Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  “No Santa, Dad. What do you mean?”

  “Do you want that present for your ma or no?”

  Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper, Craig lowered himself into the hole and felt around for a hold.

  His dad took some of the weight by pulling the rope that joined them together like an umbilical chord.

  “Remember the code son. One pull for ready, two for get me out quick”.

  *

  Ned drank Irish coffee from his flask. It was more Gallic than Columbian, just the way he liked it.

  Between sips he puffed on a fat Cuban cigar, blowing the smoke out in rings the size of Frisbees. It was his Christmas Eve tradition and he wasn’t going to let a little thing like breaking in to Lady Hawthorn’s mansion get in the way of routine.

  He’d already picked his horses for Boxing Day and was half way through ringing his TV selections in the Radio Times when the signal came.

  One pull. No sweat.

  He worked the rope steadily, hand over hand, pulling his son up and thinking about the super-cheese pizzas they’d be having for lunch with all the trimmings.

  When Craig popped his head out, he looked like a coal-miner at the end of a shift, dirt covering his face and a broad grin stretching between his ears.

  He pressed his fingers to his lips and pulled himself out of the stack without speaking.

  The pair descended the ladder and headed for the woods.

  Once they were in deep enough to be sure they were in the clear, they sat down against the trunk of an old oak.

  “Let’s see what you got.”

  Craig opened the bag carefully and pointed his head down so that the swag was illuminated by a circle of light.

  “I got her a stocking,” he said to his dad. “From the end of the bed.”

  Ned grabbed at the fishnets and pulled the gifts out one by one: a bottle of Tesco’s lubricating gel (silk); a box of Cointreau flavoured condoms (‘For the refined woman’); a chocolate penis; a pair of fluffy handcuffs; a bag of Thornton’s toffee and a Satsuma.

  “What about the pearl necklace, Muppet?”

  “They’d have seen me.”

  “Who?”

  “Lady Hawthorn and Santa.” Craig shoved the chocolate into his mouth and chewed. “They were making babies.”

  Ned flicked Craig’s left ear hard.

  “Christ, Dad.”

  “Christ’s got nothing to do with this, it’s Christmas we’re talking about.”

  A dribble of chocolate-saliva dripped down Craig’s chin as his smile appeared again.

  “What the fuck are you grinning for now?”

  Craig put the toffees and Satsuma in the bag to take for his mum.

  “I knew you was lying, Dad,” Craig said as he buried his face into Ned’s beer-gut and gave him a hug. “About Santa. I saw him. Right there on top of Lady Hawthorn.”

  “Eh?”

  “Best Christmas I ever had,” he said. “Wait till I tell everyone in school.”

  “This is best between you and me, son,” Ned said as he pocketed the handcuffs and the gel. “Merry Christmas, mate.”

  “Merry Christmas, Dad,” Craig said. “And Dad, you might as well bring the condoms. Ma said she needed another bairn like she needed a Rangers scarf.”

  China Mieville

  TIS THE SEASON

  CALL ME CHILDISH, but I love all the nonsense - the snow, the trees, the tinsel, the turkey. I love presents. I love carols and cheesy songs. I just love Christmas™.

  That's why I was so excited. And not just for me, but for Annie. Aylsa, her mum, said she didn't see the big deal and why was I a sentimentalist, but I knew Annie couldn't wait. She might have been 14, but when it came to this I was sure she was still a little girl, dreaming of stockings by the chimney. Whenever it's my turn to take Annie - me and Aylsa have alternated since the divorce - I do my best on the 25th.

  I admit Aylsa made me feel bad. I was dreading Annie's disappointment. So I can hardly tell you how delighted I was when I found out that for the first time ever I was going to be able to make a proper celebration of it.

  Don't get me wrong. I haven't got shares in YuleCo, and I can't afford a one-day end-user licence, so I couldn't have a legal party. I'd briefly considered buying from one of the budget competitors like XmasTym, or a spinoff from a non-specialist like Coca-Crissmas, but the idea of doing it on the cheap was just depressing. I wouldn't have been able to use much of the traditional stuff, and if you can't have all of it, why have any? (XmasTym had the rights to Egg Nog. But Egg Nog's disgusting.) Those other firms keep trying to create their own alternatives to proprietary classics like reindeer and snowmen, but they never take off. I'll never forget Annie's underwhelmed response to the JingleMas Holiday Gecko.

