11: Pipers Piping
Dirty. Fucking. Bastard. Craig sat in the car, scowling out of the windscreen, grinding his teeth. Drinking steadily from a bottle of Highland Park. The whisky burned deep inside, stoking the fires.
The song on the radio dribbled to a halt. ‘‘Ha, ha! You’re listening to Sensational Steve’s Festive Funathon; hope you’ve all been good for Santa!’’
Prick.
Then wailing and screeching erupted from the car’s speakers – the Oldcastle Military Pipe Band murdering ‘Silent Night’.
Craig turned his scowl from the windscreen to the car radio. Then smashed his fist into it. His knuckles creaked and stung: the skin tore across them, oozing blood. He screamed and swore, yanked his seat back as far as it would go and stomped his heel down on the plastic casing. Again and again and again. The music stopped.
One more swig of Highland Park then Craig rammed the cork back in, stuffed the bottle in a pocket of his long Barbour coat, and dragged himself out of the car. He’d made an absolute cock-up of parking the thing, leaving it diagonally across two spaces, but it didn’t matter.
He popped the boot and pulled out the shotgun.
Nothing mattered after today.
He didn’t even pay and display.
‘Ho, Ho, Ho. . .’ Santa beamed, leaning down so he was eye-to-eye with the little girl. Cute wee thing: red hair and freckles, sucking her thumb, and peering round her mummy’s leg. Bet she’d heard stories about Father Christmas all her life, but this was probably the first time she’d ever seen him in the flesh.
‘What’s your name, little girl?’ Making the words all big and cuddly − not too loud, or the little buggers had a habit of peeing themselves.
She took her thumb out of her mouth. ‘Thara.’ Then plugged up again.
Santa, AKA Stephen Wilson, beamed at her.
It wasn’t that bad a job: once you got past the crappy grotto made of chipboard; the bum-numbing throne; the padded suit that made sweat trickle down the crack of your arse; the beard that itched like a bastard; the never-ending loop of drive-you-psycho Christmas carols; and the snotty-nosed little sods demanding presents. Other than that, six weeks as a department store Santa wasn’t too demanding.
You say ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’; you smile and wink; you don’t sit them on your knee – in case someone thinks you’re a paedo; and you don’t ask for their mum’s phone number, even if she’s a total MILF. Because she’s not going to give it to a fat guy with a beard anyway.
‘And have you been a good little girl, Sarah?’ Bit of chat: say your prayers, brush your teeth, work hard in school, and please accept this crappy plastic toy wrapped up in snowman Christmas paper.
The ginger kid’s mum was definitely a MILF. ‘What do we say to Santa, Sarah?’
‘Thank you, Thanta.’
‘Good girl.’ She took her daughter’s hand, and led her out of the grotto.
Thanta stared at Mummy’s arse − it was like God had squeezed two perfect grapefruit into a sock. Sigh. . .
And: NEXT!
It was a lot more difficult to hide a shotgun under a long coat than it looked in the movies. The damn thing was nearly impossible to hold like that, especially with his hand all swollen and bleeding – he’d dropped it half a dozen times between the car and the lifts before figuring out a way to make it work. Craig took his left arm out of the sleeve and held the gun upside-down beneath the coat. Should have sawn the barrel off with a hacksaw. And all that whisky wasn’t helping either; the world wouldn’t stay in focus. How he’d got here without crashing the car into something was anyone’s guess.
Craig screwed one eye shut and pressed the button for the lifts. Staggered a couple of steps backwards and one to the side as a woman wheeled a massive pushchair over from the ‘MOTHER AND BABY’ parking spaces.
She stared at him – standing there swaying slightly, one arm hidden under his long wax coat. Probably thought he was some sort of drunken pervert. Is that a shotgun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?
She glanced from the stairs, to the lifts, to Craig, and back to the stairs again. Then the lift went ping and the doors slid open. She shrugged and followed him into the brightly lit metal box.
‘I’m. . .’ Craig cleared his throat as the doors closed. The trick was to get all the words in the right order. Can’t sound pished if all the words are in the right order. ‘I’m not a perv . . . pervert.’
She didn’t make eye contact, just stood there watching the floor numbers count down to ground level and escape.
