The store had been kind enough to build the grotto over one of the service entrances, so Santa could go take a piss without the kiddies seeing him. And then, when the call of nature had been answered, Stephen doffed his fur-trimmed red hat, white wig and beard, and joined Greg the Christmas Goth in the stairwell for a sly joint, out of view of the security cameras.
Greg leaned back against the wall. ‘So . . . doing anything exciting tonight?’
Stephen took another hit, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. Then wheezed it out. ‘I wish. Taking my kid to go see that new animated thing: Skeleton Bob and the Witch’s Christmas. She’s mad on the books.’
‘Any good?’
‘Fucking doubt it.’
‘Grievous.’ Greg took another long drag.
‘You got any gear for me?’
‘Gear?’ Greg gave a wee smoky laugh. ‘Jesus, are you out of touch. Yes, granddad, I got some ‘gear’. It’s “groovy man”.’ He even made little sarcastic quote bunnies with his fingers.
‘Aye, very funny.’ Stephen took one last hit then pinched the joint out. ‘Come on: back to the grindstone.’
There was a long queue of small children and their parents between Craig and the grotto. A pasty-faced teenager dressed as an elf appeared in the door of Santa’s little hideaway and ushered the first kid inside. Five minutes later the wee girl appeared out a side door, holding her mummy’s hand and a small gift-wrapped parcel, looking back over her shoulder at the adulterous bastard in the red suit. And then the next child went in.
Craig joined the back of the queue. Watched another kid make the trip. Shuffled forwards. Checked his watch: fifteen kids, at five minutes a kid. . . At this rate it’d be over an hour before he got to sit on Santa’s knee. The hell with that. He stepped out of line and lurched towards the grotto’s exit.
‘And what’s your name little girl?’
‘Hanna!’ She squealed it out, so excited to be in Santa’s house she couldn’t stand still.
Stephen grinned at her, the weed mellowing everything into a rosy cosy glow. Greg could kiss his arse ? this was groovy. ‘Hello Hanna, and have you been a good girl this year?’
‘Yeth!’ Another lisp! Spectacular.
‘And what would you like for-’
The exit door banged open and a man lurched in, bringing a smell of whisky with him.
Stephen was a total professionaclass="underline" kept up the big ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ voice and everything. ‘I’m sorry, but Santa’s busy with Hanna right now.’
The little girl giggled.
‘You. . .’ The man braced himself and squinted. ‘You going to ask me if I’ve been naughty?’
OK ? that wasn’t good.
Stephen waved at Greg. ‘Santa’s little helper?’
Greg snapped off a military salute. ‘Sah!’
‘This man’s lost, can you help him back to-’
‘ASK ME IF I’VE BEEN NAUGHTY!’
Hanna stopped smiling and grabbed onto Stephen’s leg.
Her mother narrowed wee squint eyes. ‘Is this part of the show?’
‘Er. . .’ Stephen blinked. The first rule of Shopping Centre Santas was ‘stay in character’. ‘Well, I’d have to consult my list, I always check it twice, but-’
The man took two steps forward, snarling and slurring his words. ‘I’ve not been naughty, but you have, haven’t you? WITH MY FUCKING WIFE!’
‘What? Are you kidding? I’m married!’
‘SO . . . AM . . . I!’ Pounding his fist into his own chest between each word.
Oh shit – the guy was a nut. No way Stephen was getting the crap kicked out of him by a drunken bampot for minimum wage. Screw the code of the Santas. ‘Look, mate, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve never slept with your wife, OK? Come on, you’re scaring the kid. . .’
And that was when the shotgun came out.
Craig brought the gun up until it was pointing right between the bastard’s eyes. ‘Liz told me all about it.’ He flicked off the safety as the piped-in Christmas carols started in on ‘Jingle Bells’. Tears made the room swim, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t cry. ‘Six months! SIX BLOODY MONTHS!’
The soon-to-be-dead Santa held his hands up, eyes wide. ‘I never! I swear! Please!’
‘You and her: after rehearsals for that fucking pipe band! Three times a week for six bloody months!’ The gun was getting heavy, drifting down towards the floor.
‘Mate, I never touched your wife: I’m not in a band. I can’t even play the spoons!’
Craig screwed up his face, keeping the lying bastard in focus. ‘I know it’s you, she told me! You: Santa Fucking Claus!’ He dragged the shotgun up again. ‘Filling my wife’s stockings!’
‘Please!’ Sweat trickled down Santa’s face, into his beard. ‘Not in front of the kids, eh?’ He reached down and pulled the little girl. . . Hanna? Pulled Hanna round till she was standing in front of him. ‘You don’t want to ruin Christmas for her, do you?’
‘No!’ The woman leapt forwards, but Craig swung the gun round. She froze, trembling. ‘Please, let me take my little girl! Please!’
Craig ignored her. ‘Was she good?’ he asked. ‘My wife: was she good?’
‘I never touched her, I swear!’
‘She’s only four!’
The idiot in the elf costume stuck up his hand. ‘Maybe. . .’ His voice cracked and he had to try again. ‘Er. . . Maybe it’s another Father Christmas? You know? They all look alike, right? With the beard and the hat and the belly?’
Craig squinted at him. ‘Don’t you dare patronize me! She said she was screw . . . screwing the Santa down the shopping centre.’ His sore hand throbbed – he shifted his grip on the shotgun.
‘Which one?’ The elf asked.
Craig opened his mouth, then frowned. Swore. There were two in the centre of town: the Guild Centre on Dean Street and this one. ‘She didn’t say.’
‘See?’ The guy with the beard slumped in his seat. ‘I told you it wasn’t me! I never touched your wife; it has to be the other Santa!’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh thank Christ for that. . .’
‘I. . .’ Craig closed his eyes. The burrowing tick of a headache ate through the whisky numbness. How could he get it so wrong? He’d fucked it up, just like he fucked everything up. His one last, grand gesture was a total disaster.
The store would call the police, he’d be arrested, and the story would be all over the papers so everyone could see what a cretin he was. He’d go to prison and Liz would be free to screw the other Santa all day, every day. Laughing at stupid Craig the fuck-up. ‘You sure you’re not in the pipe band?’
‘Positive.’ The Santa forced a smile. ‘Not in the band. It’s not me!’
‘Jingle Bells’ finished and ‘Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly’ started up instead. Fa la, la, la, la. . .
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t. . .’ Should have known better. That’s what he got for drinking all that whisky on an empty stomach. He wasn’t thinking straight.
The shotgun was so heavy. Be good to put it down and just go to sleep.
‘It’s OK, easy mistake to make. I was just saying to-’ And that’s when this deafening bang ripped through the grotto. Like a firework going off, or a car backfiring.
The left side of Santa’s face disappeared in a spatter of red and grey.
Craig looked down at the gun in his hands.
Smoke drifted out from the end of the barrel. The woman started screaming, and the little girl cried, and the elf was sick in the corner.
Santa didn’t even fall over: just sat there, held in place by the arms of the huge throne, leaking brains and blood into his beard. The wall behind him was pebble-dashed with bits of head. The whole place stank of sulphur, raw meat, and fresh vomit.
He’d shot the wrong man. By accident.