The Usual Santas

by Peter Lovesey

  In my mind, I cursed Samuel that he might one day have a son he loved as much as I loved him, and that he might have to say goodbye when his son left for a mission the way I had to say goodbye. I had no idea how that would happen, given Samuel’s sexuality and the church’s position on same-sex marriage, but it was the traditional mother’s curse, and I wanted to give Samuel everything all the other boys had gotten from me, so I gave him that, too.

  “Silent Night”

  The Darkest of Holiday Noir

  There’s Only One Father Christmas, Right?

  by Colin Cotterill

  Colin Cotterill is the author of eleven books in the critically acclaimed Dr. Siri Paiboun series, which is set in Laos in the late 1970s, after the Communist takeover, and which feature a septuagenarian coroner-detective, Dr. Siri, and an offbeat entourage of misfit associates who help him solve crimes. The books include Coroner’s Lunch, Thirty-Three Teeth, Disco for the Departed, Anarchy and Old Dogs, Curse of the Pogo Stick, The Merry Misogynist, Love Songs from a Shallow Grave, Slash and Burn, The Woman Who Wouldn’t Die, Six and a Half Deadly Sins, and I Shot the Buddha. He is also the author of the Jimm Juree series, set in Thailand: Killed at the Whim of a Hat; Granddad, There’s a Head on the Beach; and The Axe Factor. His fiction has won a Dilys Award and a CWA Dagger in the Library. Colin Cotterill is also a professional cartoonist and has been involved with several humanitarian and non-profit organizations in Australia and Southeast Asia. He lives in Chumphon, Thailand, with his wife and six deranged dogs.

  act one

  The website of the British Embassy in Bangkok offers a good deal of useful information for travelers to Thailand. For example, there are two paragraphs giving cultural and practical advice on what to wear and not to wear in the tropics. But nowhere in these two paragraphs would one find mention of a Santa Suit. And perhaps it was as a result of this oversight that several hundred Thai bystanders witnessed Santa riding his Honda Dream motorcycle through the streets of Lang Suan on December 25th. He was certainly not traveling incognito. He waved as he passed and called out “Merry Christmas” and engaged in a good deal of “Ho”ing. Admittedly, his bright red tunic was cotton rather than wool and his black boots had holes drilled in them to let in air, but beneath a full sun in thirty-two humid degrees Centigrade, that was an extremely damp Santa.

  He’d left the Tesco Mega Store car park at five minutes past midday and ridden along the parking lane on the wrong side of the Asia Highway all the way into the town. Lang Suan was one of those forgettable places you passed on your way to Malaysia. Not even Lonely Planet could think of anything to say about it. It was all un-matching shop fronts and untidy parking and southern lethargy. Santa had circumnavigated the fresh market, ridden three times around the messy traffic island and parked in front of the Felicitations Gold Emporium. The armed guard came to the door to greet him and was in the process of taking a cell phone selfie with Father Christmas when that cheeky Santa reached into the guard’s holster, took out the gun and released the safety catch. In broken Thai he instructed the counter staff to load all of the jewelry from the display cabinet into his sack. They laughed. But to show he wasn’t just being mischievous, he emptied a round into the clock above the counter. Thence he had everyone’s attention. He scooped the cash from the register and even stopped to kiss the cheek of a smiling young lady customer who sat bemused on a stool. The few people who passed on the muggy street assumed it was an advertising stunt. Santa climbed back on his motorcycle, waved for a few more cell phone photos then zoomed off.

  Eye witnesses saw him return to Tesco, park his Honda Dream and run inside. After responding to the Gold Emporium alarm, the Lang Suan police force had little trouble retracing Santa’s steps. They turned up at Tesco at twelve forty-five to find the old fellow asleep in the store room that had been allocated to Santa as a dressing room. He was drowsy and disoriented and had no idea why he was being dragged out to a waiting police van. They didn’t even give him time to put on his hat or belt up his trousers. There were those standing in his wake who admitted the man gave off a fragrance of alcohol. That was undoubtedly true as Rodger, aka Santa Claus, was a drunkard.

