Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) (27 page)

             
He was at the next house before the children in the previous ones had passed a second of slumber, shifting the several hundred yards with an effortless thought of his magical mind. He only wished that his powers extended to stopping or slowing time, thus giving him the ability to traverse the country in one season and bring goodwill and joy to children all over the world and not just the town of Brittleside, but it didn’t matter. He knew that there were thousands of others just like him. He hadn’t seen them, they, like him, were a secretive bunch, but he was confident in their abilities nevertheless.

             
The next house was bigger than the last, the occupants a little more well-off than he had imagined. He sidled to the back garden via a darkened path that carved between the detached house and the one next to it. He slowly opened a tall iron gate that blocked his path. He could walk through what he wanted; one of the perks of the job, but the presents wouldn’t follow him. He also enjoyed the thrill of doing it the old fashioned way, next to the joy he knew he was giving to the children, and the free booze and cakes -- another perk of the job, everyone remembered to leave out cakes and sherry for Santa, and if not they often left it in the fridge or cupboards for him to find at leisure -- the creeping and sneaking was the best part of the job.

             
One of the windows at the back of the house was wide open, inviting him inside. A little odd, he thought to himself, but convenient. It would save him the trouble of trying the doors and windows or reverting to his powers.

             
He clambered through into a room of pitch black. He hadn’t been in the best of shape or practise this season, but over the last few days his guile and agility had returned and he was able to make it through without tripping over and falling on his arse. He did knock over something that sounded fragile, the realisation of which came when he heard it shatter into a dozen pieces on the floor, but you couldn't make an omelette without breaking a few expensive vases.

             
He pulled in the bag from outside and walked slowly forward, cringing as his feet crunched the broken pottery pieces.

             
The lights snapped on, the room suddenly lit with a bright glare that the man in the red suit tried to shield with a hand thrown to his eyes. He dropped his sack; stumbled backwards.

             
In front of him, standing in a line of three and looking like an abstract Evolution of Man, was Chip, Michael and Naff.

             
The man in the red suit stared at them. He put on his best wizened smile, took a step towards them and retrieved his sack, dragging it by his side.

             
Chip was the first to speak. He folded his arms, put on a menacing expression and delivered his best action movie line. “You got something in that sack for me big man?”

             
Santa Claus paused mid-reply, swallowed his words and flashed Chip a perplexed stare. Naff and Michael also turned to their little friend, bafflement and disappointment on their faces.

             
Chip weighed up his comment in his head, met each of the disappointed stares and then turned a slight shade of red. He hung his head, “That came out wrong,” he admitted. “Just forget I said anything.”

             
The jolly man in red looked at each of them in turn, spending significantly more time on Chip. An expression of perplexity, without the slightest hint of trepidation, creased his features. “What is this?” he asked.

             
Chip was the first to reply. “This is where the road ends for you, where
your
road ends,” he chewed the sentence like a small stick of toffee. “This is where, ah for fuck’s sake,” he spat, exasperated at his efforts.

             
Michael turned to his friend, “Give it a rest Chip.”

             
“Fuck you,”
Chip spat back, sinking his head into his chest.

             
“This has to stop,” Michael told Santa Claus, stepping forward. “You can’t keep breaking into people’s houses, it’s not right,” his voice was warm and innocuous.

             
The big man looked bemused. “But I bring joy to children all over town. There’s something in this sack of mine to please everyone.”

             
Michael and Naff turned instinctively towards their midget friend, he didn’t meet their gazes; he didn’t speak.

             
“What’s not right about that?” Santa finished.

             
“Jacky, look,” Naff offered, moving closer. “You need to stop this.”

             
“Who’s Jacky?”

             
“You are. Don’t you remember? Your name is Jacky Sampson, you’re on probation.”

             
Santa Claus retained a blank expression.

             
“I’m your intermediary: Naff. No? Nothing? Look,” Naff said, waving a hand. “The point is: you’re
not
Santa Claus. You’re a mentally ill demon escaped from hell.”

             
He glared back momentarily, then he turned to Michael, aiming a swift and indicative nod in Naff’s direction. “Is your friend a little…” he twirled his finger around his temple.

             
“Asks the fat guy in the Santa costume,” Chip noted, returning to the conversation.             

             
“This is not a costume. I
am
Santa.”

             
“Of course you are mate, and I’m Gandhi.”

             
“You look familiar,” the man in red noted. “Didn’t I bring you a present?”

             
Chip was overcome with a childish sense of bashfulness. “Maybe.”

             
“That’s right,” the fat man waddled forward, pointing a knowing finger. “You’re Chip,” he dug a hand into his pocket and brought out a list, a myriad of heavy handed names and information formed a visible impression on the back of the sheet. “Some multimedia device it seems,” he recalled with the know-how of a Grandfather seeing his first Xbox, “some state of the art, computer --”

             
“My wank box,” Chip cut in knowingly. “Yes, that was me, and for that, I thank you.”