  No, like most people, I was going to have a little MidWinter Event, just Annie and me. So long as I was careful to steer clear of licenced products we'd be fine.

  Ivy decorations you can still get away with; holly's a no-no but I'd hoarded a load of cherry tomatoes, which I was planning to perch on cactuses. I wouldn't risk tinsel but had a couple of brightly-coloured belts I was going to drape over my aspidistra. You know the sort of thing. The inspectors aren't too bad: they'll sometimes turn a blind eye to a bauble or two (which is just as well, because the fines for unlicensed Christmas™ celebrations are astronomical).

  So I'd been getting all that ready, but then the most extraordinary thing happened. I won the lottery!

  I mean, I didn't win the lottery. But I was one of a bunch of runners-up, and it was a peach of a prize. An invitation to a special, licensed Christmas™ party in the centre of London, run by YuleCo itself.

  When I read the letter I was shaking. This was YuleCo, so it would be the real deal. There'd be Santa™, and Rudolph™, and Mistletoe™, and Mince Pies™, and a Christmas Tree™ with presents underneath it.

  That last was what I couldn't get over. It felt so forlorn, putting my newspaper-wrapped presents next to the aspidistra, but ever since YuleCo bought the rights to coloured paper and under-tree storage, the inspectors had clamped down on Aggravated Subarborial Giftery. I kept thinking about Annie being able to reach down and fish out her present from under needle-dropping branches.

  Maybe I shouldn't have told Annie, just surprised her on the day itself, but I was too excited. And if I'm honest, partly I told her because I wanted to make Aylsa jealous. She'd always made such an issue of how she didn't miss Christmas™.

  'Just think,' I said, 'we'll be able to sing carols legally - oh, sorry, you hate carols, don't you...' I was awful.

  Annie was almost sick with excitement. She changed her online nick to tistheseason, and as far as I could work out she spent all her time boasting to her poor jealous friends. I'd peek at the screen when I brought her tea: the chatboxes were full of names like tinkerbell12 and handfulofflowers, and all I could see were exclamations like 'noooo!?!?!? crissmass?!?! soooo kewl!!!!!' before she blocked the screen demanding privacy.

  'Have a heart,' I told her. 'Don't rub your friends' noses in it,' but she just laughed and told me they were arranging to meet on the day anyway, and that I didn't know what I was on about.

  When she woke up on the 25th, there was a stocking™ waiting for Annie at the end of her bed, for the first time ever, and she came into breakfast carrying it and beaming. I took enormous pleasure in waving my YuleCo pass and saying, perfectly legally, 'Happy Christmas™, darling.' I was glad that the ™ was silent.

  I'd sent her present to YuleCo, as instructed. It would be waiting under the tree. It was the latest console. More than I could afford but I knew she'd love it. She's great at video games.

  We set out early. There were a reasonable number of people on the streets, all of them doing that thing we all do on the 25th, where you don't say anything illegal, but you raise your eyebrows and smile a holiday greeting.

  Technically it was a regular weekday bus schedule, but of course half the drivers were off 'sick'.

&nbs
p; 'Let's not wait,' Annie said. 'We've got loads of time. Why don't we walk?'

  'What have you got me?' I kept asking her. 'What's my present?' I made as if to peer into her bag but she wagged her finger.

  'You'll see. I'm very pleased with your present, Dad. I think it's something that'll mean a lot to you.'

  It shouldn't have taken us too long, but somehow we were slow, and we dawdled, and chatted, and I realised quite suddenly that we were going to be late. That was a shock. I started to hurry, but Annie got sulky and complained. I refrained from pointing out whose idea walking had been in the first place. We were running quite a while behind time as we got to central London.

  'Come on,' Annie kept saying. 'Are we nearly there?'

  There were a surprising number of people on Oxford Street. Quite a crowd, all wearing that happy secret expression. I couldn't help smiling too. Suddenly Annie was running on ahead, then coming back to haul me along. Now she wanted to speed up. I kept having to apologise as I bumped into people.

