Forever After

5

The chunky man in the cushioned red suit whistled as he walked from one house to the next. Trade was picking up, Christmas was nearing. On the first few nights of the season he had visited a few children in houses pockmarked all over town, but now there were dozens to see, a tonne of presents to deliver.

Strangely enough, for him at least, there had also been a handful of adults. Christmas was for children, yet over the last few days he had delivered three bottles of whiskey, a crate of beer and what he hoped was a lifelike, simulated friend, but suspected was a sex doll. He didn’t mind of course, adults needed cheering up just as much as children, and who was he to judge who received presents and who didn’t?

Well, okay. But he preferred not to.

He visited two neighbouring houses, squashed together in the centre of a terraced street. The sleeping boys seemed to be of the same age and had probably sent their letters out together. One got a brand new games console; the other got a selection of games to play on it. He enjoyed that, the togetherness that the boys clearly shared. There was a good chance that they would come to blows in the future over their split-share presents, but he thought it honourable and in the spirit of the season that they would split their presents, instead of greedily asking for a bundle each.

He was in good spirits when he left their houses and quickly made his way to the next. His sack was still brimming, the night had just begun.

He was at the next house before the children in the previous ones had passed a second of slumber, shifting the several hundred yards with an effortless thought of his magical mind. He only wished that his powers extended to stopping or slowing time, thus giving him the ability to traverse the country in one season and bring goodwill and joy to children all over the world and not just the town of Brittleside, but it didn’t matter. He knew that there were thousands of others just like him. He hadn’t seen them, they, like him, were a secretive bunch, but he was confident in their abilities nevertheless.

The next house was bigger than the last, the occupants a little more well-off than he had imagined. He sidled to the back garden via a darkened path that carved between the detached house and the one next to it. He slowly opened a tall iron gate that blocked his path. He could walk through what he wanted; one of the perks of the job, but the presents wouldn’t follow him. He also enjoyed the thrill of doing it the old fashioned way, next to the joy he knew he was giving to the children, and the free booze and cakes -- another perk of the job, everyone remembered to leave out cakes and sherry for Santa, and if not they often left it in the fridge or cupboards for him to find at leisure -- the creeping and sneaking was the best part of the job.

One of the windows at the back of the house was wide open, inviting him inside. A little odd, he thought to himself, but convenient. It would save him the trouble of trying the doors and windows or reverting to his powers.

He clambered through into a room of pitch black. He hadn’t been in the best of shape or practise this season, but over the last few days his guile and agility had returned and he was able to make it through without tripping over and falling on his arse. He did knock over something that sounded fragile, the realisation of which came when he heard it shatter into a dozen pieces on the floor, but you couldn't make an omelette without breaking a few expensive vases.

He pulled in the bag from outside and walked slowly forward, cringing as his feet crunched the broken pottery pieces.

The lights snapped on, the room suddenly lit with a bright glare that the man in the red suit tried to shield with a hand thrown to his eyes. He dropped his sack; stumbled backwards.

In front of him, standing in a line of three and looking like an abstract Evolution of Man, was Chip, Michael and Naff.

The man in the red suit stared at them. He put on his best wizened smile, took a step towards them and retrieved his sack, dragging it by his side.

Chip was the first to speak. He folded his arms, put on a menacing expression and delivered his best action movie line. “You got something in that sack for me big man?”

Santa Claus paused mid-reply, swallowed his words and flashed Chip a perplexed stare. Naff and Michael also turned to their little friend, bafflement and disappointment on their faces.

Chip weighed up his comment in his head, met each of the disappointed stares and then turned a slight shade of red. He hung his head, “That came out wrong,” he admitted. “Just forget I said anything.”

The jolly man in red looked at each of them in turn, spending significantly more time on Chip. An expression of perplexity, without the slightest hint of trepidation, creased his features. “What is this?” he asked.

Chip was the first to reply. “This is where the road ends for you, where your road ends,” he chewed the sentence like a small stick of toffee. “This is where, ah for f*ck’s sake,” he spat, exasperated at his efforts.

Michael turned to his friend, “Give it a rest Chip.”

“F*ck you,” Chip spat back, sinking his head into his chest.

