Mr Crabtree was alone in his study, squinting at his latest creation through the magnifying lens of his jeweller’s monocle. The Greenwell’s Glory was looking decidedly off centre and utterly ridiculous on its size 6, long shank carp hook, but the Christmas brandy had taken its toll, and anything smaller was now clearly out of the question. Stacked beside him were a heap of his earlier efforts. Somewhere at the bottom was a neat and flawless Coch-y-bondu tied some three hours earlier, but recent additions more closely resembled the earthly remains of kamikaze moths, self sacrificed to the candle flame, then spiralled scorched and lifeless onto the leather covered surface of the bureau. The master of the house was still in a temper after being out voted over the choice of Christmas film on the telly. He had been rather looking forward to the re-run of Zulu Dawn, but irritated by losing out to the popular, family choice of The Spy Who Shagged Me, had retreated to his bolthole with only a bottle of Courvoisier and his own irascible temper for company. Glaring up at the walls of the study, the glass-cased pike seemed to be grinning at him, whilst the bamboo handled gaff hook, with its cork covered point, seemed to be inviting a bout of bloody retribution. The loud cackles of wife and son penetrated his haven and peppered the air like gunfire. How he hated this time of year, with its enforced jollity and rampant commercialism. He felt trapped in an era far ahead of his natural time, which moved at a speed beyond his comprehension and with values that were alien to him. He upended his pipe over the bin, clearing the bowl of the cherry flavoured, Christmas present pipe tobacco, and re-stocked it with a particularly vicious and evil smelling rough shag. Then, with pipe in one hand and brandy balloon in the other, he drifted off into a reverie of sweet smelling meadows and babbling streams, where fat trout launched themselves from crystal waters, waxing fat on the rising, falling and twisting, myriad clouds of mayflies.
Crabtree woke with a start. Adjacent to his brandy soaked groin, the trouser leg was still smouldering, as ancient tweed combined noxiously with hair and flesh. The pain had surely saved him from far worse a fate.
The house seemed strangely quiet, that is until the muffled chime of the wall clock signalled the arrival of 5am on Boxing Day morning. Still bleary-eyed and dull of thought, he remembered the promise to take his son pike fishing as a traditional Yuletide treat. With throbbing head and jelly legs, he waded through the darkened corridors to face the challenge of sneaking un-noticed for a few hours of blissful insensibility beside his recumbent wife.
It seemed as if his head had only just hit the pillow when Peter banged upon the bedroom door.
“Dad, are you dressed yet? It’s nearly light”.
“Vicious little bastard”, thought the hung over Crabtree. “Any other time and he’d be inventing all kinds of excuses to get out of it”.
Slowly and groggily, he rolled from the duvet to the bedroom floor: his many years with BT as a customer relations manager had beaten any potential resistance into submission. So, with brain on automatic pilot, and pungent Damart obediently self-rolling over the lumpen terrain of his wobbling flesh, a grumpy and unwashed Crabtree found himself inelegantly sprawled on a kitchen chair, as Peter dutifully plied him with strong coffee and runny, fried egg sandwiches.
“Where are you taking me dad?”, said Peter, obviously hoping that his Christmas treat involved a surprise visit to a highly exclusive estate lake, where snaggle-toothed, wide jawed pike would launch themselves recklessly at every lure he cast upon the pristine waters.
Crabtree stifled a belch, and fought back the waves of nausea that followed the taste of eggy phlegm at the back of his throat. Distaste turned to utter misery as his pinprick pupils set in pools of raw liver, swivelled in the sockets, casting their gaze upon the wet and bloody parcel of sprats that Peter was examining on the draining board. Those little gaping mouths, the sightless, bloodshot eyes, the fishy stench of death; each one a giddy echo of his own protracted torment, only serving to deepen his despair.
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