“Sure I am, kid. Why?”
He twisted his head and scratched his ear. “I dunno. How come you di’nt know my name?”
“I always get you mixed up with your brother, kid.”
He thought this over and said, “You don’t look like you did in Sears. Maybe I better get my mommy.”
I grabbed his shoulder. “Hell no, kid. Don’t do that.” He looked scared. “Big people don’t believe in Santa. You know that, don’t you?”
He nodded slowly. “Aunt Betty does.”
“If you wake up your mommy, I’d have to leave and take all of your presents with me.”
His eyes brightened and grew wide again. “Presents! What did you bring me?”
“Why, I brought you a Hot—”
I looked behind Tommy and saw an older boy walking down the hall towards us. “Oh, damn.”
“Tommy?” he said. Then he saw me. “Hey, what’s going on?” He looked to the staircase leading down to the basement.
I grabbed Tommy and covered his mouth with one hand. “One word and I’ll break his neck.” Tommy squirmed and tried to get loose, but I kept a tight hold on him.
The older boy was about ten, tall and skinny for his age with short blond hair. He wore a light green robe over brown flannel pajamas.
“Put those candlesticks in the sack for me. Fast.”
He walked over and did as I asked, frowning with dismay as he saw the rest of the silver and china I had lifted.
“What are you going to do with Tommy?”
“I’m getting a bit old for this business,” I said. “Need an apprentice. He’ll be okay if’n you don’t try anything stupid.” The idea hadn’t occurred to me until I said it, but maybe it was time. Whoever heard of a fat old man like me breaking into houses?
“You just stay put, kid. One move and your brother’s dead.”
I grabbed Tommy, picked up the sack, and quickly climbed up the chimney. Prancer and Vixen didn’t like him at first, but they’ll just have to get used to him.
Todd Wheeler
DON’T MESS WITH THE FAT MAN
THIS WASN’T JOLLY, Nick thought. His hands were tied together behind the back of the chair in which he sat. The three hoods stared from the other side of the table, their arms crossed. Hoods. That was probably too old a term. Punks? Wise guys?
“The boss don’t like what you gave him,” said the one with the large mole on his forehead.
“He wasn’t exactly on the good list,” Nick said, working at the rope on his wrists. If he could only get his hands free and touch his nose. Or better yet, his boot.
“Funny man,” said the one they called Sicko.
Or was it Psycho? Tough to tell with their accents. Probably Psycho.
“I’m on a tight schedule, boys,” Nick said. “And I’ll be missed if I don’t get on the road soon.”
“Won’t matter,” Mole said, “if they can’t find your body.”
Dumb punks, Nick thought. Don’t you know from Lojack? GPS? They’ll find the sled soon.
“Thing is,” Psycho said, tapping the wooden box on the table, “the boss is very patriotic. These Cuban cigars offended him.”
Nick shrugged. The third one worried him. Sunglasses. Shades? Very big muscles. No gut like the other two. Not saying a word.
“Take what you like from the bag,” Nick said. “It will give you whatever you want.”
“The boss don’t want another gift,” Mole said. “The boss is thinking about percentages. Call it a minority share of the business. It’s dangerous work you do, up on the rooftops and all. You need some protection.”
There was a knock on the door. None of them moved, just stared for a moment to let it all sink in. Stare away, Nick thought. He rubbed his shoulder against his face to relieve an itch in his snow-white beard. Another knock. Shades got up finally.
“Ready for the pain?” Psycho asked.
“Sure,” Nick said, smiling. “Not mine though.”
Three elves came through the door. Jergen took Shades down with a few blows to the knees with nun-chucks. Boris was on Psycho’s head in two leaps, bells on the curly-toed shoes jangling. Mole had his gun out quick and Pfeiffer had to spin to dodge the bullet. He kicked the gun out of Mole’s hands and then punched him in the throat.
Jergen went upside the head of Shades.
One down.
Psycho was standing up, screaming, trying to pry Boris’ fingers out of his eyes. Nick got up, kicked Psycho in the groin, and kept kicking as the man went down. Mole was making wet, bloody noises on the floor.
