_
You skinflint old bastard.
_
Oh, can they not read?
The inscription clearly states
"rest in peace".
Why am I not allowed any peace?
- Synced & corrected by MementMori - ... www.addic7ed.com ...
Well, if I don't see you before Christmas,
do have a very merry one.
And you, too. Oh, we may call after dinner.
Oh, please do. Bring everyone.
You know you're more than welcome.
- Merry Christmas. - Mr. Cratchit?
Mr. Bob?
Will you come tomorrow?
I'm afraid I can't tomorrow... work.
Work, my love?
- Tomorrow? - Dad.
- You forgot this. - I'm not a "this," silly.
No, I didn't forget old Timmy. I saw he was offering
an extra prayer and I let him be.
For our poor cat that died.
Rest in peace.
Rest in peace, my eye.
He's chasing mice around St. Peter's feet.
Tomorrow's Christmas Eve.
You promised this year you'd stand up to him.
Come on, Cratchit, it'll be a fine do tomorrow.
Children in charge...
blind man's buff and all that.
Bring the whole tribe.
- I'm sorry. I'm afraid... - I'm afraid
my husband works for a man with an ice pick for a heart.
Ah, of course, you toil for Old Scratch, don't you?
Huh. My condolences.
Oh, well. So be it. Merry Christmas,
Cratchit tribe.
- Excuse me. - So be it.
Year after year.
Belinda?
Come on, you'll get wet and catch your death.
Ooh.
It's nearly Christmas, Mama.
Yes.
_
Rag!
Rag bone!
Any old iron or rag!
Rag bone!
Any old iron and rag!
Late.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
There.
Beyond reasonable.
Oh.
The smudge is from the fourth lump.
I have no doubt.
The smudge is from kindness.
Morning, Mr. Scrooge.
And Merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. Scrooge.
I have left an important document
to be copied three times before day's end.
One for London, one for Birmingham, one for Manchester.
Three, not four, sir?
What?
Today appears to be a day for four, not three.
Ah, you mean the extra lump of coal I gave you.
Well, curse the fourth.
Curse gestures.
Just make three copies of the ledger.
And should there be no blots,
no smudges, no stains, you may go home.
At 4:00.
Mr. Scrooge, I-I thought we had agreed that today,
on account of the day it is, I could go home
at 3:00.
I give you an extra lump of coal...
... then straightaway you want to snip an extra hour
off the day... three becomes four,
four becomes three.
I don't care for your revolutionary mathematics.
This is not Paris.
It's frozen, sir.
What is?
My ink.
I'll have to thaw it on the fire.
No, that will waste time.
You can use mine.
Ah, lovely.
A sort of Christmas present, is it, sir?
Oh, please.
If it were a Christmas present I would have wrapped it
in ribbons and bows to artificially
increase your anticipation.
And you would tear it open and gasp
and say, "Oh, my lord, a bottle of ink.
This is exactly what I've always wanted."
And I would shrug and smile and tell you that
of all the ink bottles in all the world,
this is the one ink bottle
I wanted you to have on this
most holy and sacred of days.
Behold.
One day of the year.
They all grin and greet each other when every other day
they walk by with their faces in their collars.
You know, it makes me very sad
to see all the lies
that come as surely as the snow
at this time of year.
How many Merry Christmases are meant
and how many are lies?
To pretend on one day of the year
that the human beast
is not the human beast.
That it is possible
we can all be transformed.
But if it were so...
if it were possible
for so many mortals
to look at the calendar and transform
from wolf to lamb...
then why not every day?
Instead of one day good, the rest bad,
why not have everyone grinning at each other all year
and have one day in the year when we're all beasts
and we pass each other by?
Why not turn it around?
Yes, sir.
Yes, you could call that day of beastliness
Scrooge Day.
In honor of its inventor.
Yes. Why not?
It would be the one day where everyone is free
to tell all those around them
exactly what they really think of them.
Well, I think every clerk in England
would report for work on that day, sir.
In order that they could tell their employer
the awful truth of what is in their hearts.