‘I’m hap . . . happily married.’ He frowned. ‘No, no, no: not happily. I was happily, but now I’m not. . . You know?’ Silence. ‘You . . . you see I was happy, but, but. . . She’s sleeping with some . . . someone else!’
He paused to see if the woman would jump in with an expression of sympathy, but she kept her eyes on the numbers.
‘You’re right.’ He leaned his head against the cool metal wall. ‘I should shut up and leave . . . leave you alone.’ He closed his eyes and waited for the elevator to shudder to a halt.
Ping. A sudden swelling of noise as the doors opened on the main shopping level. The squeak of buggy wheels. And then he was alone.
Craig took a deep breath and lurched out into the crowds, gripping the shotgun tight beneath his coat. It was time to go see Father Fucking Christmas.
Stephen wriggled in the throne. Had to be a position on this bloody thing that didn’t make his arse eat itself. Be lucky if he didn’t have piles by Boxing Day.
He gave his head elf the signal to send in the next one. A wee boy with a runny nose. Then it was a wee girl called Ashley whose mother looked like a man in drag. And then another little boy called Simon, who wanted a dinosaur and a aeroplane and a puppy and a Action Man kung fu killer and a hat and a dinosaur and a chocolate house and, and, and. . .
Finally it was half eleven: time for the statutory fifteen-minute pee and tea break. The head elf – a part-time goth called Greg, dressed up in a green tunic, green pointy hat, green curly-toed slippers and red-and-white striped tights – plonked the ‘Santa Will Be Back Soon!’ sign in front of the grotto’s entrance. Then they both buggered off out the back.
The store had been kind enough to build the grotto over one of the service entrances, so Santa could go take a piss without the kiddies seeing him. And then, when the call of nature had been answered, Stephen doffed his fur-trimmed red hat, white wig and beard, and joined Greg the Christmas Goth in the stairwell for a sly joint, out of view of the security cameras.
Greg leaned back against the wall. ‘So . . . doing anything exciting tonight?’
Stephen took another hit, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. Then wheezed it out. ‘I wish. Taking my kid to go see that new animated thing: Skeleton Bob and the Witch’s Christmas. She’s mad on the books.’
‘Any good?’
‘Fucking doubt it.’
‘Grievous.’ Greg took another long drag.
‘You got any gear for me?’
‘Gear?’ Greg gave a wee smoky laugh. ‘Jesus, are you out of touch. Yes, granddad, I got some ‘gear’. It’s “groovy man”.’ He even made little sarcastic quote bunnies with his fingers.
‘Aye, very funny.’ Stephen took one last hit then pinched the joint out. ‘Come on: back to the grindstone.’
There was a long queue of small children and their parents between Craig and the grotto. A pasty-faced teenager dressed as an elf appeared in the door of Santa’s little hideaway and ushered the first kid inside. Five minutes later the wee girl appeared out a side door, holding her mummy’s hand and a small gift-wrapped parcel, looking back over her shoulder at the adulterous bastard in the red suit. And then the next child went in.
Craig joined the back of the queue. Watched another kid make the trip. Shuffled forwards. Checked his watch: fifteen kids, at five minutes a kid. . . At this rate it’d be over an hour before he got to sit on Santa’s knee. The hell with that.
He stepped out of line and lurched towards the grotto’s exit.
‘And what’s your name little girl?’
‘Hanna!’ She squealed it out, so excited to be in Santa’s house she couldn’t stand still.
Stephen grinned at her, the weed mellowing everything into a rosy cosy glow. Greg could kiss his arse − this was groovy. ‘Hello Hanna, and have you been a good girl this year?’
‘Yeth!’ Another lisp! Spectacular.
‘And what would you like for—’
The exit door banged open and a man lurched in, bringing a smell of whisky with him.
Stephen was a total professional: kept up the big ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ voice and everything. ‘I’m sorry, but Santa’s busy with Hanna right now.’
The little girl giggled.
‘You. . .’ The man braced himself and squinted. ‘You going to ask me if I’ve been naughty?’
OK − that wasn’t good.
Stephen waved at Greg. ‘Santa’s little helper?’
Greg snapped off a military salute. ‘Sah!’
