He was a payer. He paid for Peter and Poppy's car, he paid for their holidays, he bought expensive gifts, and pretty much anything else they mentioned they wanted. It gave him an invisible aura, a Kingly status. No one wanted to go against His Majesty King Winsom; no one wanted to lose favour at Court. He was a great chap. Everybody loved him. 'One of a kind.' He always had a loving word, and nobody spotted his narcissistic tendency to overwhelm and conquer those in his family or on the fringes of it. He was an undercover control freak playing all and sundry at his silly, selfish game.

Maybe it was Frank's days as a young man and officer in the Merchant navy that had made him so intuitive and astute. He had to be quick in thought and deed to survive in an often hostile environment with no escape onboard ship. Of course, this wonderful ability to spot Machiavellian behaviour was like Cassandra's curse; he could see the future, but no one believed him. It was a difficult situation to find himself in, whereas Peter and David were oblivious to it, and would remain so. There was no other way. The drug was worth the side effects, it seemed. Highlighting it to his sons might seem like jealousy, and in truth, Frank feared his boys might not side with him. He couldn't remember the last time they did.

This was the fourth Christmas that Peter and Poppy had spent at Winsom and his wife, Jenny's house. It made more sense, they said, what with drinking and driving and the like. Plus, Winsom had spare bedrooms and was set up to have the whole family around, and it was tradition for everyone to be there now. It was a huge place. It would be daft not to. Winsom was so kind-hearted he had invited Peter's brother, David, and his girlfriend, Clarissa, too, these past years. There was great appeal because no expense was spared. Even the crackers had really expensive gifts in them. The Christmas meal was superb, and they had a grand piano, which Winsom would play Christmas Carols on, and everyone joined in. It was a lovely Christmas, idyllic, and nobody dared spend a minute away for fear of missing something.

Winsom's surprises were legendary, ranging from tickets on the Orient Express for everybody, to VIP concert tickets, to holidays abroad. Everyone was included, and it was impossible to say no. It was a guarantee for family gatherings if Winsom paid, and the experience was always amazing. There was no chance for Frank to get anywhere close, and while he was pleased they experienced it all, he could sense Winsom was a Cuckoo Daddy – letting others do the tricky bit bringing up the kids before sharing and eventually taking over the joyous parts when they are grown, gently chipping away at other important influences in their lives until fully dominant.

Unfortunately, this Winsom fella chose Frank's children, who seemed powerless to resist. It was a perfect strategy because to object or raise a fuss would be downright crass of Frank, and he would be looked upon with even further disdain. The sum of this problem was the lack of engagement with his boys. The terrific young kids who had kept him going all these years and whom he looked upon with great pride. They were becoming lost to him, and as a natural consequence the will to live was trickling out of his body like a leaking tap. It was like Winsom had cast a Voodoo spell on Frank, but only this curse was real and just as tangible as the Juju charms on the doors of the officer's quarters back in the day. His charm and effusive friendliness was as debilitating, and it weakened the resolve just as effectively as any Juju, it seemed.

Frank often lied to old friends he encountered in the shops or passing by on the street and even to wider family members to keep the pretence going. He would vicariously boast about the boys going to the West Indies, travelling on the Orient Express and so on, without adding that the ever-present Winsom would be funding and commanding the agenda and event without Frank getting a look in, never mind so much as a postcard from them. Frank lied that they called to see him regularly but added they were very busy and that he told them not to bother. And he never mentioned that they always arrived late, left early, and glanced at their watches continually at any family gathering Frank had organised.

Frank lost confidence, and get-togethers at his house became dour and a self-fulfilling prophecy of grinning and bearing it: long unpunctuated silences, kept strident by the gently ticking clock on the mantelpiece, echoing as loudly as the gong at the start of a J Arthur Rank movie. Soon, the boys always had something better to do, and it was more than a coincidence that when they spoke about doing something or other with Frank, suddenly Winsom declared he had already booked them a surprise treat elsewhere, which would cost too much to cancel. It would be something much more awe-inspiring that Frank could afford. To Frank, Winsom was the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, giving lollipops in exchange for captivity, but to everyone else, he was bloody Willy Wonka.