- Yes. - Ah.
The truth without ribbons and bows.
What do you say?
I say, sir,
in all my ten years of working here you've never
bothered to explain your philosophy before.
I'm quite flattered, sir, that today
of all days you should share the machinery
of your great logic
with a mere clerk.
It isn't logic, Cratchit.
Well, then, sir, what is it?
Mind out for the word "litigation."
You have a habit of spelling it wrongly.
I spelt it wrongly once.
Five years ago.
Any old iron and rag!
Rag bone!
Any old iron and rag!
Rag bone!
Any old iron and rag!
- Every third day. - Rag bone!
Punctual at ten minutes past 7:00 for the past
199 days, with a seven-day hiatus
July 4 to 11, when, no doubt,
he and his horse were in Margate
- or somewhere atrocious. - Rag bone!
- Any old iron and rag! - Two...
Oh, no ink.
- Any old iron or rag! - Three calls,
15 steps of the horse, five turns of the wheel.
I need a pencil.
Chestnuts!
Roasted chestnuts!
Oh, what?
A new voice?
Any old iron and rag!
Four calls, 21 steps of the hoof,
- nine turns of the wheels. - Chestnuts!
Hot off the coals!
Two from the chestnut woman.
Oh, damn it.
Any old iron and rag!
Five calls.
- Chestnuts! - 27 steps of the horse,
11 turns of the wheel.
Fresh, new, fresh from Regents Park!
- Any old iron or rag! - Three from chestnut woman.
Five and 27...
eleven...
rag and bone. Now please pass by.
Both of you, please pass by.
Chestnuts! Warm chestnuts!
Yes. Ah, that's an eight.
* Joy to the world *
* The Lord is come *
How am I supposed to work
- with all this fucking noise? - * Let earth receive *
* Her King *
- Yes, I hear you. - * Let every heart *
- Four. - * Prepare Him room *
* And heaven and nature sing... *
Five. Yes?
Rag and bone man's passing.
He wants to know if we have any rags or bone or iron.
None.
He is just begging a Christmas box.
- Six. - Sir.
Are you all right? You don't seem yourself today.
Well, I am myself, always.
Please get on with your work.
* Repeat the sounding joy *
* Repeat, repeat *
* The sounding joy *
* Far as the curse is found *
* Far as, far as *
* The curse is found *
* He rules the world *
* With truth and grace *
* And makes the nations... *
Last night...
I had a dream of
chains and furnaces and...
* And wonders of His love... *
... and I realized,
when I am alone and I talk out loud...
it is still you I am talking to.
As if you are not completely gone.
But I was at your burial.
And I am rational.
I placed the coins on your eyes. I...
I saw your coffin lowered.
So I have no explanation why I speak out loud to you.
Any old iron and rag!
You miserable bastard.
Six rag and bone.
Oh, Jacob.
Imagine, at least where you are, it's quiet.
Oh, fate.
Oh, spirits of life and death.
Whoever is in charge in this ill-begotten universe,
I'm begging you to free me
from this consciousness.
Let me rest.
Give me darkness.
I know my sins were many,
but I have repented and repented and repented.
Tell me what I must do to make amends...
... and I will do it.
Please.
_
Aah!
Oh, Lord.
Please tell me this is not hell.
Not quite, pilgrim.
I have money. Two pennies. They're yours.
Please, let me go.
I... I know you.
Aye.
You do.
I died like a horse of exhaustion
in one of your workshops.
So many men, women,
and children died
at your penny-pinching hands,
and each one I've forged into a link in the chain.
The chain you must now wear, Mr. Marley.
What reason?
I've been dead a year. Why now?
You rang the bell.
You offered penance.
And since your call was answered...
I'd wager the spirits have a little job for you.
Marley. Marley.
Done, Mr. Scrooge.
Finished.
You already proofed the first two, sir.
Just checking again, Cratchit.
The light grows dim.
I sense you are angry with me.
Why do you say that?
Because everything on this page is perfect, precise...
immaculate, you might say.
