Stuart MacBride - Twelve Days of Winter - Crime at Christmas

‘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.

He couldn’t even fuck up properly.

Kinda funny when you thought about it.

Still, there was one thing he could do right. Craig sat on the floor, pulled out his bottle of Highland Park, and took a deep, long drink. Then placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Greg shivered in the corner, taking deep breaths, not looking at what was left of Liz’s husband, Craig. Between him and Stephen, the place was like a horror movie.

He wiped a sticky chunk of red off the front of his stripy top. It left a long scarlet smear.

Thank Christ he’d exaggerated his job title when he told her about his new Christmas gig. After all: who wanted to shag an elf?

There’s a small pause – the kind you get before something really nasty happens – then all hell lets loose. From both ends.

‘Oh Jesus. . .’ I hold the horrible thing as far away from my suit as possible, but it’s already too late: white milky vomit spatters all over my shoulder. Fresh urine sprays across my shirt and trousers. Soaking through to my skin. ‘You little bast. . .’

I catch the look on Stephanie’s face and turn it into a cough.

Forty-five-year-old men are not equipped to deal with small babies. It’s not natural. And sticky. ‘Oh Christ. . .’ He’s at it again, piddling like a broken teapot.

‘Oh, give him here, for God’s sake.’ She reaches out and I hand over our first and only child – the way he’s going there isn’t likely to be a second one. Stephanie makes little cooing noises while I scramble out of my suit and into the last set of clean clothes I own: jeans and a tartan shirt. Like a bloody lumberjack, only grumpier.

Don’t even have time to shower – going to be late as it is.

I throw the suit into the washing basket, kiss my wife on the cheek – it’s Christmas Eve, I’m making the effort – and give my three-month-old son the best smile I can manage in the circumstances. Then leg it.

It’s quarter past seven in the morning: Christmas Eve and the sky’s burnt-toast black, dumping yet more snow on the city centre. Big fat flakes that melt to slush the moment they touch the gritty, shining tarmac.

My breath mists around my head as I hurry down the front steps to the waiting car.

PC Richardson’s behind the wheel. He’s a tall, stick-like man with the sort of face old ladies love. Not looking all that shiny this morning though, not with the bags under his swollen pink eyes, and stubble on his chin and cheeks.

He’s got the radio on as I jump into the car.

‘ . . .concerned for the safety of Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven following his disappearance two days ago. In other news: a service of remembrance will be held at St. Jasper ’ s Kirk today for drowned schoolgirl Danielle McArthur. We spoke to Danielle ’ s family. . . ’

Richardson cranks the volume down till the news-caster’s voice disappears beneath the roar of the car’s heater.

‘Mornin’, Guv.’ His mouth droops. He sighs.

Normally I have to bash the cheerful bugger over the head with his own truncheon to make him settle down. I’m about to ask what’s up when he wrinkles his nose and stares at my lumberjack ensemble.

They call me ‘Stinky’ behind my back.

They think I don’t know, but I do. DI George ‘Stinky’ McClain. Bastards. It’s not my fault: I’ve got a glandular condition. God knows how Stephanie puts up with it. I wash three times a day, use extra-strong deodorant, but the smell always leeches through in the end. Probably why I’ve got such a crap sense of smell. Self defence.

At least this time I can blame the baby. But I don’t: just snap on my seatbelt. ‘You got that address?’

‘Yup.’ Another sigh: like he’s deflating. ‘Fourteen Denmuir Gardens, opposite the primary school.’

‘Course it is. What a surprise.’ I check the dashboard clock: eighteen minutes past seven. We’re late.

There isn’t much in the way of traffic: just a few vans making deliveries before the shops open; empty buses grumbling along dark, empty streets; one or two poor sods tramping their way to work through the falling snow.

And then we’re out of the city centre, heading over the Calderwell Bridge. The Kings River sparkles like a vast slug beneath us, oozing its way out to the North Sea.

Kingsmeath isn’t the nicest part of Oldcastle. It’s a sprawl of council semis and tenement blocks thrown up in the sixties – and that’s what they look like: concrete vomit. No wonder they’re all crooks and junkies.

PC Richardson takes a left past Douglas on the Mound. The church’s spire is covered in scaffolding, its walls covered in graffiti, its graveyard covered in snow. All the way out here and he’s barely said a word. Maybe the real Richardson’s been kidnapped by aliens and this is their half-arsed attempt at a replacement.

It takes us five minutes to find Denmuir Gardens: a dirt-streaked row of semi-detached houses with sagging roofs and satellite dishes. Halfway down, the street opens up: a mouldy playground sitting beside the single-storey concrete and rust-coloured lump that is KINGSMEATH PRIMARY SCHOOL.