Santa Claws

by Gabriela Harding

  “The mermaid is trapped,” replied a young waitress, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her starched bonnet. “Just think, it could have been me in there, karma, I say.”

  “That’s what everyone says when they fail an interview,” said the receptionist, handing her a slip of paper. “Here, give this telegram to Mr Raymond, room 13, the man over there by the window next to that pretty brunette, it’s urgent, totally slipped my mind, been sitting here since yesterday.”

  “If only we didn’t have a no phone and no internet policy in this hotel,” sighed the girl, taking a sneak peek at the iPhone she carried in her apron. She snatched the telegram and slapped her hand over it on the waxed wooden counter. “Who, the skinny one over there? I don’t know what she’s doing with him. First, she’s out of his league. Second, he’s obviously beaten her to a pulp. Just look at her.”

  “He set the rug on fire too, that idiot. Throwing cash around like there’s no tomorrow. He’s not even rich.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Experience in retail, my dear. I can tell by the way someone walks, or talks, or breathes. He’s comfortable, but not wealthy. In fact, he seems like he’s just come into a lot of money, an inheritance of some sort.”

  “He looks like he’d sell his mother to the devil’, said the waitress, fanning herself with the telegram. “Ah, well. Let me give it to him. It might be important.”

  “Wait a minute, Elvira. Cover me for five minutes, will you? I have an urgent need. Something I’ve eaten doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Bunkum,” replied Elvira. She loved the word bunkum ever since she’d heard it was invented by a congressman, and now she used it every time she would normally say ‘Nonsense’. “You’re just going to make yourself sick again, aren’t you? When are you going to see a doctor? Bulimia is a serious illness.”

  But the man had already disappeared down the stairs to the staff bathroom, and Elvira was left alone behind the reception desk. She ran her fingers over the shiny buzzer and glanced at the thirteen bells with numbers engraved for every room of the settlement. Guests may have thought this was chic, but in her opinion, it was an affront to all staff. Copying the dead 1920’s, the waiters had to be a hundred times more ceremonious, while the guests weren’t even by far as polite as the ladies and gentlemen in those days would have been. All bills were printed on glossy, greased paper and had to be brought out on silver trays, wrapped with ribbons, and presented with a deep bow, which is why the older employees faked sciatica so they could get away with not doing it… which reminded her.

  Elvira selected a tray from the neat stack in front of her, an envelope from a drawer and a silk ribbon from a bag. She slipped the telegram in the envelope, tied it with the ribbon and placed it on the tray. You weren’t supposed to do this with telegrams, but she was hoping to get a generous tip from the wealthy gentleman. Sod Eugene. The man was rich, how else could he afford all those bottles of Krug? She smoothed down a crease in the fabulous black ribbon, and held out the tray. It looked like a message of death, she thought, smiling.

  Back in the hall, everyone applauded as the flushed ‘mermaid’ was pulled out of the dish. Hair dripping, face streaming with sweat and fishtail dress the wrong way around, the girl looked like someone who had just had a steam bath with a full face of make-up. Two waiters supported her as she stumbled to the middle of the room. The end of her tail was decorated with glass buttons and sequins. When the fake scales caught the light of the chandeliers, the crowd applauded even more. Some even gasped when her dress suddenly split open, revealing a pair of pink piggy thighs, which a waiter rushed to conceal with a tablecloth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Mighty Mermaid!” screamed the drunk Mayor at the top of his voice, as the poor girl was led out of the room sobbing.

  “See, darling?” Greg teased. “It wasn’t a ghost. I think you have to go to the balcony to see one. I might have spotted something in the moon – you know, a headless figure or something.” He winked.

  “Stop it,” purred Anaconda.

  “Was this supposed to be happening?” A lady with feather clips in her silver hair peered through her monocle at the dish that was being wheeled away to the kitchen.

  “Of course,” answered her friend, lifting her net veil and thrusting her head backwards to swallow an oyster. “Charles and I thought it would be entertaining. It’s his birthday, after all.”

