London Short Fiction: The Ghost Of Christmas Replete

By Londonist Last edited 113 months ago

Last Updated 07 December 2014

London Short Fiction: The Ghost Of Christmas Replete

Continuing our series of short fiction set in, or influenced by London. This time, David Croser shares a Christmas tale set in the bleak midwinter.

Photo by catya_maria007 from the Londonist Flickr pool.

The Ghost of Christmas Replete

London. Filthy December evening.

The bottle Leon chugs from says Highland Dew Olde Scotch Whisky, bought from an all night off-licence on the Commercial Road. It cost him the last of his cash, the cards he had attempted to pay with — all declined — stuffed back into pockets as he trudged back west. The cardboard box with his desk belongings discarded by a bin at St Paul’s. The Sorry to See You Go and Best of Luck cards from erstwhile colleagues torn and scattered as he wanders up Fleet Street. The only thing that passes through Leon’s mind, like whispers in another room, are the possible methods. Plenty of traffic — but most of it shuffling along like an ill-tempered conga. The cheap whisky has done the job, and even through the haze something appears with absolute clarity — there, above and behind the dome of the National Gallery.

Now, here he is, up on the parapet of the building, the last of the whisky drunk, shuffling forward. Only then does the figure next to him speak.

“Get a move on, mate," he says. “I’ve got another one at half past.”

Leon looks at him dimly, takes in the rotund, balding figure, the flashing reindeer antlers, the Santa jumper, the incredibly long multicoloured tinsel scarf, Bensons in one hand, Carling in the other.

“What..?” Leon mutters.

“Busiest day of the fackin’ season, I get ones what can’t make up their mind.”

The fat man leans towards him, beery breath making Leon gag in spite of himself.

“Can’t do it for you, can I? ‘gainst the rules,” he belches. “More’s the pity.”

The fat man reaches behind and comes up with a half eaten turkey leg, which he chews, glancing disinterestedly at Leon.

“Who — who are you?” Leon asks.

“Ghost of Christmas Replete,” the fat man says, tossing the turkey leg over the edge, following it with the empty beer can. “Watch out below!” He shifts his buttocks, farts, and cracks open another can from thin air.

Leon runs a hand through his hair, wipes the sleet from his face.

“A ghost.” He laughs, pulling up the lapels of his jacket against the biting wind.

Despite the same wind fluttering the ends of his tinsel scarf around him, the fat man barely seems to acknowledge the cold.

“Yep. Time was, situations like this you’d have the others — Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, Yet to Come — but, thing is, way things are going there’s no demarcation any more. One Christmas like all the rest, so I got roped in, like. Ghost of Christmas Replete.”

“Replete?” asks Leon, in spite of himself.

The fat man nods, taking a mince pie from his pocket. “Replete. Means full, stuffed, complete, chock-full, brimming, awash, rife.”

From under his jumper he takes a tub of brandy butter and upends it over the mince pie.

“Time was, I never got a look in. These days, what with Christmas starting end of September, the old guard weren’t up to it no more. Needed someone who’s used to the queues, the debt, the desperation, the greed. Me.”

He smiles, and stuffs the pie into his mouth, swallowing in one go. “Lahvly!”

Leon stares at him. “That’s disgusting.”

The fat man shrugs, drawing on his cigarette. “Wouldn’t know, mate. All I am is all I know. All I know is what made me what I am.”

He reaches under his Santa jumper and takes out crumpled ads for payday loans, catalogues for the latest toys and tech on Easy Terms, for cases of booze for £4.99 — yes, only £4.99 — and scatters them out along the parapet, where the wind carries them off, down onto the crowds in the square below.

“If — if you are a… what you say you are — why are you here now? Why me?” asks Leon.

“Funny thing,” says the Ghost, finishing his fag. “Even now. Even with everything being so easy, like, you still gets the choice.”

Leon looked at him blankly.

“Hard to believe, I know, what with you losin’ your job, spendin’ all your dosh on your nippers, them your ex only lets you see of a Boxin’ night, buyin’ their love with stuff they don’t need and’ll get bored with in a fortnight — like that Blackberry you bought your D’enelcia last Christmas, hopin’ she’d used it to keep in touch with her old man.”

Leon’s face becomes drawn, set, and looks down over the edge.

“Yeah. You got that,” says the Ghost.

From his jumper he takes a scrap of paper, examining it as he lights up again. As he draws on his cigarette he holds the lighter close to the paper. The flame, pale, guttering, flickers this way and that, towards the paper, towards the Ghost’s face.

Leon, recognising the paper, rifles through his pockets for where it had been, amongst the useless credit cards. In the delicate flame, the paper, a serviette, ghost of a different kind, of a night with Lucy, of drinks and laughter and talking long into the night, seems to glow in the darkness.

“Lucy. Lucid. Lux. Light,” says the Ghost.

Leon stares past the paper, past the flame, past the sleet and the darkness.

“She lives in Bermondsey. That night we talked; she said how much she wanted to see me again. How good I’d made her feel.”

The Ghost shrugs. “Bermondsey. Wouldn’t catch me going south of the river, not this time of night. Right trek from here. Still…”

The Ghost pauses, and in that pause Leon reaches out for the paper, wraps his hands around it. In the same moment the cigarette lighter blows out, and they are in darkness.

When Leon opens his eyes, wiping the tears away with the back of his hand, he is alone on the parapet, alone but for the discarded lighter, a mobile phone and a single mince pie.

After the call he lingers awhile longer, eating the still warm mince pie and looking down over London, down, through the sleet, past the tinsel and the illuminations to the distant lights beyond, so pale in the great darkness around them.

Copyright, David Croser, 2014. Image by catya_maria007 , via the Londonist Flickr pool.

We’re still after your stories based on Christmas in London, which you should send to [email protected]. Entries must be no more than 1,000 words, and must be set in London, or strongly inspired by the city. Full details here.

Previously in this series

London at Night


London razed

Transport tales


  • Two Four Eight: Lance V Ramsay envisions an Orwellian dystopia in the lingo of future London.
  • Old Nichol: Jill Fricker evokes the woes of the old East End.
  • Clissar: Grazia Brunello dips into the future of north London, through a glass darkly.



  • The Perfect Gift: A Christmas fairy tale in which London’s statues come to life, by Katherine Wheston.
  • The City Inside: Tom Butler has some curious metropolitan anatomy.


  • Jazz Code and the Tube: The ambivalence of dating, by Jenny Mackenzie.
  • A Free Man: Melanie White’s flash fiction piece considers a recently single guy at a bachelor party.
  • Clean Living London: Ursula Dewey rolls her sleeves up for some housework.
  • Swipe Right: Does Tinder have the answers? By Heidi Scherz
  • The Writer and the Dancer: Close encounter at a flat party by Vincent Wood.
  • St Peter’s Gate, Knightsbridge: A nocturnal romance at closing time, by Theo Klay
  • First: A romance begins inside a London gay club. By Lance Middleton.
  • Natural Disasters: Can you find love at the supermarket checkout, when your customer’s buying porn? Yoel Noorali enquires.
  • NO! SUSHI: A relationship breaks down during a Japanese leaving party, by Clare Kane.

Other tales