Poor Frank had been done up like a kipper, and he avoided the bastard like the plague. He didn't trust his mouth reacting to Winsom if he encountered him, and then he would become the true pariah and prove them all right about him after all. He just had to accept it. To let them go, heart breaking as it was. He felt it would be wrong of him to complain about these fantastic experiences his sons were having; aside from being somewhat churlish, it might mar the enjoyment – spoil it for the boys. He was right, but it left a hollow feeling in his gut, and he worried that one day, long after he had gone, the boys would suddenly be hit with the same feeling in the pit of their stomachs when realisation dawned. Then it would be too late. They would already be captured.

**

On Christmas day, there was a lull in proceedings over at 'Winsom Towers', which the boys affectionately called it, and David beckoned his brother Peter to him.

'Had we better Facetime Dad?'

'What time is it?' Peter asked, slightly irritated at the chore.

'Half two, Winsom says we are playing a board game at three after they have done the pots.'

'Yeah, let's do it, but be quick. I'm looking forward to playing the game.'

David tapped out the number.

'Hello?' The voice croaked.

'Dad, take the phone away from your ear. We're on Facetime.'

'On what?'

'Facetime. You can see us on the screen on your phone.'

'Oh, alright, got you.'

Suddenly, their father's face popped up on the screen. It looked like he was in a dark environment. He was in the kitchen getting a swig of milk. The curtains were still drawn and he had his dressing gown on over pyjamas.

'Hi Dad, Merry Christmas!' The two boys chorused cheerily.

The old man smiled. He hadn't shaved, and small clumps of grey hair were sprouting out of his chin, nose, and ears. He looked unkempt, as if he had neglected himself, but the boys overlooked such nuances. It was sufficient for them to say the right things quickly so they could piss off and enjoy themselves.

'Merry Christmas, lads. Are you together? Is that Peter behind you?'

'Yeah, we're at Poppy's parents. At Winsom's palace.'

'That's great. Um, what – what time are you coming over to mine?'

A voice in the background shouted, 'Hurry up, guys, five minutes.' It was Winsom.

'Coming Pop.' Peter said. 'Sorry, Dad, what did you say?'

'Pop? Really?'

'Yeah, a lot of folks call him that, it's just a nickname, Dad.'

'Is it. So what time are you coming over?'

'We thought we might call tomorrow, Dad, if that's okay. It's a two-hour drive there and back, and with a belly full of plum duff, it seems quite a hike.' David said; the upbeat tone did not blunt the sharp-bladed words puncturing as they landed in Frank's heart.

'Plus, we've had a couple of glasses of wine.' Peter shouted from over David's shoulder.

'Ooh, lucky you. Yeah, of course, don't be daft. Call when it suits, lads. I like to see you, but it sounds a bit of a pain spending all that way on Christmas Day. It's probably not worth it. No point.'

'That's what we said.' David seemed oblivious to the savagery of his words.

'What about your presents?' Frank said, concerned. He had had a lot of trouble trying to find things the boys would like on a limited budget. Frank didn't shop online but scoured the shops for hours to find something he thought they might like. He was nervous about whether he got the right thing and brought several gifts to try to hit the spot with at least one of them. A scattergun approach.

David laughed. 'Um, I think we can wait a day to get them, Dad. We're not kids any more.'

'No. Yes, of course, it will wait.' Frank looked a little crestfallen, having spent all of yesterday afternoon trying to wrap them neatly with his arthritic fingers.

'We're going to have to rush, Dad, because we're playing a game in a bit.' Peter shouted.

'That's good. What game is it?'

'Monopoly, I think.'

'Standard.'

'Absolutely.'

'It sounds like madness and mayhem over there. It sounds great fun, lads.' Frank put his thumb up to the screen and smiled.

'Yeah, it is. Fun is guaranteed at Winsom Towers. So, we'll catch up tomorrow, yes?'

'Yes. Okay then. It gives me something to look forward to. What time do you think you are coming?' Frank asked, trying to get them to commit.

'I'm not sure, Dad. We'll text you in case we can't make it tomorrow. I've heard Winsom has some surprises lined up, so it depends on what that is all about. You know what he is like.'