  “I don’t know about that,” grimaced the old lady, putting the monocle back in her velvet purse. “It seems more like a show for over eighteens.”

  “You are over eighteen,” the Mayor’s wife muttered under her breath.

  “Monsieur Raymond.” Greg looked up to see a waitress holding a tray to his face. “Telegram for you.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle!” Greg picked up the envelope and slipped it in his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” inquired Anaconda, waving the waitress off with her feather fan. “God, it’s hot in here.” The heat from the dish had turned the Great Hall into a huge steam bath.

  “It’s all part of the show!” cried a small man, whose eyes darted from corner to corner like a rat’s, while the waiters trotted around blindly, carrying coffees and more cocktails.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” exclaimed a withered little woman as a gloved waiter emerged from a cloud of steam, holding a single pale green cocktail on a tray. “For a moment I thought I was dead and there was the Archangel Gabriel handing me my last communion.”

  “It’s just a Mojito, Madame,” bowed the waiter.

  “We didn’t have Mojitos in the 1920’s.” The woman blushed.

  “Don’t worry, Madame. You don’t look your age.”

  She nodded with dignity.

  “Shall we go out on the balcony for some fresh air?” Greg’s hand was back on the little box in his pocket. The withered woman reminded him of his own mother, and a dead-cold trickle of guilt squirted inside him.

  “Are you crazy?” protested Anaconda. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “You just said you were hot,” Greg reminded her. “Put your coat on. You can have a cigarette out there, too.”

  “Good point,” said Anaconda.

  The balcony, with its ornate sculptures and gilded flowers decorating the railings, would have been a fairy tale place in the summer. Now, however, it was desolate and covered in ice. The town spread before them, quiet but for the muffled roar of the sea, lights twinkling in the distance. A gust of wind swept the terrace, ruffling their hair. Anaconda lit her cigarette.

  “Good show,” she commented.

  Greg cleared his throat. His heart was now pounding with anticipation, and his mouth was dry. “I…” he began, pulling out the leather-bound box.

  “The mermaid!!” someone shouted. Loud cheers and applause exploded in the reception hall. Anaconda wiped the window and squinted inside.

  “The mermaid!” she screeched. “They brought her back! She’s dancing with the Mayor! Where’s my camera?”

  Greg wished the balustrade wasn’t so low and that he wasn’t standing so close to it. Too late. The next three things happened in quick succession: he slipped, the box flew out of his hand, and he stretched over to catch it.

  “Oh lá lá!” cried Anaconda, sliding the door open. “I’m going in! Greg?”

  She turned around and looked in confusion at the empty balcony. Frowning, she took a few unsteady steps in her high heels, leaning across the rail to look at the snow-covered courtyard. Suddenly she noticed something that looked like human flesh on the edge of the balustrade.

  She recognised Greg’s hairy knuckles. “Greg? What on earth are you doing?”

  Greg’s legs dangled in mid-air and his teeth were bared with the effort of hanging on for dear life.

  “The box!” he mouthed, and the scream coming from
Anaconda’s throat drowned the sickening thud his body made in the snow.

  25. Florence

  “What do you mean we can’t leave today?!” Florence dropped her mobile phone and slipped her arm through the seat belt as a police car flashed past. The blow switched the phone onto loud speaker and a raspy voice rose from between the heels of her flowery boots.

  “Just as I said.” A guttural male voice, speaking in French. “You’ll find out soon enough. In fact…”

  “Arghh, if the traffic stays like this, we won’t be going anywhere, I tell you! Unbelievable! This is a race of ringworms!” She pressed the horn angrily at the lazy caravan ahead of her.

  “If all goes well, will I be rewarded with a kiss?” The voice chuckled softly.

  “You’re mad! Thinking of kisses when… This is a matter of life and death! I’d rather eat snails than kiss you now, Flaubert!”