‘This man’s lost, can you help him back to—’
‘ASK ME IF I’VE BEEN NAUGHTY!’
Hanna stopped smiling and grabbed onto Stephen’s leg.
Her mother narrowed wee squint eyes. ‘Is this part of the show?’
‘Er. . .’ Stephen blinked. The first rule of Shopping Centre Santas was ‘stay in character’. ‘Well, I’d have to consult my list, I always check it twice, but—’
The man took two steps forward, snarling and slurring his words. ‘I’ve not been naughty, but you have, haven’t you? WITH MY FUCKING WIFE!’
‘What? Are you kidding? I’m married!’
‘SO . . . AM . . . I!’ Pounding his fist into his own chest between each word.
Oh shit – the guy was a nut. No way Stephen was getting the crap kicked out of him by a drunken bampot for minimum wage. Screw the code of the Santas. ‘Look, mate, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve never slept with your wife, OK? Come on, you’re scaring the kid. . .’
And that was when the shotgun came out.
Craig brought the gun up until it was pointing right between the bastard’s eyes. ‘Liz told me all about it.’ He flicked off the safety as the piped-in Christmas carols started in on ‘Jingle Bells’. Tears made the room swim, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t cry. ‘Six months! SIX BLOODY MONTHS!’
The soon-to-be-dead Santa held his hands up, eyes wide. ‘I never! I swear! Please!’
‘You and her: after rehearsals for that fucking pipe band! Three times a week for six bloody months!’ The gun was getting heavy, drifting down towards the floor.
‘Mate, I never touched your wife: I’m not in a band. I can’t even play the spoons!’
Craig screwed up his face, keeping the lying bastard in focus. ‘I know it’s you, she told me! You: Santa Fucking Claus!’ He dragged the shotgun up again. ‘Filling my wife’s stockings!’
‘Please!’ Sweat trickled down Santa’s face, into his beard. ‘Not in front of the kids, eh?’ He reached down and pulled the little girl. . . Hanna? Pulled Hanna round till she was standing in front of him. ‘You don’t want to ruin Christmas for her, do you?’
‘No!’ The woman leapt forwards, but Craig swung the gun round. She froze, trembling. ‘Please, let me take my little girl! Please!’
Craig ignored her. ‘Was she good?’ he asked. ‘My wife: was she good?’
‘I never touched her, I swear!’
‘She’s only four!’
The idiot in the elf costume stuck up his hand. ‘Maybe. . .’ His voice cracked and he had to try again. ‘Er. . . Maybe it’s another Father Christmas? You know? They all look alike, right? With the beard and the hat and the belly?’
Craig squinted at him. ‘Don’t you dare patronize me! She said she was screw . . . screwing the Santa down the shopping centre.’ His sore hand throbbed – he shifted his grip on the shotgun.
‘Which one?’ The elf asked.
Craig opened his mouth, then frowned. Swore. There were two in the centre of town: the Guild Centre on Dean Street and this one. ‘She didn’t say.’
‘See?’ The guy with the beard slumped in his seat. ‘I told you it wasn’t me! I never touched your wife; it has to be the other Santa!’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh thank Christ for that. . .’
‘I. . .’ Craig closed his eyes. The burrowing tick of a headache ate through the whisky numbness. How could he get it so wrong? He’d fucked it up, just like he fucked everything up. His one last, grand gesture was a total disaster.
The store would call the police, he’d be arrested, and the story would be all over the papers so everyone could see what a cretin he was. He’d go to prison and Liz would be free to screw the other Santa all day, every day. Laughing at stupid Craig the fuck-up. ‘You sure you’re not in the pipe band?’
‘Positive.’ The Santa forced a smile. ‘Not in the band. It’s not me!’
‘Jingle Bells’ finished and ‘Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly’ started up instead. Fa la, la, la, la. . .
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t. . .’ Should have known better. That’s what he got for drinking all that whisky on an empty stomach. He wasn’t thinking straight.
The shotgun was so heavy. Be good to put it down and just go to sleep.
‘It’s OK, easy mistake to make. I was just saying to—’ And that’s when this deafening bang ripped through the grotto. Like a firework going off, or a car backfiring.
