The Ghost of Operation Mistletoe

“...and you, Scrooge, a solitary child, utterly alone,” I said, my voice cutting through the thick, cloying air. My shirt, a light linen, was already sticking to my back. Summer in August, and here we were, pretending it was December. The irony was a raw abrasion against my nerves. “Shawn, your cue. You see yourself. That boy, standing there.”

Shawn, a man whose face was a roadmap of forgotten paths and fading memories, peered out into the dimly lit auditorium. His gaze was distant, unfocused. He blinked, slowly, like a tortoise. He was supposed to be weeping, or at least showing some measure of profound melancholy. Instead, he just looked… bewildered.

“Boy?” he mumbled, his voice a reedy rasp. “What boy? There’s no boy here, Richard. Just dust.” He gestured with a trembling hand, flicking a non-existent moth out of the air. The action was so out of character for the usually gruff Ebenezer that Betty, a woman who easily weighed three hundred pounds and was currently struggling to fit onto a child’s wooden stool meant for Tiny Tim, snorted. It wasn't a delicate sound. It echoed.

“Shawn, love,” Agnes, our self-appointed director and the only other sane person on this godforsaken stage, sighed, her voice laced with the weary patience of someone who’d seen too many seasons of bad amateur theatre. Which, to be fair, she had. This was her eleventh production with the Summer Haven Players. Mine too, though for entirely different reasons. “You’re *remembering* yourself as a boy. Your past.”

Shawn frowned, his brow furrowing deeper than the script called for. “My past? Oh, that’s right. The one with the… the thing.” He snapped his fingers, a dry, hollow sound. “The… incident. With the… the…”

I ran a hand through my thinning grey hair, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “The Ghost of Christmas Past has just shown you your younger self. The solitary child. Now, your line. ‘I wish I had been kinder to my apprentice.’ Something to that effect.” The actual line, in our heavily truncated and poorly adapted version, was ‘Oh, to be young again, with naught but hope to cling to.’ But any approximation would be a victory.

“Apprentice, yes,” Shawn said, a flicker of something almost like recognition in his eyes. “Good lad, that Arthur. Always on time. Unlike some of these… these young whippersnappers.” His gaze swept over Betty, who was attempting to pick up a prop crutch without toppling her stool. She caught his eye and glared, a flush spreading across her broad face. Her Tiny Tim was less pathetic waif and more immovable object.

“Right,” I said, stepping forward, forcing a smile that felt like cracking old paint. “Excellent, Shawn. Really feeling the regret. Okay, let’s move to the next scene. The Spirits of Christmas are due. Wilfred, Doris, Carl? Places, please.”

From the wings, where the backstage area was a tangle of frayed ropes and discarded plywood, emerged the three ‘spirits.’ Wilfred, a man whose permanent expression was one of mild constipation, played the Ghost of Christmas Past. Doris, perpetually confused, was Present. And Carl, whose primary talent was forgetting things, was Yet to Come. They looked less like spectral guides and more like an ill-fated trio of elderly librarians who’d wandered onto the set by mistake.

Wilfred, draped in a sheet that looked suspiciously like a bedsheet from Agnes’s guest room, shuffled forward. He was meant to glide. Agnes had given up on that particular instruction weeks ago. “Richard, old boy, I’m still not entirely clear on my… my motivation here. Am I angry? Sad? Just… floaty?”

“You’re… reflective, Wilfred. You’re showing Scrooge the errors of his past. With a benevolent, but firm, wisdom.” I tried to sound encouraging. The reality was, if I didn't get these people to perform their lines correctly, or at least in the right order, by Friday, then the *other* operation, the one that truly mattered, was going to fail spectacularly.

Doris, with a wreath of glitter-covered plastic holly perched precariously on her head, bumped into Wilfred. “Oh, dear. I thought I was supposed to be showing him… the present. Where’s the turkey? Did someone bring the turkey?” Her eyes scanned the empty stage for a non-existent prop. The scent of her strong floral perfume, clashing with the stale air, made my head ache.

“Doris, no turkey yet. That’s later. You’re talking about the Cratchits. Their meagre feast,” Agnes interjected, pushing a stray strand of grey hair behind her ear. “Their poverty, their struggle, but also their spirit.”

“Spirit, yes!” Carl chimed in, a string of fairy lights around his neck blinking erratically, powered by a dying battery pack. “That’s what I have! Spirit!” He looked quite pleased with himself, as if he’d just solved a complex mathematical equation. He was supposed to be silent and ominous, a harbinger of doom. He was, instead, a walking, blinking fire hazard.

