I usually write a short seasonal story when working Christmas day, but last year it took me longer than expected and - looking back through the critiques section - I never actually posted it. Anyway, somewhat after the event...
‘Twas the night before Christmas – I checked my watch – for another 12 minutes. My crepe soled shoes made no noise as I paced through the deserted mall, still littered with the debris of last-minute shopping. The cleaning crew had been given the night off but would be working late tomorrow ahead of the Boxing Day sales.
Night watch security at Henderson Row was an easy gig. Zero happened, period. Plenty of time to stretch my legs when I’d had my fill of seasonal schmaltz on the pirated TV feed, which didn’t run to anything tasty.
My last job had been with Voight Armoured, and I missed the armoured jacket, the 12-gauge, the attitude. At least after hours I was armed, after a fashion, with a night stick; real old-school, solid wooden baton rather than telescopic, and I’d spent the last two weeks tapping into my inner cheerleader. It was unbalanced as hell though, as at some point the head had been drilled out and loaded with lead shot.
I moved into sector 3, swinging my stick by its leather loop, nearing the big animatronic display of Santa and his sleigh, now thankfully silent. My third night here some jerk had left it running, and I’d had to endure his echoing ‘Ho-ho-ho’ for a ball-breaking ten hours straight. Damn thing sounded like Vin Diesel on Mogadon, no word of a lie.
But, as I got closer, I slowed down, feeling uneasy – like when someone has snuck up close behind, and you’ve only now just noticed. I’d worked the mall long enough to get a feel for the place: how it sounded at night, now it behaved - and something was way off, out of kilter.
Santa stood, stretched, scratched his ass and stepped down from the plinth.
I stopped. I blinked. Reality just shrugged.
He smiled. “Gets you the first time, Saul. No shame in that.”
I spun my wrist, bringing the stick up into a firm grasp. “Listen pal, don’t give me no trouble and I’ll go easy. Not sure how the cops will come down on impersonating a mannequin, but, right here, right now, I’m the only law there is.”
Santa pointed somewhere over my left shoulder. “The line runs from Bust Stop, over to Changing Faces. Cross it and, well, let’s just say you ain’t in Kansas anymore.”
Man, I could feel beads of sweat start along my hairline. This guy was nuts, some kind of Santa-obsessed psycho, with the build of a heavyweight wrestler run to fat and forearms the size of my thighs. “Look, dude, yeah, ya got me. Big scare. Now, how about you take a hike, huh? Straight out the fire exit, let me deal with the alarm. No harm, no foul.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a deep, raucous “HO-HO-HO!” that made me wince, like my ears were guilty of something. His eyes met mine. “You know that trite saying, Saul, ‘the magic of Christmas’? Well, sometimes people should stop and really listen to what they’re saying. Santa Claus, the real Santa Claus, has just been murdered and all that good cheer, that wholesome intent, it has to go somewhere. And this…” He spread his arms, pirouetted, smiled. “…this is what you get.”
I stared at him, fear crinkling my brow. “The real Santa Claus has been murdered? Jeez, pal, who let you out without adult supervision?”
“Oh, he’ll be back, don’t you worry, you can’t kill an idea that easily, but for tonight we’ve been mobilised.”
That sounded awfully inclusive, and I took a step back. “Who’s this ‘we’, Kemo Sabe?”
“Shop front Santas, dads in fancy dress, Coke advertising - all around the globe, an army of individuals imbued with the magic, the spirit of Christmas, all ready and willing to take up the slack. There was even a festive movie some years ago that hinted at this, ah, temporary possession, if you will.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Look, fine, you go right ahead and do your bit to make sure the kids don’t find out Santa is lying face down in the snow with a four-fifty-five slug in his back. Like I said, the exit-”
“How did you know?” His features went from bonhomie to basalt in nothing flat.
I frowned. “How did I know what?”