The left side of Santa’s face disappeared in a spatter of red and grey.
Craig looked down at the gun in his hands.
Smoke drifted out from the end of the barrel. The woman started screaming, and the little girl cried, and the elf was sick in the corner.
Santa didn’t even fall over: just sat there, held in place by the arms of the huge throne, leaking brains and blood into his beard. The wall behind him was pebble-dashed with bits of head. The whole place stank of sulphur, raw meat, and fresh vomit.
He’d shot the wrong man. By accident.
He couldn’t even fuck up properly.
Kinda funny when you thought about it.
Still, there was one thing he could do right. Craig sat on the floor, pulled out his bottle of Highland Park, and took a deep, long drink. Then placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.
Greg shivered in the corner, taking deep breaths, not looking at what was left of Liz’s husband, Craig. Between him and Stephen, the place was like a horror movie.
He wiped a sticky chunk of red off the front of his stripy top. It left a long scarlet smear.
Thank Christ he’d exaggerated his job title when he told her about his new Christmas gig. After all: who wanted to shag an elf?
12: Drummers Drumming
There’s a small pause – the kind you get before something really nasty happens – then all hell lets loose. From both ends.
‘Oh Jesus. . .’ I hold the horrible thing as far away from my suit as possible, but it’s already too late: white milky vomit spatters all over my shoulder. Fresh urine sprays across my shirt and trousers. Soaking through to my skin. ‘You little bast. . .’
I catch the look on Stephanie’s face and turn it into a cough.
Forty-five-year-old men are not equipped to deal with small babies. It’s not natural. And sticky. ‘Oh Christ. . .’ He’s at it again, piddling like a broken teapot.
‘Oh, give him here, for God’s sake.’ She reaches out and I hand over our first and only child – the way he’s going there isn’t likely to be a second one. Stephanie makes little cooing noises while I scramble out of my suit and into the last set of clean clothes I own: jeans and a tartan shirt. Like a bloody lumberjack, only grumpier.
Don’t even have time to shower – going to be late as it is.
I throw the suit into the washing basket, kiss my wife on the cheek – it’s Christmas Eve, I’m making the effort – and give my three-month-old son the best smile I c
an manage in the circumstances. Then leg it.
It’s quarter past seven in the morning: Christmas Eve and the sky’s burnt-toast black, dumping yet more snow on the city centre. Big fat flakes that melt to slush the moment they touch the gritty, shining tarmac.
My breath mists around my head as I hurry down the front steps to the waiting car.
PC Richardson’s behind the wheel. He’s a tall, stick-like man with the sort of face old ladies love. Not looking all that shiny this morning though, not with the bags under his swollen pink eyes, and stubble on his chin and cheeks.
He’s got the radio on as I jump into the car.
‘. . .concerned for the safety of Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven following his disappearance two days ago. In other news: a service of remembrance will be held at St. Jasper’s Kirk today for drowned schoolgirl Danielle McArthur. We spoke to Danielle’s family. . .’
Richardson cranks the volume down till the news-caster’s voice disappears beneath the roar of the car’s heater.
‘Mornin’, Guv.’ His mouth droops. He sighs.
Normally I have to bash the cheerful bugger over the head with his own truncheon to make him settle down. I’m about to ask what’s up when he wrinkles his nose and stares at my lumberjack ensemble.
They call me ‘Stinky’ behind my back.
They think I don’t know, but I do. DI George ‘Stinky’ McClain. Bastards. It’s not my fault: I’ve got a glandular condition. God knows how Stephanie puts up with it. I wash three times a day, use extra-strong deodorant, but the smell always leeches through in the end. Probably why I’ve got such a crap sense of smell. Self defence.
At least this time I can blame the baby. But I don’t: just snap on my seatbelt. ‘You got that address?’
‘Yup.’ Another sigh: like he’s deflating. ‘Fourteen Denmuir Gardens, opposite the primary school.’
‘Course it is. What a surprise.’ I check the dashboard clock: eighteen minutes past seven. We’re late.
There isn’t much in the way of traffic: just a few vans making deliveries before the shops open; empty buses grumbling along dark, empty streets; one or two poor sods tramping their way to work through the falling snow.
Twelve Days of Winter Page 9