“About time,” Nick said as Pfeiffer cut the ropes.
“Little problem with the satellite,” Jergen said.
Nick bent down on one knee and took the sunglasses off Shades. His eyes blinked. Conscious. Good.
Nick pulled the knife from his boot with one hand and grabbed a fistful of Shades’ hair with the other.
“This is for Rudolph,” Nick said.
Ramsey Campbell
THE CHIMNEY
MAYBE MOST OF it was only fear. But not the last thing, not that. To blame my fear for that would be worst of all.
I was twelve years old and beginning to conquer my fears. I even went upstairs to do my homework, and managed to ignore the chimney. I had to be brave, because of my parents--because of my mother.
She had always been afraid for me. The very first day I had gone to school I'd seen her watching. Her expression had reminded me of the face of a girl I'd glimpsed on television, watching men lock her husband behind bars; I was frightened all that first day. And when children had hysterics or began to bully me, or the teacher lost her temper, these things only confirmed my fears--and my mother's, when I told her what had happened each day.
Now I was at grammar school. I had been there for much of a year. I'd felt awkward in my new uniform and old shoes; the building seemed enormous, crowded with too many strange children and teachers. I'd felt I was an outsider; friendly approaches made me nervous and sullen, when people laughed and I didn't know why I was sure they were laughing at me. After a while the other boys treated me as I seemed to want to be treated: the lads from the poorer districts mocked my suburban accent, the suburban boys sneered at my shoes.
Often I'd sat praying that the teacher wouldn't ask me a question I couldn't answer, sat paralysed by my dread of having to stand up in the waiting watchful silence. If a teacher shouted at someone my heart jumped painfully; once I'd felt, the stain of my shock creeping insidiously down my thigh. Yet I did well in the end-of-term examinations, because I was terrified of failing; for nights afterwards they were another reason why I couldn't sleep.
My mother read the signs of all this on my face. More and more, once I'd told her what was wrong, I had to persuade her there was nothing worse that I'd kept back. Some mornings as I lay in bed, trying to hold back half past seven, I'd be sick; I would grope miserably downstairs, white-faced, and my other would keep me home. Once or twice, when my fear wasn't quite enough, I made myself sick. "Look at him. You can't expect him to go like that"--but my father would only shake his head and grunt, dismissing us both.
I knew my father found me embarrassing. This year he'd had less time for me than usual; his shop--The Anything Shop, nearby in the suburbanised village--was failing to compete with the new supermarket. But before that trouble I'd often seen him staring up at my mother and me: both of us taller than him, his eyes said, yet both scared of our own shadows. At those times I glimpsed his despair.
So my parents weren't reassuring. Yet at night I tried to stay with them as long as I could--for my worst fears were upstairs, in my room.
It was a large room, two rooms knocked into one by the previous owner. It overlooked the small back gardens. The smaller of the fireplaces had been bricked up; in winter, the larger held a fire, which my mother always feared would set fire to the room--but she let it alone, for I'd screamed when I thought she was going to take that light away: even though the firelight only added to the terrors of the roo
m.
The shadows moved things. The mesh of the fireguard fluttered enlarged on the wall; sometimes, at the edge of sleep, it became a swaying web, and its spinner came sidling down from a corner of the ceiling. Everything was unstable; walls shifted, my clothes crawled on the back of the chair. Once, when I'd left my jacket slumped over the chair, the collar's dark upturned lack of a face began to nod forward stealthily; the holes at the ends of the sleeves worked like mouths, and I didn't dare get up to hang the jacket properly. The room grew in the dark: sounds outside, footsteps and laughter, dogs encouraging each other to bark, only emphasised the size of my trap of darkness, how distant everything else was. And there was a dimmer room, in the mirror of the wardrobe beyond the foot of the bed. There was a bed in that room, and beside it a dim nightlight in a plastic lantern. Once I'd wakened to see a face staring dimly at me from the mirror; a figure had sat up when I had, and I'd almost cried out. Often I'd stared at the dim staring face, until I'd had to hide beneath the sheets.