'Oh. So you might not make it tomorrow either?'

'We probably will. It just depends on Winsom.' Peter grinned.

'Right. It's up to him, is it? I was hoping to see you over Christmas if possible, lads.'

'I know. Remember, there are twelve days of Christmas, Dad. We're going to have to shoot, I'm afraid.'

'Okay, well, Merry Christmas, lads, I'm thinking about you.'

'Thanks. You too, Dad.'

'Love to Poppy, oh they've gone.'

Frank's voice trailed away. It seemed even darker in the kitchen, as if a vast cloud had eased over Frank's little world. It cast a coldness over him, and he shivered. The silence was deafening. Frank sighed as he sat at the kitchen table. He felt deflated. He couldn't stop his dry mouth and a tear dropping from the corner of his eye. He was torn. It all sounded great, but he couldn't help feeling sad about his inadvertent ostracisation. He had hoped for better in those faraway times when he dreamed about how things might be between them when they were all adults. He could see it all: a close-knit gang of mates. His fantasies were not like this reality. He never imagined this future. He never missed his beloved Margaret more than he did this Christmas day. Maybe things would have been different if she were still alive. She was always better at entertaining than he was. He wasn't so good at being the host. He got too nervous and fussy, wanting everything to be perfect and often spoiling things because of the intensity. He could never compete with Poppy's parents. They were a well-oiled machine. The two of them were a team who catered for everything and everything was top draw. Frank rubbed at his chin. He needed a shave.

**

Frank had forced himself to spend most of Christmas day watching television, but his mind was wandering, and his stomach was knotted as the loneliness bit into him with teeth as sharp as a Pitbull that had been kicked in the gonads. He couldn't get the situation off his mind. It was disingenuous of Winsom and others to play this game with him. It was out of order, and they should have known better. They should have encouraged Peter and David to come over. They know the score. They had children themselves. It was sickening, but he was stuck with it.

Frank had started muttering to himself about it, pacing around, and getting all confused again. His mind was foggy, and he didn't feel his old self. He seemed to be standing a few feet away from himself, out of reach, a distant observer. Maybe it was time to get out of the way and join his dearest wife on the other side. What she would make of it all, he did not know. She would be very disappointed in the boys and bloody furious, he suspected, but what can you do? It was a poisoned chalice; it was a terrific experience for his sons, but it was most rude of Winsom to take them over as he had. That was not good, so it went around and around in his mind. A never-ending fairground ride. The unanswerable question, the conundrum and the inevitability of their continued estrangement. Maybe it was Yin and Yang? The way of the universe. His son's happiness was a given but only at the expense of his sorrow. That was the deal, the pay-off. So be it if that is the case.

It was time for bed in no time. He'd had better Christmas days. Frank couldn't put it off any longer and so her trudged upstairs with the world's weight on his shoulders. It took a while for him to get to sleep, and when he did, it was so light a slumber that he felt like he was still awake. As the night moved into the witching hour he dwelt within a no-man's land that lay somewhere between being awake and being asleep.

In the darkness of the midnight hour, a strange man stood looking at Frank in his disquieting sleep. The man standing at the foot of his bed wondered what the hell was up with the daft old sod as he thrashed around under the covers, muttering to himself. It was an odd sight. Maybe the intruder should wake him? No. He stood quite still at the end of the bed, silhouetted in front of the window, which cast moonlight around the contours of the man's shape. The man was there to rob him. Frank had made it easy, whether through negligence or apathy, by failing to lock his doors at night. What was the point? He had nothing to steal anyway. He didn't stretch to think that opportunistic thieves would not know that. They would come in regardless. In truth, Frank was past caring.

After a couple of minutes, the man in black sat on the upright chair in the bedroom, as Frank, still half-asleep, lifted his head off the pillow and perused him. The Burglar was cogitating whether he should speak to the old fellow to find something worth taking or whether to cut and run. The place was a bit of a shit hole. The old fart in the bed peered through the darkness at the figure. It was weird as the two stared at one another for quite a while until Frank broke the silence.

'David? Is that you, lad? Bless you, you came after all.' Frank laughed, he was joyous.

