by Anna Blix
Niklas rubbed his head. “Well. You’re right. But how does he do it in one night? It’s impossible!” He gestured at the list. “Maybe this simply means you have to discard the hypothesis. As a scientist, you have to keep an open mind to that possibility.” This was a serious setback. He had lost all the letters apart from one. How could he possibly deliver more than one present, let alone give presents to all the children in the world? He considered the problem while he watched Mrs Dollimore wipe down the sink.
“But shouldn’t there also be a naughty list? Of children who can be excluded from the round?” And if only there were enough naughty children in the world, then—
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Niklas. I think the naughty list has become… somewhat archaic. People don’t really call their children naughty anymore. It’s all cotton-glove parenting nowadays. But then again, far from every child in the world is a Christian, and many cultures don’t celebrate Christmas. I don’t think it would be right to go and put presents down their chimneys.”
He nodded. “True.” It would be wrong to impose their culture upon others. Now they were getting somewhere.
Mrs Dollimore hung the dishcloth over the tap to dry. “So I think we can safely say that Father Christmas doesn’t deliver a present to every single child in the world.”
“But how many, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She bent down and picked up White the cat, who had come into the kitchen in search of food. “What do you think, White?”
Niklas shook his head. “Let’s ask the deaf cat. Wonderful idea.”
“Niklas! Well, for your information, White says that Father Christmas should ideally give a Christmas present to every child who has asked for one, or would otherwise want one.”
“Does he? Then, can you ask the cat what happens if Father Christmas fails to deliver all of those presents? Does that disqualify him from his Santahood?”
Mrs Dollimore whispered something into White’s deaf ear, and then put her own ear to the cat’s mouth. “He says that, although far from ideal, he will allow a lower number of presents to qualify.”
Niklas nodded. “And how about just one?”
Mrs Dollimore once again put her ear to the cat’s mouth. She nodded sternly and said, “He’ll allow. This year.”
“Wonderful. Let’s carry on, then. You should adjust the criteria.” Niklas motioned towards the list.
Mrs Dollimore let White down on the floor, picked up a pen, and added brackets to the sentence so it read: Brings Present(s) to Child(ren) at Christmas.
Niklas sighed. “Science in action. Well, you’re the test conductor. I’m just the subject. What do I know?”
Mrs Dollimore opened a kitchen drawer and took out a set of keys on a ring. “I think it’s about time you went out to the workshop now, Niklas. Or there won’t be any presents to deliver at all.” She unlocked the back door. “Let me show you the shed. And feel free to use any of my husband’s tools. They’ve been left collecting dust for such a long time. It’s about time they’re getting used again.”
Niklas followed Mrs Dollimore outside. They walked across the dewy grass down to the bottom of the garden and the wooden shed, which turned out to contain a well-equipped workshop with a large workbench, and a good selection of tools. The floor was concrete, and along one wall, plastic boxes were stacked.
“I use this shed for storage now,” Mrs Dollimore said. “Mostly Steven’s old things from when he was little. You never know when they’ll come in handy again. Aw, there’s the old BRIO in that box. Did you have a train set when you were little, Niklas?”
Niklas didn’t remember if he had owned a train set as a child.
“Please let me know if you want me to move any of these boxes out of your way?”
“No. This space will be sufficient. Can I use all of these tools?”
“You can use any tool you’d like. I’m sure my husband will be pleased they’re being put to use — when he looks down at you from his cloud.”
Niklas followed Mrs Dollimore’s eyes up to the shed’s wooden ceiling. He pictured a white-bearded Mr Dollimore sitting in heaven above on top of a fluffy cloud, expectantly peeping through the shed-roof with his x-ray vision. Great. Another person to judge him. And this one wasn’t even living. Wasn’t it enough that he had completely failed as a polar researcher? What if he let Mr Dollimore down as well?
