“People are still killed in public squares,” said Honey. “Anyway, if we save him, he might be our ticket out of here.”
“We have nowhere to go,” Clementine reminded them. “Our parents sold us, and we owe Mr Claws a lot of money.”
“Selling children is illegal,” said Honey, “and so is making them work from such an early age. We have to notify the police.”
“But we’re in the middle of nowhere,” whined Jerry. “The snow is as big as a house, and the sea is full of nasty things.”
“Like dead people,” Erasmus pointed out.
A soft knock, coming from above, echoed in the room.
“It’s true!” Fred shrieked. “There is someone there!”
Honey glanced up at the ceiling. It was dark, but they could see the iron handles. In a corner, a flickering light bulb went off in a wisp of smoke.
“Hello?” cried Honey. “Can you hear me?” More knocking came in reply.
“It can’t be worse than cleaning seal guts to make sausages.” Erasmus tightened the rope around him, stretched up and grabbed one of the handles. The square trapdoor screeched, but didn’t budge. A heavy silence descended over the room.
Erasmus was followed by Honey, Teddy and Johann. They moved around on the rings like gymnasts, with only the ropes tied around them for safety, followed by the terrified eyes of their roommates. Every time she clasped a new hatch, Honey’s heart pounded in the hope that this might be the good one. The rings were so cold on her skin they felt like they were burning. Her hands were clammy with sweat.
“Come on, Honey!”
“You can do it!”
“Not long now!”
“You’re nearly there!”
The shouting cheered her on. Don’t look down, don’t look down, she kept telling herself, but the floor drew her eyes like a magnet. The scurrying mice looked like ants from up here. She was hot and dizzy. After a while the acrobatic exercise became excruciatingly painful.
“I’m getting tired,” Honey admitted, grasping another handle. “Maybe there is nothing up…”
With a great jingling and clattering, a mouth opened in the ceiling, and something heavy fell through it. The thing now dangled at mid-distance between the ceiling and the floor. From the black square hole came a horrible screech.
“Bloody Hell!” yelled Johann, nearly losing his grip on the rings from the shock.
“Oh my God!” screamed Honey.
The man was hanging with a rope around his neck which, Honey realised, was making the gut-churning screech.
“Santa!” Teddy cried.
Erasmus gasped for breath, sweat streaming down his face. The four children hung from the iron handles like monkeys from the branches of a tree. There was a short pause, filled with the man’s throttled grunts. Then Honey had an idea.
“Quick! Make a tower! Like people at the circus! One on top of the other!”
The children jumped out of their beds, climbed down the ropes and then on top of each other, making a Chinese wall.
“Hurry!” Honey cried. Her hand was slowly slipping from the handle, her chest hurt. “Push him back up!”
The last person at the top of the tower was Clementine, and she wasn’t juggling a set of balls or balancing a wheel, but trying to duck her head from the frantic twitching of the hanging man’s legs. Trembling, she stretched her hand to the soles of his boots and half closed her eyes.
“I can’t do it. He looks scary.”
“Don’t look at him.” Teddy was grunting, moving on the handles towards the open trapdoor.
The man’s movements were getting weaker, and Honey knew there was no time to waste. Pulling her legs up, she removed Mum’s sharp knife from her boot and sliced the rope. There was a chance he would crash to death on the floor, but it was better than hanging from his neck.
Thump. The body fell to the ground. The door rattled. Everyone froze in their positions, like in a game of statues. It wasn’t moving. The Chinese wall collapsed and the children clambered down the bed frames like monkeys.
“Is he dead?” asked Clementine, as Erasmus consulted the man. He put his ear on his chest and checked his pulse. They jumped as a loud gasp of air burst from his mouth.
The man coughed and spluttered, holding his neck.
