Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) (24 page)

             
“Whatever, look, I let him go. I told them he was fit for release. I mean I thought he
was
,” he explained with great pain. “He seemed fine, but, well, clearly he was just faking it.”

             
“Can’t be that insane then.”

             
“He thinks he’s fucking Santa Claus.”

             
“Good point.”

             
“He started this escapade the same night I released him, that was a week ago. We’ve only just found out it was him, turns out one of the homes had a nanny-cam set up, they have stills of him. We were alerted by an insider at the news station, he’s stopping it from going public but now my boss is on my arse.” He sighed and dropped his head into his arms. “What the fuck am I going to do?”

2

             
In the depths of the darkest hour, with the world under the somatic touch of the sandman and the streets sparse with foraging animals, lonely insomniacs and the humdrum tempo of forlorn cars taking their drivers to red-eyed nightshifts, a fat man in a red suit struggled through an open window.

             
The only sound was the shuffling of bulging fabric and the drowned noise of heavy snoring that pattered a steady path towards the open window.

             
A stray foot, clad in a heavy leather boot, stood in something unpleasant. The owner reacted with disgusted recoil, lost his balance and toppled over, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Through the sound of his own calamitous clambering he couldn’t hear the snoring and the sound of his own blood, rushing a surprised path through his ears, cancelled out all other noise. When his ears retuned to the silence he realised the snoring had stopped.

             
He waited on the floor. Silent and unmoving, like an animal caught in the glare of the headlights, hoping that its passivity would save it from being skinned.

             
The snoring started again, choking and gargling into life before erupting into the steady flow of obstructed breathing.

             
The man in the red suit breathed again. He stood, straightened his glorious white beard, refitted his right boot and then got to work.

             
The house around him was dark, lit only by the moonlight from the window he obstructed, but he sensed that darkness was this house’s best medium. He sensed dirt around him; felt the clutter and the must. He could smell a thick, bodily grime. The scent of unwashed bodies that had sat, walked, worked and lain in an unwashed room.

             
He retrieved a large sack from outside the window, steadily lifting it in as not to make another noise. Throwing the sack around a strained shoulder he stepped steadily forward on the toes of his leather boots.

             
The house unravelled itself as he stepped out of the light.

             
There was an ancient kettle on the stove, its rough metallic structure bounced the silver sheen of moonlight in a reflective diamond around the kitchen; a fridge stuck with so many ineligible post-it notes that it was hard to guess the colour of the paint underneath.

             
From the kitchen floor he crossed to what he assumed was the living room. The floor underfoot was carpeted but hard. Some of it stuck to the sole of his left boot, he struggled with it, trying to kick and dislodge, finding freedom after ten-seconds of panic and struggle.

             
There was no fireplace, no stockings hung expectantly, at least not in the living room. He crossed to the hallway, entering a completely dark stretch that rendered him blind. Taking a small torch from his pocket he carefully lit the floor, cautious of holding the beam in front of him and waking any of the faces it fell upon.

             
The snoring grew louder as he crept; it seemed to be emanating from the furthest of the three doors in front of him. He ignored it and opened the first; it was already ajar, saving him the cringe worthy task of peeling the handle down and slipping it squeakily open.

             
He pushed it with the tip of the torch and shone a light inside: a bed, some discarded clothes, two pieces of tattered furniture. No stocking. Nothing Christmassy at all. He pulled the door a few inches toward him, leaving it as he had found it.

             
The next door led to the bathroom, a room he sincerely wished he had avoided. He walked quickly away and came to the final door, the snoring was unbearable. He didn’t need to take his time toying with the handle, there was little chance that the squeak of an unoiled hinge could be heard above the breathless racket, but he did it anyway.

             
With the door open he was hit with a wave of sound and smell. It came at him like a wall and he gagged. He took an instinctive step back, then he planted two fingers over his nose and shone the torchlight inside with his free hand.

             
A short hump lay tight under a stained duvet that billowed under the heavy snoring. At the side of the bed a joint had been allowed to sit unattended and lit in an ashtray, it had burned to a finish, leaving an ashy deposit all over the bedside table.              

             
He found what he sought stuffed into the top drawer of that bedside cabinet, draping down over the handle and brushing the floor: a stocking, bright red under the beam of torchlight.

             
He took the top two presents from the bag, held his nose and then entered the room. The wall of noise battered him away but he powered through like a trooper, dropping the two carefully wrapped presents into the beckoning stocking and then quickly exiting the room.

             
He shone the torch back in to admire his handiwork. The present bulged inside the stocking like a chubby calf. He whispered softly and proudly: “Merry Christmas...” he paused and shone the light over a white tag on the stocking where a name had been emblazoned in thick black letters. “Chip,” he finished with a smile.

             
He closed the door, threw his sack over his shoulder and headed back into the night.

