Stuart MacBride - Twelve Days of Winter - Crime at Christmas

She stared at him – standing there swaying slightly, one arm hidden under his long wax coat. Probably thought he was some sort of drunken pervert. Is that a shotgun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?

She glanced from the stairs, to the lifts, to Craig, and back to the stairs again. Then the lift went ping and the doors slid open. She shrugged and followed him into the brightly lit metal box.

‘I’m. . .’ Craig cleared his throat as the doors closed. The trick was to get all the words in the right order. Can’t sound pished if all the words are in the right order. ‘I’m not a perv . . . pervert.’

She didn’t make eye contact, just stood there watching the floor numbers count down to ground level and escape.

‘I’m hap . . . happily married.’ He frowned. ‘No, no, no: not happily. I was happily, but now I’m not. . . You know?’ Silence. ‘You . . . you see I was happy, but, but. . . She’s sleeping with some . . . someone else!’

He paused to see if the woman would jump in with an expression of sympathy, but she kept her eyes on the numbers.

‘You’re right.’ He leaned his head against the cool metal wall. ‘I should shut up and leave . . . leave you alone.’ He closed his eyes and waited for the elevator to shudder to a halt.

Ping. A sudden swelling of noise as the doors opened on the main shopping level. The squeak of buggy wheels. And then he was alone.

Craig took a deep breath and lurched out into the crowds, gripping the shotgun tight beneath his coat. It was time to go see Father Fucking Christmas.

Stephen wriggled in the throne. Had to be a position on this bloody thing that didn’t make his arse eat itself. Be lucky if he didn’t have piles by Boxing Day.

He gave his head elf the signal to send in the next one. A wee boy with a runny nose. Then it was a wee girl called Ashley whose mother looked like a man in drag. And then another little boy called Simon, who wanted a dinosaur and a aeroplane and a puppy and a Action Man kung fu killer and a hat and a dinosaur and a chocolate house and, and, and. . .

Finally it was half eleven: time for the statutory fifteen-minute pee and tea break. The head elf – a part-time goth called Greg, dressed up in a green tunic, green pointy hat, green curly-toed slippers and red-and-white striped tights – plonked the ‘Santa Will Be Back Soon!’ sign in front of the grotto’s entrance. Then they both buggered off out the back.

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 professional: 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!’