“This has to stop,” Michael told Santa Claus, stepping forward. “You can’t keep breaking into people’s houses, it’s not right,” his voice was warm and innocuous.

The big man looked bemused. “But I bring joy to children all over town. There’s something in this sack of mine to please everyone.”

Michael and Naff turned instinctively towards their midget friend, he didn’t meet their gazes; he didn’t speak.

“What’s not right about that?” Santa finished.

“Jacky, look,” Naff offered, moving closer. “You need to stop this.”

“Who’s Jacky?”

“You are. Don’t you remember? Your name is Jacky Sampson, you’re on probation.”

Santa Claus retained a blank expression.

“I’m your intermediary: Naff. No? Nothing? Look,” Naff said, waving a hand. “The point is: you’re not Santa Claus. You’re a mentally ill demon escaped from hell.”

He glared back momentarily, then he turned to Michael, aiming a swift and indicative nod in Naff’s direction. “Is your friend a little…” he twirled his finger around his temple.

“Asks the fat guy in the Santa costume,” Chip noted, returning to the conversation.

“This is not a costume. I am Santa.”

“Of course you are mate, and I’m Gandhi.”

“You look familiar,” the man in red noted. “Didn’t I bring you a present?”

Chip was overcome with a childish sense of bashfulness. “Maybe.”

“That’s right,” the fat man waddled forward, pointing a knowing finger. “You’re Chip,” he dug a hand into his pocket and brought out a list, a myriad of heavy handed names and information formed a visible impression on the back of the sheet. “Some multimedia device it seems,” he recalled with the know-how of a Grandfather seeing his first Xbox, “some state of the art, computer --”

“My wank box,” Chip cut in knowingly. “Yes, that was me, and for that, I thank you.”

The jolly man looked a little less jolly. “Your what?”

“But the point remains,” Chip continued. “This is wrong and downright freaky, you have to stop. I mean I know you gave me a present an’ all, but I have to stick by my friends on this one.” He coughed nonchalantly. “Unless you have something else in that sack for me?”

“Well, no,” Santa replied, even more bemused. “You only get one,”

“OK,” Chip said resolutely. “Then this is wrong, you should stop.”

His eyes lingered on the little man for a moment and then shifted to Michael. A desperation had crept onto his jolly face. “I don’t understand,” he swapped his stare between Michael and Naff, ignoring Chip.

Naff calmly said, “You’re not well.”

“But I feel fine.”

“But you think you’re Santa Claus.”

“I’m not the Santa Claus,” the man in red scoffed with a satirical grin creeping onto his face.

Michael and Naff looked at each other, suddenly wondering if they had made a mistake, if the demon wasn’t really delusional after all. Maybe he really did just want to bring joy to the children and sex perverts of Brittleside.

“You don’t think you’re Santa Claus?” Naff asked suspiciously, not failing to note the red suit and the large toy-filled sack.

He laughed derisively at the outlandish question. “Of course not,” he smirked.

“Oh, well--”

“I’m not the only Santa.”

“What?”

“Well, think about it,” Santa said seriously. “How can one man travel the world delivering presents? Hell, I only deliver to one town and even that takes me all season.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“There are thousands of us,” Santa said with a booming smile.

Naff nodded understandingly. “Ah. Right.”

“Sounds familiar,” Michael muttered softly.

“Can we lock this guy up now?” Chip asked.

Santa seemed taken aback by the comment. The smile dripped off his face and was replaced by a sudden suction of depression that distorted his features like a melancholic stroke.

“You’re going to lock me up?”

Naff sighed, shaking his head at the midget next to him. “We just need to take you...” he paused, “...somewhere,” he said, maintaining a smile. “Just to sort a few things out.”

“Prison?”

“No. No.” Naff was quick to assure.

“Hell,” Chip added helpfully.

“For f*cks sake Chip!”

“You’re taking me to hell?” the big man looked hurt. His heavy frame sagged under the weight of his own depression. “Oh. OK.”

He staggered over to the couch and slumped down with a heavy sigh. His broad back arched painfully; his head aimed at his big boots.

“I’m sorry,” Naff offered.

