“Merry Christmas, Grandma.”
Freddie planted a quick kiss on his grandmother’s soft, downy cheek and sidestepped into the hallway. The air was thick with the smell of cabbage farts and damp, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Grandma closed the front door and followed Freddie into the living room, which was drab and smelled of cigarettes. The only decoration was a sad-looking Christmas tree that was bare except for a dishevelled angel clinging to the top branch for dear life.
Over the fireplace was a framed sketch of a Jack Russell. Toby, Grandma’s companion for eighteen years, had been crushed under the wheels of Freddie’s moped a month earlier. Freddie insisted that the terrier had been dead long before the tyres had caved in its skull, but he wasn’t sure everyone believed him. Why else had the dog been lying flat out in the middle of the driveway?
Despite his innocence, Freddie felt guilty for mangling the corpse, which was why he had chosen to visit Grandma on Christmas Eve instead of going to the pub.
Grandma lowered herself into the armchair so Freddie took the sofa. The second he sat down, Grandma leapt up and rushed at him with a floral plate.
“Have one of these, my boy, nice and warm.”
A glob of spit landed on Freddie’s forehead as Grandma struggled to keep her teeth in.
Sighing, Freddie looked at the plate of mince pies in front of him. They were a bit of an odd colour, but he couldn’t refuse. Grandma had accused him of having an eating disorder once because he couldn’t finish a sandwich she had made containing two and a half packs of sausages.
Freddie plucked one of the warm, orange-tinged pastries off the plate and popped the whole thing in his mouth. A sour tang erupted immediately on his tongue, which made him shudder involuntarily. The pastry was soggy, almost like a sponge, and as his teeth sunk into it his mouth filled with a salty liquid. He swallowed it whole so he didn’t have to chew the disgusting mush, but a filmy texture remained on his teeth.
“Jesus, how did you make these, Grandma?” Freddie asked, gagging a little.
“I didn’t make them, they’re from the shops. I just heated them up on the hob, dear.”
“The hob?”
“Yes. The oven’s broken so I warmed them in the pan.”
“Did you use that pan for anything else?”
Grandma chuckled.
“What an odd question, dear! But yes, I think I last used it for my lunch on Wednesday.”
Freddie felt queasy now that he recognised the tangy taste and strange hue of what could only be a mince pie heated in the remnants of cream of tomato soup. He swallowed down some thick saliva, grimacing at the thought of the congealed tomatoey chunks simmering in the pan.
“How about a cuppa?” Grandma asked.
“God, yes,” he replied.
There was already a teapot and two mugs on the coffee table. Grandma leant over, groaning with the effort of pouring the tea.
“You still take milk and two sugars?” she asked.
Freddie nodded.
Grandma picked up a little milk jug and the contents made a thick plopping sound as it went into the tea. Either full-fat milk or heavy cream, Freddie thought. She then gave him three heaped teaspoons of sugar instead of two, but he secretly loved this indulgent way of making tea.
“Here you are, love,” Grandma said, passing him the mug.
Freddie took a gulp and immediately spat it out onto his trousers, but some of the thick, cheesy lumps of sour milk had already slipped down his throat. The lukewarm brew was also so salty his stomach heaved in protest.
“What’s wrong?” Grandma asked.
“I think the milk is off,” Freddie said, spluttering.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry. I’ll go get you a glass of lemonade.”
As Grandma rushed off to the kitchen, Freddie looked in the milk jug and saw it was curdled. Then he licked his finger and dipped it into the sugar bowl. Salt.
Grandma was going nuts.
She waddled back in looking flushed. She handed a tumbler to Freddie, which felt horribly warm. Where was she keeping the lemonade, the airing cupboard?
Freddie took a gulp anyway, but then caught a whiff of the drink. It wasn’t lemonade. It was piss. And bobbing up and down in it was a long, grey pubic hair.
Before Freddie could pull the glass from his lips, Grandma pushed the bottom up so the urine filled his mouth. He began retching.
Grandma cackled.
“That’s for my Toby,” she said. “Merry Christmas, you little shit.”
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