“How did you know the precise calibre of the weapon used to kill Claus this time around?” It was like he loomed larger, or something. “You been keeping company with others on the naughty list, Saul? I was going to offer you redemption as an ersatz elf, but now I wonder if you’re standing too deep in the dark to be saved.”
“Man, will you listen to yourself? Crazy talk! Look, I worked armoured with this dude carried a vintage revolver as back-up. Told me it was the only weapon fired during the Christmas truce in World War One or some crap like that. It was a Webley, real uncommon, real stopping power - that’s why it came to mind when you said someone offed the original Mister Red.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. And this friend of yours, let me guess, tall, thin, sharp features, ice-blue eyes?”
“What? Yeah, that’s him, down to a ‘T’. But less of the ‘friend’ – jerk got us both fired and the only gig I could pick up was here.”
Santa stroked his beard. “He have a name, this non-friend of yours?”
“Jock, Jock Rafts. Didn’t have a Scots accent though.”
He snorted. “Anagram. Jack Frost, as he’s known to his patsies, employers and victims. Who frequently end up two-from-three. Somehow I doubt you being here is just an unhappy coincidence, Saul. The Ice Man is running a number on us, and I still think you know more than you’re telling.”
I backed away, hands half raised. “Whoa, there! I step through the goddam looking glass and suddenly I’m the bad guy? Listen, chief, how about I go back to watching Christmas movies and you do your own thing? I’m not quite word perfect when it comes to Die Hard and there’s gonna be a test later.”
The big man frowned. “Since when is that seasonal fare?”
“Don’t even go there, dude. I’ve had this-”
“Oh, let the poor man be, my sweet! He’s having a hard enough time as it is.”
The voice came from behind me. A woman. A husky baritone laced with underlying humour, as if life itself was making a joke at my expense, and she was in on it.
I jerked around. Stared. Stared some more.
‘She’ was the plus-size lingerie mannequin from the window of Bust Stop, wearing the ‘Missus Claus’ outfit, complete with stocking cap. Made flesh, and a lot of it.
“What the f-, f-.” I couldn’t get the word out.
Santa’s squeeze laughed. “It’s the Christmas equivalent of the Hayes Codes, Saul. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it. Good behaviour is its own reward, after all, and it’s not as if your moral ledger contains a lot of ‘plus’ entries to begin with.”
Her husband drew himself up. “Never mind him, you’re not going out dressed like that!”
“Oh, please, it’s not as if anyone will notice. Only the other members of your little ad-hoc army will even be aware of us spreading festive cheer. Speaking of which, shouldn’t we be getting a wiggle on? Temporal compression has its limits, after all.”
I cleared my throat. “Look, great sentiment, best of luck – but me being here is obviously some kind of mistake, so I’ll just-”
“Do your bit.” Santa wagged a finger at me. “Bad things happen to those on the naughty list, Saul, and you’ll the Bad Thing in their dreams. Shadowy, indistinct, leaving behind no more than a sense of unease when they awaken, but that’s usually enough to promote making the right moral decisions over the next twelve months.”
“J-,j-, jumping Jehoshaphat! I’m cast as some kind of fairy-tale enforcer? The Sandman with attitude? And what if I just say n-, n-, n-?” I broke off, glaring at him.
He smiled. “That would be what we in the trade call a ‘moral imperative’, Saul. You can no more refuse this call to arms than fly to the moon. Although, saying that…”
As if at some unspoken command the plastic reindeer rose and stepped down from the plinth, dragging the sleigh behind them. Man, the smell of sweat and musk rolled over me like a wave. The double glass doors slid open as they pranced, in step, out of the mall onto the forecourt, with our unlikely trio trailing in their wake. I looked at my watch – and still 12 minutes to midnight.
Santa stepped aboard our ride. “Right, a couple more to collect from around here and we’re off.”
The full moon broke through the clouds and turned him into a Christmas card icon. He hefted a short, thick, candy stripe cane, took a deep breath, and I just knew what was coming…
“Adventers, assemble!”