Mrs Dollimore got a broom and swept the floor, while Niklas fetched the skateboard and gift-wrapped glue from the house and placed them on the workbench. Then he went back outside and dragged the theft-protected shopping trolley into the shed. He had hoped it would seem less derelict after drying up overnight, but if possible, it looked even more pathetic in daylight. Rusty and algae-ridden with slugs still clinging to its metal bars, and damp with condensation from the cold night air.
“Is there a cloth I can use to wipe this down?” he asked.
“Should be. Look in one of those drawers.” Mrs Dollimore motioned towards an old chest of drawers next to the workbench. “If not, I can get one from inside.”
Niklas found an old cloth that looked like it had been torn from a bed sheet. It was grey and smelled like an old garage, and judging by the marks on it, the late Mr Dollimore must have used it to grease the chain on his bicycle. Niklas used the cloth to wipe the dew off the trolley. He managed to get most of the slugs and algae off.
Onwards to the board itself. Niklas grabbed the skateboard and turned it over. He found a screwdriver and took it down from its holder. Then he set to work detaching the wheels and trucks from the board. He placed them in a neat pile on the workbench.
Mrs Dollimore watched him work. “Oh… I’m still not convinced about the skull design. Are you certain it’s a good idea?”
“All that matters is that it’s red. That’s what Sophie wants. I thought I explained this to you yesterday.”
“I’m just wondering if it’s the best… decoration… for a little girl. But never mind. It will be fine.”
Niklas nodded. “It will.”
The little lady smiled stiffly. “And what are you going to do with the wheels?”
Niklas shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I probably won’t need them at all.” He patted the pile of parts. “But I’ll keep them here for now.”
“Otherwise, they looked quite good the way they were, I thought. You had the whole board there with the wheels. All that was missing was a handlebar.”
Did Mrs Dollimore still not understand that Santa Claus doesn’t just buy Christmas presents off the shelf? It had seemed she was on board with the scientific method when she raised the point about the number of presents. Niklas sighed patiently and explained, “I know that. But this way will be better. You’ll see when it’s finished.”
He put the skateboard deck on the workbench, next to the pile of wheels, and turned his attention back to the shopping trolley.
“Right. I’ll leave you to it then,” Mrs Dollimore said. “I’ll be in the house if you need anything.”
The shopping trolley proved a harder nut to crack than the skateboard. The metal bars looked like they had been welded together by some work experience student at the trolley factory, who was as inept as he was overambitious — a dangerous combination that in this case had produced thick, lumpy joins with an excess of molten steel, outright impossible to prise apart with any tool Niklas could find in Mr Dollimore’s shed. He stopped and scratched his head. This job clearly needed a different approach.
What could he use? A hacksaw? He took one off the pegboard and started on one of the thinner rods, sawing back and forth over the metal for a good minute, then stopping to inspect his progress. The teeth had made no impression whatsoever. He threw the hacksaw onto the workbench, knocking over the neat pile of skateboard wheels, which all rolled off and across the concrete floor.
“Saatanan helvetti!” Niklas kicked one of the wheels with his snow-boot. It spun off into the corner.
There was a hammer, hanging
from a peg. He grabbed it and banged furiously at the metal.
“Perkele!” He’d be damned if this didn’t do the trick. And yes, the thinner rods did indeed bulge under the hammer’s blows — but they didn’t detach. The welded joins resisted every attack of the hammer. Who was this mystery welder? And what did he have against Niklas?
Realising he was never going to beat the welding work experience student, he decided to attack the problem from a different angle. Might Mr Dollimore possibly own some bolt cutters? Niklas had not thought of him as a burglar, but Mrs Dollimore had never mentioned precisely what he did for a living. He rummaged through the drawers and shelves but the best he could come up with was a set of cutting pliers. They were going to have to do. He picked out the largest pair he could find and set to work cutting away the thin metal rods from the sides of the trolley.
Soon, he had worked his way all around the body and was now left with the skeleton of the trolley, which was made up of thicker metal, impossible to cut through with the pliers, despite his best efforts. Now what could he do?
