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. Its 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 Santas little hideaway and ushered the first kid inside. Five minutes later the wee girl appeared out a side door, holding her mummys 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 itd be over an hour before he got to sit on Santas knee. The hell with that. He stepped out of line and lurched towards the grottos exit.
And whats your name little girl?
Hanna! She squealed it out, so excited to be in Santas house she couldnt 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. Im sorry, but Santas busy with Hanna right now.
The little girl giggled.
You. . . The man braced himself and squinted. You going to ask me if Ive been naughty?
OK ? that wasnt good.
Stephen waved at Greg. Santas little helper?
Greg snapped off a military salute. Sah!
Stephen waved at Greg. Santas little helper?
Greg snapped off a military salute. Sah!
This mans lost, can you help him back to-
ASK ME IF IVE BEEN NAUGHTY!
Hanna stopped smiling and grabbed onto Stephens 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, Id have to consult my list, I always check it twice, but-
The man took two steps forward, snarling and slurring his words. Ive not been naughty, but you have, havent you? WITH MY FUCKING WIFE!
What? Are you kidding? Im 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 dont know who you are, but Ive never slept with your wife, OK? Come on, youre scaring the kid. . .
And that was when the shotgun came out.
Craig brought the gun up until it was pointing right between the bastards 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 wouldnt 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: Im not in a band. I cant even play the spoons!
Craig screwed up his face, keeping the lying bastard in focus. I know its you, she told me! You: Santa Fucking Claus! He dragged the shotgun up again. Filling my wifes stockings!
Please! Sweat trickled down Santas 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 dont 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!
Shes only four!
The idiot in the elf costume stuck up his hand. Maybe. . . His voice cracked and he had to try again. Er. . . Maybe its another Father Christmas? You know? They all look alike, right? With the beard and the hat and the belly?
Craig squinted at him. Dont 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 didnt say.
See? The guy with the beard slumped in his seat. I told you it wasnt 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? Hed fucked it up, just like he fucked everything up. His one last, grand gesture was a total disaster.
The store would call the police, hed be arrested, and the story would be all over the papers so everyone could see what a cretin he was. Hed 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 youre not in the pipe band?
Positive. The Santa forced a smile. Not in the band. Its not me!
Jingle Bells finished and Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly started up instead. Fa la, la, la, la. . .
Im sorry. I didnt. . . Should have known better. Thats what he got for drinking all that whisky on an empty stomach. He wasnt thinking straight.
The shotgun was so heavy. Be good to put it down and just go to sleep.
Its OK, easy mistake to make. I was just saying to- And thats when this deafening bang ripped through the grotto. Like a firework going off, or a car backfiring.
The left side of Santas 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 didnt 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.
Hed shot the wrong man. By accident.
He couldnt 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 Lizs 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 hed exaggerated his job title when he told her about his new Christmas gig. After all: who wanted to shag an elf?
12: Drummers Drumming
Theres 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 its 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 Stephanies face and turn it into a cough.
Forty-five-year-old men are not equipped to deal with small babies. Its not natural. And sticky. Oh Christ. . . Hes at it again, piddling like a broken teapot.
Oh, give him here, for Gods sake. She reaches out and I hand over our first and only child the way hes going there isnt 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.
Dont 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 its Christmas Eve, Im making the effort and give my three-month-old son the best smile I can manage in the circumstances. Then leg it.
Its quarter past seven in the morning: Christmas Eve and the skys 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 Richardsons behind the wheel. Hes a tall, stick-like man with the sort of face old ladies love. Not looking all that shiny this morning though, not with the bags under his swollen pink eyes, and stubble on his chin and cheeks.
Hes got the radio on as I jump into the car.
. . .concerned for the safety of Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven following his disappearance two days ago. In other news: a service of remembrance will be held at St. Jaspers Kirk today for drowned schoolgirl Danielle McArthur. We spoke to Danielles family. . .
Richardson cranks the volume down till the news-casters voice disappears beneath the roar of the cars heater.
Mornin, Guv. His mouth droops. He sighs.
Normally I have to bash the cheerful bugger over the head with his own truncheon to make him settle down. Im about to ask whats up when he wrinkles his nose and stares at my lumberjack ensemble.
They call me Stinky behind my back.
They think I dont know, but I do. DI George Stinky McClain. Bastards. Its not my fault: Ive got a glandular condition. God knows how Stephanie puts up with it. I wash three times a day, use extra-strong deodorant, but the smell always leeches through in the end. Probably why Ive got such a crap sense of smell. Self defence.
At least this time I can blame the baby. But I dont: just snap on my seatbelt. You got that address?
Yup. Another sigh: like hes deflating. Fourteen Denmuir Gardens, opposite the primary school.
Course it is. What a surprise. I check the dashboard clock: eighteen minutes past seven. Were late.