by John Minx
“Seriously?” he said.
The man let out a strangled laugh in reply. “What? You’re supposed to be Santa this evening and this here is a Santa costume. Or am I missing something?”
On the receiving end of another suspicious stare, Santa saw no option except to bite the bullet and obey the instruction – doing whatever it took to gatecrash the party and prise Amka away.
“All right, all right,” he said grudgingly. At the same time draping his vintage denim jacket, shirt, and Levis over the mannequin away behind him. Then, under great sufferance, Santa climbed into the cheap nasty outfit, grimacing the whole while.
Funnily enough, it was the first time in his life he’d dressed exactly as Santa was supposed to. As a young man, out on his rounds, he’d sported a red leather trench coat with a large Ramones patch sewn on the back of it. Although for the last decade, as befitted a man of his age, Santa had swapped this out for a Houndstooth suit that he’d bought from a London-based tailor and which fitted him like a dream.
This crappy outfit, in miserable contrast, made him look like a total buffoon. Added to which the fake fur around his wrists and neck was already starting to itch. Worse still, it had bulky padding stitched into the lining around his gut, swelling out his midriff and making him look massively overweight.
Pleased by the overall impression, the bald man gave Santa an approving nod. “All right. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Then he gestured to the chair in front of the mirror. “Here, take a seat.”
Doing as he was told, Santa sat down there and watched in the mirror as the man came up behind him carrying a curly wig and fake beard. “But what about this?” he protested vigorously, stroking his lovingly groomed facial hair.
“That? It’s a hipster beard with flecks of grey in it. Since when was Santa’s beard anything except big and bushy and white?”
“You seem awful sure about Santa’s personal grooming habits,” Santa answered.
At this, the man stared back at him as if he was cracked. “What grooming habits? Why the hell complicate matters? We’re talking about a fat guy with a red coat and a white beard. That’s it. Let’s keep things simple. No-one’s asking for an Oscar winning performance here.”
With the wig affixed to his scalp, and the beard strapped to Santa’s chin, the bald man turned make-up artist. Picking up a small compact, he dabbed a small pad into it then started applying red blusher to his model’s nose and cheeks.
“What the hell are you doing now?!” Santa exclaimed.
“They want you looking liquored up. I thought you knew that already?”
“By they, you mean Jon Moran?” Santa fumed.
At this, the supervisor nodded. “That’s right. This comes all the way from the top, courtesy of The Boss Man.”
At which Santa nodded also, perversely satisfied by the added insult.
“But you should know this already,” the man continued, “you got the script, right? You do know how to play this?”
For a moment Santa paused, considering his answer carefully. Then he nodded broadly and gave a mean little smile.
“Oh yeh, I know how to play this all right,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
Once Santa was fully fitted, the supervisor led him out into the corridor, and together they took a right, a left, and another right. At the far end of the last passageway, a door brought them out into a smallish room, its walls draped in multi-colored fairy lights. And as these lights flashed off and on at short intervals, Santa stared over at the strange, rickety structure rising up out of the center of the floor.
Gesturing at it also, the bald man offered a final piece of advice before taking his leave. “There you go, champ. It’s all yours. But just remember what I said and go easy on the method acting. Don’t over-think this. All you need to do is act like an old rummy who’s down on his luck.”
With that, the supervisor withdrew, closing the door behind him, and Santa was left alone in the flickering light. Ever more curious about the room’s centrepiece, he walked towards it now, gathering more details along the way. It was a box-like construction, about seven feet by seven feet, and built out of stray cardboard. As such, it looked like the kind of makeshift shelter you’d find under a bridge, or down an alleyway, or in any of those other places were the world’s unfortunates decamp.
That said, there were a few fairy lights strung across the roof in a slipshod way. And as Santa got closer, he could see that there was also a small sign hanging down from the middle of it, written out with a glow-in-the-dark marker pen.
Santa’s Grotto
At the entrance to the “Grotto”, a small wooden stool had been placed, and after staring at it for a few moments, Santa parked his backside on the seat. From here, he looked about him and noticed a bottle in a brown paper bag placed directly to his left. Leaning down, he picked it up and sniffed at the open top and caught the rank alcoholic smell.
As the fortified wine assailed his nostrils, Santa started to tremble physically. He thought he’d gotten as angry as he was ever going to get, and that he couldn’t feel any more belittled, but as it turned out this wasn’t true. Now he felt wrathful, wrathful as hell, and even while his rage reached a whole other level, the room’s double doors were thrown open and Jon Moran was suddenly striding towards him, leading a couple dozen guests into the space.
As Moran sauntered forwards, he spoke up loudly for the benefit of those trailing behind him. “Here he is. My old pal, Santa Claus. What’s up, buddy? Why the long face?”
Several of those present laughed at the cynical comment. Santa, by way of reply, couldn’t get his words out for the moment, but he was able to share something of his hostility by baring his teeth in an animalistic snarl.
In reply, Moran came to a temporary stop and put his hands up defensively, although he was clearly only mimicking distress.
“Wooah! Easy there, Santa. What’s up, pal? Unionised elves? The rising cost of reindeer feed?” Raising his right index finger, Moran turned it around and pointed it at himself. “It’s not little old me, is it?”