The big man sucked in a large lungful of air and pushed it out in a longwinded sigh. “You do what you have to do. If you want me to go with you, I’ll go.”

“I can’t take you back with your powers,” Naff told him. “You have to relinquish them.”

Santa gave another long and tireless sigh and slowly rose to his feet, standing right in front of Chip and eclipsing him with the shadow of his stomach. He held out his hands, his arms outstretched, and turned his head away dismally. A number of moments passed without his hands being cuffed or touched, he lowered them slightly and turned back to Naff, the studious office worker had sat down and was filling out a form, using a thick TV guide to rest on.

“What are you doing?” Saint Nick asked.

Naff didn’t seem to hear. His bookish eyes scanned the paper, scribbling quickly and intermittently on its surface. He turned over a sheet, folded it to the back and then tapped the end of the ballpoint pen against his teeth. “How big would you say you are?” he wondered with his eyebrows arched inquisitively.

Santa seemed taken aback. “I have no idea.”

“Twenty stone easily,” Chip said knowledgeably.

“I don’t think so,” Santa replied, looking a little hurt and sucking his stomach in automatically.

“Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two,” Chip pushed, gauging the stomach just above his own head. “Twenty-three at a push. No more than twenty-four.”

“What’s going on” Michael interrupted, watching the scene with strained discombobulation.

“Twenty-five, put down twenty-five.”

“I’m taking away his powers,” Naff answered matter-of-factly, jotting down a rough estimate on the form, deciding to go for one of the few numbers that Chip hadn’t mentioned -- the grimy hobbit tended to be wrong when he was so sure he was right.

“Seriously?” Michael said with a touch of awe. “This is how you do it?”

Naff ignored his friend and continued scribbling.

“This is your job?” Michael said when Naff had finished and stood, more of a statement than a question. “You live a truly sad existence mate.”

“Somebody has to do it,” Naff said out of the corner of his mouth. He handed the man in red the forms and a pen and pointed to a marked spot at the bottom of the first sheet.

“Well, yeah, but surely there are better ways than this.”

Santa reluctantly scribbled his signature, a cursive and flamboyant script. Naff took it from his large hands with a bright smile, a smile that soon faded upon seeing the scribble.

“This says Santa Claus,” he noted.

“That's my name.”

“But--” he paused, looked from the big man to the form and then back again. He shook his head, “Never mind, it’ll do. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared out into the hallway and up the stairs, leaving an awkward tension in his wake as the three men stood around unsure what to do with themselves.

Michael stuffed his hands in his pockets; Santa feigned interest in the cards on the mantelpiece, squinting to see them from a distance of two metres. Chip craned his head upwards to stare at Santa’s beard.

“Where do you get your presents from?” the little one asked after a few moments of thought.

Santa looked down at the questionable thing peering up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Surely you can’t go spending thousands of pounds on toys just to give them away. You get nothing from the kids in return.”

“I get satisfaction of knowing--”

“Nothing,” Chip reiterated. “It’s hardly a self-sustaining business is it? And on top of that, you have travel costs, suit hire, food expenses. Wrapping paper isn’t cheap these days.”

“I don’t...” he struggled to finish his own response.

“I mean you could make them, but then there’s a limit right?”

“Right?”

“Well, yeah, you can’t go around reproducing brand name products can you? You can get away with it a few times but eventually they’ll catch you and fine you. It just takes a few loud mouthed runts to mouth off and you’re f*cked. You can’t afford a fine; you barely make any money as it is.”

“Right.” Santa nodded. He had no idea where the midget was going but he prayed that he would stop before it required any input from him.

“Done,” Naff strode back into the room; Santa felt an instinctive sigh of relief escape his lips.

“That’s it?” Michael asked his friend who was grinning with a sense of achievement.

“All gone,” Naff said with a nod. He nodded at the man in red, gesturing for him to try his powers. He lifted an arm tentatively, staring at the crimson cotton that dangled baggily from his wrist. He swiped it this way and that, slowly at first. Nothing happened. He attacked the air with more aggression, tried snapping his fingers together, but to no avail. He lowered his arm, sunk his head depressingly into his chest and sighed into his long white beard.

“Gone,” he said.

