Michael ignored his cheery friend. At the back of the house he heaved the bag off his shoulder and walked through the door, in the darkness and silence beyond he slowly and carefully began to unlock a myriad of deadbolts, hoping to open the door and let Naff and the presents inside. A noise behind him awoke his attention and he froze.
During his first year on the job he had taken to walking through whatever door he pleased, enjoying the freedom that the ability allowed. That habit stopped after an unfortunate experience in a locked, and assumed empty, toilet stall where a half-naked man had been vigorously masturbating to the lingerie section of a clothes catalogue. The experience was traumatic for him, but it seemed to spur the man on.
He needed the ability; people had an unfortunate way of dying behind locked doors, but no longer desired to use it for anything unnecessary.
A small voice, almost a whimper, filtered through the thick silence.
“Christmas soon,” the voice was saying in a softened, reassuring whisper. “Don’t worry.”
The voice of an unseen child whispering into the darkness is innately creepy and would have sent chills through Michael’s body when he was alive, but now, in the world he had been forced to adopt, the ghostly voice suggested the possibility of unfinished work.
He followed the sound of the voice to the living room. A spill of moonlight cut through the closed curtains at the front of the room and shed a glow onto a small patch at the back, behind a dining room table and tucked away into the corner. A small boy sat on the floor, hunched over a large dog; its ears pricked to the air, its chest gently rising and falling.
The boy was stroking the dog with great care and affection, soothing the fading beast with every gentle repetition -- whispering meaningless absurdities into its ear as he did so.
He had been around death enough to recognise the presence of impending doom that hangs in the air like a weighted inevitability. The dog was dying and probably wouldn't see morning. He felt a twinge of sympathy in his heart. There were no tears on the boy’s small face, no quivering in his voice.
He quietly walked back to the kitchen. The key wasn’t in the back door. Nor was it on the nearby ledge or the counter. He searched around for it quietly -- not wanting to alert the boy or the dog in the other room -- and then headed outside.
“Problem?” Naff asked.
Michael threw a finger to his lips, “Be quiet,” he said hastily, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a kid awake in there.”
“Too excited to sleep?” Naff asked in a sufficiently lowered tone.
“His dog’s dying, looks like he’s comforting it.”
Naff grinned. “Sounds like a surprisingly unselfish thing to--”
“Shut it,” Michael warned, pointing a threatening finger.
He took the intended present from the top of the bag and scanned the house and the door. There was a cat-flap at the foot of the door; the rubberised door gently lolled in the breeze, but the present, a boxed toy of some sort, was too big to fit through.
“I’m going to have to open it.”
“You can’t--”
Michael cut the protestations short. “If I don’t then he doesn’t get it,” he said sternly. “Unless you have any other suggestions.”
He waited in the silence. A breeze kicked up behind them and billowed out Michael’s coat. The noise of the distant argument, now settling down into sporadic screams, passed on the wind.
Naff didn’t say anything.
Michael opened the present as carefully as he could, taking great care not to make a noise. Even if the kid didn’t hear then there was a good chance the dog would.
“I can’t believe I’m standing out here in the freezing fucking cold opening a fucking Action Man for some spoilt little shit,” he remarked under his breath.
Naff sighed.
“I mean seriously,” he continued as he picked apart the paper. “What does it fucking matter? One more present, one more piece of shit for the pile,” he groaned. “Why did we listen to the fat fuck in the suit?”
“Maybe he has a point,” Naff said. He stuffed his hands inside his pockets to brace against the cold. “I don’t care what you think, this is kinda admirable: giving these kids some extra joy, some extra love.”
Michael groaned another disagreeing reply and ripped the final shred of paper from the toy. He began another tirade, another complaint against the season, but stopped short when he saw what was in the box. His words ruptured in his throat.
“What is it?” Naff wondered, sensing the shock on his friend’s face.
“It’s a dog’s toy,” Michael said softly. He held up the box. Inside was a small chew-toy in the shape of a slipper. “I don’t--” he paused, looked instinctively back at the house.
“I don’t get it. What am I missing?” Naff asked.
Michael didn’t answer him. He gently opened the box and removed the toy before slipping it through the cat-flap and retrieving it on the other side. He took it to the living room, a shade of darkness covered his face as he crossed the midnight threshold and listened to the boy, still whispering in the corner of the room.
“Santa’s gonna bring us something special,” he was saying happily. “We can play one last time.”
Michael slipped the toy inside a stocking that dangled temptingly from the fireplace. It was marked with the child's name but had been filled with a wealth of toys for both man and beast.
He checked on them before he left. The dog seemed to see him standing there, its black eyes, glistening against the reflective light of the moon, seemed to be staring right at him. Its ears were pinned to the air for any sound he might make, but it was reluctant to move. It didn’t even lift its head. The boy didn’t notice Michael at all; he was using the dog as a pillow, his head resting on its rising and dipping chest as his hand continued to gently stroke it.
“What was all that about?” Naff asked when Michael joined him outside.
“Nothing,” Michael said, attempting to restrain his emotion.