He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jumper. Sweat was running down his temples and cheeks and dripped from his beard. His T-shirt was glued to his back. He pulled his jumper over his head and used it to prop the door open. The fresh December air streamed in. It was still sunny outside, and Niklas welcomed the additional light.
He turned the trolley upside down on the floor, and crawled in under it, flat on his back. This was going to take some brute force. Using his upper body as a weight, he planted the heels of his snow-boots against the bottom of the trolley. Slowly, and with considerate effort, he stretched out his legs, wrenching the two pieces of metal apart. With a creaking sound, the frame of the trolley straightened out. Niklas let go, slowly relaxing his legs. The metal stayed in its new, straight position. He took a deep breath and pressed with all his might. It was human muscle force against toughened steel. For a few trembling seconds, the two contestants were stalled in a locked position, but then, with a loud crack, the shopping trolley broke in two pieces, sending the upper half flying across the room, crash-landing on the concrete floor behind Niklas’s head.
Sweet, sweet victory! Victory over the shopping trolley and its diabolical welder, good had once again prevailed over evil, and Christmas could go ahead as planned. Niklas, drenched in sweat, and with a broad smile on his face, cast his eyes up towards the ceiling and nodded. He had a feeling he had made Mr Dollimore proud.
Underneath his shoulders was now one metal rod, bent in two places. He rolled off it to inspect it. It was a little too long and needed to be broken into two separate pieces. He put his boot on the spot where the metal bent and, using the weight of his body, bent it back and forth, over and over again until the metal weakened and snapped in two, leaving him with a perfect-length handlebar and a perfect-length steering rod.
Using PVA glue, he attached the two pieces perpendicularly to each other and then to the skateboard deck. Would he just have to leave it to dry now? Somehow it didn’t seem quite secure.
Niklas searched for something else he could use to steady the build while the glue dried. On a shelf was a ball of garden string. Good. He wrapped some around the handlebar. Round after round, crisscross over the join, and then all the way down to the board. Several rounds of the board, and then up again to the top of the handlebar. Finally, he secured it with a tight knot. That should do it.
Sophie’s scooter also needed some wheels. Of course, he was not going to put the old skateboard wheels back on, as Mrs Dollimore had implied. Niklas inspected the carcass of the trolley, sprawled on the floor. The wheels were attached with nuts and bolts and had come off easily. All but the theft-protected one, which Niklas left where it was. Sophie’s scooter would be a three-wheeled one.
Careful not to disturb the drying glue, Niklas turned the scooter upside down on the workbench and fastened it in the built-in vice. He drilled nine holes in the board, three for each wheel, and then he attached the three wheels he had harvested. Turning the scooter the right way around on the workbench, he took a step back to admire it.
Voila! There it was, Santa’s special hand-crafted scooter. Finished and ready for Christmas night delivery. As soon as the glue had dried, that was. Sophie would be so pleased, getting exactly the present she had asked for.
Niklas pulled off his snow boots and wiggled his toes where he sat on the shed doorstep in the December sun, letting the breeze cool him. He was sure Mr Dollimore would be happy when he looked down from his cloud. It was nice to have somebody watching over him.
He wondered what Tom would think if he saw him. And how Tom was managing at the station in the Arctic winter. It would be completely dark by now, night and day, for months to come. Cold winter storms blowing in from the frozen sea. Tom would have to go outside from time to time. To check on the generator, if nothing else. Torch in hand, and with the rifle strapped to his back. Occasionally, polar bears might wander ashore. Tom would have to get to his rifle fast if they did. Maybe he wouldn’t be fast enough, and they ate him. Niklas smiled grimly at the thought.
“Niklas, I’ve made you a sandwich,” called Mrs Dollimore from the house. “It’s coronation chicken, your favourite. And there are mince pies. Come and eat!”
“I’m coming,” called Niklas. He put his snow-boots and jumper back on and walked across the lawn to the house.
Mrs Dollimore waited for him at the back door. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve built,” she said.
20
The side window was blurred by rain. Clare watched a fat rat scurry between the rubbish bins in search of food, fur streaky and wet, getting up on its hind legs, sniffing. Then it turned and scampered off. She looked away.
