Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

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?’