“You look different,” Naff noticed, hopping around him like an excited and quizzical child. “Something happened in there didn’t it?” he exclaimed, “Ah, what was it? What was it? Tell me. Did someone finally pull that stick out of your arse?” he asked, practically skipping with joy.
“Fuck off Naff.”
****
“This is bloody heavy,” Chip complained. He slugged a wrapped box through the living room to a fireplace, where a selection of presents had been laid out between three bulging stockings.
Santa watched the tooth fairy struggle with the box, nearly trapping his fingers between its edge and the soft carpet as he plonked it down with little care or attention, before cracking himself upwards with a jolt and holding his back with a pained expression.
“I think that one’s a train set,” the fat man noted. He glanced around at the room and smiled. It was alight with tiny, multi-coloured lights and bristling tinsel, all neatly and carefully placed -- covering the frames of paintings and pictures and dangling from light fixtures. An advent calendar was open by the stairs, all but a few of its chocolate filled doors stood open.
“You like this, eh?” Chip said, watching the fat man’s expression.
Santa nodded, feeling massively cheered up after the depressing incident with the youth on the bus. “Very much so.”
A hushed sound caught both of their attentions and they turned towards the stairs just in time to see a little head pop out and then disappear. The sound of hasty footsteps on creaky steps followed and Santa ushered for Chip to hurry up. Before he heeded the advice he heard the gleeful chants of a little boy who had made it to the top of the stairs and was calling to his parents.
“Mummy! Daddy! Mummy! Daddy,” came the joyous screams. “Santa is downstairs! Santa is downstairs!
“Ah, sweet,” Chip said, despite himself.
The kid continued, “And he’s brought his ugly little elf with him!”
“The
little fucking shit…”
“Come on,” Santa beckoned with an open arm, “the night is young.”
****
Michael gazed up at the dazzling house in awe, his jaw hung open like a hungry toddler. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself. “It’s lit up like…”
“Christmas?” Naff offered.
“Yeah,” Michael said noncommittally, ducking his eyes from the house -- whose every inch had been covered with glittering, multi-coloured lights -- and feigning an unimpressed look.
Naff waited by the front door with a big grin on his face. He was enjoying their adventure, the Christmas spectacle draped over the house before them and the battle of wills that ensued on his friend’s face.
“After you,” he nodded at the front door.
Michael gave him a vexed stare as he passed through the front door. Inside it was just as colourful and spectacular as it was outside. The walls were strewn with an assortment of glittering tinsel and flashing pinpoint lights. An army of ornaments -- Santa Rudolph, snowmen -- lined up on the windowsills, coffee table and mantel piece. Stick-on snowflakes adhered to the insides of the windows, advent calendars waited by the front door and stockings hung from the mantel.
Michael quickly and silently unlocked the door before walking deeper into the room. At the back of the room a large Christmas tree stood defiantly. Its plastic bristles scratched the ceiling; its arms reached every piece of furniture within a two-foot perimeter.
He stood in front of it, gazing up. On the top of the tree, sitting before a crown of branches that picked at the artexed ceiling, looking comfortable and majestic, was a hand-crafted wooden angel. A great deal of detail and care had been taken over every minute feature; every fold of her skirt, every sparkle in her eye.
Naff brushed up beside him with the sack trailing at his heels.
“I don’t think you hate Christmas after all,” he noted happily. He moved to put a hand around his friend’s shoulder, but then thought better of it and feigned a stretch and a yawn.
“I loved it as a kid,” Michael noted, smiling at the glittering angel on the top of the decorated tree. “Everything about it. I think that’s my problem; that’s why I hate it now.”
Naff gave him a puzzled expression. “You don’t like to be reminded of your childhood?”
“What?” Michael flashed him a bemused look. “No, no. Far from it,” he uttered, turning back to the tree as its succession of flickering lights bathed the room in a sea of temporary blue light. “I miss being a kid,” he explained softly.
“Ah.”
“The innocence. The joy. There are other things I miss of course, you can’t enjoy some of the best things in life until you’re older, but as a kid...” he shrugged, “I guess things just felt...better.” He smiled and turned to Naff who didn’t seem to be taking the information in. “You know?”
“Not really.”
“You were never a kid?”
“If I was I can’t remember. To be honest, I mean, I like them an’ all, but they seem like a completely different breed to me.”
“Kids?”
“Yep.”
Michael watched the tree as a dazzling and epileptic wash of colours swam over its plastic leaves. “I’m with you on that on,” he agreed. “But still, it’s different when you are one.”
The two stood in relative silence, watching the lights in the room flicker from one neon spectrum to another. A gentle buzz from the electric lights and the purr of a muted snore from upstairs were the only sounds to come between them until Naff sombrely noted: “This world isn’t all that bad you know. The afterlife, this life.”
“What?”
“Well, that’s what this is all about isn’t it? You loved Christmas when you were alive and hate it now. It reminds you of what you’ve lost.”
Michael glared at him. He pondered dismissing his part-time pseudo psychology but shrugged it off and offered a simple nod. “I guess so.”
