CHRISTMAS 1982

 

 

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-choooo!”

 

Hannibal winced as the sneezing and coughing started again in the other room.  He was sure he had never been so glad to be in full health in his life.  It was just typical though, that if there was one time during the year that most of the team would come down ill, Christmas would be it.  At least Lynch wasn’t anywhere close behind them this time.  They could rest easy and try and get better before starting the chase all over again.  The last thing he would have wanted was a team no where near its best in a difficult situation.  Although he was sure that even then they’d be able to pull off yet another escape, it wouldn’t be pretty.

 

And speaking of pretty, it was far from pretty now.  Despite being highly trained, disciplined former soldiers, the three ill men were not the best companions in the world at the moment, and certainly not the best patients.  If it weren’t for the fact they were too ill to get out of bed, he was sure they would have killed each other by now. 

 

This was not helped by the fact that due to a lack of rooms in the place Face had scammed, the three of them were forced to share the same bedroom. Of course, BA had protested that he would never get better if Murdock didn’t stop jibber jabbering.  Murdock had protested that he was only jibber jabbering because he was bored and if the other two weren’t going to talk to him then he would find someone else to talk to, visible or not.  And Face had protested that he would never get better if the other two didn’t shut up and let him get some rest.

 

Picking up the three bowls, he placed them on the tray and balancing it he slowly made his way into the bedroom. The sight that greeted him did little to alleviate his concerns that they weren’t about to kill each other, sick or not.

 

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah…”

 

“Shuddup, ffff-chooo!”

 

“Nice one, BAaaah-choo!”

 

“Shuddup, fool!”

 

“Heyayeayay-choo, I’m the fool, he’s Faaaa-ah-choo.”

 

Hannibal sighed.  Despite the fact the Murdock, BA and Face had all come down with both colds and flu for Christmas, it didn’t mean that the insults stopped.  In fact, they just got funnier due to the fact BA looked anything but frightening.  Despite how menacing the big guy tried to be, none of them could take him seriously due to his red nose and bloodshot eyes.  Not that the other two were fairing any better.  Murdock looked like a little kid with his covers pulled up tightly over the bottom of his face leaving his eyes to peer out over the top in an attempt to keep warm.  And Face looked washed out and miserable, although still able to complain that he wasn’t getting enough beauty sleep because of all the bickering.

 

“Okay, guys, who wants soup?”

 

Looking up at him, they all groaned (between sneezes).

 

“Aww, Hann’bal, s’not your famous chick’n soup, is it?” Face managed to whine.

 

“Nope, we’re fresh out of chicken,” Hannibal replied, handing them each a bowl, a spoon and a couple of Aspirins.  “It’s turkey.” 

 

They all groaned.

 

“Hey, you know you guys love it.”

 

“No, we don’t!” BA replied firmly.

 

Hannibal shrugged.  “Well, at least then it will be an incentive to get better.  Anyone for seconds?”

 

They just glared at him, or tried.  But they did eat.

 

“Hey, Face.”

 

“Yeah, Murdock?”

 

“At least with these miserable head colds, we don’t have to taste it.”

 

Hannibal grinned at them.  “That’s the spirit.  So, you want the TV on or something?”

 

“No!” came very firm replies. 

 

Murdock looked offended.  “Nuffing wrong with a little Tom and Jerry.”

 

“A little!” BA exclaimed.

 

“No offence, Murdock,” Face affirmed, “but we went past ‘a little’ two days ago.  That TV stays off.”

 

Murdock’s face pulled into a pout as he hid behind his bowl and spoon.

 

“Alright then,” Hannibal said, “how about a story then?  I can read to you if you want.”  For a moment he was taken back to when he had been ill as a child and his grandfather had come over to read to him.

 

Murdock seemed to perk up at the idea.  “Something funny,” he said, or at least, that was what Hannibal thought he said since I came out more like, ‘sumfink funnnaaaahh-choo-neee.”

 

The others just rolled their eyes… and then sneezed.

 

“Okay, any other suggestions?”

 

“Something good.”

“Good.  Right.  BA?”

 

“Nuffing stupid.”

 

“Nothing stupid.  Okay.  I’ll see what they have.”

 

Walking across to the book shelf he started to look through it, raising an eyebrow at the class of books.  Three shelves looked at and he was starting to wonder if he would be able to find the right book, then he saw it.  Smiling, he pried the book out and walked back over to the beds.

 

“Hey, guys, I think I’ve found just the book, and what do you know, I think you might even find it appropriate.”

 

“Whot?  Whot is it?” Murdock asked.

 

He flashed them the title.  “You know, my father used to read this to us when I was a kid at this time of year.  The whole family would gather to hear it.”  He paused for a moment, lost in thought.  Then shaking himself, he opened the book and started to read. 

 

“‘A Christmas Carol’ by Charles Dickens.

 

“‘Chapter One.’

 

“‘Marley was dead: to begin with.’”

 

“Cheery beginning,” Murdock sniffed interrupting.  “Thought it was supposed to be funny.”

 

“Shuddup, fool, or you’ll be dead in a minute too.”

 

“Marley was dead: to begin with,” Hannibal repeated.  “‘There is no doubt whatever about that.’”

 

“Why?” came Murdock’s voice again.  “How did they know?”

 

“Maybe you’d find out, if you’d let Hannibal finish,” Face sighed, then sneezed.

 

Hannibal grinned.  “‘Marley was dead: to begin with,’” he started firmly for the third time.  “‘There is no doubt whatever about that.  The register of his burial was signed by the clergymen, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.  Scrooge signed it.  And Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.

 

“‘Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.’”

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

BA and Face both groaned as Murdock interrupted once again.  Putting a finger in the place in the book, Hannibal looked patiently across at the pilot.  “What don’t you get, Murdock?”

 

“The door-nail bit,” the pilot replied in all seriousness.  “I mean, what is there particularly dead about a door-nail?  In my opinion, coffin-nails would be the deadest nail of them all if you wanted to make a comparison.”

 

“No one’s asking for your opinion, fool!”

 

Murdock pulled the covers further up his head as BA looked ready to threaten him with a pillow. 

 

Hannibal grinned.  “You know, Murdock, why do I get the impression you’ve read this before?”

 

The other two looked at him in surprise, waiting for him to explain.  Hannibal just picked up the book again.

 

“‘Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail,’” he started once more, his smile spreading as he bit back a laugh. 

 

“‘Mind!  I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail.  I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade…’”

 

He was cut off briefly by Face and BA’s groans, but he pressed on.  “‘But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for.  You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was dead as a door-nail.’”

 

There were few interruptions after that, and after an hour’s reading through the snowy streets of nineteenth century London, he realised that his boys had finished their soup and were finally drifting off to sleep.  They protested when he stopped of course, between sneezes coughs and yawns, but settled down.  He left them to get some much needed rest, taking the book with him and whispering ‘Merry Christmas’ as he closed the door on his way out.

 

*-*-*

 

COMMENTS

BACK TO CALENDAR