  “So would I, cherie. We both love snails, remember? Now, Florence, before you hang up…” Florence stepped hard on the phone with the heel of her boot, and then she stepped on the break, pulling in behind the caravan again as she caused a truck to break hard with a screech of tyres. Through the open window, she felt the truck’s smoky, hot breath. It made her think of a large animal – a buffalo, perhaps. And then, just as she slipped out of the crowded lane, she saw the log. It tumbled from the truck with a sound like thunder, missing her car narrowly. She pulled at the wheel, thanking her lucky stars, and drove away from the dreadful noise of crunching metal, breaking glass and screams, wincing quietly a moment before the cars behind her started crashing into one another.

  Police sirens filled the air within seconds. Thank goodness, the accident was close enough for her to pass unnoticed and yet far enough away for her not to be caught up in it. The last thing she needed now was time spent in the company of some brainless policeman, or another warrant for arrest. At her age, and in her profession, drawing attention to herself could turn out to be a disaster.

  The phone kept ringing. Florence ignored it. She narrowed her eyes in concentration as she drove faster and faster through the English countryside. The road twisted before her, a blur of grey and blue and green. Adrenaline surged inside her as the needle slid up the speedometer. Soon, she would be in Calais, where she could take the ferry home and clean up the mess her son had gotten everyone into. Despite everything, she loved Greg. One couldn’t blame a child growing up as he did, and wasn’t she to blame for the way he had turned out? If only he hadn’t fallen for that woman, now everything would be all right. There would be no mess to clean up. And no children.

  She pressed the Play button on the CD player and hummed to the beats of jazz. Edith Piaf, her favourite singer, had abandoned her child as an infant. Perhaps she had known best. Perhaps it would have been best to throw Greg overboard on that transatlantic ship she boarded disguised as the Thai King’s French governess, the way the Vikings disposed of their faulty breed. Florence sighed. Love was the worst weakness in the world. She floored the pedal to overtake a lorry billowing smoke, just as black clouds gathered on the already steely sky. It was going to rain. She had to get there quickly, before the rain started, before the ferry trip was cancelled due to bad weather…

  “Aargh!” Florence screamed when a bolt of lightning lit up her windscreen. She watched the needle move…60, 80, 100…her muscles felt like they were going to snap…and then she realised what had flashed on her windscreen wasn’t a bolt of lightning at all. Pure dread turned her blood cold. Behind her, the lights of a police car were flashing. The siren cut through her like a knife.

  “Pull over, ma’am,” came a distorted voice through a loudhailer.

  Florence drove on.

  “I SAID, PULL OVER!”

  Two police cars came speeding past, blocking her way. The only escape was to her left. Florence stopped the car, unlocked the door, scrambled frantically out and ran across the snow-covered field, her red cloak flying behind her like a deflated parachute. Two officers brought her screaming and kicking back to the car.

  “Don’t make things difficult for yourself, ma’am,” said one of the officers, pressing her roughly against the bonnet of the car.

  “LET. ME. GO!” she shrieked. The wind had stirred, and the dark storm clouds now filled every inch of the sky. Florence’s crocheted beret was flipped onto the officer’s face and a few passengers from a car in the other lane laughed.

  The officer shook the beret off. “I am arresting you for resisting a police order! And speeding. You’re on a motorway, not a Formula One track!”

  Florence heard the metal click of the handcuffs around her wrists, a sound that was as familiar to her as the whistle of a kettle.

  “There’s a passport here,” said the policewoman who had been rummaging through the car. “She’s from Burkina-Faso.”

  The officer raised his eyebrows, and he peered at the photograph page.

  “I may not have the best eyesight in the world, ma’am, but isn’t this you wearing black shoe polish? And if you’re from Burkina-Faso, I need to see your visa. And why are you speaking with a French accent?”

  “Well I’m…I’m an actress! And you need to let me go, human lives depend on it, and, and, you have no idea who I am!”

  The two officers smiled as if this was something they heard every day.

  “Why don’t you come with us to the station and tell us all about it?”