Of course this couldn't go on for the rest of my life. On my twelfth birthday I set about the conquest of my room.
I was happy amid my presents. I had a jigsaw, a box of coloured pencils, a book of space stories. They had come from my father's shop, but they were mine now. Because I was relaxed, no doubt because she wished I could always be so, my mother said "Would you be happier if you went to another school?"
It was Saturday; I wanted to forget Monday. Besides, I imagined all schools were as frightening. "No, I'm all right," I said.
"Are you happy at school now?" she said incredulously.
"Yes, it's all right."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, really, it's all right. I mean, I'm happy now."
The snap of the letter-slot saved me from further lying. Three birthday cards: two from neighbours who talked to me when I served them in the shop--an old lady who always carried a poodle, our next-door neighbour Dr Flynn--and a card from my parents. I'd seen all three cards in the shop, which spoilt them somehow.
As I stood in the hall I heard my father. "You've got to control yourself," he was saying. "You only upset the child. If you didn't go on at him he wouldn't be half so bad."
It infuriated me to be called a child. "But I worry so," my mother said brokenly. "He can't look after himself."
"You don't let him try. You'll have him afraid to go up to bed next."
But I already was. Was that my mother's fault? I remembered her putting the nightlight by my bed when I was very young, checking the flex and the bulb each night--I'd taken to lying awake, dreading that one or the other would fail. Standing in the hall, I saw dimly that my mother and I encouraged each other's fears. One of us had to stop. I had to stop. Even when I was frightened, I mustn't let her see. It wouldn't be the first time I'd hidden my feelings from her. In the living-room I said "I'm going upstairs to play."
Sometimes in the summer I didn't mind playing there--but this was March, and a dark day. Still, I could switch the light on. And my room contained the only table I could have to myself and my jigsaw.
I spilled the jigsaw onto the table. The chair sat with its back to the dark yawn of the fireplace; I moved it hastily to the foot of the bed, facing the door. I spread the jigsaw. There was a piece of the edge, another. By lunchtime I'd assembled the edge. "You look pleased with yourself," my father said.
I didn't notice the approach of night. I was fitting together my own blue sky, above fragmented cottages. After dinner I hurried to put in the pieces I'd placed mentally while eating. I hesitated outside my room. I should have to reach into the dark for the light-switch. When I did, the wallpaper filled with bright multiplied aeroplanes and engines. I wished we could afford to redecorate my room, it seemed childish now.
The fireplace gaped. I retrieved the fireguard from the cupboard under the stairs, where my father had stored it now the nights were a little warmer.
It covered the soot-encrusted yawn. The room felt comfortable now. I'd never seen before how much space it gave me for play.
I even felt safe in bed. I switched out the nightlight--but that was too much; I grabbed the light. I didn't mind its glow on its own, without the jagged lurid jig of the shadows. And the fireguard was comforting. It made me feel that nothing could emerge from the chimney.
On Monday I took my space stories to school. People asked to look at them; eventually they lent me books. In the following weeks some of my fears began to fade. Questions darting from desk to desk still made me uneasy, but if I had to stand up without the answer at least I knew the other boys weren't sneering at me, not all of them; I was beginning to have friends. I started to sympathise with their own ignorant silences. In the July examinations I was more relaxed, and scored more marks. I was even sorry to leave my friends for the summer; I invited some of them home.
I felt triumphant. I'd calmed my mother and my room all by myself, just by realising what had to be done. I suppose that sense of triumph helped me. It must have given me a little strength with which to face the real terror.
It was early August, the week before our holiday. My mother was worrying over the luggage, my father was trying to calculate his accounts; they were beginning to chafe against each other. I went to my room, to stay out of their way.
I was halfway through a jigsaw, which one of my friends had swapped for mine. People sat in back gardens, letting the evening settle on them; between the houses the sky was pale yellow. I inserted pieces easily, relaxed by the nearness of our holiday. I listened to the slowing of the city, a radio fluttering along a street, something moving behind the fireguard, in the chimney.
No. It was my mother in the next room, moving luggage. It was someone dragging, dragging something, anything, outside. But I couldn't deceive my ears. In the chimney something large had moved.