Suddenly, the enormity of what had just happened hit Honey. A man had nearly hanged. He could have died. He would have died, if she hadn’t cut the rope. This was the second barbarous spectacle she had witnessed in a day. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Thank you,” the man managed to say in a croaky voice. He was almost identical in appearance to his brother. Without the nose ring and the silver teeth, he looked a lot like the Christmas-card Santa. His voice was young, different from his brother’s.
I’ve saved Santa’s life this Christmas. Honey felt a surge of pride.
But still, she had questions. Lots of them. What was Mum’s book doing in Santa Claws’ bedroom? How about their photos, and the scarf? How long has he been following them? Why did she feel like a pawn in a game of chess?
A game – that was it. This was a sick game. Honey was struck by fear: was that what happened to Mum? Had he kidnapped her, too? Her body had never been found. Was it lying under the ice, in the Arctic Cemetery she’d caught a glimpse of through the underground window? Legless, armless, headless? Honey shuddered. Her belly flipped over, like when she overheard the policewoman telling Dad that their dog had found a body part in Bunny Park.
We found this near the creek, the policewoman had said, holding up a mobile phone in a plastic bag, and another bag that contained some dry leaves stained with blood. Despite herself, Honey smiled. The creek was their favourite picnicking place. There, together under the maple tree, they ate hard boiled quail eggs with celery salt.
“Thank you, my dear.” Santa’s hand was on her shoulder. Honey helped him to his feet. Why hadn’t the rope left a mark on his neck?
“Hello, Oskar. It’s nice to meet you at last.” She held out her hand and the man shook it.
“Three hundred and eighty four days. I counted hoping I wouldn’t go mad. The worst bit was listening to you crying at night. That was the whole point of him locking me in the loft of your dormitory.”
“Are you really Santa?” Teddy asked.
“No, not really.” He smiled. “The real Santa, my great-great-great grandfather, died a good three hundred years ago. I’m his successor. These days money is scarce,” he added sadly. “I only manage to give a few presents each year. It’s not like in the good old days, before the recession.”
The children muttered excitedly. Everyone wanted to ask Santa a question.
“Did you ever give me a present?” Jerry blurted out.
“Oh, I’d have to check my files. I do my homework, you know. I have helpers finding out everything about children so we can give them appropriate presents. Your file would have photos of you, a description of your hobbies and any medical conditions.”
Aha, thought Honey, So, that’s where Claws got the information from. That’s where he got all those photos. He had stolen the files from his brother.
“Thing is, a whole lot of my files went missing. Perhaps my brother burned them.” Oskar got to his feet. “Anyway, my name is Oskar Claus. Although it seems you already know that.” He smiled awkwardly. “Nice to meet you, everyone.”
“He hasn’t burned them”.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The files,” Honey said. “He hasn’t burned them. They’re right there, in his quarters, and that’s how he managed to kidnap all of us. You’ve given presents to all of us here – that’s how he heard of us in the first place.”
The children gasped. Oskar’s eyes twinkled – deep blue like wedges of a summer sky.
And then, in the st
unned silence of the dormitory, something snapped loudly. Honey looked down in time to see the headless mouse body rolling onto the floor, while the gagged doll made a sound like a jammed photocopier, her sinister face spattered with fresh blood.
29. Flaubert
Florence held on to her veiled hat in the vicious wind. Suddenly she groaned with relief. “There you are. I thought I’d never make it. The police, they took me and now they’re after that woman, Maimouna Mossi. Michel is going to kill me, he had to Skype them from Papua New Guinea – he was dressed in feathers and there were naked women behind him and men with sharp teeth! Are we all set?”
“You little identity thief,” Flaubert said adoringly, pinching his wife’s cheeks. “You’ll tell me everything once we’re safely inside. Now, après vous, mademoiselle.” He bowed, indicating the wind-swept escalator. Like Florence, he held on to his hat with his hand. His cream overcoat fluttered in the wind, revealing a bursting beer belly and thighs like tree trunks. He waited for Florence to disappear inside before boarding the jet himself.
