Then its gaze went up to the black-clad figure that had faded into view by the wainscoting.

     'Squeak?' it asked.

     SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.

     And that was it, more or less.

     Afterwards,  the  Death of  Rats looked around  with interest.  In  the nature of things his very important job tended to take him to brickyards and dark cellars and the inside of cats and all the little dank holes where rats and mice finally found  out  if there was a Promised Cheese. This  place was different.

     It was brightly decorated, for one  thing. Ivy  and mistletoe  hung  in bunches from  the bookshelves.  Brightly  coloured  streamers  festooned the walls, a feature seldom found in most holes or even quite civilized cats.

     The Death of Rats took a leap onto  a  chair and from  there on  to the table and  in fact right into a glass of amber liquid, which tipped over and broke.  A  puddle spread around four turnips  and began to soak into  a note which had been written rather awkwardly on pink writing paper.

     It read:

     The Death  of  Rats nibbled a bit of the pork pie because when  you are the personification of the death of  small  rodents  you have  to  behave in certain ways.  He  also piddled on one  of the turnips for the same  reason, although  only metaphorically, because  when you  are a small skeleton in  a black robe there are also some things you technically cannot do.

     Then he leapt down  from the table and left sherryflavoured  footprints all  the way  to the tree that stood in a pot in the  corner.  It was really only a bare branch of oak,  but  so much shiny holly  and mistletoe had been wired onto it that it gleamed in the fight of the candles.

     There was tinsel  on  it, and  glittering ornaments,  and small bags of chocolate money.

     The Death of Rats peered at his hugely distorted reflection  in a glass ball, and then looked up at the mantelpiece.

     He reached  it in one jump, and ambled curiously through the cards that had been  ranged  along it. His grey  whiskers  twitched  at  messages  like 'Wifhin  you  Joye and all Goode Cheer at Hogswatchtime  &  All Through  The Yeare'. A couple  of  them had pictures  of a big jolly  fat man  carrying a sack. In one of them he was riding in a sledge drawn by four enormous pigs.

     The  Death of Rats sniffed at a couple of long stockings  that had been hung from the mantelpiece, over the fireplace in which a fire had  died down to a few sullen ashes.

     He was aware of a subtle tension in the  air, a feeling that here was a scene that was also a stage, a round  hole, as it were, waiting for  a round peg

     There was a scraping noise. A few lumps of soot thumped into the ashes.

     The Grim Squeaker nodded to himself.

     The scraping became louder, and was followed by a moment of silence and then a  clang as something  landed  in  the ashes and  knocked over a set of ornamental fire irons.

     The rat  watched carefully as  a red-robed figure pulled itself upright and  staggered  across  the hearthrug, rubbing  its  shin  where it had been caught by the toasting fork.

     It reached the table  and read the note. The Death of  Rats thought  he heard a groan.

     The turnips were pocketed and so, to the Death of Rats' annoyance,  was the  pork pie. He was pretty sure it was meant to be  eaten  here, not taken away.

     The figure  scanned the  dripping  note  for a moment, and  then turned around  and  approached  the mantelpiece.  The Death  of  Rats  pulled  back slightly behind 'Seafon's Greetings!'

     A  red-gloved hand took down  a stocking. There  was some creaking  and rustling and it was replaced, looking a lot fatter - the larger box sticking out  of  the top had, just visible,  the words 'Victim Figures Not Included. 3-10 yrs'.

     The Death of  Rats couldn't see much of the  donor of this munificence. The big red hood hid all the face, apart from a long white beard.

     Finally, when the figure finished, it stood back and  pulled a list out of its  pocket. It held it up to  the hood and appeared to be consulting it. It waved  its other hand vaguely at the fireplace, the sooty footprints, the empty sherry  glass and  the stocking. Then  it bent forward, as  if reading some tiny print.

     AH, YES, it said. ER... HO. HO. HO.

     With  that,  it  ducked down and  entered the  chimney. There  was some scrabbling before its boots gained a purchase, and then it was gone.

     The  Death  of Rats realized  he'd begun  to  knaw his little  scythe's handle in sheer shock.

SQUEAK?

     He landed in the ashes and swarmed up the sooty cave of the chimney. He emerged  so fast that he shot out with his legs still  scrabbling and landed in the snow on the roof.

     There was a sledge hovering in the air by the gutter.

     The red-hooded figure had just climbed in and appeared to be talking to someone invisible behind a pile of sacks.

     HERE'S ANOTHER PORK PIE.

     'Any mustard?' said the sacks. 'They're a treat with mustard.'

IT DOES NOT APPEAR SO.

     'Oh, well. Pass it over anyway.'

IT LOOKS VERY BAD.

     'Nah, 's just where something's nibbled it---'

     I MEAN THE SITUATION.  MOST  OF  THE  LETTERS  ...  THEY  DON'T  REALLY BELIEVE. THEY PRETEND TO

     BELIEVE, JUST IN  CASE[7]. I FEAR IT MAY BE TOO LATE. IT HAS  SPREAD SO FAST AND BACK IN TIME, TOO.

     'Never  say  die,  master.  That's our  motto,  eh?'  said  the  sacks, apparently with their mouth full.

     I CAN'T SAY IT'S EVER REALLY BEEN MINE.

     'I  meant we're not going to  be intimidated by the certain prospect of complete and utter failure, master.'

     AREN'T WE? OH,  GOOD. WELL, I SUPPOSE  WE'D BETTER BE GOING. The figure picked  up  the reins.  UP,  GOUGER! UP, ROOTER!  UP,  TUSKER!  UP, SNOUTER! GIDDYUP!

     The four large boars harnessed to the sledge did not move.

     WHY DOESN'T THAT WORK? said the figure in a puzzled, heavy voice.

     'Beats me, master,' said the sacks.

IT WORKS ON HORSES.

     'You could try "Pig-hooey! "'

     PIG-HOOEY. They waited. NO ... DOESN'T SEEM TO REACH THEM.

     There was some whispering.

REALLY? YOU THINK THAT WOULD WORK?

     'It'd bloody well work on me if I was a pig, master.'

VERY WELL, THEN.

     The figure gathered up the reins again.

APPLE! SAUCE!

     The pigs' legs blurred. Silver  light flicked across them, and exploded outwards. They dwindled to a dot, and vanished.

SQUEAK?

     The Death  of Rats  skipped across the snow, slid  down a drainpipe and landed on the roof of a shed.

     There  was a  raven perched there.  It  was staring  disconsolately  at something.

SQUEAK!

     'Look at that, willya?' said the raven rhetorically. It waved a claw at a  bird table in the garden below.  'They hangs up  half a bloody coconut, a lump of bacon rind,  a handful  of peanuts in a bit  of wire and they  think they're the gods' gift to the  nat'ral  world. Huh.  Do I see eyeballs? Do I see entrails? I think  not. Most intelligent bird in the temperate latitudes an' I gets the cold shoulder just because  I can't hang  upside  down and go twit, twit.  Look at robins,  now. Stroppy little  evil  buggers, fight like demons,  but all  they got to do is go bob-bob-bobbing along and they  can't move  for  breadcrumbs. Whereas me myself can recite poems  and repeat  many hum'rous phrases...'