It might have been a bird, stunned or dying, struggling feebly--except that a bird would have sounded wilder. It could have been a mouse, even a rat, if such things are found in chimneys. But it sounded like a large body, groping stealthily in the dark: something large that didn't want me to hear it. It sounded like the worst terror of my infancy.
I'd almost forgotten that. When I was three years old my mother had let me watch television; it was bad for my eyes, but just this once, near Christmas. ... I'd seen two children asleep in bed, an enormous crimson man emerging from the fireplace, creeping towards them. They weren't going to wake up! "Burglar! Burglar!" I'd screamed, beginning to cry. "No, dear, it's Father Christmas," my mother said, hastily switching off the television. "He always comes out of the chimney."
Perhaps if she'd said "down" rather than "out of". ... For months after that, and in the weeks before several Christmases, I lay awake listening fearfully for movement in the chimney: I was sure a fat grinning figure would creep upon me if I slept. My mother had told me the presents that appeared at the end of my bed were left by Father Christmas, but now the mysterious visitor had a face and a huge body, squeezed into the dark chimney among the soot. When I heard the wind breathing in the chimney I had to trap my screams between my lips.
Of course at last I began to suspect there was no Father Christmas: how did he manage to steal into my father's shop for my presents? He was a childish idea, I was almost sure--but I was too embarrassed to ask my parents or my friends. But I wanted not to believe in him, that silent lurker in the chimney; and now I didn't, not really. Except that something large was moving softly behind the fireguard.
It had stopped. I stared at the wire mesh, half expecting a fat pale face to stare out of the grate. There was nothing but the fenced dark. Cats were moaning in a garden, an ice-cream van wandered brightly. After a while I forced myself to pull the fireguard away.
I was taller than the fireplace now. But I had to stoop to peer up the dark soot-ridged throat, and then it loomed over me, darkness full of menace, of the threat of a huge figure bursting out at me, its red mouth crammed with sparkling teeth. As I peered up, trembling a little, and tried to persuade mysel
f that what I'd heard had flown away or scurried back into its hole, soot came trickling down from the dark--and I heard the sound of a huge body squeezed into the sooty passage, settling itself carefully, more comfortably in its burrow.
I slammed the guard into place, and fled. I had to gulp to breathe. I ran onto the landing, trying to catch my breath so as to cry for help. Downstairs my mother was nervously asking whether she should pack another of my father's shirts. "Yes, if you like," he said irritably.
No, I mustn't cry out. I'd vowed not to upset her. But how could I go back into my room? Suddenly I had a thought that seemed to help. At school we'd learned how sweeps had used to send small boys up chimneys. There had hardly been room for the boys to climb. How could a large man fit in there?
He couldn't. Gradually I managed to persuade myself. At last I opened the door of my room. The chimney was silent; there was no wind. I tried not to think that he was holding himself still, waiting to squeeze out stealthily, waiting for the dark. Later, lying in the steady glow from my plastic lantern, I tried to hold on to the silence, tried to believe there was nothing near me to shatter it. There was nothing except, eventually, sleep.
Perhaps if I'd cried out on the landing I would have been saved from my fear. But I was happy with my rationality. Only once, nearly asleep, I wished the fire were lit, because it would burn anything that might be hiding in the chimney; that had never occurred to me before. But it didn't matter, for the next day we went on holiday.
My parents liked to sleep in the sunlight, beneath newspaper masks; in the evenings they liked to stroll along the wide sandy streets. I didn't, and befriended Nigel, the son of another family who were staying in the boardinghouse. My mother encouraged the friendship: such a nice boy, two years older than me; he'd look after me. He had money, and the hope of a moustache shadowing his pimply upper lip. One evening he took me to the fairground, where we met two girls; he and the older girl went to buy ice creams while her young friend and I stared at each other timidly. I couldn't believe the young girl didn't like jigsaws. Later, while I was contradicting her, Nigel and his companion disappeared behind the Ghost Train--but Nigel reappeared almost at once, red-faced, his left cheek redder. "Where's Rose?" I asked, bewildered.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 36