“No, thank you,” said Ben.
“Oh,” said Richard. “I have already bought the ticket, though.”
“Come on,” said Mum. “You’d like to see Santa, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t believe in Santa.”
“Don’t believe in Santa? But he’s in that grotto over there!” Richard joked.
“You’re going to see Santa,” said Mum. “Richard’s spent all that money.”
“It’s only a little thing,” said Richard, “only seven pounds fifty.”
“Seven pounds fifty! And you didn’t even say thank you!”
“I did say thank you,” said Ben.
Mum marched Ben out of Richard’s earshot—but not so far, Ben thought, that Richard couldn’t hear if he really wanted to. “Now, listen, mister,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this. Sulking all day in front of Richard, when he’s trying, can’t you see how hard he’s trying? Okay, you don’t like him. Tough. Because I do like him. In fact, I love him. So you’d better bloody well get used to him. Because he’s not going anywhere, not if I can help it.” And then she marched him back to where Richard was smiling, still smiling. “What do you say, sport?” he said, holding out the ticket. “Want to see Santa after all?”
The queue to see Santa lasted a good forty-five minutes, and Ben suspected his mother regretted making such a fuss he did so because she’d clearly lost patience after waiting only ten. “What is Santa doing to them in there?” she muttered. Richard joked, “Well, they’re certainly getting their seven pounds fifty’s worth!” At last an elf took Ben away; Mum and Richard waved as he went.
Santa Claus was too young, and he wore padded clothes and a stuck-on beard. “Ho ho ho!” he said.
“Hi,” said Ben.
“Want to sit on my knee?”
Ben shrugged, and did. He perched there a little precariously, and Santa wasn’t allowed to hold him fast the way his Daddy could.
“What do you want for Christmas?” asked Santa.
“Nothing.”
“Come on. You must want something. What’s your favourite toy?”
Ben shrugged again.
“Do you want an action figure?”
“No.”
“A computer game?”
“No.”
“An—I don’t know—what do you call them, one of those Lego things? Come on, kid, help me out here.”
Ben couldn’t get what he really wanted, and certainly not from a man in a shopping centre. He’d tried asking Jesus for it, and he hadn’t believed in Jesus for years, but he’d asked him anyway. “If you fix this,” he’d said, “if you can just make them love each other again, I’ll believe in you. I’ll go right on believing in you.” But Jesus hadn’t listened. Not even when he’d offered the deal. “If you make them love each other,” and Ben had hesitated over this, then just—hell with it—gone straight ahead and said it, “they don’t even have to love me. They don’t have to love me. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.” But Jesus hadn’t done a thing, he didn’t exist, and nor did Santa Claus, it was all such rubbish, it was shit.
“A bike?” said Santa Claus. Now a little desperate. “How about a bike?”
And actually, a bike didn’t sound so bad. “Yeah, go on then, a bike.”
“Great,” said Santa. “Merry Christmas!” And gave him a present from his sack, something small and square and in shiny paper that very definitely wasn’t a bike. When Ben came out of the grotto, his Mum and Richard were talking closely, and giggling. “Oh, there you are,” said Mum. “That was quick!”
It was agreed that Ben would spend the night at his Mum’s; now school was finished, he could be simply dropped back to Daddy’s later the next day. Christmas Day with his father, Boxing Day with his mother and Richard, then New Year’s Eve with his mother and Richard, New Year’s Day with his Daddy. That was the plan, it was a good plan, everyone was happy with that. “Let’s get home,” said Mum, meaning her home, although her house still didn’t feel like home to Ben, it had the wrong smell, it had the smell of visiting all over it. Richard settled down in front of the television, Mum made herself and Richard a cup of tea. “What would you like to do?” she asked Ben.
Ben didn’t know.
“How about writing a letter to Santa? It’s not too late to reach the Pole, not if we get it to the post box quick!”
Ben said he didn’t believe in Santa anymore.