“Is José really angry?” said Florence, nestling into her seat. “Has he been waiting here since yesterday?”
“Now, ma chère femme, you know me better than that.”
“Pardon?”
“I knew you wouldn’t make it on time, so I only booked José from tonight.”
“Knew I wouldn’t make it on time?! What’s that supposed to mean? I WAS ON MY WAY!”
Flaubert put a chubby hand on her arm. “Calme toi, cherie. All I mean is, I check BBC weather. Essential when you’re travelling, n’est-ce pas?” He chuckled. “And I also check…”
Florence drew a sharp breath. “ISPY webmail.” She nodded appreciatively. “The accident on the motorway was planned. That log – it wasn’t really an accident, was it? Let me guess. Was Alexander driving?”
“Our best stuntman, yes. He did quite a good job.” Flaubert dropped his voice. “Giovanni and his wife are dead. They were micro-chipped by one of our dentists, during a routine visit. We followed their every move.”
Florence shuddered. “So that’s what you rang to tell me.”
“Yes. Cherie, don’t look so glum. Death would have been fast. And painless. Besides, if they got away, a lot more people would have been dead. It was for the greater good. Anyway, enough of that. I did a bit of shopping.” He gestured to a few colourful bags with clothing spilling out of them before closing the overhead compartment. On the seat beside her, Florence noticed a couple of rolled-up sleeping bags. Flaubert was about to take a seat himself when he noticed the bulge beneath Florence’s cardigan.
“How many times do I have to tell you, you can’t bring your Nespresso machine with you?”
“It’s the only coffee I drink,” his wife replied sheepishly.
“And you won’t get very far in those boots, either. Goodness, Florence, have you forgotten everything about travelling rough and incognito?” Flaubert stuffed the sleeping bags under their seats. He sighed. “What you need is some nice thermal footwear. Shoes that stay hot in the cold.”
“They got me here, didn’t they?” Florence retorted without much zest, knowing her husband was probably right.
“You act like an independent woman,” Flaubert sighed as they took their seats opposite each other, “but at the slightest trouble, you run to me.” He chuckled.
“I wouldn’t call this,” Florence replied sternly, fastening her seat belt, “a slight trouble.”
Flaubert turned his attention to the doughnut he had just pulled out from his pocket. “Worry, worry, worry. That’s all you do. What’s the big deal, after all? It’s only a flight across the world.”
“Only!”
Flaubert took a huge bite from his doughnut, and then another.
Florence reached in her bag for a tissue. “Will you eat properly, please. Manners! You remind me of her.” She wiped her husband’s chin of jam and cream, thoughtful for a few moments. “Flaubert, this is dangerous. It’s a matter for the police, not two old birds like us.”
“Speak for yourself, old woman. Besides, aren’t we always…?”
“Always what?”
“Doing their work for them. The police. We are the secret police, whether you like it or not.”
Flaubert closed his eyes, taking his wife’s hand as the plane took to the black winter sky.
30. Hospital Ward
“That should be fine,” declared the bonneted nurse. Her chubby cheeks reminded Greg of ripe apples. Was everyone on this flippin’ island wearing bonnets? Telling him to watch his step, she escorted him out into the corridor. She mumbled something under her breath before retreating behind a door.
“What did they say?” inquired Anaconda, snapping her magazine shut.
“They say I was lucky I fell on fresh snow, and not on concrete,” Greg answered.
“Lucky, how? You still broke both your arms. Well, I suppose it could have been worse, like that time when you broke both your wrists and an ankle during the first ten minutes of playing football in the gym. You might be a case of brittle bones – need to get checked out for that, too.”
“I am one for sports of the mind, not the body,” said Greg, wincing as he sat down beside Anaconda in the empty corridor. He looked at his miserable reflection in the polished floor. “Besides, bones don’t need to be brittle to break after a fall from that height.”
“It was only the first floor. Oh, never mind. Our holiday is totally ruined anyway.”
