Santa's Gloves

The doorbell was insistent. It rang and rang. Then it rang and rang again. When it rang a third time following a pregnant pause, and commenced continuous ringing, I roused myself from my nice warm divan bed, despite one broken corner supported on a pile of books, and stumbled the five or six feet to the front door of my crappy one-room studio flat, where the rent was three weeks overdue and the bailiffs expected any day. I rubbed and unglued one eye and looked through the peep hole.


That was a relief, it wasn't the bloody bailiffs or the lowlife loan sharks, just the unmistakeable flat-nosed face of Eddie Griffiths, who I used to attend school with, back when I had something to fully occupy my daylight hours. I opened the door. Brrr! It was bloody cold out there. I looked at Eddie with one eye open and the other still glued tightly shut.


"Come on, sleepy bones," Eddie growled and, as usual, not mincing his words, "Some of us've got jobs to do."


"Well, what'yer doin' wasting' time an' effort round here for?" I summoned the effort to reply, surprised that my dry throat made any sound at all.


"I got summink for yer, Jack, that's why!" he said, ...

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Tony Spencer
Jun 30 2020

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