“I used to help you to write letters to Santa. Do you remember? Every Christmas?” He did remember, actually, but he wasn’t going to admit to it. She looked at him, for a moment she looked almost afraid of him—a very adult sort of afraid, the afraid that comes when you simply don’t know what to say anymore. “I love you, Ben. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I love you very much.”
“Yes.”
“All right then.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll fix you some dinner. All right. Something nice and warm. And then we’re going to sit down, just the two of us, and write a letter to Santa.”
“Oh, Mum . . .”
“Just the two of us, no Richard, all right?”
“But, Mum . . .”
“No buts. What would you like Santa to bring you?”
“A bike,” said Ben.
“All right then,” she said. “A bike, that’s what we’ll say.”
They had dinner that evening, all three of them, and Richard made jokes, and then they watched television, like a family. And Ben was pleased his Mum forgot all about the letter to Santa Claus, though he supposed he wouldn’t have minded writing one with her really, not if it made her happy.
And still—the snow fell.
iii
Only a few months after they were married, David and Lisa Noakes bought themselves a small house in South London. It was ideally situated. It was just a street away from an underground station, they could be in the city within half an hour. There were lots of local shops nearby, even a little supermarket on the corner. And in walking distance there was a school. “That might be handy,” said David, “you know, just in case you still want to have any kids.” David was still a little shy of marriage, he still couldn’t quite believe Lisa had agreed to become his wife in the first place. “Of course I still want kids!” laughed Lisa. “Silly!” And she kissed him, and he hugged her, and they put a down payment on the mortgage, and that was that.
It was a few years, however, before David and Lisa got around to having that kid. And by then the house wasn’t as ideally situated as it had been. The little supermarket had closed down, but nothing had come along to replace it. And Lisa didn’t like the other local shops, they were either too expensive, or she got funny looks in there, she said, after one funny look she refused to step inside one particular newsagent’s for years. However convenient the underground station, it was also very noisy, and it seemed to attract drunken youths at weekends, they gathered around it at all times of night shouting and flinging bottles. Lisa wondered whether they shouldn’t move. “At least there’s the school,” said David. Lisa agreed; but it wasn’t an especially good school. And David said yes, they really ought to give young Ben the best start in life they could. But they didn’t move.
Or, at least, David and Ben didn’t.
Step outside David and Ben’s semi-detached, and you’d see: cars, all piled up high on the kerbs. The offending newsagent’s. A unisex hairdressing salon. A skip, placed down the road months ago, it now seemed to be a permanent fixture. An off licence. Houses crammed tight together in both directions, as far as the eye could see.
What you wouldn’t normally see would be a forest. Surrounding the house entirely, as if this thing of bricks and glass were some strange alien imposition upon a landscape so wild that all the trees looked animal, somehow: angry and untamed; the branches jutting out at any angles they wanted to, no matter how sharp, no matter how impossible; the very bark bulged. There
was no checking these trees, they were the kings here—and yet they seemed to defer to something, because they still shied away from a natural path, and flanked it on both sides. A winding path that stretched on into the distance.
Ben, bundled up in his warmest sweater and warmest gloves and stripy scarf, was surprised to see the forest there. But Santa wasn’t surprised, this was clearly what he’d been expecting. And the look on Daddy’s face wasn’t surprise either. He looked tense, a little resigned maybe, but there was nothing there to suggest he hadn’t been expecting this as much as Santa. So Ben decided not to be surprised either.
“Come on, Ben,” said Santa. “Let’s get these stabilizers on your bike. Just until you get your balance!” They clipped right on. “All right, you’re set to go!”
“Are you still sure you want to ride the bike, Ben?” asked Daddy.
“Would you push me, Daddy?”
“. . . Of course I will.”
“You don’t need to push him,” said Santa. “He’s got stabilizers.”
“I’ll push my son’s bike if he wants me to.”
“No, it’s okay, Daddy. I forgot, the stabilizers will take care of it.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. This is fun. Look at me! I’m riding a bike!”