“It’s not my fault I had an accident! I’m the one who has to walk around like a bleedin’ mummy!”
“You were the one who kept insisting we go out on the balcony! Told you it was slippery!”
“You said it was cold!”
Anaconda tutted.
Greg gnashed his teeth and bit his tongue to stop the stream of insults he wanted to lash out at Anaconda. If he wasn’t so angry from spending the last twelve hours in a hospital ward, having his arms stitched and plastered, he would see the comic side of the situation and make fun of this disastrous holiday. Was the injustice he’d done to the children turning against him?
“Sorry, darling.” Anaconda curled an arm around his shoulder. “It’s just that I was so scared when you lost consciousness. You kept babbling something about a box, even though your bone was poking out…sorry. I guess you were hallucinating.”
Greg’s spirits sank even deeper. The box. It was buried deep under a blanket of snow. He risked his life to rescue it, and it had been in vain. Will someone find it in a few weeks’ time, when the ice melted? How could he search for it, when both his arms were broken? He swallowed. Perhaps…maybe he could ask Anaconda to help him? It would spoil the surprise, of course, but save an extortionately expensive ring, and then this holiday wouldn’t be a total waste.
“Dearest?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Listen, I was thinking…”
Anaconda glanced impatiently at her watch. “Shall we make a move? It’s an all-you-can-eat Victorian buffet for breakfast today – we might just be able to make it.” She regarded him carefully. “I can spoon feed you some anchovy meatballs.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Hard boiled tortoise eggs? Deep fried pig snout? You pay a fortune for such delicacies in London, you know, not to mention you can only get a place if you book well in…”
“Listen, darling, when I had the… accident, I dropped a little box.”
“Here we go again.” Anaconda felt his brow, frowning. “You’re hot.”
“Somewhere in the yard by the trees. Somewhere in the snow. That’s where it fell. It’s very important that I find it.”
Anaconda drummed her fingers on her studded handbag, glaring at the ceiling.
Greg took a deep breath. “Could you…let me put it this way, you�
��d be very happy if you found it.”
At last Anaconda looked at him. “Excuse me, my love,” she said, getting up and disappearing into the nurse’s office.
“You shouldn’t be in here, madam.”
The nurse was filling up a syringe. Anaconda saw the flash of a bare bottom behind a curtain.
Anaconda braced herself for what she was going to ask. “Is it possible to book Greg Raymond for a brain scan? I mean, could delirium be a side effect of his fall?”
The nurse gave her a stern look. “I am not a doctor, madam.”
“Then get a doctor, damn it!” She closed her eyes. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m, you know, very worried. I’m…” She stopped for a second. What was she to him? Nothing. She was nothing. The realisation hit her harder than the accidental punch the day before. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Not husband and wife. She was too old to be playing this game. If Greg Raymond wasn’t going to marry her, then she would walk out right there and then.
Pushing the door open, she stormed out into the corridor, past an open-mouthed Greg and through the sliding doors.
“Anaconda!” he shouted after her, craning his neck. “Hey, where are you going?” Getting up, he stumbled over a trolley, knocking over its contents. Some vials shattered on the cold tiles, and for a moment Greg watched perplexed as the dark blood splattered on his feet.
31. Reindeer Barbecue
Getting a factory ready for a celebration isn’t the easiest task in the world, thought Honey as she mopped her brow with the stuffing of an old toy. She was exhausted. Saving a man from certain death was a noble thing, but it didn’t make acrobatics any easier, and now her bruised muscles ached. She smoothed out the tablecloth, while her brother and Erasmus hung up a banner with National Reindeer Barbecue in bright red letters. Her eyes stung. She just wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep.
A compact version of Black Russian’s kitchen had been reconstructed in the hall, and the blackboard was now filled with the dishes of the day. Reading them, Honey felt as confused as when she was trying to decipher the factory slang:
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