  It was mostly kids in their twenties, in couples and little groups. They parted indulgently as Annie dragged me, ran on ahead, dragged me.

  There really were an astonishing number of people.

  I could hear music up ahead, and a couple of shouts. I tensed, but they didn't sound angry. 'Annie!' I called, nonetheless. 'Come here, love!' I saw her skipping through the crowd.

  And it was really a crowd. Was that a whistle? Where'd everyone come from? I was jostled, tugged along as if all these people were a tide. I caught a glimpse of one young bloke, and with a start of alarm I saw he was wearing a big jumper with a red-nosed deer on it. I just knew to look at him he didn't have a licence. 'Annie, come here,' I was calling, but I got drowned out. A young woman next to me was raising her voice and singing a note, very loud.

  'Weeeeee...'

  The lad she was with joined in, and then his friend, and then a bunch of people beside them, and in a few seconds everyone was doing it, a mixture of good voices and terrible ones, combining into this godawful loud squeal.

  'Weeeeee...' and then, with impeccable timing, all the hundreds of people sort of caught each others' eyes, and their song continued.

  '...wish you a merry Christmas, We wish you a merry Christmas...'

  'Are you mad?' I screamed, but no one could hear me over that bloody illegal rumpty-tum. Oh my god. I knew what was happening.

  We were surrounded by radical Christmasarians.

  I was spinning around, shouting for Annie, running after her, looking out for police. There was no way the streetcams wouldn't spot this. They'd send in the Yule Squad.

  I saw Annie through the crowd - goddammit, more people kept coming! - and ran for her. She was beckoning to me, looking around anxiously, and I was batting people out of the way, but as I approached I saw her look up at someone beside her.

  'Dad!' she shouted. I saw her eyes widen in recognition, and then - did I see a hand grab her and snatch her away?

  'Annie!' I was screaming as I reached where she'd been. But she was gone.

  I was panicking: she's an intelligent girl and it was broad daylight, but whose was that bloody hand? I called her phone.

  'Dad,' she answered. The reception was appalling in this crowd. I was bellowing at her, asking where she was. She sounded tense, but not frightened. '... OK... I'll be... see... a friend... at the party.'

  'What?' I was yelling. 'What?'

  'At the party,' she said, and I lost the signal.

  Right. The party. That's where she'd make her way. I controlled myself. I shoved through the crowd.

  It was getting more bolshy. It was turning into a tinsel riot.

  Oxford Street was jammed, I was in the middle of what was suddenly thousands of protesters. It took me anxious ages to make headway through the demonstration. What had seemed an anonymous mob suddenly sprang into variety and colour. Everyone was marching. I was passing different contingents.

  Where the hell had all these banners come from? Slogans bobbed overhead like flotsam. FOR PEACE, SOCIALISM AND CHRISTMAS; HANDS OFF OUR HOLIDAY SEASON!; PRIVATISE THIS. One placard was everywhere. It was very simple and sparse: the letters TM in a red circle, with a line through them.

  She'll be OK, I thought urgently. She said as much. I was looking around as I made my way toward the party, only a few streets away now. I was taking in the demo.

  These people were crazy! It wasn't that I didn't think their hearts were in the right places, but this was no way to achieve things. All they were going to do was bring down trouble on everyone. The cops would get here any moment.

  Still, I had to admire their creativity. With all the costumes and colours, it looked amazing. I have no idea how they'd smuggled this stuff through the streets, how they'd organised this. It must have been online, which means some pretty sophisticated encryption to fool the copware. Each different section of the march seemed to be chanting something different, or singing songs I hadn't heard for years. I was walking through a winter wonderland.

  I went by a contingent of Christians all carrying crosses, singing carols. Right in front of them was a group of badly dressed people selling copies of a left wing newspaper and carrying placards with a photograph of Marx. They'd superimposed a Santa hat on him. 'I'm dreaming of a red Christmas,' they sang, badly.

  We were beside Selfridges now, and a knot of people had stopped by the windows full of the usual mix of perfume and shoes. The demonstrators were looking at each other, and back at the glass. Over on a side street, a few passers-by were staring at the extraordinary spectacle. It brought me up short to see 'regular' shoppers - it felt as if there was no one but the marchers on the streets.