****

              When Michael woke he did so to the joyous calls of his typically ill-tempered flatmate. Chip was happy; Michael was worried. The last time he had seen something remotely resembling happiness on the face of the grumpy tooth fairy was when he successfully trapped a rat that had been plaguing the flat for several weeks, his shrieking yells of accomplishment came right before he beheaded the rodent, impaled a thin pencil through his body like a sickening stake, and displayed it on the kitchen windowsill to ‘ward away the others’.

             
Wondering what macabre horrors awaited him in the other room Michael staggered out of bed, using the side-cabinet to hold his balance and keep him from falling flat on his face. The small digital clock on top of the table told him it was just before nine. He hadn’t fallen asleep till the early hours of the morning, doing so in a mild drunken stupor that left his mouth feeling like the inside of a kangaroos arsehole.

             
He had left the pub before midnight, Naff was depressing him, but he had continued his drinking at home. Chip had returned home from work not long after, heading straight to bed and drowning the house with his chorus of snores.

             
He coughed a clump from his throat, rubbed his tired eyes and staggered forwards, towards the fading cheers of joy.

             
He found Chip in the hallway, proudly clutching a small tablet computer in his hand, a ball of hastily torn wrapping paper lay discarded at his feet. He waved the device at Michael when he approached, a broad smile on his ugly face.

             
“Look at this,” He exclaimed joyfully. “Tablet computer, see,’ he flicked a grubby finger on the screen. His brow furrowed, his eyebrows arched into disappointment as he retracted the computer. “Well, it was working before. It doesn’t matter,” he assured, regaining his excitement. “It’s mine!”

             
“Who did you steal that from?” Michael asked dryly.

             
Chip looked offended. He hugged the device to his chest. “What makes you say that?” he asked, feigning hurt, not letting on that he had been trying to steal one for months but hadn’t found an owner dumb or naive enough.

             
“Where did you get it?”

             
Chip grinned like a smug child. “Santa Claus.”

             
“Fuck off.”

             
“It’s true!”

             
Michael raised an eyebrow; put a hand on his hip. “Tell me, who did you steal it from?”

             
“I didn’t--”

             
He waved his friend short, “I don’t really care,” he muttered, feeling a tired headache creeping through his skull like a parasitic worm preparing to lay its eggs in his conscious. “Just make sure you give it back when you’re done.”

             
He brushed past his friend, leaving the little tooth fairy struck sour and outraged in the hallway.

             
“I didn’t fucking steal it!” he yelled, incensed. Michael waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and disappeared into the living room, Chip followed, keen to declare his innocence the one time he really was innocent.

             
“Why won’t you believe me?” he wondered, following his friend around the kitchen as he filled the kettle and plonked it lazily on the stove.

             
Michael shrugged, leaned back against the counter and struggled to keep his eyes open.

             
“You should believe me. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

             
“You always say that. You’re always lying.”

             
“Not this time! Honestly”

             
“So you’re admitting that you were all those other times?” Michael wondered. “Like the time you said you didn’t know who stole my phone, or my bike?”

             
Chip diverted his eyes, looked a little sheepish under the accusing glare of his hung-over flatmate. “What did you want a fucking bike for anyway?” he mumbled. “Only women and retards--”

             
“And what about my wallet?” Michael interrupted. “With the winning betting slip in.”

             
“Ah-ha!” Chip said, raising a finger. “I didn’t steal that,” he said genuinely. “It was lost.”

             
“By you.” Michael said with a knowing nod. “After you stole it.”

             
Chip shrugged. “You can’t prove anything.”

             
Michael shook his head and turned his attentions to the kettle which had screeched to the deafening heights of a pneumatic drill. He rinsed out a cup with a questionable scummy liquid in the bottom, picked a speck of peeled lip from the rim and dropped a spoonful of coffee and three sugars inside. When the kettle squealed to a halt he turned his back on his friend to fill his cup.

             
“So, who did you steal it from?” he had a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and was already feeling more awake. He trotted to the living room with the incensed tooth fairy biting at his heels.

             
“I’m telling you the truth. Santa Claus gave me it.”

             
Michael rolled his eyes, weighed up the pleading look in his friends face and took a long drink. The hot liquid ran a scolding track down his oesophagus and to his stomach, heating everything up in its path and clearing away a thin line of distaste that had woven an intricate web through his insides.

             
He began to object again; a little unsure this time, but something stopped him. He paused with the mug at his lips; the liquid burned through the ceramic and imprinted a heated blotch onto his dried lips.              Memories of the previous night returned to him, everything that Naff had told him.

             
“Santa Claus?” he said softly.

             
Chip nodded, beaming a proud and somewhat smug smile, the debated item still clutched tightly in his hands.

             
“Seriously?”

             
“On my mother’s grave.”

             
“Do you even have a mother?”

             
“On
your
mother’s grave then.”

             
Michael rubbed his temple with the nibs of fingers that had been heated by the cup; the action restored some vigour as the coffee simultaneously soaked into his central nervous system and awakened his senses.