by Zakarrie C
“You’ll know you’ve lost, though. Same difference. It is still murder, even if no one saw you do it.” Flinty informed Gabriel with a glint o’teeth. All the better to eat you with m’dear…
“Blimey, you must be fun on a date.” Gabe said. Out loud. The festive spirit had apparently gone straight to his head. “You’ve just segued from scoffing chocs to murder, in one sentence. With relish, I might add. Have you ever stabbed someone for snaffling the last After Eight?”
“No…” Those dot-dot-dots were almost louder than the word itself. “Only for pilfering the last Ferrero Rocher.”
“I do believe I wouldn’t put it past you,” Gabriel grinned. Crikey, he was having a hard job working out how and when the man he’d met had morphed into this one…and whereabouts they’d merged. Except for the fact they were both jaw-droppingly gorgeous, they scarce seemed related.
“I wouldn’t put it past you to pilfer one. Purely to find out.” Flinty stated, for all the world as if that was a foregone conclusion. Rather than a mere offering of opinion on Gabriel’s Russian Roulette propensities. Rumbled.
The bell abruptly jangled; a sound as jarring as if cymbals had been crashed against his ears. Or, a brick lobbed through the window, smashing something, which had somehow, shimmered into being.
It felt sort of akin to staring into a snow globe as it shattered to smithereens…snatching a world of wonderment away.
Chapter Two
Dylan
Dylan glanced up at the clock, which showed that three whole minutes had elapsed since last time he looked. About three hours ago.
He was bored stiff, pissed off, desperate for a drink, and gasping for a smoke. A shag wouldn’t go amiss, either. An impossible wish list—at least for the next few hours—in the case of the first two. Longer, for there to be a sniff of possibility that the latter might ensue. If, he could be arsed to drag himself to the pub.
It was Saturday night, and Dylan was stuck in the shop until ten when George took over. Four more hours to endure. The flurry of nine-to-fivers who’d popped in to purchase bottles of wine or lager, in homage to the weekend was over. Leaving Dylan to trudge through his shift, mired in his own misery, with much the enthusiasm of a man coerced into participating in a conga, whilst sober. He may, quite possibly, have been forced into making an exhibition of himself while inebriated. Once. Or twice…but had no recollection, whatsoever, of snaking his way round the room with shameless alacrity.
Dylan was feeling particularly pissed off because he’d come to work directly from an audition. Or, what would have been an audition, had he arrived in time to be added to the list. Thus, he’d been forced to skulk off with nary a chance to prove himself perfect for the role of Jimmy Porter. His exit might have made that patently apparent, but the only person who’d witnessed Dylan’s unparalleled Look Back In Anger, had been she who’d wielded the clipboard. It didn’t seem likely that she would be prepared to put in a good word for him, any time soon. This century.
In addition to that fiasco, Dylan was now stuck at work—rather than welded to a barstool—selling alcohol to every other bastard who trundled down Green Lanes on their way home. To top it off—as if that were necessary—he was wound so tight that his guts were griping. Snarled in angsty knots because Dylan had, finally, secured an interview for a job that might just make the rest of the shite a damn sight more bearable. A role redolent with the heady tang of greasepaint, to tide him over until…his mythical big break came along. In the meantime, it would be a tiny step closer to the life Dylan craved. Ideally, launched by a plum role that catapulted him into the stratosphere and saw his name star-studded in lights. Dylan, and every other delusional Drama student on Earth. The chances of this transpiring anywhere in his fucking future? About on par with the likelihood of securing a shag in the next five minutes.
His fortunes had been dire for a fortnight on that front, too. Largely because Dylan had found it damn near impossible to drag himself out of the doldrums, and into a venue where he might meet…who? Someone harbouring a secret crush on Severus Snape, who might be willing to brave Dylan’s company, let alone the grim confines of his bloody bedsit? Back in the seventies, it might have qualified as ‘dank and dingy’, but now? It could only aspire to ‘sordid and soul destroying’ after a fresh paint job. Going anywhere else should have proved sufficient incentive to get the fuck out of it, as often as possible, but Dylan had felt stubbornly disinclined to leave the damned thing. Almost, as if he were hell-bent on sinking into a mood as moribund as the woodchip wallpaper; a shade of once-white greige as dismal as the hours Dylan spent staring at it, in a rum-raddled stupor.
Dylan’s trip down misery lane was rudely interrupted by the teeth-gritting jangle of the bell that heralded the entrance of each customer. Reason enough to want to bolt the bloody door to ensure that no one could set the damn thing off.
“Oh bugger…”
Christ, no. It was way too early for the pissed-up and perennially irritating to start staggering in. Dylan glared at the ramshackle onslaught of limbs and belongings that clattered into the shop. This, with a godawful racket reminiscent of a one-man band, created by what appeared to be: one person, a single guitar, and some plastic bags. The latter were either full of saucepan lids, tambourines and stray cats…or, the customer could cause chaos in a broom cupboard. On his own. Neither of which boded well for the duration. He would no doubt browse for fifteen minutes, knock Dylan’s painstaking display of colour coordinated decorations off the shelf—then insist on arguing about fuck-all—before finally purchasing a cheap lighter, some Rizla papers and a Snickers bar.
Dylan had, clearly, been working in an off-license far too long. This had been true about an hour into his first shift, despite the fifteen percent staff reduction that had clinched the deal in the first place. Dylan watched, incredulous, as the litter of limbs and baggage rearranged itself into something that resembled a human figure. Albeit, a far too...extravagant one. Then, he lifted his head.
How simple that sounded. The customer’s face had formerly been obscured by the brim of his hat; a battered black trilby, barely a shade darker than eyes as bottomless as they were huge. Framed by excessive eyelashes and skin so pale, he could have played Pierrot, sans make-up. A fact not helped by lips so wind-chapped, they looked kiss-bitten. Or, he’d earned enough to buy more than a packet of bloody Rizla and a Snickers in the very recent past. If he hadn’t already blown it on his next fix. Get a grip. Who the hell would cart a guitar around with them, while out pulling punters? Punters, f'fucksakes?
“Hiya.” His little-boy-lost features lit up in a smile as startling as his voice; coming from a body comprised of far too many corners.
Dylan had expected clipped cockney tones or a harsh estuary drawl. The ‘hiya’ had scarce classified as a word, it had been a mere wisp of melody. This particular nugget of nonsense was followed by the belated awareness that he was standing like a lemon, dumbstruck. Ensnared in the dark spotlight of a gaze akin to a steel-jaw trap… Dylan blinked, breaking the spell, at which point it became apparent that he had yet to respond in any way, whatsoever. Neither in greeting, or the manner that befitted what Dylan was paid to do.
The customer had clanged to an abrupt halt, and now stood, seeming rather bewildered to find himself standing in a shop. A fact that suggested he may have already exchanged his hard earned—f’fucksakes.
Meanwhile, the fistful of scrabble tiles lodged in Dylan’s throat showed no signs of shifting. These might prove more possible to form a sentence with, than the tongue welded to the roof of his mouth. Trifling afflictions, compared to the acute discomfiture of being crippled elsewhere.
“Um, was there anything you wanted? Or, do you just intend to clutter up the doorway like a particularly unruly hatstand?” Dylan managed to enquire, eventually, resorting to rudeness to fill the sudden silence. A cessation of clatter so disconcerting, he couldn’t seem to think straight. Or, at all…which made it advisable to get shot of the customer,
asap. Five minutes ago. Why hadn’t Dylan just told him to piss off? He’d implied as much but the pithier version might, at least, have been succinct. Hatstand? It certainly beat ridden-hard rent boy but other than that—oh, fuck.
“Are you this charming to all your customers?” His customer merely parried, with the most disarming smile Dylan had ever been clobbered by.
He did have a point, and Dylan did attempt a self-deprecating acknowledgement of that, but it may have sounded more insulting than the hatstand remark.
“Clearly.” This was rasped with a throat so dry it sounded sinister. In the Panto villain sense. Not helped, in the slightest, by Dylan’s far from inspired rescue attempt. “How may I help you, sir?”
The hatstand did not reply. Dylan could hardly blame him; not having done or said a thing to warrant even the polite ‘piss off and leave me in peace’ that was ‘just looking’. This gave Dylan far too much time to ponder what was as impossible to ignore as it was to adjust, without making his predicament obvious. It had happened before, it must be admitted, but too rarely—in real life situations—to have risked crossing that particular minefield of ineptitude.
Had Dylan ever been affected by a living, breathing, bloke as say…a mere close-up of Tony Stark’s eyes inside Iron Man’s helmet? He might have had the balls to act upon it. Surely, if he’d felt compelled to, he’d reasoned, then it wouldn’t have seemed so daunting? It didn’t help that he tended to be attracted to the sort of men who oozed charisma from every pore. Mavericks who marched to the beat of their own drum…with whom Dylan had never had a hope in hell.
The hatstand ‘oozed’ in much the manner of an overstuffed suitcase; straining at the seams and trailing socks. So, quite why Dylan was now saddled with a hard-on for a too-tall, too-here, hungry-eyed rent boy, he knew not. A train of thought so disquieting that Dylan blurted out the bloody obvious in a bid to distract himself from it:
“You still haven’t answered my question.” A statement so terse it made him cringe. About something other than eyes, lips, and boners, which was quite an achievement. In the worst sort of way. But, still preferable to asking if he cared to earn a few more bob out back. F’fucksakes.
Lack of sex, alcohol, and nicotine—coupled with way too many hours of tedium—were having a dreadful effect on Dylan’s sanity. And sensibilities. Clearly. The only thing quite clear, was that Dylan seemed intent upon using ‘clearly’ to counter everything he’d thought or said since…those legs walked into the shop.
“D’you have any advent calendars left lingering about?”
Clearly, they did. Sitting on the shelf behind Dylan’s head—above his right shoulder—in the hatstand’s eye line. George must know his customers a damn sight better than Dylan would ever care to, because who the hell bought an advent calendar on the third of December? That was akin to starting a book at chapter three. To his own credit, Dylan did not point out how ludicrous or illogical said purchase was. He just pointed to those remaining on the shelf.
Until then, Hatboy had not taken offence to any of the downright ignorant remarks he’d been subjected to, let alone those he hadn’t. Hatboy? Shipping hatstand with rent boy is far less insulting than referring to him as an inanimate object, clearly. Having suffered all this with admirable fortitude, it seemed to be Dylan’s index finger that finally frayed Hatboy’s patience.
“May I please purchase one…if it’s not too much trouble?”
On any given day, an enquiry so snarky would have deteriorated into an embittered exchange. One that saw the customer—rarely right, despite accepted ‘wisdom’ to the contrary—stomp out in high dudgeon, without whatever they’d come in to buy. Peace restored.
The latter was hardly about to transpire anytime soon, whether Hatboy left, or not. In all honesty, Dylan didn’t want him to stop talking. Or standing there. Wearing that hat…and looking at him with those eyes. As if wondering whether Dylan was about to bite him. And yet, still he stood there, in spite of that—or maybe even—no. That was just twisted. Both to suppose so, even for a second, and that Dylan’s cock twitched in response.
There followed, a conversation on the comparative merits of The Snowman and Frozen, in which Dylan discovered three things:
1. Hatboy emitted so much muchness, he might’ve wafted in straight from Wonderland.
2. Not only was he in full possession of all his faculties, Hatboy was somehow as sharp as a tack. This, despite being so steeped in whimsy, he would be more at home living behind one of the bloody doors on the calendar.
3. He was, apparently, eight years old, which was far too young to be out on the streets, selling his wares for smack.
If he did find his own chocolate doppelgänger behind one of those little flaps, Dylan was willing to bet it would be a damn sight sooner than its door number decreed. The fact that Hatboy could scarce contain his glee about having three doors to open, made it impossible to refrain from informing him thus. If only to hear his response. Nor did it seem feasible that someone who hadn’t flinched from admitting they’d discovered it was December ten minutes ago, would mind overmuch.
How the hell he’d pulled that off, when the whole of London was lit up in a migraine inducing manner, Dylan knew not. Even without factoring in the gaudy swathes of tired tinsel strewn around every pub, in shades of gold, green and scarlet that harked from the same era as the wallpaper in his flat. Mind? Hatboy didn’t even bat an eyelid when bet that he wouldn’t last three days before polishing the lot off.
“Bet I will. I win.” He clearly lied. Shamelessly. With an insouciant grin.
“How d’you work that out? Dylan snorted, far too intrigued for his own good.
“Cos you won’t know if I’ve scoffed ’em or not.”
There was possibly a skewed sense of logic in that, if you squinted a bit, while bladdered, but this didn’t alter the fact that the delinquent damn well would. And they both knew it. And both knew that the other one knew it.
Engaging in conversation with Hatboy felt akin to donning a tinsel boa after imbibing far too much festive Babycham, then deciding it would be a bloody good idea to wiggle his arse in a conga line.
“You’ll know you’ve lost though. Same difference. It is still murder, even if no one saw you do it.” Dylan pointed out, resorting to logic. A futile attempt to wrestle what he suspected would prove a pyrrhic victory. Largely because Dylan felt as if he’d just decreed there was no Santa Claus.
Rather than—deservedly—deem Dylan about as full of festive spirit as a bag of spanners, Hatboy simply flashed another one of those goddamn grins.
“Blimey, you must be fun on a date,” he snickered. You’ve just segued from scoffing chocs to murder, in one sentence. With relish, I might add. Have you ever stabbed someone for snaffling the last After Eight?”
How the fuck am I supposed to answer that? The first two observations were uncannily accurate character assassinations. The answer to the last was a definitive no—Dylan couldn’t abide the bloody things. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, he couldn’t bring himself to utter something so…bitter. Not while engulfed in molten brown—and the belief that sparkled in its drowning depths.
Belief, that Dylan would respond in some incalculable way…fucknows how. That I’ll be able to follow the trail of breadcrumbs scattered in my path? Heaven knows where. Onwards? Upwards? He should stand his ground. Or better yet, turn the hell around.
“No. Only for pilfering the last Ferrero Rocher.” That went well, then. An answer akin to hurdling the counter and tackling Hatboy to the bloody floor.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, oddly enough,” he…beamed. For all the world as if Dylan had answered exactly how he’d hoped. Or expected.
Worse, Dylan now found himself wishing that was true; that he hadn’t let Hatboy down, or disappointed him in some…indefinable way. Worst of all? That Dylan might, somehow, have earned that smile, felt bloody…brilliant. F’fucksakes.
He couldn’t begin to comprehend why, but then, D
ylan was having a hard time focussing on a thing except the fact he was fizzing as if he’d just snorted a line of coke. Or three.
“I wouldn’t put it past you to pilfer one, purely to find out,” Dylan declared. Convinced that Hatboy not doing so—for that very reason—was about as likely as there being a single flap shut on The sodding Snowman by Friday.
6th December
Chapter Three
Gabriel
Three days.
Three far-too tempting days of opening one flap each morn, with nary a blaze o’blue to make the finger twitching torture worthwhile.
It felt a very lot like three weeks. In which case, Gabriel should only have three doors left to open. He was being besieged by threes…with the notable exception of the three wishes that would grant Gabe a happy ever after, par excellence.
He had opened the first three windows on his way home from the Greek Emporium—as was allowed—on accounts of his better-late-than-never advent day. Gabriel had scarce got outside afore fumbling with the flaps; heart hammering a tattoo far too frantic, even for the thrill of finding out what lay beyond its trio of little doors.
Number 1 was easy enough to spot; it sat in the bottommost corner beside Snowdog’s back paw. ’Twas well worth a bit of a flutter too; a titchy sleigh, resplendent with pressies. A fortuitous start indeed, cos it was a bit of a bummer getting a bauble first—or worse still—the bloody poinsettia. A happenstance that seemed such a harbinger of doom (no matter which day it despoiled), it made Gabriel want to crawl beneath the covers and not emerge until Twelfth Night.
He’d scoffed his sleigh while bodging at door 2…which secreted a choo-choo. Train. To Thrillsville. A thought that made Gabe’s tongue flicker out to swipe off any lingering traces of chocolate while poking at the third window.