You got it all right to spite me, to... to show me.
No, sir. No.
To, uh, to afford you the possibility that-that since all the work
is done correctly and early I might leave early
and spend the rest of the day with my family.
Your anger made you work quickly
but perfectly. You didn't stop to think
that working quickly and perfectly also suits me...
the object of your hatred... down to the ground.
I don't hate you, sir.
I'm not accustomed to talking about these matters with you.
I ask you again:
is everything all right with you?
Christmas, it seems,
inspires such emotion.
Good and, evidently, bad.
I feel your eyes burning into me.
Imagine you were a violent man.
Imagine your pen were a dagger.
Imagine I were found dead
on Christmas morning.
The murder could be laid, too,
at the door of the spirit of Christmas, yes?
Mr. Scrooge.
Mr. Scrooge, it's now eight minutes past 3:00.
My work is complete.
If we're back to logic, then logic suggests
that my sitting in there idle for no reason...
that's the anomaly.
Here it is! Where's the great...
A letter of complaint
to the Lord Mayor regarding persistent noise
caused by costermongers, Gypsies, street musicians,
rag and bone men, various other gutter runners.
I want this letter written out
in duplicate and put in with the last post today.
It contains very precise mathematics
pertaining to the quantity and frequency of the intrusions.
Please be sure to get the numbers correct.
I took great pains over them.
Oh. Great pain.
Yes, I can see that.
It is not I in curious mood today, Cratchit, it is you.
As if you're suddenly careless
- of your situation. - No, sir.
No, I'm not careless of my situation, sir.
I know my situation. I have two children
and a wife to take care of at a time
of high unemployment.
One of my children is very sick, sir,
and his treatment costs money. I know, sir,
I know the narrowness of my situation.
And so do you.
- So do you. - Two copies
of that letter should take you nicely up to 4:00.
We'll see.
Hello?
Why am I here?
I was told the spirits have a job for me.
What spirits?
What job?
Ah.
Warmth, at least.
And explanation.
And perhaps salvation.
Oh, God.
Hello, old friend.
Six times we won the Epsom Derby together.
Marley. Marley.
Marley. Marley. Marley.
- Marley. - Marley. Marley.
Marley. Marley.
Hello?
Hello! Hello?
Yeah, I saw someone
tending this fire. Where are you?
Hello?
I'm... Aah!
I have no idea who you are,
but why on earth did you just burn my rocking horse?
Because you're next.
On the fires I burn memories
and old affections.
I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Here to smoke out redemption.
You have lingered in purgatory
for your many sins.
If it turns out you can be redeemed,
I will rake you out of the flames
and blow you cool
and deliver you to everlasting
and eternal... peace.
Understood. Peace is indeed what I seek.
If you want peace...
... there is a price.
And the price is
repentance.
Uh, if this is about repentance,
then I've already repented. I rang the bell.
Rang as a consequence
of my declared repentance, and the blacksmith...
I don't care.
You are not here for your sins alone.
Your fate is bound
to the soul of Ebenezer Scrooge.
It is with him that you profaned the spirit of humanity.
Together, you will repay.
And together... and only together...
can you repent.
So you're saying that
I should forever be held in purgatory un...
until my friend
has also repented?
Then, if you would, throw another year on the fire.
Bring me a blanket and a pillow if such things are allowed,
because I am without doubt
stuck here for fucking ever.
Because that man, that...
object in the shape of a man,
that-that thing with black ink in his veins
is 94% gravel and rubble,
and the rest is his stupid hair.
And I know for certain
that he will never repent.
Before this Christmas is ash,
I must search the heart of Ebenezer Scrooge
and see if there is a tender place there.
Your fate depends upon it.
Afternoon.
Uncle Ebenezer.
I ran in case you might be closing early.
No. Still many things to do.
You seem out of breath.
That's 'cause I ran to catch you.
And to invite you to dinner tomorrow.
Oh. What's tomorrow?
It's a birthday tomorrow.