‘Twas the night before Christmas – I checked my watch – for another 12 minutes. My crepe soled shoes made no noise as I paced through the deserted mall, still littered with the debris of last-minute shopping. The cleaning crew had been given the night off but would be working late tomorrow ahead of the Boxing Day sales.
Night watch security at Henderson Row was an easy gig. Zero happened, period. Plenty of time to stretch my legs when I’d had my fill of seasonal schmaltz on the pirated TV feed, which didn’t run to anything tasty.
My last job had been with Voight Armoured, and I missed the armoured jacket, the 12-gauge, the attitude. At least after hours I was armed, after a fashion, with a night stick; real old-school, solid wooden baton rather than telescopic, and I’d spent the last two weeks tapping into my inner cheerleader. It was unbalanced as hell though, as at some point the head had been drilled out and loaded with lead shot.
I moved into sector 3, swinging my stick by its leather loop, nearing the big animatronic display of Santa and his sleigh, now thankfully silent. My third night here some jerk had left it running, and I’d had to endure his echoing ‘Ho-ho-ho’ for a ball-breaking ten hours straight. Damn thing sounded like Vin Diesel on Mogadon, no word of a lie.
But, as I got closer, I slowed down, feeling uneasy – like when someone has snuck up close behind, and you’ve only now just noticed. I’d worked the mall long enough to get a feel for the place: how it sounded at night, now it behaved - and something was way off, out of kilter.
Santa stood, stretched, scratched his ass and stepped down from the plinth.
I stopped. I blinked. Reality just shrugged.
He smiled. “Gets you the first time, Saul. No shame in that.”
I spun my wrist, bringing the stick up into a firm grasp. “Listen pal, don’t give me no trouble and I’ll go easy. Not sure how the cops will come down on impersonating a mannequin, but, right here, right now, I’m the only law there is.”
Santa pointed somewhere over my left shoulder. “The line runs from Bust Stop, over to Changing Faces. Cross it and, well, let’s just say you ain’t in Kansas anymore.”
Man, I could feel beads of sweat start along my hairline. This guy was nuts, some kind of Santa-obsessed psycho, with the build of a heavyweight wrestler run to fat and forearms the size of my thighs. “Look, dude, yeah, ya got me. Big scare. Now, how about you take a hike, huh? Straight out the fire exit, let me deal with the alarm. No harm, no foul.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a deep, raucous “HO-HO-HO!” that made me wince, like my ears were guilty of something. His eyes met mine. “You know that trite saying, Saul, ‘the magic of Christmas’? Well, sometimes people should stop and really listen to what they’re saying. Santa Claus, the real Santa Claus, has just been murdered and all that good cheer, that wholesome intent, it has to go somewhere. And this…” He spread his arms, pirouetted, smiled. “…this is what you get.”
I stared at him, fear crinkling my brow. “The real Santa Claus has been murdered? Jeez, pal, who let you out without adult supervision?”
“Oh, he’ll be back, don’t you worry, you can’t kill an idea that easily, but for tonight we’ve been mobilised.”
That sounded awfully inclusive, and I took a step back. “Who’s this ‘we’, Kemo Sabe?”
“Shop front Santas, dads in fancy dress, Coke advertising - all around the globe, an army of individuals imbued with the magic, the spirit of Christmas, all ready and willing to take up the slack. There was even a festive movie some years ago that hinted at this, ah, temporary possession, if you will.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Look, fine, you go right ahead and do your bit to make sure the kids don’t find out Santa is lying face down in the snow with a four-fifty-five slug in his back. Like I said, the exit-”
“How did you know?” His features went from bonhomie to basalt in nothing flat.
I frowned. “How did I know what?”
