Welcome, Dear Reader, to the first half of ‘Just Us (Part 2)’, my story in Underdog Anthology XXII: The Shadows Under The Tree. It turned out to be quite a long story for me – nearly 10k words – so I’m splitting it over two posts…

*Jesus, Clicky! …/slaps hand to chest… Don’t creep up on me like that. You nearly give me an ‘eart attack…*

… ‘cos there’s a natural half way point in the story…

*Yeah, stretching two visits out of Dear Reader… /lights up and smokes… hopefully three if they go back and read Part 1…*

Enjoy! ❤

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Just Us (Part 2)

By Roo B. Doo

“Wadya mean I’ve ‘ad enuff?”

Father Christmas was drunk again. It had become something of a common occurrence since he fell off the sobriety wagon two years previously. He’d tried to re-board it, only to fall off again and be dragged along in the dirt and muck behind, right up until the present day. He was not a pretty sight and smelt worse.

Lapland, his nightclub that was both his business and abode, had deteriorated in solidarity with its owner. With only a fortnight until Christmas, it should have been heaving with business suits eager to entertain their clients, but soaring inflation and a souring economy had slashed many corporate entertainment budgets to the bone; Lapland may be down at heel, but it was most certainly not cheap.

If the nightclub was currently suffering a financial famine, then the first major blow to its coffers came with the start of a distant war the year before. The outbreak of hostilities in Ukraine had seen the government clampdown on any Russians residing in the UK and, more importantly, on their bank accounts. Many of the oligarchs had fled the country and Father Christmas couldn’t blame them, although he sorely missed them, not only financially – of course financially – but on a deeply personal level too; there had always been Russians in Lapland and their sudden absence was a heavy loss indeed.

But if war and corporate famine had taken their toll on Father Christmas and his nightclub, then they were nothing compared to the green scourge unleashed by the Mayor of London. The expansion of the vehicle charging and traffic management scheme called ULEZ (or if it were more honestly named, ULOOZ) in the summer had turned the surrounding streets into perpetual jams of snarling traffic, monitored by a plague of traffic cameras. Sold as a scheme to clean the air and help save the planet, the only thing remotely green about ULEZ was the mountain of cash it accumulated for City Hall. It was a killer of small business and any footfall Lapland might have enjoyed was securely weighed down with newly minted fines and charges before being pushed off a cliff.

The nightclub was on the rocks, which is where we find Father Christmas, two weeks from his most important day of the year, propping up an empty bar, arguing with an elf.

“Wadya mean I’ve ‘ad enuff?” he slurred indignantly. Father Christmas tried to fix his stare on the elf who’d denied him another drink, but there appeared to be several of him shimmying in and out of focus.

“No more booze tonight, Santa,” Timons said firmly. “You’re too sloshed for another shot.”

“Bah!” the fat man bellowed meanly and lunged across the bar counter in an attempt to snatch the bottle from Timons’ grip. “Gimme that!”

Nimble footwork from the elf took him out of reach of Father Christmas’s grasping fingers. “No, please, you have a gig tomorrow,” Timons pleaded, “You told me ‘Timons, don’t let me drink too much’. I’m only doing what you told me to do!”

Father Christmas was in an uncompromising mood. “Gimme the bottle!”

He lunged again, this time lifting his feet off the ground to improve his extension. Tantalizingly, his fingertips touched the smooth glass of the tequila bottle clutched tightly to Timons’ chest.

The elf jumped backwards and watched aghast as his boss, with arms flailing, began to tip forward, head first. Heavy, black boots hit a shelf of wine glasses as Father Christmas pinwheeled over the bar, landing in a jumble of shattered and splintered glass at Timons’ feet.

“Santa, are you okay?” the elf asked nervously, as he gingerly edged closer. He had every right to feel nervous: what if he’d killed Santa!

A fur-trimmed, red twill arm suddenly shot upward from the crumpled heap. “Give. Me. The bottle. NOW!”

Timons quickly searched the faces of the club-goers turned in his direction. They were all the same: wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the commotion, and of no help whatsoever. Timons relented and placed the bottle in Father Christmas’s outstretched hand.

The fat man pulled himself into a sitting position, legs akimbo, back against the bar. He pulled the cork stopper out of the bottle with his teeth and spat it at the elf. “You know what, Timons? You are right.”

Father Christmas lifted the bottle to his lips and took a slug of tequila. “Hah!”

Timons waited until Father Christmas had finished coughing and wiping his mouth with his sleeve before asking “I am?”

Father Christmas nodded. “Yes, that I ‘ave ‘ad enuff.” He crooked his elbow out, this time for Timons to help him to his feet. “In fact, I’ve ‘ad more thanuff.”

“I told you.” Timons sounded relieved – perhaps Santa was starting see sense; maybe the bang on his head did him some good.

Father Christmas turned to face the darkened club. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted. “Timons, right here,” he said gravely, indicating to Timons, “Dis littlun right ‘ere is completely… totally, totally right. Ne’er truer word said.”

“Santa?” Timons felt embarrassment at being made the star of the scene Father Christmas was busy creating. He’d worked for the fat man a long time, but he’d not seen Santa in this kind of state before. He made a mental note to never serve Santa tequila again.