It's, uh...
our Lord Jesus Christ's birthday.
Now, I know you don't believe in Christmas.
But you believe in him, don't you?
No. Nor do I believe
in Ali Baba or the magic genie of the lamp.
Besides, which liar told you that tomorrow was his birthday?
It's in the Bible.
Another deceit. There is no mention of a date
in that book or in any other.
And as for those images I see on church walls
of three wise men on camels walking in the snow,
there's no record of it being winter,
and no record of there ever being snow in Palestine.
Indeed, riding camels in the snow
is the very embodiment of the absurdity and the lies
which have continued to beget more lies down the centuries,
during the days now marked 24 and 25.
You believe in fig pudding.
And there will be fig pudding.
And there will be fig pudding, too, in January.
Would you come in January?
No.
Uncle, before she died,
my mother said to me, "Fred...
"... you must forgive my brother Ebenezer.
"He's just in pain.
A very old pain."
Very well.
I'll get to my point.
Every year, I come here,
and I invite you to dine
with myself and my wife and my children
whom you've never even set eyes upon.
This is the last time I'll make such an invitation.
Upon my wife's insistence,
I will do this no more.
Good. Save you getting all out of breath.
Uncle.
Yeah, I will say it because I know it hurts you.
Merry Christmas, Uncle Ebenezer.
I doubt I'll ever see you again on this earth.
Ebenezer.
1831 and 1837.
The exact same dates as the coins I put
on your eyes when you lay in your coffin.
I always look at the dates.
They interest me.
How come these same coins are here?
Why now?
* When they are both full-grown *
* Of all trees that are in the wood *
* The holly bears the crown *
* Oh, the rising of the sun *
* And the running of the deer *
* The playing of... *
Do you want me to add them to your list
of intrusive voices, sir?
* The holly bears a blossom *
* As white as lily flower *
Do it, Mr. Scrooge.
Give them the coins.
* To be our dear Savior. *
Merry Christmas, sir.
Go away.
Done, sir.
Finished. 40 minutes left.
I assume you have something else for me to fill the time.
Go home.
- Home? - Home.
Rag...
and bone.
All it is and can be.
_
Clock.
I know it's 20 past 3:00, but please strike 4:00.
How?
I don't know. I will not leave my office early
and bow down to this absurd season.
But please say it's 4:00 and set me free.
Lie to me, and I'll believe you.
Hands... two!
- Dad? - Mm-hmm?
Do I have to do my exercise today?
I-It's Christmas Eve.
No days off, Tim.
You're worse than old Scrooge.
If it's exercise you want me to do,
why not let me go skating
on the pond beyond the yard?
- I can borrow Belinda's skates. - Ah.
So you skate before you can walk before you can run.
Besides, Belinda's skates are broken.
Hi, darling.
- What did you get? - We got a big fat goose.
Wait, wait, wait. Two more minutes.
Mwah. Grumpy Daddy.
Yeah.
Hey.
When did you get home?
Bugger let me go about 40 minutes early.
- Very strange mood. - It's Christmas.
Let's not talk about him.
Not even once.
You seem to despise him even more than I do.
Also, while you were...
while you were gone, Tim wrote his Christmas letter
to your cousin Jack.
Here's what he wrote.
"Dear Mr. Levitt, I hope you're well
and that there's lots of snow there in America... "
Darling, after seven years...
... there's no need for Tim to keep on writing letters
of thanks to America every single Christmas for eternity.
And why?
He did save Tim's life. Um...
Very well.
I'll go and post it.
I'll catch the last post.
We'll, um...
We'll all... come with you.
Uh, the air will do us all some good.
Very well.
We'll all go.
Tim.
Yes!
Belinda.
Ah, Mr. Scrooge.
Sir, do you have any
spare change for an excellent cause?
And what cause might that be?
Oh, it's for the welfare of the poor and destitute
who suffer greatly at this time of year.
Hundreds of thousands in this city are in want
of common comforts.
Are there no prisons?
- Oh, plenty of prisons. - And the Union workhouses...
are they still in operation?