To prove this last theory correct, Santa bared his teeth and snarled once more.
Now Moran walked forwards again, although he did so slowly and melodramatically, as if he was approaching a caged lion or some such like.
“Come on, Santa. No need to get wound up over a little healthy competition . . .”
“Is that what you call it?” Santa said finally in a low, menacing voice.
For a single moment, Moran was taken aback by the level of naked animosity, but soon enough he took this in his stride as well.
“Listen, nobody likes to go the way of the dinosaurs, but I didn’t expect to find you quite so surly. Lighten up, why don’t you? Even if the family business does go into liquidation, it’ll leave you with more time to pursue the finer things in life . . .”
With this last comment, Moran nodded at the bottle that Santa was still holding in his hand like a bona fide alcoholic. The cutting remark raising another laugh from the surrounding crowd who’d grown in number to form a half circle around the two men.
Now Santa set the bottle down and put both hands flat on his knees. “So I’m supposed to just take this lying down and let you walk all over me – is that the idea?”
Moran laughed again. “Well, you could always raise your game. Ever think about that? Modernize, iterate, think outside the box. Or maybe you could take a closer look at your current schedule. I mean I’m not questioning your work ethic or anything, but working one night a year? I mean, really?” Turning towards the crowd, Jon Moran pulled a face and prompted another round of raucous laughter.
“You’re nothing more than a cheap punk,” Santa shot back.
This stunned Jon Moran for a couple of seconds, but again he shook off the surprise and made light of it – turning to the spectators, one eyebrow arched, as if Santa clearly had a screw loose.
Undaunted, Santa pushed on and unpacked his insult some mor
e.
“A soulless punk who’s fixated with the bottom line and couldn’t see any further than it to save his own life. At the end of the day, it’s a sad, pathetic, and meaningless way of looking at the world, however many billions you have in the bank.”
Unlike the earlier insults, this one proved difficult to overcome, and there were clear signs that Jon Moran was starting to lose his cool. Clenching his jaw, he lifted his right hand up and jabbed an index finger at his critic.
“That’s rich, coming from a worthless fake like you who’s been pulling the rug over people’s eyes since time immemorial. No wonder suicides go way up over the festive season. Basically, you have to go and shove it in their faces – just how happy they’re supposed to be – until the whole thing becomes unbearable. That’s all on you, fatso. Yo-Ho-Ho, my ass.”
The curious dispute, and the growing intensity of it, was starting to attract a larger crowd. Some of them were disturbed by the heated exchange, others were clearly excited about it, but there could be no doubting that the mock showdown had taken a strange turn. As a further consequence, a number of large men in black suits had appeared among the first row of onlookers, having identified Santa as a potential threat. All of them keeping a close eye on this total wack job and what he might think to do next. But although Santa registered their presence, it failed to deter him. He was too far gone to exercise any caution. Moran’s last insult had snapped his temper in two.
Shooting up off the stool, he ripped off the curly wig and fake beard and started tearing at the ridiculous outfit. The red jacket with white trims falling to the floor behind him, its padding torn to shreds. Then, with equal abandon, Santa pushed down his trousers and stepped out of them. Finally, wearing nothing more than a grey thermal vest and a pair of white longjohns, he began thumping his chest.
“Come on then, Moran, let’s see what you’ve got! Let’s do this! What say we settle this like men?”
Rising to the provocation, Jon Moran started nodding with wild abandon, and made to remove his jacket also, but there wasn’t time for them to come to blows. Instead, the security personnel surged forwards and smothered the violent maniac. And so it was, before Santa knew it, he was being expertly manhandled. Lifted off the ground for the second time this evening, feet dangling over the floor.
As his eyes swept over the crowd, and those guests who were all staring back at him, they alighted on a familiar face. It was Amka, his daughter, and the supposed reason for his being here, although he’d long lost sight of that fact. Staring at her wild-eyed, Santa tried calling out her name, but a huge hand was pressed against his mouth, muffling the outcry.
As for Amka herself, she was stood stock still, looking deathly pale, as if a spell had been cast on her. Although Santa barely had the chance to register her shock before he lost sight of it and was bundled through the door.
Chapter Fourteen
Santa was carried through those corridors he’d walked along a quarter of an hour ago, his steps retraced for him by the burly quartet. On reaching the fire exit, they ferried him downwards as far as the ground floor. Kicking and flailing, for all the good it did him, it was not until they’d reached the second to bottom level that Santa quit with his struggles and accepted that he was on his way out.
Reaching the final door, one of the bodyguards opened it up while the remaining trio ejected Santa out into the alleyway. Under the circumstances,
he was lucky they didn’t send him flying, but Santa was in no mood for counting his blessings. Instead, dropping to his feet, he swiveled around as the metal door closed fast behind him and was bolted repeatedly from the inside. Then, standing there in vest and longjohns, he started hurling abuse at the metal barrier for the best part of two minutes. Only stopping once he heard the sound of the bolts unlocking once more.