  I knew what the Selfridges-watchers were thinking: they were remembering (or remembering being told - some of them looked too young to recall life before the Christmas™ Act) an old tradition.

  'If they won't give us our Christmas windows,' one woman roared, 'we'll have to provide them ourselves.' And with that, they pulled out hammers. Oh god. They took out the glass.

  'No!' I heard a man in a smart wool coat shouting at them. A contingent of the demo was looking horrified, laying down its banners, which read LABOUR FRIENDS OF CHRISTMAS. 'We all want the same thing here,' the man shouted, 'but we can't support violence!'

  But no one was paying him any attention. I waited for people to steal the goods, but they just shoved them out of the way along with the broken glass. They were putting things into the windows. From bags and pockets they were taking little creches, papier-mache Santas™, gaudily wrapped Presents™, Holly™ and Mistletoe™ and they were scattering them, making crude displays.

  I moved on. A man stepped into my path. He was part of a group of sharp-dressed types at the edges of the crowd. He sneered and gave me a leaflet.

  'INSTITUTE OF LIVING MARXIST IDEAS.

  'Why We Are Not Marching.

  'We view with disdain the pathetic attempts of the old Left to revive this Christian ceremony. The notion that the government has 'stolen' 'our' Christmas is just part of the prevailing Fear Culture that we reject. It is time for a re-evaluation beyond left and right, and for dynamic forces to reinvigorate society. Only last month, we at the ILMI organised a conference at the ICA on why strikes are boring and hunting is the new black...'

  I really couldn't make head or tail of it. I threw it away.

  There was the thudding of a chopper. Oh shit, I thought. They're here.

  'Attention,' came the amplified voice from the sky. 'You are in breach of section 4 of the Christmas™ Code. Disperse immediately or you will be arrested.'

  To my astonishment this was met with a raucous jeer. A chant started. At first I couldn't make out the words, but soon there was no mistaking them.

  'Whose Christmas? Our Christmas! Whose Christmas? Our Christmas!'

  It didn't scan very well.

  I passed a group I recognised from the news, radical feminist Christmasarians dressed in white, wearing carrots on their noses: the sNOwMEN. A lit
tle guy ran past me, glancing around, muttering, 'Too tall, too tall.' He started to shout: 'Anyone 5 foot 2 or under come smash some shit up with the Santa's Little Helpers!' Another shorter man started furiously remonstrating with him. I heard the words 'joke' and 'patronising'.

  People were eating Christmas™ pudding, slices of turkey. They were even forcing down brussels sprouts, just on principle. Someone gave me a mince pie. 'Blessed be,' yelled a radical pagan in my ear, and gave me a leaflet demanding that once we had won back the season we rename it Solsticemas. He was buffeted away by a group of muscular ballet dancers dressed as sugar-plum fairies and nutcrackers.

  I was getting close to the venue where the party was supposed to be, but if anything there were even more people on the streets now. The place was going to be surrounded. How would we get in?

  Figures were moving in on the crowd. Oh shit, I thought, the police. But it wasn't. It was an angry looking, aggressive bunch, smashing car windscreens as they came. They were dressed as Santa Claus™.

  'Fuck,' muttered someone. 'It's the Red and White Bloc.'

  It was obvious that the R&Ws were out for trouble. Everyone else in the crowd tried to draw away from them. 'Piss off!' I heard someone shouting, but they paid no attention.

  Now I could see cops massing in the side streets. The Red and White Bloc were drawing them out, chucking bottles, screaming 'Come on then!' like pissed-up Football™ fans.

  I was backing away. I turned, and there it was, the site for the party. Hamleys, the toy store. The armed guards who normally protected it must have run ages ago, faced with this chaos. I looked up and saw horrified faces at the windows.

  I should be up there, I thought. With you. They were the partygoers. Kids and their parents, besieged by the demonstration, watching the police approach.

  And oh, there was Annie, shouting to me, standing under Hamley's eaves. I wailed with relief and ran to her.

  'What's going on?' she shouted. She looked terrified. The Yule Squads were approaching the provocateurs of the Red and White Bloc, banging their truncheons in time on tinsel-garlanded shields.