Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

Greg snapped off a military salute. ‘Sah!’

‘This man’s lost, can you help him back to-’

‘ASK ME IF I’VE BEEN NAUGHTY!’

Hanna stopped smiling and grabbed onto Stephen’s leg.

Her mother narrowed wee squint eyes. ‘Is this part of the show?’

‘Er. . .’ Stephen blinked. The first rule of Shopping Centre Santas was ‘stay in character’. ‘Well, I’d have to consult my list, I always check it twice, but-’

The man took two steps forward, snarling and slurring his words. ‘I’ve not been naughty, but you have, haven’t you? WITH MY FUCKING WIFE!’

‘What? Are you kidding? I’m married!’

‘SO . . . AM . . . I!’ Pounding his fist into his own chest between each word.

Oh shit – the guy was a nut. No way Stephen was getting the crap kicked out of him by a drunken bampot for minimum wage. Screw the code of the Santas. ‘Look, mate, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve never slept with your wife, OK? Come on, you’re scaring the kid. . .’

And that was when the shotgun came out.

Craig brought the gun up until it was pointing right between the bastard’s eyes. ‘Liz told me all about it.’ He flicked off the safety as the piped-in Christmas carols started in on ‘Jingle Bells’. Tears made the room swim, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t cry. ‘Six months! SIX BLOODY MONTHS!’

The soon-to-be-dead Santa held his hands up, eyes wide. ‘I never! I swear! Please!’

‘You and her: after rehearsals for that fucking pipe band! Three times a week for six bloody months!’ The gun was getting heavy, drifting down towards the floor.

‘Mate, I never touched your wife: I’m not in a band. I can’t even play the spoons!’

Craig screwed up his face, keeping the lying bastard in focus. ‘I know it’s you, she told me! You: Santa Fucking Claus!’ He dragged the shotgun up again. ‘Filling my wife’s stockings!’

‘Please!’ Sweat trickled down Santa’s face, into his beard. ‘Not in front of the kids, eh?’ He reached down and pulled the little girl. . . Hanna? Pulled Hanna round till she was standing in front of him. ‘You don’t want to ruin Christmas for her, do you?’

‘No!’ The woman leapt forwards, but Craig swung the gun round. She froze, trembling. ‘Please, let me take my little girl! Please!’

Craig ignored her. ‘Was she good?’ he asked. ‘My wife: was she good?’

‘I never touched her, I swear!’

‘She’s only four!’

The idiot in the elf costume stuck up his hand. ‘Maybe. . .’ His voice cracked and he had to try again. ‘Er. . . Maybe it’s another Father Christmas? You know? They all look alike, right? With the beard and the hat and the belly?’

Craig squinted at him. ‘Don’t you dare patronize me! She said she was screw . . . screwing the Santa down the shopping centre.’ His sore hand throbbed – he shifted his grip on the shotgun.

‘Which one?’ The elf asked.

Craig opened his mouth, then frowned. Swore. There were two in the centre of town: the Guild Centre on Dean Street and this one. ‘She didn’t say.’

‘See?’ The guy with the beard slumped in his seat. ‘I told you it wasn’t me! I never touched your wife; it has to be the other Santa!’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh thank Christ for that. . .’

‘I. . .’ Craig closed his eyes. The burrowing tick of a headache ate through the whisky numbness. How could he get it so wrong? He’d fucked it up, just like he fucked everything up. His one last, grand gesture was a total disaster.

The store would call the police, he’d be arrested, and the story would be all over the papers so everyone could see what a cretin he was. He’d go to prison and Liz would be free to screw the other Santa all day, every day. Laughing at stupid Craig the fuck-up. ‘You sure you’re not in the pipe band?’

‘Positive.’ The Santa forced a smile. ‘Not in the band. It’s not me!’

‘Jingle Bells’ finished and ‘Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly’ started up instead. Fa la, la, la, la. . .

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t. . .’ Should have known better. That’s what he got for drinking all that whisky on an empty stomach. He wasn’t thinking straight.

The shotgun was so heavy. Be good to put it down and just go to sleep.

‘It’s OK, easy mistake to make. I was just saying to-’ And that’s when this deafening bang ripped through the grotto. Like a firework going off, or a car backfiring.

The left side of Santa’s face disappeared in a spatter of red and grey.

Craig looked down at the gun in his hands.

Smoke drifted out from the end of the barrel. The woman started screaming, and the little girl cried, and the elf was sick in the corner.

Santa didn’t even fall over: just sat there, held in place by the arms of the huge throne, leaking brains and blood into his beard. The wall behind him was pebble-dashed with bits of head. The whole place stank of sulphur, raw meat, and fresh vomit.

He’d shot the wrong man. By accident.

He couldn’t even fuck up properly.

Kinda funny when you thought about it.

Still, there was one thing he could do right. Craig sat on the floor, pulled out his bottle of Highland Park, and took a deep, long drink. Then placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Greg shivered in the corner, taking deep breaths, not looking at what was left of Liz’s husband, Craig. Between him and Stephen, the place was like a horror movie.

He wiped a sticky chunk of red off the front of his stripy top. It left a long scarlet smear.

Thank Christ he’d exaggerated his job title when he told her about his new Christmas gig. After all: who wanted to shag an elf?

12: Drummers Drumming

There’s a small pause – the kind you get before something really nasty happens – then all hell lets loose. From both ends.

‘Oh Jesus. . .’ I hold the horrible thing as far away from my suit as possible, but it’s already too late: white milky vomit spatters all over my shoulder. Fresh urine sprays across my shirt and trousers. Soaking through to my skin. ‘You little bast. . .’

I catch the look on Stephanie’s face and turn it into a cough.

Forty-five-year-old men are not equipped to deal with small babies. It’s not natural. And sticky. ‘Oh Christ. . .’ He’s at it again, piddling like a broken teapot.

‘Oh, give him here, for God’s sake.’ She reaches out and I hand over our first and only child – the way he’s going there isn’t likely to be a second one. Stephanie makes little cooing noises while I scramble out of my suit and into the last set of clean clothes I own: jeans and a tartan shirt. Like a bloody lumberjack, only grumpier.

Don’t even have time to shower – going to be late as it is.

I throw the suit into the washing basket, kiss my wife on the cheek – it’s Christmas Eve, I’m making the effort – and give my three-month-old son the best smile I can manage in the circumstances. Then leg it.

It’s quarter past seven in the morning: Christmas Eve and the sky’s burnt-toast black, dumping yet more snow on the city centre. Big fat flakes that melt to slush the moment they touch the gritty, shining tarmac.

My breath mists around my head as I hurry down the front steps to the waiting car.

PC Richardson’s behind the wheel. He’s a tall, stick-like man with the sort of face old ladies love. Not looking