“Are we walking far?” Daddy asked Santa.
Santa shrugged. Maybe he was being unhelpful. Maybe he just didn’t know.
And off they set, crunching the snow down the path the trees had left them. The two men, and the little boy on his bike, sometimes racing ahead excitedly, sometimes ringing them. “Try to walk where I walk,” Santa told Daddy.
“Why, is the ground slippery?”
“No. But let’s not leave more footprints than we have to. Let’s not spoil the beauty of this.” And it was easy for Daddy to do that, Santa’s footprints were so big. Daddy looked behind from time to time, and soon he couldn’t see the house, only that single pair of footprints, and the thin grooves where Ben’s tires had cut into the snow. And as the snow fell more heavily, he soon couldn’t even see those. All around them was the snow, now a blinding white, Daddy and Ben had to shield their eyes from the glare. Santa put on a pair of sunglasses. “Here,” he said, and handed Daddy and Ben sunglasses too.
Neither Daddy nor Santa spoke for another hour. On they both trudged, faces grim—except once in a while Santa would catch Ben’s eye, and give him a friendly wink. As if to say, this is only a game! Don’t let on! And Ben would wink back, when he was sure his Daddy couldn’t see. The snow continued to fall, but there was no wind to disturb the silence. “Please,” said Daddy at last. He said it so softly, but it broke right through that silence—and Ben and Santa both stopped, turned to look at him.
“Please,” he said again.
“No,” said Santa. Not unkindly. But firm.
“But I’m all he’s got.”
“He’s got his mother.”
“His mother and I . . . it’s difficult . . . we might sort things out one day, I don’t . . .” Santa watched Daddy sympathetically. Ben looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “I’ve tried so hard to hold on to him,” said Daddy.
“I know,” said Santa.
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“Daddy, it’s okay,” said Ben.
“I’ve tried so hard,” said Daddy.
“I know, Daddy.”
“I know. I can tell. We can both tell, can’t we, Ben?”
“I’m not going a step further,” said Daddy.
“Now, come on,” said Santa. “None of that. Chop chop!”
“Daddy, don’t,” said Ben. Don’t what? Spoil the fun for the rest of us?
“Why the bloody hell did you write him a letter, Ben?” said Daddy. He wasn’t shouting, not really, but it still seemed awfully loud in the still of that forest. “He wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t written.”
“I didn’t write to him.”
From his pocket Santa took a letter. He handed it to Ben’s Daddy. Daddy recognized the handwriting, and it wasn’t Ben’s. And he slumped, it seemed he suddenly got very tired. He handed the letter back to Santa.
“Okay,” said Daddy.
“We can walk on?” asked Santa.
“Okay,” said Daddy.
And on they walked.
Soon Ben couldn’t ride his bike through the ever thickening snow, he had to push it. “Walk where I walk,” said Daddy. “Why?” “You know. What he said. The beauty of it all. Let’s keep the beauty of it all.” Ben tilted his head back at one point. “Look, Daddy!” he said, and caught the snowflakes on his tongue. “You do it too.”
Daddy stopped. Daddy caught snowflakes on his tongue too. Santa stopped too, but he didn’t try to force the pace, he looked indulgent, smiled at them both, he looked like Santa on a Christmas card.
“Delicious!” said Ben.
“What do you taste?”
“Chocolate cake,” said Ben.
“Marzipan,” said Daddy.
“Apple pie!”
“I can fix that for you,” said Santa. And he did, with just one snap of his fingers. “There,” he said. And the snow that melted in their mouths tasted of pies, of cakes, of hot fudge, all sweet and creamy. “No,” said Daddy, gently. “This is our moment. This is ours.” And Santa nodded, a little ashamed, and the snow went back to tasting of bland water. Daddy and Ben held hands and drank the snowflakes until they could drink no more. Then, with just a glance shared, they both agreed to walk on—Daddy’s feet dwarfed in Santa’s footprints, Ben’s dwarfed in his Daddy’s.