  Boom, the store manager, accompanied Santa to police headquarters. He was particularly irked. Santa had been his idea: that is to say, a living breathing Santa was his concept for the festive season. For four years an electronic Father Christmas had stood guard in the doorway. His head bobbed on a spring in time to the endless loop of Christmas carols. And for no particular reason in that predominately Buddhist province, decorative lights and shortbread and small plastic trees sold extremely well over the month of December. Anything with a picture of Santa on the packet was procured off the shelf before New Year. The Thais loved an excuse to party, and Tesco pumped up the adrenaline for any festival on the calendar. Jingle Bells had rocked the aisles from mid October.

  So Boom had decided to go the whole hog and hire a live Santa. Rodger was his first choice. He was a customer; an expatriate living in Lang Suan. English. In Thailand for ten years and able to speak one Thai word for each of those years. Had been married to a Thai woman who ran off with her ex-husband. Received a small pension from England. Spent almost all of it on booze. Sixty-something. White beard. Red nose. Huge gut. In Boom’s mind it was as if Santa had moved to Lang Suan and was hanging around for eleven months waiting for the role he’d been created for. Rodger was Santa. So why would he hold up a gold shop in broad daylight?

  It was two-thirty before the police could find an interpreter. Rodger still had no idea why he was there. He was thirsty but all they’d give him at the police station was Pepsi. What good was Pepsi without rum? He was still drowsy. The heat always knocked him out in the afternoon. The police station had no a/c and he’d gestured that he’d like to sit under one of the fans. The desk sergeant moved him immediately to maximize the breeze. The officer was exceedingly hospitable. He bowed and nodded and smiled a good deal. He’d asked Rodger to sign a piece of paper but there was nothing on it. At first Rodger supposed they’d fill in his confession later for whatever he’d done, but then he realized he’d been asked for his autograph. For most of the year he was a slob but here at Christmas he was a celebrity. He called for a second sheet of paper and signed “Father Christmas” for everyone there.

  “You take gold?”

  A masculine woman in a pink shirt and black slacks was standing in the doorway. She held an enormous handbag. Her hair was as solid as a helmet.

  “Oh, good,” said Rodger. “You speak English.”

  “No, thank you,” said the woman.

  She walked into the office and sat opposite him.

  “Why am I here?” Rodger asked.

  “Yes. You take gold.”

  It seemed like some American Express mantra. It made no sense to Rodger at all.

  “What have I done?” he asked.

  A senior policeman came into the office followed by a photographer who started to take pictures of Rodger without asking permission. The officer spoke to the interpreter who replied with authority as if she’d already interviewed the suspect. He nodded at Rodger and asked a question.

  “You put the gold?” said the woman.

  “What gold?” said Rodger.

  The woman laughed and translated a much longer sentence than “What gold?” The officer looked at Rodger and seemed to snarl. The translator translated.

  “We know you. Everybody know you. Everybody see. Why you do this thing? No sense. No good. Stupid thing. Is where this gold?”

  Rodger looked at her.

  “What?” he said.

  “Don’t make game me,” said the woman. “We police. We power you to speak. Understand?”

  Rodger didn’t. He tried to sidestep the translation. Used his ten Thai words in various order but could make no more sense than the interpreter.

  “I want to call my lawyer,” he said.
/>   “Liar? I not liar. You liar,” said the woman.

  He wanted to punch her. He wanted a drink. The only lawyer he knew was the scumbag who’d handled his divorce. There was no way Rodger would phone him. The only friends he had were fellow drunks and they’d all be sleeping off their lunchtime beers. He was trapped and clueless. The officer asked another question through the interpreter.

  “Where you motorcycle key?”

  “I don’t have a motorcycle,” he said.

  “Yes,” said the woman.

  “Yes what?”

  “You have.”

  “No, I don’t. I can’t drive a motorcycle. I never learned. I’ve always been terrified of the things. I used to have this recurring nightmare when I was young that I’d drive a motorcycle at speed into a wall, my brains splattered across the brickwork. And I like a drink now and then. In fact I’d like one now. Drinkers can’t drive motorcycles. We fall off and cause unlimited damage to ourselves. I have a truck. It doesn’t matter how drunk you are if you have a truck.”