'Yes, um, sure, it's me, David.' The burglar was going with the flow. It seemed an amusing thing to do. It looked like the old geezer had dementia or something akin to it. Daft as a brush, he was.

'Bless ya, lad, you've made my Christmas, you have. Let me get up and make us both a cuppa.'

'No need to get up. I'll make a drink. I was wondering where you kept the jewellery.'

'I haven't got any jewellery, you know that, David, or do you mean your mother's?'

'Yeah, Mum's jewellery, where is it?' The Burglar asked.

'It's in the sideboard top drawer, as always. I haven't looked at that for a while now. Don't touch the necklace; remember, the Togo chief cursed it. I know it's nonsense, but still…' Frank laughed.

Frank drifted once more and was dozing again. As he closed his eyes, he opened them a second later with a start. Only it wasn't a second later, it just felt like it. An hour had passed.

'David, are you still there, lad?' He raised his head and looked at the chair. It was empty, and the top drawer of his sideboard was open. He must have gone. Damn! Oh, for God's sake! He had blown his chance again. After David had made such an effort too. Shit! What a daft old fool he was. Man, he was crippled with guilt at the imagined scenario.

Frank turned over, rubbing his chest and scratching at his arm through his pyjamas; indigestion, he assumed. It was a griping pain; heavy and overwhelming. His sleepy mind returned to the mixed-up images of the past as his back arched in pain. He saw his two sons waving, diminishing in the distance, and his beloved Margaret ahead of him, arms open, smiling. She looked radiant and beautiful, even more so than he remembered. She was young again. He ran to her, and they embraced. He felt ecstatic.

  'Come on, you. It's time, my love.' She said.

**

Frank's phone buzzed around nine o'clock in the morning. It was a text from Peter.

'Hi Dad, We've got a chance to go to Newmarket for the day, so will catch up soon. :)'

Frank would not be responding to the carefully composed text because Frank was in the process of decomposing. Initial rigor mortis had begun to set in, and lividity started pooling along the length of his back and the back of his legs. His mouth and eyes were slightly open, and his fist gripped at the sheet.

Frank would never have to suffer the loss of his precious wife's jewellery and the broken promise of a visit on Boxing Day by his two ignorant sons.

None of that mattered anymore.

**

It wasn't until 30th December that Frank's body was discovered. David was alone because Peter and Poppy argued about the need for Pete to go to their father's. It was just a case of delivering and receiving presents, so why leave her at a loss when David could go and take their presents for them? Why should Poppy be left on her own?

David had brought over a carrier bag containing three books for his father. The books were a bargain basement price, so for a few pounds, they had solved the problem of what to get Dad. Peter had purchased a pair of comedy socks and a puzzle book. He and Poppy had brought a Ninja Air Fryer for Winsom and Jenny, because they always spent a lot on them, so it would be crass to do any other. Anyway, Dad said he was never bothered about presents, so long as he could see the boys in person, he would be happy. Every year he said the same lame phrase, 'your presence would be my presents.' Cheesy.

It was a terrific shock for David, of course, when he discovered his father dead in bed, and he rang his brother, Peter, to come straight over. He was surprised when Winsom turned up as well.

Winsom hugged David at the front door. 'I am so sorry, David. I've come over to help.'

'Oh, um, thanks.' Something in David felt awkward about this. It didn't feel right. It was for him and his brother to sort everything out, but Winsom had already taken control. Neither of the boys liked any hint of conflict; he was probably trying to help. It was nice of him.

'I've rung the undertakers on the way over so as not to delay anything. Peter said Smith's are preferred, is that alright, David?'

'Um, yeah, Smith's he wanted.'

'They will store the body, but I reckon a direct cremation is better than the fuss and expense of a funeral. Frank wouldn't want to put everyone out, would he?'

'No, but – '

'I didn't think so.' Winsom said. 'No, he would want a quiet affair, just the two of you, I should think, scattering his ashes at a place close to you all. Somewhere you have happy memories. I think that's best.'

'We enjoyed walks on Bulwell Hall Park when we were little.' Peter said.