“Not much further now,” said Santa, kindly.
The sleigh was a bit rusted. It had seen better days. So too had the reindeer. They huddled together for warmth. On seeing their master return, the fitter of the pack tried to stand to attention. “No, no, at ease, boys,” and the reindeer relaxed into their harnesses gratefully.
“Well, then,” said Santa to Daddy, awkwardly.
“Well,” said Daddy.
There was quiet for a few seconds. “You needn’t look at me like that,” said Santa. “I gave you a good toy, didn’t I? I only ever give the best toys.”
“I don’t remember what it was.”
“It was probably a bike. I give a lot of bikes.”
“No, it wasn’t a bike.”
“Let’s just say it was a bike,” said Santa.
Daddy thought about that. “Okay,” he said.
“I remember your little face lighting up when you got it,” said Santa. “That’s always the best bit. Watching the faces light up.” And Ben was surprised to see that Santa was crying.
Daddy gave Ben a hug. “I tried very hard,” he said. “I tried my hardest.”
And Ben now knew he should have been pleading for his father. But he’d been too busy riding his bike, spinning about, cutting those grooves into the snow. He’d been too busy for months, going to school, eating his fish fingers, pretending it was all okay, that it was all going to be okay. And it was now too late for him to plead. “Will I see my Daddy again?” Ben asked Santa.
Santa looked genuinely surprised that he’d asked. “Oh,” he said. “Maybe. But never like this. Never again like this.”
One more hug. “That’s nice,” said Santa Claus. “Strip.”
Daddy had put on all his warmest clothes—two layers!—so it took him a while. He made a pile on the ground, sweaters, shirt, vest, then shoes, then trousers, underpants. He remembered the sunglasses, actually snorted in amusement he’d done so, put them on the pile, squinting at the bright white. The last clothes he took off were his socks; he could now delay it no longer, and Daddy winced as his bare feet now sank deep into the snow.
Ben wasn’t sure he’d seen his father naked before. He looked so fragile. Daddy clapped his arms around his sides to keep warm, but soon stopped, there wasn’t any point. He stood there, shivering, his balls fluffed up with hairs sta
nding on end, his willy shrunk to a cork. He looked so young. Ben had never thought of his Daddy being young before.
“It won’t take long, I promise,” said Santa.
And sure enough, the feet were already hooves, better protection against the cold, and Ben could see Daddy sigh gratefully for that. The hide stole over his body, thick and strong, not strong enough, maybe, not in this weather, it could freeze your blood—but warmer than his man skin, that was a comfort at any rate. He pitched forwards when his hands became hooves as well; his head bowed down beneath antler weight.
“That’s it,” said Santa. “There you are. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He smiled at Ben. “Isn’t he beautiful?” And Ben couldn’t deny it.
Santa turned to the other reindeer. “This is your new brother!” he said. They were too weary to do much more than shrug their heads, non-committal. “You all try so hard for me,” he said. “For me, you fly the skies. You’re the best.” He stroked their heads, one by one. He reached one near the back. “And you, you’re so very tired, aren’t you? Such a long journey. So many long journeys. But you’ve always tried so hard.” The reindeer turned its human eyes to Santa, and nuzzled his hand. Santa laughed. “Thank you. Thank you. I love you.” And so tenderly, he caressed its head. And broke its neck.
In that silence the snap of bone sounded louder than it probably was. It had been such a gentle twist, really, and so quick, the reindeer wouldn’t have felt a thing. But it couldn’t have been that gentle—one of the bones had ripped through the skin (“rip it open, rip it apart!”), Ben could see it jutting out, sharp and white. The harness kept the reindeer in place, slumped in death as it was; when Santa released it, the body fell to the ground. The snow that caught it was so soft.
Santa harnessed his new reindeer into place.
Remember Why You Fear Me Page 21