I wish I could say they were not.
The treadmill and the poor law.
Uncommonly busy since the financial collapse.
But some would rather die than go there.
Then let them die.
All we're asking for, sir, are a couple of penny coins.
Do you not have two penny coins in your pocket?
Bah.
Humbug.
Thank you.
- Whoa! - Belinda!
Now, I'm not sure if we've spelt your cousin's name correctly.
Mary, is it...
is it Levitt with two Ts or one?
It... it's spelt with two Ts.
- You all right? - Mm-hmm.
- There's Belinda. - Oh. You needs skates, eh?
I swear last year you said it was spelt
with one "T."
My cousin is now an American.
They don't care for Ts. They drink coffee.
Merry Christmas.
- Oh, Merry Christmas. - Merry Christmas.
This cousin whose name changes every year,
you never mentioned before Tim became sick.
The children are happy here.
Stay with them. I'll post the letter
and I'll come back.
- You all right, mister? - Yeah.
_
Who left you here?
Marley?
Apologies, old friend.
I'm... not quite sure how these things work.
I first formed as your door knocker,
and you knocked off my chin.
Seems fine now.
I understand this must come as a shock.
No.
No, because this-this is not real.
This is not real.
There's much I have to tell you
about what is real
and what is not real.
Reality's a decision.
I've learned that.
I've been sent by a spirit.
A spirit who doesn't care,
and I imagine would relish our failure, but...
is obliged to seem to try to help.
I didn't eat today.
This is the result of light-headedness
caused by hunger.
I am... asleep in this armchair.
Have you forgotten, Ebenezer?
I'm already dead.
You can't kill me.
And if you were to hit me
with that thing then I'll just be very messy
for the rest of our conversation.
And we have much to discuss.
Now, I... don't understand it all,
but you threw a blanket over a pair
of cold, black horses... I believe that means there is hope.
Hope of what?
No need for me to explain.
You'll meet them soon enough.
Meet who?
The spirits.
I've met one,
but I'm told there are three.
I have no plans to meet anyone. I'm...
I-I want to be alone.
And yet it is Christmas, Ebenezer.
Christmas.
Very well.
Go out there.
They've laid on a little show for you.
It was you.
Gas was reported.
To save money, you refused to dig out the pipes.
You did this. You.
You cut us to the bone.
Remember Morris and Thompson?
Our factory in Birmingham which we purchased for pennies,
and we cut their cloth according to our meanness.
The consequences of one's actions
always ends up on one's own doorstep.
How righteous and scolding we were at the inquest.
Remember?
Idleness, drunkenness,
a lack of common sense on the part of the workforce...
we blamed them all... and got the all clear
from a judge whose palm I crossed with silver.
Look at these chains, Ebenezer.
This isn't a fucking game. Look.
Each link is a man or woman or child
who died in our workshops
in London,
Birmingham, Manchester,
- Bombay, Batavia... - Wait. Wait.
- They were subcontracts. - Mauritius,
- Bay of Honduras... - Enough.
No, it was never enough.
Not for you or for me.
And for what?
What was the purpose of our gross accumulation?
For this...
... we vandalized the world.
Whatever you are, I should like you to leave my home, now.
Oh, when your time comes, there'll be chains for you, too.
And your fate will be to wander the earth with the great weight
of your past on your shoulders.
Unless I repent, yes?
"Humbug," I will say.
"Repent what?," I will say.
The spirit I met has no concern for your soul.
Or mine.
I want salvation.
But in truth, it is up to you.
Bah.
Ebenezer Scrooge,
the first of three spirits will come tonight
when the clock strikes midnight.
The next will come the next night at the same hour.
And the third will come the following night.
Also at midnight.
Prepare ye.
A reality so readily banished is not much of a reality.
A piece of undigested beef.
A lump of uncooked potato.
Humbug!
Two.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
One hour to go.
Then it will begin.
Reason against fancy.
We will know the winner by morning.
- Synced & corrected by MementMori - ... www.addic7ed.com ...