Christmassacre

A loud thump. I tear down the stairs and burst into the living room. Grandpa is in the chair in front of the TV, his head back and mouth open. I can’t tell if he’s breathing. The sound has been muted and Strictly performers whip around the dance floor on screen to silent music. The Christmas tree is tipped over and the lights are flickering on and off. Something catches my attention in the corner of my eye. I turn to the large dining table on the other side of the room and gawp at the devastation. The crisp white cloth with its bright red bows has been pulled to the floor, taking everything else with it. The crackers are strewn about like tiny paper grenades waiting to go off, the best silver cutlery is in a shimmering pile in the corner, and the gravy boat has tipped out steaming contents over the whole lot. The curtain moves. I glance nervously at the window. Frost is glistening on the glass and I swear something is moving about in the garden. I back away. A clang from the kitchen. I press my back to the wall, wondering if I can make it back up the stairs before the intruder sees me and kills me too. I wonder where Granny is. Right then, as though she heard my thoughts, she emerges in the doorway, sleeves pushed up to reveal hot water-reddened hands and a pile of plates in her arms. She looks in horror at the room, then slowly around at me.
“What on Earth...” she splutters.
A snort from the armchair. Grandpa sits up and glances about in confusion.
“Who, what’s the ....” He begins.
“You were dead. Someone broke in and killed you.” I say quietly.
A rustle under the tree. We all turn to look. I swallow hard, still worried that there might be a killer burglar. A fluffy orange face emerges from between the branches and baubles. A blue light catches on his ears and pings off.
“Marmalade!” We all say in unison. “You naughty cat.”  

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