Father Christmas ignored him. “I ‘ave ‘ad enuff. Enuff, I tell you! So, Lapland is of fish… of fishy… officiously closed. Goodnight, thank you for your custom. Now get out!”

“Santa?!”

Father Christmas looked down at Timons and patted him on the shoulder. “You, too, little elfie. Sling your ‘ook.”

Nobody moved. Even the nominally clothed elf on the dance pole was frozen mid-spin, looking at Santa with a blank expression.

“Are you all deaf? WE ARE CLOSED!” Father Christmas enunciated louder. “EVERYBODY LEAVE! BUGGER OFF!”

It took a moment or two for the patrons of Lapland to realise Father Christmas was completely serious. Slowly, one by one, they pulled their belongings together, re-adjusted their clothing as necessary, and filed out of the club. A few choice words were directed at Father Christmas as they left, but he waved them on out, all whilst drinking straight from the tequila bottle.

Soon, only the elven nightclub staff remained. They stood around, shuffling their feet with looks of hurt and disbelief. Father Christmas would have felt sorry for them but for their sheer number: exactly how many elves were on the payroll? He scrunched his eyes shut and blinked rapidly to clear his drunken vision, and immediately half the workforce disappeared. Even so, there was still more staff than there had been paying customers all evening. No wonder he was going out of business!

“Santa,” Timons tried reasoning with his boss again. “Why don’t I make you a coffee? You’ll feel much better when you’re sober.”

In reply, Father Christmas drained the bottle and slammed it down. “No, I’ll feel better when you’ve all gone.” He pulled an unopened bottle of tequila out from under the bar and nodded emphatically toward the exit. “Out.”

The elves looked at each other and grumbled amongst themselves, but eventually they started to leave until only Timons remained.

“Let me clean up first,” the elf implored, indicating to the glass debris on the floor. “Please, Santa, you’re in no fit state to sweep up.”

Father Christmas glared at Timons and purposefully mule kicked another shelf of pristine glasses behind him.

The sudden explosion of glass made Timons jump. “Okay, I’ll go!”

“Goodbye then.”

Although Timons was upset, he wasn’t quite ready to give up on Father Christmas just yet. “I’ll come back in the morning to clean up.”

Father Christmas responded by crunching a half broken glass beneath the sole of his boot and unstopping the fresh bottle of tequila with his teeth. “Dun mae me spit dis cor kat ugen.”

Timons shook his head in resignation. “Okay, I’m going.”

Father Christmas let the cork drop from his lips. “Good.”

“Don’t forget you have a gig tomor-”

Before Timons could finish his sentence, the empty bottle of tequila sailed over his head and smashed against the exit door behind him.

Defeated, Timons left.

Father Christmas swayed gently as he stood alone in Lapland, contemplating what to do next. He suddenly knew what he didn’t want to do; he didn’t want another drink. He retrieved the cork, re-stopped the bottle of tequila and placed it back on its shelf.

What he really wanted was to sleep, so he clambered up onto the bar, and flopped onto his stomach. Father Christmas was sure that things would look better in the morning if he could just get some sleep. And he did have a gig the next day, as Timons had reminded him. He needed to be at his best for the children. Father Christmas could fail his staff, fail his customers, fail Lapland itself, but he could never fail the children. If that happened, then there would be absolutely no point to him at all.

***

Father Christmas cracked open an eye and looked into the abyss. The abyss looked back. And then it spoke.

“Good evening, Soda Pops.”

“Have you come for me?” Father Christmas asked Death. The little reaper was not quite at eye-level so Father Christmas didn’t feel the need to lift his head from the bar.

“Yes.”

“Because there’s no one else here,” Father Christmas continued.

“I can see that.”

“Good luck finding anyone. I threw them… wait, what did you say?”

“I can see that,” Death said helpfully.

“No, before that.”

“Yes.”

Now Father Christmas raised his face from the bar. He sat up and wiped the drool from his beard. He slid off onto unsteady feet and towered over the tiny grim reaper. “You’re here for me? Officially or unofficially? Because right now, I feel like death.”

“You’ve always had a bloated and ripe look, Soda Pops, but no, not officially,” Death said dryly. “Quasi-officially, I suppose. I have a message for you.”

Father Christmas furled his brow. “A message? From whom?”

“Herself, who else?”

“God? You have a message for me from God?” Father Christmas sounded incredulous. “Why didn’t she give me the message herself?”

“I didn’t ask. I am merely a quasi in this situation.”

Father Christmas frowned. “She used to come here a lot, you know, to practice pole-dancing. She was pretty good, too, but then she stopped.” Father Christmas’s frown deepened.

Death shrugged. “Quasi.”

“Well, what’s the message?” Father Christmas asked tersely.

“One moment,” Death said and removed his Psi-Pad from his robe. “I wrote it down so that I wouldn’t forget.”

He flipped open the cover and tapped the screen a few times before stating solemnly, “Tomorrow, you will be visited by three ghosts.”

Death closed the Psi-Pad and inserted it back into the folds of his robe.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You had to write that down?” Father Christmas asked jovially.

“Yes.” