The snoring grew louder as he crept; it seemed to be emanating from the furthest of the three doors in front of him. He ignored it and opened the first; it was already ajar, saving him the cringe worthy task of peeling the handle down and slipping it squeakily open.
He pushed it with the tip of the torch and shone a light inside: a bed, some discarded clothes, two pieces of tattered furniture. No stocking. Nothing Christmassy at all. He pulled the door a few inches toward him, leaving it as he had found it.
The next door led to the bathroom, a room he sincerely wished he had avoided. He walked quickly away and came to the final door, the snoring was unbearable. He didn’t need to take his time toying with the handle, there was little chance that the squeak of an unoiled hinge could be heard above the breathless racket, but he did it anyway.
With the door open he was hit with a wave of sound and smell. It came at him like a wall and he gagged. He took an instinctive step back, then he planted two fingers over his nose and shone the torchlight inside with his free hand.
A short hump lay tight under a stained duvet that billowed under the heavy snoring. At the side of the bed a joint had been allowed to sit unattended and lit in an ashtray, it had burned to a finish, leaving an ashy deposit all over the bedside table.
He found what he sought stuffed into the top drawer of that bedside cabinet, draping down over the handle and brushing the floor: a stocking, bright red under the beam of torchlight.
He took the top two presents from the bag, held his nose and then entered the room. The wall of noise battered him away but he powered through like a trooper, dropping the two carefully wrapped presents into the beckoning stocking and then quickly exiting the room.
He shone the torch back in to admire his handiwork. The present bulged inside the stocking like a chubby calf. He whispered softly and proudly: “Merry Christmas...” he paused and shone the light over a white tag on the stocking where a name had been emblazoned in thick black letters. “Chip,” he finished with a smile.
He closed the door, threw his sack over his shoulder and headed back into the night.
****
When Michael woke he did so to the joyous calls of his typically ill-tempered flatmate. Chip was happy; Michael was worried. The last time he had seen something remotely resembling happiness on the face of the grumpy tooth fairy was when he successfully trapped a rat that had been plaguing the flat for several weeks, his shrieking yells of accomplishment came right before he beheaded the rodent, impaled a thin pencil through his body like a sickening stake, and displayed it on the kitchen windowsill to ‘ward away the others’.
Wondering what macabre horrors awaited him in the other room Michael staggered out of bed, using the side-cabinet to hold his balance and keep him from falling flat on his face. The small digital clock on top of the table told him it was just before nine. He hadn’t fallen asleep till the early hours of the morning, doing so in a mild drunken stupor that left his mouth feeling like the inside of a kangaroos arsehole.
He had left the pub before midnight, Naff was depressing him, but he had continued his drinking at home. Chip had returned home from work not long after, heading straight to bed and drowning the house with his chorus of snores.
He coughed a clump from his throat, rubbed his tired eyes and staggered forwards, towards the fading cheers of joy.
He found Chip in the hallway, proudly clutching a small tablet computer in his hand, a ball of hastily torn wrapping paper lay discarded at his feet. He waved the device at Michael when he approached, a broad smile on his ugly face.
“Look at this,” He exclaimed joyfully. “Tablet computer, see,’ he flicked a grubby finger on the screen. His brow furrowed, his eyebrows arched into disappointment as he retracted the computer. “Well, it was working before. It doesn’t matter,” he assured, regaining his excitement. “It’s mine!”
“Who did you steal that from?” Michael asked dryly.
Chip looked offended. He hugged the device to his chest. “What makes you say that?” he asked, feigning hurt, not letting on that he had been trying to steal one for months but hadn’t found an owner dumb or naive enough.
“Where did you get it?”
Chip grinned like a smug child. “Santa Claus.”
“Fuck off.”
“It’s true!”
Michael raised an eyebrow; put a hand on his hip. “Tell me, who did you steal it from?”
“I didn’t--”
He waved his friend short, “I don’t really care,” he muttered, feeling a tired headache creeping through his skull like a parasitic worm preparing to lay its eggs in his conscious. “Just make sure you give it back when you’re done.”
He brushed past his friend, leaving the little tooth fairy struck sour and outraged in the hallway.
“I didn’t fucking steal it!” he yelled, incensed. Michael waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and disappeared into the living room, Chip followed, keen to declare his innocence the one time he really was innocent.
“Why won’t you believe me?” he wondered, following his friend around the kitchen as he filled the kettle and plonked it lazily on the stove.
Michael shrugged, leaned back against the counter and struggled to keep his eyes open.
“You should believe me. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“You always say that. You’re always lying.”
“Not this time! Honestly”
“So you’re admitting that you were all those other times?” Michael wondered. “Like the time you said you didn’t know who stole my phone, or my bike?”
Chip diverted his eyes, looked a little sheepish under the accusing glare of his hung-over flatmate. “What did you want a fucking bike for anyway?” he mumbled. “Only women and retards--”
“And what about my wallet?” Michael interrupted. “With the winning betting slip in.”
“Ah-ha!” Chip said, raising a finger. “I didn’t steal that,” he said genuinely. “It was lost.”
“By you.” Michael said with a knowing nod. “After you stole it.”
Chip shrugged. “You can’t prove anything.”
Michael shook his head and turned his attentions to the kettle which had screeched to the deafening heights of a pneumatic drill. He rinsed out a cup with a questionable scummy liquid in the bottom, picked a speck of peeled lip from the rim and dropped a spoonful of coffee and three sugars inside. When the kettle squealed to a halt he turned his back on his friend to fill his cup.
“So, who did you steal it from?” he had a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and was already feeling more awake. He trotted to the living room with the incensed tooth fairy biting at his heels.
“I’m telling you the truth. Santa Claus gave me it.”
Michael rolled his eyes, weighed up the pleading look in his friends face and took a long drink. The hot liquid ran a scolding track down his oesophagus and to his stomach, heating everything up in its path and clearing away a thin line of distaste that had woven an intricate web through his insides.
He began to object again; a little unsure this time, but something stopped him. He paused with the mug at his lips; the liquid burned through the ceramic and imprinted a heated blotch onto his dried lips. Memories of the previous night returned to him, everything that Naff had told him.
“Santa Claus?” he said softly.
Chip nodded, beaming a proud and somewhat smug smile, the debated item still clutched tightly in his hands.
“Seriously?”
“On my mother’s grave.”
“Do you even have a mother?”
“On your mother’s grave then.”
Michael rubbed his temple with the nibs of fingers that had been heated by the cup; the action restored some vigour as the coffee simultaneously soaked into his central nervous system and awakened his senses.
“He came here? To this house?”
Chip nodded. “I wrote him a letter, put up a little stocking near my bed and,” h
e gestured to the computer, spinning it with a little flick of his wrist. “I guess I wasn’t on his naughty list after all.”
“You know Santa’s not real?”
Chip frowned. “Don’t be a fucking numpty, of course I know. Try telling that to the mental fuck going around dressed in red and giving people presents.”
“You know about him?” Michael stammered. “Have you spoken to Naff?”
“Not for a couple of days.”
“Then who told you?”
Chip gave a cheeky wink and tapped the end of his nose with the edge of the computer.
“You better fucking tell me,” Michael warned.
“OK, look. I may have run into him the other night,” he said vaguely.
“Go on.”
Chip flopped down on the sofa, reluctantly placing the computer on the arm of the chair but failing to take his eyes off of it for more than a few of seconds at a time. “I was on a job,” he began. “Four days. Seven or eight year old, first timer. Tried to dislodge a loose tooth and ended up knocking out four of ‘em. I only had enough money for three, stopped off for a burger on the way.” He ran the tip of his tongue over the edge of his front teeth, recalling the flavour of the tainted meat. “You ever eaten at that Dodgy Darren’s burger van?” he wondered. “I’m not so sure if he gave me the shits or--”
“There’s a reason he’s called Dodgy Darren.”
“I thought it was something to do with his eyes.”
“His eyes?”
“Well, they’re all wonky. They don’t seem to wanna go in the same direction. It’s off-putting. I can never tell when he’s--”
“Get on with it!” Michael snapped, feeling his blood rush tempestuously at the sound of his rambling friend.
“OK, OK!” Chip said with one arm held aloft. “I didn’t wanna leave the kid short so I figured I’d nick some from his parents, none the wiser. His mother was fast asleep; no sign of the father. I heard some rumbling downstairs and figured he was still up and about, probably one nightcap too many.”
Chip shifted his position, his eye casually moved to the tablet computer, his mind temporarily forgetting his place in the story. “So, anyway,” he said after some deliberation. “I sees an old fatty downstairs, rummaging around in a red suit. At first I figure it’s just the dad, probably lost his mind, into some kinky solo-sex games, whatever. I ignored him, started doing some rummaging of my own. I found the money, but all the awhile I sees this fat jolly guy stuffing presents into a socking with a constant smile on his face and a little song on his lips. I followed him into the kitchen, sees him pick out a few mince pies and pour himself a glass of sherry.”
“Now, I’ve seen Santa Claus stories. I work with kids; I know how this shit works. Jolly Saint Nick, Rudolph, an’ all that. This guy looked like the real deal. Real beard; real belly, as far as I could tell. The suit looked impressive as well. Heavy duty, not some flimsy costume shite. So...” he shrugged nonchalantly. “I figured if he came for the kid, then maybe he would come for me.”
“Really?”
Chip nodded. “Yes,” he said surely. “Also,” he added as an afterthought, “Naff texted me two days ago.”
Michael slowly shook his head, watching as his friend’s attention quickly diverted back to the tablet computer. After a few moments he it held aloft, a look of pure serenity on his face; a life affirming smile on his lips.
“It can stream porn!”
3
Michael and Chip met with an expectant and haggard Naff in the Dying Seamstress. Chip’s face was still ablaze with joy. He walked with a skip in his step -- which resembled the stammering motorising of a recluse hunchback -- and a high pitched, ear popping whistle on his lips.
When he and Michael finally made it to the Seamstress, Michael was preparing the final postscripts to his murder/suicide plot.
“Well?” Naff said, looking agitated. His right foot was propped up on the toes, the heel jangled with an uncontrollable twitch. “What is it? What did you want to tell me?”
Naff looked at Michael and feared the worst. He looked like he had bad news, his face was gaunt, pained. He looked like he had recently suffered. Feeling his heart sink, Naff then turned to Chip, seeing bright, uninhibited glee on his little face.
“Oh God,” Naff said with a sudden an immovable lump in his throat. “It’s bad isn’t it? Did someone die?”
Michael furrowed his brow and breathed out a deep and relieved sigh, happy that the journey was over. “Chip, you fill him in,” he said with a nod.
Chip sat down happily, engaging Naff in an immediate and long winded conversation. Michael ordered himself a double whiskey from the bar, drank it down with one quick gulp and then ordered three cokes.
“Long day?” Scrub said as Michael slammed the empty tumbler onto the bar.
Michael shook his head. “You ever heard of a tablet computer?” he asked the bartender.
Scrub twisted up his face, he looked like a hairy, confused baby.
“Well,” Michael said distantly, “until this morning, neither had I.”
When Michael made it back to the table Chip was still in full flow. He put the glasses on the grimy top and slid in beside his pungent friend.
“...HD and 3D videos, anything from hard-core to anal,” Chip was saying excitedly.
“It only has porn?” Naff replied, baffled.
Chip looked at him like he was made of cheese and smoking a pipe. “I mean, it has other stuff too, I guess,” he said absently, “if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Naff shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs his friend’s absurdity had woven. “Is that it?” he said to Michael. “Is this what you brought me here to tell me?”
Michael looked at Chip and shook his head in disappointment. “I meant fill him in on the Santa Claus thing,” he instructed.
“I have all the porn in the world at my fingertips and you’re more interested in a fat man in a suit?”
“You saw him?” Naff said with a start, dismissing Chip’s comment.
“He gave Chip the computer.”
Naff glared at Chip. “You saw him.”
Chip put down the computer with a thud; Naff ventured a look at the screen and wished he hadn’t. “What do you mean me?” he replied with the same emphasis, not sure what he was preparing to argue about but happy to push for one regardless.
“How did you see him?” Naff said, softening his tone, not wanting to get into a shouting match with someone who could shout with the stamina and pointlessness of a stubborn politician.
Chip picked up the computer, the sounds of exertion and screaming could be heard above the rumblings in the pub. “I wrote him a letter,” he said with a degree of finality.
Naff looked frustrated. “And?”
“And what?”
He simultaneously groaned and sighed at his miniature friend. “Well, did you address it to the fat man at the fucking north pole or what?”
“Hey, don’t get snappy with me!”
“How did you get in touch with him?”
Chip fell silent for a moment, staring at his friend. “Maybe I don’t want to tell you. Maybe you need to ask me nicely.”
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,”
Chip turned his head away and folded his arms across his chest -- a pout on his grubby lips.
“For fucks sake,” Naff mumbled under his breath. “OK, I’m sorry, but this is very important to me. Tell me, how did you get in touch?”
“Buy me a pint and I’ll tell you.”
“Chip!” Michael and Naff chorused with a great deal of annoyance.
“OK, OK,” Chip said, holding up his hands. “I just wrote him a letter. Nothing special. ‘To Santa’, that was it. No address, nothing.”
“Really?” Naff said with a scrunched, disbelieving expression. “How the hell did he get that?”
Chip offered a nonchalant shrug in reply.
“He could be a postman,” Michael offered.
/>
“You think Santa would moonlight as a postman?”
“He’s not really Santa remember.”
“Yes, great, well done.” Naff said unenthusiastically. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Michael sipped the foam from the top of his beer; a bitter acrid wash of soapy bubbles coated his mouth. Scrub had been washing out the barrels again. “Ideal job for a man masquerading as Santa Claus when you think about it,” he said, sticking his tongue out at intervals. “Not much difference really. He gets to carry a sack, deliver parcels.”
“Drive a giant sleigh pulled by a dozen reindeer?”
“Admittedly, that’s where the similarities end.”
He took another sip of the bitter beer, refreshing the acrid taste in his mouth, before pushing the pint along the table to Chip, who didn’t ask questions and barely acknowledged the gesture. In a matter of moments the glass was half empty and Chip was grinning satisfactorily.
Naff looked tortured. His face twisted into a complex assortment of pain and thought as he tried to work out a solution to a problem that his previously lax inattentiveness had created. He rested his elbows on the table, sunk his head in his hands.
He groaned and murmured disconsolately to himself. After a while he lifted his head, stared at his friend with defeated and red eyes. “OK,” he said reluctantly, “I guess it’s a possibility, and as we have nothing else to go on--”
Chip interjected without looking up from the computer screen, where a tangle of tanned flesh romped to his delight. “We could send him another letter,” he said simply.
Both Naff and Michael turned to him. “What?” Naff said, more shocked than anything.
Chip gave them a casual shrug, still not averting his eyes from the onscreen orgy, “It worked once, why not again?”
For the first time that day a smile crept on Naff’s face, he turned towards Michael who was staring at the tooth fairy, contemplating killing the sinister little demon who had taken over the body of his flatmate.
“What do you think?” Naff asked him.
Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) Page 15