             
The jolly man looked a little less jolly. “Your
what?
”

             
“But the point remains,” Chip continued. “This is wrong and downright freaky, you have to stop. I mean I know you gave me a present an’ all, but I have to stick by my friends on this one.” He coughed nonchalantly. “Unless you have something else in that sack for me?”

             
“Well, no,” Santa replied, even more bemused. “You only get one,”

             
“OK,” Chip said resolutely. “Then this is wrong, you should stop.”

             
His eyes lingered on the little man for a moment and then shifted to Michael. A desperation had crept onto his jolly face. “I don’t understand,” he swapped his stare between Michael and Naff, ignoring Chip.

             
Naff calmly said, “You’re not well.”

             
“But I feel fine.”

             
“But you
think
you’re Santa Claus.”

             
“I’m not
the
Santa Claus,” the man in red scoffed with a satirical grin creeping onto his face.

             
Michael and Naff looked at each other, suddenly wondering if they had made a mistake, if the demon wasn’t really delusional after all. Maybe he really did just want to bring joy to the children and sex perverts of Brittleside.

             
“You don’t think you’re Santa Claus?” Naff asked suspiciously, not failing to note the red suit and the large toy-filled sack.

             
He laughed derisively at the outlandish question. “Of course not,” he smirked.

             
“Oh, well--”

             
“I’m not the
only
Santa.”

             
“What?”

             
“Well, think about it,” Santa said seriously. “How can one man travel the world delivering presents? Hell, I only deliver to one town and even
that
takes me all season.”

             
“You’ve lost me.”

             
“There are thousands of us,” Santa said with a booming smile.

             
Naff nodded understandingly. “Ah. Right.”

             
“Sounds familiar,” Michael muttered softly.

             
“Can we lock this guy up now?” Chip asked.

             
Santa seemed taken aback by the comment. The smile dripped off his face and was replaced by a sudden suction of depression that distorted his features like a melancholic stroke.

             
“You’re going to lock me up?”

             
Naff sighed, shaking his head at the midget next to him. “We just need to take you...” he paused, “...
somewhere
,” he said, maintaining a smile. “Just to sort a few things out.”

             
“Prison?”

             
“No. No.” Naff was quick to assure.

             
“Hell,” Chip added helpfully.

             
“
For fucks sake Chip!
”

             
“You’re taking me to hell?” the big man looked hurt. His heavy frame sagged under the weight of his own depression. “Oh. OK.”

             
He staggered over to the couch and slumped down with a heavy sigh. His broad back arched painfully; his head aimed at his big boots.

             
“I’m sorry,” Naff offered.

             
The big man sucked in a large lungful of air and pushed it out in a longwinded sigh. “You do what you have to do. If you want me to go with you, I’ll go.”

             
“I can’t take you back with your powers,” Naff told him. “You have to relinquish them.”

             
Santa gave another long and tireless sigh and slowly rose to his feet, standing right in front of Chip and eclipsing him with the shadow of his stomach. He held out his hands, his arms outstretched, and turned his head away dismally. A number of moments passed without his hands being cuffed or touched, he lowered them slightly and turned back to Naff, the studious office worker had sat down and was filling out a form, using a thick TV guide to rest on.

             
“What are you doing?” Saint Nick asked.

             
Naff didn’t seem to hear. His bookish eyes scanned the paper, scribbling quickly and intermittently on its surface. He turned over a sheet, folded it to the back and then tapped the end of the ballpoint pen against his teeth. “How big would you say you are?” he wondered with his eyebrows arched inquisitively.

             
Santa seemed taken aback. “I have no idea.”

             
“Twenty stone easily,” Chip said knowledgeably.

             
“I don’t think so,” Santa replied, looking a little hurt and sucking his stomach in automatically.

             
“Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two,” Chip pushed, gauging the stomach just above his own head. “Twenty-three at a push. No more than twenty-four.”

             
“What’s going on” Michael interrupted, watching the scene with strained discombobulation.

             
“Twenty-five, put down twenty-five.”

             
“I’m taking away his powers,” Naff answered matter-of-factly, jotting down a rough estimate on the form, deciding to go for one of the few numbers that Chip hadn’t mentioned -- the grimy hobbit tended to be wrong when he was so sure he was right.

             
“Seriously?” Michael said with a touch of awe. “This is how you do it?”

             
Naff ignored his friend and continued scribbling.

             
“This is your job?” Michael said when Naff had finished and stood, more of a statement than a question. “You live a truly sad existence mate.”

             
“Somebody has to do it,” Naff said out of the corner of his mouth. He handed the man in red the forms and a pen and pointed to a marked spot at the bottom of the first sheet.

             
“Well, yeah, but surely there are better ways than this.”