  He knew she’d have no idea what he’d said but it was his only recourse for revenge. She stared at him in silence for a while.

  “Where you motorcycle key?” she said.

  “No have motorcycle,” he said; three words that happened to be in his Thai repertoire.

  “No have motorcycle?” repeated the officer in Thai. He produced the gold shop security guard’s cell phone from a plastic bag and keyed in the photo application. He held it up to Rodger’s face. There, in crisp sunny colour was Santa Claus driving off on his motorcycle with a full sack of loot over his shoulder.

  “That does look remarkably like me,” said Rodger.

  act two

  “So what I did was this . . .” said Gary.

  The Aussie was seated in the front seat of the VIP bus beside a pudgy college student who’d been foolish enough to try out her English on him. Six hours on a bus with a foreigner; an English student’s dream. But after half-a-dozen sentences she’d exhausted her repertoire and reverted to the Thai smile and nods. She had no idea what her seatmate was saying; didn’t even recognize it as English, but that was cool. Gary didn’t want a dialogue. He needed to vent. And May, the would-be teacher from Roi Et, was the perfect foil. In front of them the driver lunged his fat bus down the highway like a battering ram, forcing all the minions to part before him. He was high on something, but Gary recognized the glazed look of a man focused on completing his task rather than an idiot bent on self-destruction. Gary knew all those looks. In the underworld in Sydney’s Kings Cross he’d learned to recognize the addictions. Your life often depended on getting them right.

  “So, what I did was this,” he said to the girl. “I got in conversation with the pom. That means Englishman in Australian if you want to know. Remember it. Could be useful. I knew he was a drunk first time I laid eyes on him. But he was a bloody fine Father Christmas if you don’t mind your kids getting fumbled and having whisky fumes breathed all over them. He really looked the part. On his break he showed me his changing room. There was a cot in there he’d sleep on through his lunch hour. There was a window open to the offloading yard. So, yesterday, what do I do? I go to Tesco and I take him a little gift, just to help him make it to the afternoon, you know? It was in an extra large Amazon Coffee cup but it had a little tipple inside. Everyone thought he was drinking coffee. Tipple, that’s another word you’ll probably need to get through life. I watched him sip it between kiddies. I’d added a little sedative to make sure he wouldn’t remember too much. He was asleep as soon as he reached his room at twelve. I followed him in. I had my own costume. They rent them out in Bangkok. I’d put it in a big Tesco bag and wheeled it in to the supermarket on one of their carts. Security checks you on the way out but never on the way in.”

  May had nodded off but it was of no mind.

  “I dressed up like him, fake beard, stuffed a couple of cushions up my shirt, went to my motorcycle and made sure everyone saw me on my way into town. Must have been a couple of hundred witnesses. I filled up my sack with goodies from the gold shop and, twenty minutes later I was back at Tesco. Neat, right? Santa was still asleep. I took off my costume and left it in his room. The police would have assumed it was his spare uniform. Once I was out of the costume I looked nothing like Santa. I mean, look at me; skinny as a cheroot. I climbed out his window with my backpack full of plunder, went back to my motorcycle and I was off. And before you knew it I was on the highway on my way south. I went as far as Chaiya, parked the motorcycle with a bunch of others and became a common backpacker catching a VIP bus to Nakhorn Sri Thammarat. And here I am. And that’s how you had the good fortune to meet me. See that, May? The perfect crime. Everyone in Lang Suan knows it was Santa who robbed the gold shop. There’s only one Father Christmas, right? By the time they release him, if they ever do, I’ll be long gone.”

  May was snoring now. Gary watched the road ahead, a long straight highway that probably killed more drivers from boredom than from recklessness. Apart from the kilometre markers and an occasional truck full of coconut monkeys there was nothing to entertain him so he decided to tell May about his cause.