'There you go, that's perfect. Leave it with me. I will sort it out for you. I know someone who does direct cremations, an old mucker. He will give us a good price. The cheaper, the better.'

'Um.' David was still reeling from the shock, but the two of them didn't have the strength of character to seize back control from Winsom and his overbearing nature. Even in death, Frank's boys couldn't stand up for him.

'Do you want to see him?' David asked Peter. 'He is in bed.'

'I don't know. What's the point?' Peter said.

'Say goodbye?' David said.

'He's not there anymore. He's gone.'

'I'm just asking, Pete. Once he's cremated, the opportunity is gone, that's all. It's a matter for you, mate.'

'Maybe when he's at the undertakers.'

Peter never did say goodbye to his father. It all seemed so pointless. Winsom's call to avoid a funeral meant that all Frank's old buddies from back in the day and the wider family would be unable to pay their respects, but Peter didn't believe in all that anyway. Frank might have, but Peter and David were less concerned.

It was a case of turning over a new leaf for them, and in some ways, there was a sense of relief that they didn't have to worry about finding time to nip over for half an hour every once in a while to see their father. It was a constant thorn in their side. It hung over them constantly; a perpetual guilty feeling all the time. Anyway, his passing was probably for the best. His memory was going anyway. It's better to go now rather than drag it out. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise – for everyone.

**

The burglar had assumed the jewellery he took from the old man's house wouldn't be up to much if the state of the house was anything to go by. He was wrong; there were some lovely pieces in his ill-gotten gains. The most expensive seemed to be a beautiful necklace, an 18-carat gold chain with a diamond surrounded by emerald stones set in the shape of a heart, with a filigree gold backing. It would be worth quite a lot if the stones were genuine. That was a big 'if.'

Frank had brought this necklace for Margaret forty or fifty years ago, before kids, when he could save. Nowadays, the necklace would be worth much more than the thousand pounds, or rather the thirty thousand South African Rand, he paid for it back in the day. It would be worth around five or six thousand British pounds now. Shame it was 'cursed' by the Togan Chief.

The burglar visited Spray's Antiques on the other side of town to Frank's house, and as he opened the door, the tinkling bell above it activated. This heralded the distant shuffling of slippered feet, and old Mr Spray appeared behind the counter within a few seconds. The shop was dark and dusty; a dank smell hovered in the air: a mixture of polish, rotting wood, brass, and accumulated dust and mites, invisible to the naked eye. Old Mr Spray, in suit and waistcoat, with crooked tie and incongruous tartan slippers, placed his palms face down on the counter and said,

'Yes, how may I help you?'

The burglar splayed the diamond and emerald necklace, from Frank's bedroom cabinet, out on the counter of the antique shop.

'Make me an offer.' He said. He seemed pleased with himself.

The store owner looked him up and down before doing the same with an eyeglass with the gemstones on the necklace. Occasionally, he would say, 'Aha, okay, mmm.'

He nodded, and the burglar feared that the dandruff on the owner's head and shoulders might cascade onto him in an avalanche as he did. Thankfully, he was spared this ignominy.

'Where did you get this?' Mr Spray asked, eyeglass still squeezed into his eye socket, giving him a curious appearance with a magnified eyeball.

'It was, um, left by me, grandma. Why, what's up wi it?'

'Have you a box for it or any paperwork?'

'No, she um, didn't keep any of that stuff. It's worth quite a bit, I reckon.'

'That depends on what you call 'quite a bit.' The aging Mr Spray was no stranger to this scenario. He had been in the trade a long time.

'It's pucker though, ain't it?' The burglar said more in hope than expectation.

'Yes, it is 'pucker' as you say. The gold is hallmarked, Edwardian era, and the stones are genuine diamonds and emeralds, nicely cut and clear. It is a fine piece, granted.'

'So?'

'So.'

'Do you want to buy it?' The burglar asked.

'Maybe. That all depends on price.' Old Mr Spray said.

'How much would you offer for that then? I've got an idea, like.'

'A grand. Very reasonable offer for a nice looking jewel. What can't speak can't lie, now can it? Fair exchange is no robbery.' Mr Spray folded his arms. He knew this fellow had no clue about the piece he had. That was not Mr Spray's fault, now was it? It was worth at least five times that amount.