  “Do I have a choice?” groaned Florence. Large raindrops fell to her face from the overcast sky. The rain pattered down, and she was soaked to the skin within seconds. “All right then. I missed that ferry anyway. Can we get in now, pleaze? It’s raining catz and dogz!”

  When the officer behind her didn’t move, Florence half turned to look at him.

  “Que’est ce que c’ai? What are you…” She followed the officer’s gaze to her left hand. His eyes were wide and his hand shrunk back from her arm before he could stop it.

  “Robert,” he said. “I think you’d better look at this.”

  26. Axius and Oskar Claus

  The room was a smoky, cavernous kitchen, with wood-panelled walls and an old-fashioned terracotta stove. The only decorations were animal furs, once white but now yellowed by smoke. The children were sitting around a table. Despite the cooking smells, lovely aromas of fried onions and fish pie, Honey felt bile rising in her throat. They were in trouble. She could feel it. Something was very wrong.

  Fridrik seethed with anger. He moved a chair roughly, and its legs scraped the floor, leaving claw marks on the wood. Something whimpered; a second later, a fluffy puppy emerged and disappeared under a cupboard.

  Inside Teddy’s jumper, Blanche stirred. “Is that a husky? Can I touch him?”

  “No, you may NOT!” roared Fridrik, sweeping everything off the table with one flick of his hand. Plates, cups and saucers crashed to the floor. From its hiding place, the puppy whimpered again.

  Fridrik gnashed his teeth. “Now, I am very, very disappointed in you two.”

  Honey and Teddy shrunk into each other, watching Fridrik squeeze his fist until his knuckles went white. “I think I made something very clear,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Didn’t I?”

  The children didn’t answer. Honey screamed when his fist landed on the table next to her. Fridrik grabbed Teddy’s collar and brought his face close to his. “DIDN’T I?” he yelled, spattering Teddy’s eyes with spit. He released his grip and Teddy slumped back in his chair, with a worried look at his sister.

  Calmer, Fridrik sat before them, his hands together as if in prayer. His bloodshot eyes moved from one to the other searchingly, as if he wanted to read their deeper thoughts. Then he spoke, his voice loaded– every word heavy with menace. “You are prisoners, whether you like it or not. When you try to escape, not only do you put your own lives in danger, but also the other children’s, and mine. We coul
d be executed for trying to help you!”

  “We didn’t mean any harm,” Honey said quietly.

  “We were just exploring,” her brother said in an even smaller voice.

  Fridrik Helgarsson didn’t look impressed. “As a child, if I disobeyed, my dad gave me a sound thrashing. He used strips of leather he cut especially for this purpose. And look at me now. You can’t say I did very bad in life, can you?”

  Honey and Teddy flashed each other a look. A spark of irony glinted in Honey’s eyes. You work for a psychopath. She saw the reflection of her thoughts in her brother’s eyes.

  “This is only day two, and you’ve already given us a whole lot of trouble. You, young lady, stupidly fell into an ice hole, and you, little man, broke into Mr Claws’ property! You were this close to being killed. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be winter casserole as we speak!”

  Honey shivered. A horrible image of Teddy’s chubby hand popping out of Black Russian’s gruesome cauldron played in her mind.

  Fridrik’s eyes bore into them searchingly. “You’re nothing but trouble!” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re even worth it.”

  “If we’re so much trouble, then why not let us go?” Honey had had enough of this lecture. Why did everyone think she needed lecturing? People had no right to tell her what to do, and she just wasn’t going to put up with it. Things were bad enough as it was. Pride was her last, and most precious treasure; holding on to it made her feel as if not everything was lost. “And what are we doing here anyway?”

  “Okay.” Fridrik rubbed his head. “I suppose you’d better know the truth. But first, let’s get you some food. So long as you have food in your belly, you have solved all questions for the time being. One of my favourite sayings.” He went to the oven and returned with a tray of sizzling meat.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” Teddy whimpered, his words muffled by the hissing of a teapot.

  “Eat anyway,” said Honey. “This fried meat is better than walrus soup.”