Then the door opened outwards and it was his daughter Amka who was stood there on the threshold, her boyfriend hovering a few steps behind her in the half-light. Registering Santa, she turned calmly to Kyle Moran and whispered something to him before turning back and stepping forwards. The door closing gently behind her as Amka came to a stop in front of her father, a half foot away.
Here, she studied him intently and shook her head twice over. “Oh, Pop. Just look at you. What have you gone and done?”
There was exasperation in her voice, but it was Amka’s concern that shone through. But Santa didn’t want his daughter’s concern – and certainly didn’t care for her exasperation – and instead he cut through them both like a knife.
“You’re coming home with me,” is what he said.
“What?”
“You heard me, young lady. This needs to stop now. I’m not going to stand for it any longer.”
“By This you mean me and Kyle and the fact we happen to love one another very much?”
“Love . . .” Santa grimaced at the statement. “I think you’ll find Betrayal is a better word for what you’re doing right now,”.
“Betrayal . . .” Wounded deeply by the accusation, Amka’s voice broke up.
“You have seen that advert, I take it?” Santa continued. “You do know that thing is being broadcast from here to Timbuktu? And you’re really telling me that means nothing to you – your father’s good name being dragged through the mud 24/7?”
“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job of trashing it yourself if tonight serves as any kind of indication,” she countered.
At this, Santa tossed his head back, looked up at the stars, and laughed at them unhappily. “So I’m the one to blame here – is that what you’re saying!”
Amka shrugged her shoulders. “In large part, yes.”
Now Santa threw his hands up. “Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! So this is all on me? Well that’s good to know – thanks for clearing that up, Amka! And there was me thinking I was on the wrong end of a deadly character assassination.”
Placing his hands on his hips, Santa stared down moodily and shook his head at the tarmac by his feet. “I have to hand it to this Kyle character, he’s a fast worker, all right. What has it been three, four months since you met him? And not only has he succeeded in worming his way into your affections but also turning you against me as well.”
“Worming his way into my affections!” Revolted by the accusation, it clearly left a very bad taste in Amka’s mouth. “Could you make it sound any more ugly?”
Standing firm, Santa shook off the criticism. “Well, that’s exactly what it is as far as I can see.”
Shaking her head disgustedly, Amka started to make an about turn.
“I think we’re done here,” she murmured in conclusion.
But having completed a quarter circle, Santa checked her movements by booming out a shrill command like some figure from the Old Testament, trying to stamp his authority on the situation in a biblical way.
“Don’t you dare turn your back on me, young lady!”
The shout was sufficient to freeze Amka in her tracks and for a few moments she stayed perfectly still, standing side-on to him. But then she turned back around to face her father directly, wearing a look on her face that was very much changed. It was full of anger, he could see, but not the type of anger that Santa specialized in (the messy, unfocused kind). No, there was something shockingly precise and single-pointed about his daughter’s fury that made it that much worse to confront.
Drawing herself up to her full height – 5’11, the same as her father – Amka looked him straight in the eye and said her piece.
“You know what, I think it’d better for everybody if I made alternate arrangements this Christmas. I’ll leave it to you to tell Mom that I won’t be coming home this year.”
Now Santa’s mouth hung open – horrified by the pronouncement – and his anger started to desert him. Panic, more than anything else, took its place.
“But that’s impossible! Where would you go? What would you do?” Even as he said it, Santa hazarded a terrible guess.
Reading his mind,
Amka confirmed it for him. “That’s right, Kyle’s father has already invited me to join them up in Vermont for the holidays. And for all Jon Moran’s faults at least he’s never suggested that I was some kind of poison seeping into his son’s life.”
“You wouldn’t! You couldn’t!” Santa protested.
“After the way you’ve behaved here tonight?”
“Please Amka, think of your mother if nothing else . . .”
But at this his daughter shook her head, smiling unkindly at the attempted blackmail while refusing to bow to it. “No. This is on you. You’re the one who should have thought about Mom, thought about me, thought about Christmas for that matter, and what it’s supposed to represent. Instead all you’ve done is think about yourself.”
Turning her back on Santa again, daring him to challenge her, Amka took a few steps forwards to give a somber rap on the metal door. Seconds later, it was opened for her by Kyle Moran and she walked through the space without once looking back.
As the door closed behind his daughter, Santa stood there in silence, utterly bereft. By now his anger had burned itself out entirely and he was left alone with the resulting damage. Standing there in his underclothes, in the freezing alleyway, he wanted nothing so much as to curl up in a ball and let the cold come claim him. As such, it took all his remaining strength to bring his fingers to his lips and produce the high-pitch whistle required.
In a matter of seconds, heeding his call, the team of reindeer had descended from the roof and landed in the midnight alleyway. The manoeuvre so deft and skilful that the sleigh came to a stop right by his feet. But it was with a great, grieving sigh that Santa climbed up into the waiting carriage and gave a weary tug on the reins to set the animals in motion.
Dreading the homeward-bound leg.
Chapter Fifteen
The journey back to the North Pole was no less swift, but not the slightest bit exhilarating. With every mile travelled, Santa’s fate became all the clearer to him and he understood what was going to happen next. Faced with the dismal prospect of having to explain to Jissika where he’d been, and what he’d done, along with the upshot of his actions.