Her four-by-four was parked away in the corner of an empty retail park. The heavy rain battered the roof. A McDonald’s bag with the remnants of her dinner, left in the passenger footwell, was still emitting its distinct odour — but by now, Clare had grown numb to the smell. She had put her seat back, rolled up her spare jumper and was using it as a makeshift pillow. Her coat was spread over her upper body as a blanket, but she still shivered with cold.
Another half hour passed and she was still awake. She decided to abandon the attempt to sleep and brought her phone back up. She keyed in the same search phrase. The one she had searched several times already: “Russ Gibson”. It was one of two names her father had given her. Names he had found in her planner. Names of people who had phoned to enquire about buying a reindeer.
About two weeks ago, Russ Gibson had phoned Clare, wanting to buy a reindeer. Clare had ransacked her memory all night, but could still only remember the conversation vaguely. A man’s voice — deep, she wanted to think, but couldn’t be sure. Brief. The conversation had been brief. Did she have a reindeer for sale? —No, she didn’t. Did she know anybody else who did? —No, she didn’t, goodbye. Something along those lines. Now she wondered if this Russ Gibson had gone on to find a reindeer elsewhere. Could he be the one who had bought Einar from the woman at the farm — and if that was the case, how was he treating Einar?
The other name was Helen Poulsen. A farmer in Hertfordshire who had phoned Clare with a brilliant idea she had. To buy a reindeer in order to increase Christmas takings at her farm. Clare had patiently explained to her why this was not a good idea at all, and at the end of the conversation, it had seemed like Helen understood and had changed her mind.
Clare had phoned back to double-check, and Helen’s husband had answered the phone. Mr Poulsen had assured Clare that Helen had taken her advice and had not gone ahead with those plans. And Clare was inclined to believe him.
And if Einar was not with Helen Poulsen or Russ Gibson, then where could he be? It could, of course, be somebody completely different — somebody who had not been in contact with her at all. Maybe the person had tried some importer before stumbling upon Einar. When she thought about it, chances were slim that the person who bought Einar had been on her radar.
She rechecked her phone. Russ Gibson. She kept returning to Russ Gibson. For now, he was all that Clare had to go by. The first search hit was his own website. She had already read it, but she still brought it back up. He claimed to be the owner of a reindeer farm in the south of England: Festive Reindeer Bonanza. There were no address details on the website, nor was there a telephone number. The only way of contact was through a web form.
The website itself was handsome, full of stock photos of herds of reindeer, roaming snow-coated mountains. Magnificent animals with large antlers. Further photos showed reindeer calves playing and jumping around in powder snow. Then there were the pictures of Santa in a sleigh, pulled by four reindeer in harnesses adorned with bells and ribbons. All of the photos had been taken in spotless white snow, on a sunny day, somewhere in northern Scandinavia, guessed Clare, and definitely nowhere near the south of England.
She selected the tab with booking information. “Hire a reindeer for any event or party.” Children’s birthday parties, weddings, Christmas fairs — the list went on. She keyed in the date of the following Saturday. “Fully booked.” So he was going somewhere that day. If only she could find out where.
On his Facebook page, there was no information about his whereabouts, just more stock photos of reindeer. His profile picture, however, did show a grainy image of a dark-haired, somewhat bulky man. Clare saved a screenshot of the man and scrolled further down to adverts for his website and a few unrelated listings. She returned to her search and continued to the second page.
An article in a local newspaper about protests from an animal welfare group — interesting. The group was protesting a Christmas fair, where a reindeer had been kept in a tiny pen, with nowhere to hide from the crowds. Visitors had been allowed to stroke and feed the distressed animal for hours nonstop. The organiser blamed the reindeer’s owner, who allegedly had made promises to provide for the animal during the event. Promises that had not been kept. And there, in the last paragraph of the article was the name again: “The owner of the reindeer, Russ Gibson, declines to comment.” Clare shuddered.