I took a deep breath, the metallic tang in the air suddenly sharper, reminding me of a faulty circuit. Or perhaps, of a much more dangerous kind of static discharge. “Alright, alright. Let’s reset. Shawn, focus. The spirits are here to help you. Wilfred, you begin. Your opening line, about the fleeting nature of time.”

Wilfred cleared his throat, a dry rattle. He adjusted his sheet. “Time… time… um…” He squinted at a piece of paper he’d pulled from his voluminous sleeve. “Ah, yes! ‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I am here to remind you that… uh… the clock is ticking.’” He looked up triumphantly. It was not the line. Not even close. It was a line from a completely different play, a local production of 'Our Town' from three years ago.

My mind was a coiled spring. *Tick-tock.* The real clock was ticking. Not for this farce, but for Operation Winter Solstice. The drop-off was scheduled for tonight, during a staged ‘power outage’ in the city centre. The play was the perfect cover – who would suspect a group of senior citizens flubbing lines in a heatwave? But the chaos was becoming a liability. It was too… loud. Too visible. Too unpredictable.

Just then, my left hand, tucked into my trouser pocket, vibrated. A small, subtle pulse. *The packet.* It was here. I'd instructed my contact, a low-level local asset code-named 'Frost,' to pass it during rehearsal, disguised as a prop or a piece of costume. I needed to act fast, before Shawn wandered off stage or Doris decided to perform a solo tap dance.

“Shawn,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended, making him flinch. “You need to interact with the Ghost. He’s showing you something important. Take his hand.”

Wilfred, bless his confused heart, offered a shaky hand. Shawn stared at it as if it were a venomous serpent. “Why would I take his hand, Richard? He’s… dusty.”

“It’s symbolic, Shawn. He’s guiding you through your memories.” I subtly glanced at Wilfred’s other hand. Nothing. No packet. Not yet. I had to create a distraction, a reason for closer interaction. My gaze swept over the stage. The prop table was a jumble of fake food, a plastic goose, and a variety of cheap, tarnished trinkets.

“Alright, change of plan!” I announced, clapping my hands. The sound was swallowed by the humid air. “Let’s rehearse the scene with the… the locket. Shawn, you’re holding the locket. A cherished memory. Wilfred, you guide his hand to it.” This wasn't in the script. It was a desperate improvisation. The locket was a small, ornate piece, one of the props I’d vetted personally. A discreet compartment inside.

Agnes looked at me, a question in her eyes. She knew. Not about the true mission, but she knew when I was improvising for a reason beyond theatrical improvement. She gave a subtle nod, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken urgency.

Shawn, surprisingly, perked up at the mention of the locket. “Oh, the locket! My mother’s, yes? Always had such a lovely smell, like… like rosemary and old paper.” He fumbled on the prop table, his fingers brushing past the plastic goose, a fake apple, then landed on the small, tarnished silver heart.

As he picked it up, I watched. And then I saw it. A faint, almost imperceptible scuff mark on the back of the locket. A fresh scratch. Not part of the aged prop. A signal. Frost had left it. The packet was inside.

My heart rate picked up, a frantic drum against my ribs. Keep calm. Act normal. This was the easy part. Retrieval. Then the drop. And then, back to this absurd play. Except the situation was never that simple. Not in this line of work.

“Excellent, Shawn!” I boomed, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. “Now, Wilfred, you take his hand, gently. Show him the memory evoked by the locket.”

As Wilfred reached for Shawn’s hand, a sudden, piercing cough ripped through the quiet of the auditorium. It was a deep, chesty cough, followed by a series of smaller, rasping wheezes. Everyone on stage froze, startled. My eyes snapped to the source.

In the sixth row, bathed in the stray beam of a stage light, sat a man. He was impeccably dressed for the summer heat, a lightweight suit of light grey linen, a crisp white shirt. He hadn't been there a minute ago. I would have noticed. He was older, perhaps mid-sixties, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His silver hair was neatly combed, his posture unnaturally straight. He was a ghost in the theatre, appearing from nowhere. And I knew him. Immediately. My stomach dropped like a stone.

His name was Victor Moreau. Or, at least, that’s what he was called last time. We knew him better as ‘The Weaver.’ A former asset, presumed rogue, who had vanished off the grid nearly a decade ago after compromising half a dozen operations across Europe. He was a legend, a nightmare, a silent destroyer of careers and lives.

He sat there, calmly, his eyes now fixed not on the stage, but directly on me. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips. He lifted a hand, slowly, and brought it to his mouth, covering another small, polite cough. It was a theatrical gesture. A warning. Or perhaps, an acknowledgement.