  “May, I’ve been very selfish in my life,” he said. “I’ve cheated. I’ve stolen. I’ve hurt people. Yes, May, between you and me, I’ve committed acts of violence. Some men might even be dead because of me. I don’t know for sure. I didn’t stick around to find out. There’s only one thing I’m proud of. Only one act in a lifetime of dishonesty that I can say was completely unselfish. I sponsored a penniless child here in Thailand. That’s why I’m here, May. I got the idea from a Jack Nicholson movie called About Schmidt. You see that? Jack supported a child in Africa and it changed his life. I’m very fond of Jack. So I found this underprivileged boy called Tho Id Dte through this agency and funded him through school. His family are poor fisher folk. His sister’s got MS. They live in a bloody hut. And, as if the cards weren’t already stacked against him, the family’s Muslim. See? He had nothing going for him. But because of me, Tho knuckled down to study and got good grades. He can be somebody because of me. He wasn’t interested in girls. I don’t think he’s a poof or anything like that. Just serious, you know? Maybe I can get you two together. I doubt you’ve got a boyfriend. But that, May, since you asked, is why I’m going to Nakhorn Sri Thammarat. Took me a month to learn how to say the name of the place. That’s where they live. They’re not expecting me. I want to surprise them. Now you’re wondering about the connection between sponsoring Tho and me robbing the gold shop. Am I right?”

  May’s cheek was against the window. Her drool snaked down the glass. The bus slowed as the traffic was funneled into one lane to avoid road works.

  “I thought so. Well, here’s the plan. I come to Thailand and look around for a quick heist in a place where the cops aren’t too bright. In the countryside they’re not used to investigating this sort of thing. No lateral thinking. What you see is what you see. Old Santa there sort of dropped on my lap. But it was a nice little caper. Like a Christmas present, you might say. I reckon I’ve got about fifty grand’s worth of gold up there in the overhead rack. Maybe more. I reckon that’s enough to send Tho to university and pay his sister’s medical bills. Might even be enough to build a concrete house and buy a new boat with plenty left over for yours truly. This is the way you Thais do it, right? You live a life of sin then to make amends you tum boon. Think that’s how you pronounce it. You make a huge bloody donation or do a spectacular act of kindness and it cancels out the bad shit. I’ve been studying it, you see? This is my tum boon. Clean slate. Clean conscience. Gary the ex-villain philanthropist. I might even settle down here. Get myself a pretty wife and a pair of dogs. Grow mangoes. Drink with the neighbors. Could even go visit old Rodger in jail once a year. See, May? I’ve got it all worked out.”

  act three

  At the tree line, twenty meters from the highway, the boys waited.
No amount of wiping their palms on their shorts would dry them. Ayan, the eldest of the three, had already wet himself. He it was who held the cell phone. He it was who’d send the infidels to their hell. Earlier, when the road was clear, the others had dragged the Road Maintenance in Progress barrier into the fast lane so the traffic would slow down as it passed their position. The bomb was in a trash can beside the road. Patience was killing them slowly but the man had told them to wait for a fancy bus full of tourists. There’d be Thais on board; the driver, the ticket boy, perhaps a few passengers. But in a war you couldn’t pick and choose your victims. Their cell was comprised of young Muslim radicals from fishing communities along the coast north of Nakhon Sri Thammarat. They’d been entrusted with this mission to prove their worth to the fathers of the revolution. They had no right to question the orders.

  They’d been there almost an hour when the gaudy VIP double-decker approached the barrier and slowed down. The driver bullied his way into the slow lane and dropped into second gear. The bus was full. The boys nodded and Ayan took a deep breath before pressing the final number that would activate the detonation device. The explosion ripped through the VIP bus like a blazing comet. Nobody could have survived it. A wall of air knocked the boys back into the grass their ears buzzing. Os, the youngest, was shocked at the devastation of the blast. He looked up to see an inferno that had started out as a brightly painted bus. Cooked meat that had once been passengers.

  “We did it,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He and Ayan started to crawl on their bellies through the bushes. The third boy didn’t budge.

  “Hey, move your ass,” said Ayan, but their friend lay face down on the grass. Os crawled back to him.