Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

Doreen was in the kitchen when Lucas awoke.

She was slumped in one of two bar stools that were parked side-by-side at the bench, a Peter Jackson angled between her right index and middle fingers, listening to the radio. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was in almost total darkness; the only illumination came from the lounge, and the multicoloured lights wrapped around the Christmas tree.

“Mummy, look, I can see Santa!”

Doreen flinched at the sound of her six-year-old, muttered something unpleasant under her breath, then reached over and flicked off the radio (“…the fires that are ravaging the Victorian bushland are spreading…”). She drained what was left of the Jim Beam, took a deep drag of her cigarette and, with an even deeper sigh, slithered off the stool and headed into the lounge room.

Lucas, her darling baby-boy ( not a baby anymore, kid’s growing up — and that thought was like a sledgehammer to her chest) was sitting up straight on the couch by the front window. He was wearing only his red briefs and the sweat on his slightly chubby body glistened with blue, red, green and yellow. Like his mum, his blond hair was plastered on his head, looking like he had just stepped out of the shower. The fan, perched in the middle of the room, turning like a watchful eye, blades spinning, didn’t do much to cool anything — damn thing just ate up energy.

Doreen, slumped against the lounge room arch, took another drag and, blowing out smoke, said, “What was that darling?”

Without turning around, Lucas (as he had recently asked to be called; he had just gotten into the Star Wars movies) said, in a whisper of awe: “I can see Santa. He’s coming. He’s really coming.”

Doreen remained under the archway separating the dining room from the lounge. She wanted to go over and sit next to her son, wanted to hold him, comfort him. She knew, in time, she would have to. But she also knew that once she did, she would never get back up again.

Luke had fallen asleep some hours ago watching Candles by Candlelight on TV. Doreen had only been half-watching; she was more interested in what was on the radio — the updates on the bushfires. Luke had desperately wanted to stay up and wait for Santa, but the six-year-old in him conked out at around nine-thirty, just as the fires reached the Brayshaw property, ten kilometres away. That’s when Doreen had switched off the television and turned off all the lights. She had settled in the kitchen, the radio on low, the bottle of Jim Beam still half full, and waited, in the dark, praying Luke would stay asleep.

“Come and look, Mummy. I see him, in the distance. His sleigh. It’s red.”

Doreen wiped her stinging eyes and stepped into the lounge, a trail of cigarette smoke following like a white cloud of doom.

Doreen took a seat next to her son. She stubbed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray, adding the butt to the ever-increasing mountain, and then turned to her son. She brushed damp strings of hair from his forehead. Sniffling back tears, she looked out the window.

“See?” Luke said, pointing. “That small red light in the window. It’s him, isn’t it? It’s really him.”

Doreen looked. Saw the reflection of one of the Christmas lights that wound around the mangy old plastic tree. She managed a brief smile. She tousled his hair. “I reckon it is,” she told him. “Santa’s on his way.”

“Bringing lots and lots of presents?”

It wasn’t so much a question as a statement; after all, Luke had always received presents in the past. Every year her bedroom closet had been filled with stuffed toys, action figures, computer games, DVDs, and of course the perennial favourite: new clothes and underwear.

Not this year.

This year all that clogged up her closet were clothes that were already in danger of becoming out of fashion; worn-out shoes; boxes of photo albums — things that would burn easily.

Half of their belongings were now in boxes, ready to be taken to nowhere. Ever since losing her job at the bank two months ago, they had been placing their lives into boxes.

Doreen turned her eyes to the imitation pine tree. She had bought it twenty years ago, when she and George were first married. They didn’t have the money to buy a real tree. It didn’t matter. There had been presents under it — as there had been for the next eighteen years after that. Only then the presents sat under a real tree, with real pine smell. Even when George left, five years ago, taking with him his Porsche and her faith in love, there were presents under the tree. The fake plastic tree remained in the closet, while real ones were brought in, decorated, watered, and then discarded once New Year’s Day rolled around, left to brown and die outside, until eventually it was taken away.

Nineteen long years the plastic tree had waited. And just over twenty days ago, with Luke sulking and Doreen spitting angry, resentful remarks at her six-year-old (“We can’t afford a real one this year”; “Stop your whining and be happy with what you’ve got”; “A real one is too much effort to take care of anyway, and besides, with the water restrictions…”), the plastic tree had finally been given its second showing.

I’ve come full circle , Doreen thought with bitter humour, eyes hard on the empty space under the tree.

When she turned back to the window, she saw another light. This one was farther in the distance, and a lot bigger. At the moment it was an orange hue, like the sun was setting. Only this was no sun; similar in many ways, but different in one very important fact — it was edging closer.

As tears stained her ruddy cheeks, Doreen cleared her throat to speak. Though her voice still cracked and popped like an old vinyl record. “Do you want to take a cold bath, Luke?”

Eyes fixed on the hovering red light in the window, Luke barely shook his head.

“Aren’t you hot? Wouldn’t a nice cool bath feel good?”

“I don’t want to miss Santa.”

“You won’t, honey. I’ll come and get you when he arrives.”

“I want to stay and watch the light,” Luke said, pouty.

“Okay,” Doreen sighed, rubbing her temples. “You stay and watch the light.”

Something small bumped into the window. Doreen gasped. Reflected in the Christmas tree lights, she saw a beetle flapping against the window.

“Look Mum, a Christmas Beetle,” Luke said, his attention momentarily diverted from the red light.

“So it is,” Doreen said and watched as the beetle flapped for a bit and then left. It was smart, it knew what was coming. It was leaving the area, leaving for safety. It obviously had somewhere to go.

Unlike them.

They had nowhere to go — no home, no family. Everyone else in the area had evacuated. Some had even stopped off and told Doreen to get away, take Luke and leave now. It wouldn’t be long before the area was awash with flame.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" each of them had asked, breathless, faces sweaty.

"Yes", Doreen had lied. "Yes, we’ve got somewhere to go."

At that, they had left. And Doreen had gone back to sitting on the couch, staring at the TV.

It had been over three hours since the last person came by, telling her to leave.

“I think it’s getting closer,” Luke said, his gaze back on the light in the window.

Doreen turned her bleary eyes to her light. “Yes, I think you’re right, darling.”

Unlike Luke’s imaginary Santa light, her light really was getting closer. Instead of an orange hue in the distance, she could see flames now. And smoke. Thick, curling smoke that turned the clear summer night into something resembling a foggy Christmas Eve in England.