'A grand? It's worth more than that.' The burglar barked somewhat unconvincingly.

'Of course it is, but we all need to make a modest profit, Mr?'

'Um, Smith. Mr Smith.'

'Ah, yes, of course. Mr Smith.' The store owner grinned broadly.

'I'll leave it then for a grand. I will go elsewhere.' The burglar said, but seemed reluctant to retrieve the necklace from the counter. He stood staring at old Spray, waiting for a reaction. The one he got was not the one he expected.

'Good luck to you. I only pay cash-in-hand here, and you might struggle to find anyone else doing that.'

'What? Cash in hand?'

'Yep. All the other dealers nowadays want bank details. I have one thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes in my pocket right now, no questions asked.'

'A grand in cash?'

'Yep.'

'No questions asked?'

'Nope.'

'Here and now.'

'Yep.'

'Fuck it. Sold!'

**

Winsom, of course, now had a free run at 'adopting' Peter and David, and they quickly became a pivotal part of the family. So much so that Frank promptly became a distant memory. Winsom would go on to name Peter's child for him, book his school for them with someone he knew, and establish the 'traditional' annual family holiday, which he paid for at the same all-inclusive resort every year. Winsom treated David just the same, and without realising it, the boys had traded their manhood, independence and freedom to choose,in exchange for comfort, goodies, and ease of passage when difficulties arose. The puppeteer was Winsom, and they danced to his tune whenever he jolted their strings.

The two boys, Peter and David, went to Bulwell Hall Park to scatter their father's ashes. Thankfully, the weather held, and it was sunny with a slight windy chill that blew across the park to remind them it was still winter. The boys were not alone, however. Winsom had said he would pick them up on the way over as he would settle the bill with Smith's Funeral Directors and the cremation people. The boys never even registered a protest. Winsom paid for Frank's cremation, undermining him and belittling him, even in death. Frank would not have been best pleased.

Out of all of this grim, disappointing episode, the only flicker of comfort for Frank came from his ashes, which, when Winsom took it upon himself to scatter them, blew up in the wind and into his mouth. Frank would have laughed out loud at that. Winsom swallowed a bit of Frank, and the boys had to pat the grey dust off Winsom's clothing and hair. Even they couldn't help but smile at the irony. It was Frank's final two fingers to the man who usurped him at every turn and stole his boys from him. It was his own Voodoo Juju bag from the grave.

**

Saying goodbye to Frank coincided with another special occasion: Poppy's thirtieth birthday. Poor Peter was hounded and nagged that she would be left to her own devices for an hour or so for the ad-hoc ash-scattering ceremony for Frank.

When they returned to Winsom Towers, a glorious steak dinner was prepared for selected family guests and a few of Poppy's closest friends. It was her preferred way of celebrating her birthday.

Peter had brought Poppy a wonderful gold watch as a keepsake of her big day. No expense was spared for his wife's landmark birthday. Never to be outdone, though, Winsom tapped his wine glass and announced that he had to present Poppy with the 'special gift of the day.'

Peter was somewhat nonplussed by this announcement, having spent a fortune on his bride, but he would have to get used to this sort of thing. Winsom loved to be the centre of attention, as did his daughter, and he unveiled his beautiful gift with great aplomb.

There were gasps when he opened the box and pulled out a beautiful diamond and emerald necklace.

'It is antique, eighteen-carat gold, Edwardian. It was the finest thing in the shop.' Winsom puffed out his chest with pride as he spoke.

'Daddy, I love it. It's gorgeous. It really is. Thank you so much. It must have cost a fortune.'

'Best not go into that while your mother is here.' He grinned, causing laughter around the long table.

Everyone clapped and cheered as Winsom fastened the glittering necklace around Poppy's neck. He kissed her on the cheek and shut the jewellery box that bore the retailer's name - 'Spray's Antiques.'

As Poppy sat down, she caught one of the glasses, knocked it onto the table, and smashed it. One of the shards flew into her hand, staying there and drawing blood. The Voodoo curse had lost none of its potency as it languished in Frank's bedroom cabinet drawer. The curse seemed to be very much alive.