“How did you know the precise calibre of the weapon used to kill Claus this time around?” It was like he loomed larger, or something. “You been keeping company with others on the naughty list, Saul? I was going to offer you redemption as an ersatz elf, but now I wonder if you’re standing too deep in the dark to be saved.”
“Man, will you listen to yourself? Crazy talk! Look, I worked armoured with this dude carried a vintage revolver as back-up. Told me it was the only weapon fired during the Christmas truce in World War One or some crap like that. It was a Webley, real uncommon, real stopping power - that’s why it came to mind when you said someone offed the original Mister Red.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. And this friend of yours, let me guess, tall, thin, sharp features, ice-blue eyes?”
“What? Yeah, that’s him, down to a ‘T’. But less of the ‘friend’ – jerk got us both fired and the only gig I could pick up was here.”
Santa stroked his beard. “He have a name, this non-friend of yours?”
“Jock, Jock Rafts. Didn’t have a Scots accent though.”
He snorted. “Anagram. Jack Frost, as he’s known to his patsies, employers and victims. Who frequently end up two-from-three. Somehow I doubt you being here is just an unhappy coincidence, Saul. The Ice Man is running a number on us, and I still think you know more than you’re telling.”
I backed away, hands half raised. “Whoa, there! I step through the goddam looking glass and suddenly I’m the bad guy? Listen, chief, how about I go back to watching Christmas movies and you do your own thing? I’m not quite word perfect when it comes to Die Hard and there’s gonna be a test later.”
The big man frowned. “Since when is that seasonal fare?”
“Don’t even go there, dude. I’ve had this-”
“Oh, let the poor man be, my sweet! He’s having a hard enough time as it is.”
The voice came from behind me. A woman. A husky baritone laced with underlying humour, as if life itself was making a joke at my expense, and she was in on it.
I jerked around. Stared. Stared some more.
‘She’ was the plus-size lingerie mannequin from the window of Bust Stop, wearing the ‘Missus Claus’ outfit, complete with stocking cap. Made flesh, and a lot of it.
“What the f-, f-.” I couldn’t get the word out.
Santa’s squeeze laughed. “It’s the Christmas equivalent of the Hayes Codes, Saul. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it. Good behaviour is its own reward, after all, and it’s not as if your moral ledger contains a lot of ‘plus’ entries to begin with.”
Her husband drew himself up. “Never mind him, you’re not going out dressed like that!”
“Oh, please, it’s not as if anyone will notice. Only the other members of your little ad-hoc army will even be aware of us spreading festive cheer. Speaking of which, shouldn’t we be getting a wiggle on? Temporal compression has its limits, after all.”
I cleared my throat. “Look, great sentiment, best of luck – but me being here is obviously some kind of mistake, so I’ll just-”
“Do your bit.” Santa wagged a finger at me. “Bad things happen to those on the naughty list, Saul, and you’ll the Bad Thing in their dreams. Shadowy, indistinct, leaving behind no more than a sense of unease when they awaken, but that’s usually enough to promote making the right moral decisions over the next twelve months.”
“J-,j-, jumping Jehoshaphat! I’m cast as some kind of fairy-tale enforcer? The Sandman with attitude? And what if I just say n-, n-, n-?” I broke off, glaring at him.
He smiled. “That would be what we in the trade call a ‘moral imperative’, Saul. You can no more refuse this call to arms than fly to the moon. Although, saying that…”
As if at some unspoken command the plastic reindeer rose and stepped down from the plinth, dragging the sleigh behind them. Man, the smell of sweat and musk rolled over me like a wave. The double glass doors slid open as they pranced, in step, out of the mall onto the forecourt, with our unlikely trio trailing in their wake. I looked at my watch – and still 12 minutes to midnight.
Santa stepped aboard our ride. “Right, a couple more to collect from around here and we’re off.”
The full moon broke through the clouds and turned him into a Christmas card icon. He hefted a short, thick, candy stripe cane, took a deep breath, and I just knew what was coming…
“Adventers, assemble!”
