Merry Christmas, Bob - The FINAL Teaser Chapter to The Payout Game

Christmas Day meant nothing to Crowe. His father, Gabriel, had always been on duty that day, making some extra overtime. St Stephen’s Day was always their family yuletide gathering. The mood was set at the level of hangover Gabriel was enduring, or the complexity of cases that preoccupied the man. Sometimes he was there, other times he sat at the table as a vacant man. Sometimes he would slur grace before attempting to carve the turkey or just sit, glowering at everything around him. A disparaging remark thrown in that would cut to the quick.

Crowe remembered his mother, dead now close to thirty years. Maura Frances had been the bedrock of the family. Crowe, an only child. For the first fifteen years of his life, she was a loving, kind and constant presence. A presence extinguished by a violent, sudden and fatal stroke when Crowe was just fifteen. From then on, Gabriel and Crowe had descended into a maudlin co-existence fuelled by loss, resentment, anger, long silences and copious amounts of alcohol.  

Christmas was never celebrated again until Crowe met and married Alison and Cathal was born.

But Gabriel and Crowe had repaired and resolved. He wished his father and his new partner, Una, a happy Christmas. A many happy returns flashed up then Crowe glowed too with the text message from Cathal. 

He didn’t respond in case Alison was monitoring Cathal’s phone. He didn’t want her to twist the knife any deeper on visitation rights.

Nothing from Clodagh. Crowe hadn’t heard from her since the altercation with the ex. Doubt took root, the ever changing undulations of their relationship required delicacy and nuance. Two requirements utterly alien to Crowe.

Least said, soonest mended, he thought. But should he call her? At least wish her and her mother, Mary, a happy Christmas. He looked at the kitchen clock just below the smoke alarm with the batteries long removed. 13:00. He’d give it an hour or so and call her.

Draped over the sofa bed was the new and costly soft bass bag; his Christmas present to himself. In the corner was his upright bass - a Juzek. He had rescued it from Gabriel’s B&B, earmarked for the skip. The man in the music shop, repairing it, had offered Crowe a small fortune for it. But Crowe refused. Cleaned and restrung it was a thing of beauty. He nooked the newly fitted endpin and set the head stock roughly at the height of his eyebrows. It took some jockeying to get it comfortable to his hip. He wanted to get a general feel for the instrument first. 

He thrummed the low E which rumbled across the room. It had a dark Baroque tone, like a deep echo from another century. A postcard from the past.

Not a bad way to spend Christmas alone, thought Crowe. He dwelt on all the hands this fine piece of craftsmanship had passed through to this date. He would keep it going in his own clumsy way.

Preoccupied with this challenge, he never noticed the letter slipped under the garret door. When he spotted it, he wanted to run to the door, intercept whoever posted it, but rejected the idea. He parked the bass and went over to it. It was Clodagh’s writing. Not a Christmad card. A letter. 

These days bad news seems to come in a sealed envelope. 

‘Crowe, I’m taking Mam away for a few days.
We are staying with relatives. We will talk when I get back. 

C.’

We will talk - not good. Even Crowe’s limited grasp of relationships knew this note in neat cursive biro had ominous undertones. 

He debated texting her. But ruled it out.

He poured two fingers of Jameson and scrolled through his saved images on his phone. They were mostly Cathal. There was also one single selfie of Clodagh and him. Sitting on a windswept bench facing the sea. It was Thea’s bench, part of the small garden memorial to her that was tended daily by the local Tidy Towns volunteers. Clodagh’s hair was caught in a moment of glorious disarray. Crowe managed to get most of his Mastiff features out of the shot. But what he loved about it was Clodagh’s smile. Not forced or feigned but a genuine moment of joy. It began to dawn on Crowe that he could be facing the new year alone, another casualty to his volatile nature.

Maybe he shouldn’t have flattened that whiny ex of hers. Maybe the bastard was stirring things up in the background. There was little joie de vivre about Roscarrig, but Clodagh lit Crowe’s life up like a fourth of July. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a text - his inside man, Lorchan; slaving away below in the kitchens of The Tiger Inn. The canny owners always stayed open on Christmas Day to provide a plan B after a Turkey dinner disaster. Crowe’s regular number thirty four with prawn crackers ‘on the house’ and 7-UP was ready.

Christmas dinner was served.

He selected his vinyls for the evening. Not a jingle bell in sight.

But, as a nod to the season, Crowe put his paper crown around the cactus he called ‘Bob’. The spikes on one side were still misshapen from the break-in a few months ago. But it stood shiny and defiant on its patterned saucer, with its magenta decoration.

    “Merry Christmas, Bob,” said Crowe raising and downing his glass.

And in the dimming evening light descended down to the bustling takeaway.

The Payoiut Game release date 01.24.26

Wishing you all a very Happy Christmas, Season holidays and a brighter 2026

Nollaig Shona Dhuit