Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) (28 page)

             
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 fucked. 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?”

             
“Fuck ‘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 fucking 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 fucking 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
fucking
--”

             
“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.”

6

              “Just so you know in advance,” Chip explained to the demon by his side. “I think this is a stupid idea.”

             
The 221 bus plodded along at a stuttering pace with a succession of flicking streetlights lighting its way. The driver, a chunky man in his twilight years, watched his passengers through the rear-view mirror with an expression of bewilderment permanently embedded on his wrinkled face.

             
Sampson, still dressed in his Santa suit, was watching a youngster at the back of the bus, a boy of no more than thirteen who dressed like someone much older, his trousers and hoody far too big for him; a mass of dangling chains around his neck. He had initially scowled at Chip and Sampson, as he no doubt did every adult he saw, but he now viewed them with an air of childish curiosity, or so Sampson liked to think.

             
He had never experienced life as a human child but he had encountered plenty of children. They possessed an innocence he adored, a sense of the fantastical and the impossible that stayed with them and refused to leave, even when faced with glaring evidence to the contrary.

             
That level of belief and innocence remained in every child until adolescence. The world had a way of beating it out of the unfortunate ones and those forced to grow up too young, but he was a firm believer that the faith in the impossible still lingered and could be restored.

             
“I mean you can’t even do the door thing.”

             
“The door thing?” Sampson asked distantly.

             
“Walking through them,” Chip clarified simply. “Not anymore at least.”

             
“Well, if you hadn’t taken away my powers...”

             
“Not my field of expertise mate, although quite frankly I wouldn’t feel comfortable sitting on the bus next to a demon a few loaves short of a bakery.”             

             
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sampson wondered, pulling his attention away from the curious youngster at the back of the bus.

             
“You’re insane,” Chip translated

             
“I make it my duty to bring joy and hope to children all over the world, you’re trying to stop me, maybe you and your friends are the insane ones.”

             
“Nah, mate. It’s definitely you.”

             
Sampson, looking a little offended, turned back towards the boy at the back, watching him slyly through a reflection in the opposing window.

             
“Naff can’t do the door thing either,” Chip noted to himself. “Seems the two least interested in helping your fat arse out are the two who have to do the most.”

             
Sampson didn’t reply, he barely heard. The Christmas spirit had now gone from the face of the youth. His eyes were fixed on the large sack in front of Sampson, he didn’t ponder whether there would be a present in there for him, but rather what he could get at the pawn shop for the contents.

             
The bus stuttered to a stop. They remained seated but the youth stood. Despite being on a bus he glanced around himself, almost as a criminal instinct, and then plodded forward with his eyes on the bag. Samson was too dejected to stop him, but Chip called to him without even looking up.

             
“Touch that bag and I’ll break your fucking arms,” he said brusquely with a great deal of believability.