Naff looked proud of himself. Santa returned to the couch, flopping onto the material like an angst ridden teenager after losing his first girlfriend.

Chip was the first to react. He held up a hand to his friends, mouthed, “I’ve got this,” in a confident tone and then plonked himself on the sofa next to the sullen Santa.

Michael and Naff breathed a sharp breath of consternation as Chip prepared himself. They exchanged pained expressions as their minds capitulated to the inevitable trauma they were about to witness.

Chip put an arm around the big man’s shoulders, having to straighten and stretch to manage the feat. He cleared his throat, threw a reliable wink at his friends and then began, “Look on the bright side, your job is done. No more trekking from house to house lugging all that shite around. And no more kids.”

“But I like kids.”

Chip weighed up a thought and offered an alternative. “Well, at least you’ll get away from the British winter. The dark nights. The downpours. The freezing winds.”

Santa turned to look at the little man, shaking his arm from his shoulder. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it’ll be boiling where you’re going.”

He stared at the grinning grubby face for an interminable time, a blank expression on his own, once-jolly, facade. He shook his head slowly and turned back to face his own shoes. “I just wanted to bring joy to the children,” he said solemnly.

Chip sighed and shifted away. “Again with the children.”

“A lot of them don’t have anything else. Christmas is the one time they can share in the joy that all children should experience.”

“On the plus, side,” Naff helped. “I’m sure you already brought joy to a lot of children this year.”

“It's not enough. What about the others? How will they feel?” he looked up at Naff with pleading eyes. “Their friends and classmates were visited by Santa but he rejected them? It’s hardly conducive to the season of joy and togetherness is it?”

“F*ck ‘em,” Michael offered blandly. “The parents will buy them all the shit they need. I’m sorry, but as much as it pains me to say it, I’m with Chip on this one.”

Chip glared at Michael suspiciously, refusing the break his sceptical stare even when Michael flashed him an agreeable nod.

“How can you say that?” Santa snapped. “Some of these kids have nothing. Christmas is their time to feel on par with the kids over the world who do have something.”

“This is Britain, not Africa, these kids have plenty. There’s only so much crap you can buy them.”

Santa opened his mouth to discard the comment but he quickly swallowed his words and lowered his head again. “What’s the point,” he breathed.

“There’s the spirit,” Chip exclaimed.

“I’m with the big guy on this,” Naff suddenly offered, catching the attention of the room and bringing a glint of hope to Santa’s eyes.

“Really?” Michael said in disbelief.

Naff shrugged at his friend. “What can I say? He’s right. To be honest, I quite like Christmas.”

“You traitor,” Michael uttered.

“It’s happy, it’s joyful.” Naff declared. “Don’t try to drag down the spirit of the season just because of your own shitty views.”

“Bu--but. You’ve gotta be f*cking kidding me.”

“No,” he replied defiantly. “I think what he did, or tried to do, was honourable. If it wasn’t for,” he paused with a sheepishly smile. “Well, you know.”

“The fact that he’s insane?”

“Yes. That.”

“Then let me finish,” Santa stood, his pleading eyes beamed at Naff. “Please. For the sake of the children. Let me finish what I started.”

Michael groaned heavily. “This is turning into a f*cking Hallmark special.”

Santa ignored the belligerent reaper and petitioned Naff. “There are only a few houses left,” he pulled a list from his pocket and thrust it at his ally. “Let me finish and then I’ll happily go wherever you want me to go.”

Naff studied the list thoughtfully. His eyes shifted from the uncrossed names to the desperate, beady eyes bearing down from the bearded demon.

“You don’t have your powers,” Naff noted. “I can’t give them back to you and this lot...” he gestured to the list, “will take you more than one night on your own.”

The hope in the demon’s eyes faded.

“But we’ll help you,” Naff said with a cheering smile. “We’ll help you finish.”

“Thank you. Thank you so--”

“We?” Michael interjected.

“Yes,” Naff nodded. “We’re all going to do it. That way we can get it done tonight.”

“You must be f*cking--”

“You owe me,” Naff cut in sharply.

Michael snapped back with an open mouth but his words strangled in his throat. He cast a forlorn look to the floor. “Fine.”