“We can live forever,” Naff continued “We can see the dawn of new civilisations. We can witness and survive catastrophic natural events, wars and human crises. It’s a great opportunity; a great life.”
Michael watched the heightened features on his friends face as they flickered with a fusion of delight and coercion. “I was just beginning to enjoy myself here,” he said softly. “Don’t fucking spoil it.”
7
They met back at Naff’s house. On the journey home Michael didn’t stop smiling and he didn’t mind Naff noticing, nor did he mind the smart-arsed comments that filled up their journey for its entirety. He felt good, certainly a lot better than when they had started on their quest. The alcohol had helped, despite being a few days away from Christmas Eve the final house had left out a bottle of port and a couple of glasses on the dining room table, the thirsty friends agreed it had probably been left for them and wasted no time in drinking it; snacking on a few mince pies from the kitchen and tempting candy canes from the tree.
They arrived back just as Chip and Sampson were entering the street. They were equally joyous. Sampson walked tall and proud, the look of dismay stripped form his face and filled with one of pride and happiness. Chip was equally happy; he knew there was nothing separating him from spending the next few days with his wank machine.
Naff poured the drinks and shared out some slices of suspicious looking ginger cake. He was proud of his work, happy to do a good deed for the people of the town and for the demon he had been hired to look after. He was always happy when his work had been completed sufficiently and expertly.
Whilst Naff, Michael and Sampson drank and shared in the revelry of the season, swapping jokes and stories, Chip sat hunched up in the corner with a broad smile on his ugly face as the computer screen flashed a fleshy light onto his glossy features.
“So,” Naff, having drained his drink following a toast, put down the glass and rubbed his hands. “Same again next year?”
Michael glared at him, his mouth full of brandy. He swallowed and snapped open his lips to scratch back a heated reply but Naff halted him with a raised palm. “I was kidding, for fuck’s sake.”
Michael managed a restrained smile.
Naff turned to Sampson, “Are you ready to go then? It’s time.”
The demon nodded contently. He finished his drink and put down the glass without letting an inch of that contentedness slip from his chubby, reddened face.
He moved to Michael and offered him a hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll never forget what you and your friends have done for me.”
Michael nodded back, keeping his distance in case the big man decided to go in for the hug. “Even if we did send you to hell?”
Sampson shrugged apathetically, “You were just doing your job.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’ve made many children happy tonight,” he said, turning to Naff. He shook his hand firmly, clasping it in both of his colossal palms. “You’re a good man.”
Naff tried to look modest but his pride burst through in a red bubble.
He moved to Chip and stood over him, his ominous shape casting a shadow over the little man hunched up on the couch. Chip looked up after several moments and seemed surprise to see the wannabe Santa Claus standing there.
“Hello,” he said meekly.
“I’m going,” Sampson stated.
“Oh,” that was all Chip was prepared to say before he returned his attention to his porn, but a forewarning look from Michael and Naff forced him to do otherwise. He groaned like a reluctant child and rose to his feet.
“Good bye,” he offered. “Have fun, keep safe an’ all that.”
Santa grinned wryly and turned to move, Chip, in one final moment of curiosity, stopped him.
“Do you still think you’re Santa then?” the little man wondered. “I mean, after all this. And now that you’re going back to hell, you must realise that you’re a demon. You can’t really still believe you’re him, can you?”
“Maybe..
.” Santa began, looking at Chip, “Maybe the real Santa is a demon. Maybe the reason no one believes in him anymore is because he was resigned to the bowels of hell, away from his beloved children and his true home. Maybe the real Santa just found a way to escape those clutches and to get back to his rightful position as the bringer of joy and mirth to the world. I mean...” he paused, beamed a mystical smile, “no human could possibly do what Santa has to do, could they? He would have to be a demon or something, wouldn’t he?”
Chip’s mouth dropped open like the hinges of his jaw had snapped. He glared at the fat man in front of him. He watched him disappear, fading into nothingness right in front of him, then he turned his awed-expression towards his friends.
“It really was him!” Chip declared loudly.
A brief second passed before Michael burst into a fit of hysterics. Chip shot him a look of bemusement before turning to Naff who was shaking his head in mild disbelief.
Naff said, “You truly are a fucking numpty aren’t you?”
Thank you for reading Forever After.
If you enjoyed the book you may be interested in these other books by the same author:
An Idiot in Love (Comedy):
Sample from book (opening chapter):
My ignorance of the opposite sex, and of relationships, began when I was eight.
Kerry Newsome was in the year ahead of me. She was a nine year old underachiever with the charm of a fairytale stepsister. I had seen her on the playground a number of times, and she had giggled her way through a handful of awkward conversations with me, but I rarely gave her a second thought.
That all changed during one confusing break-time. I was kicking a battered football around a chalked, concrete pitch when one of her friends interrupted me.
‘Kieran!’
I turned to see Laura Bell hollering at me, anxiously shuffling on her feet as she did so. She beckoned me over and I reluctantly scuttled her way.
She stood near the boundary of the playground, where a five foot metallic perimeter shaded a view of the thick woodlands beyond.
Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) Page 18
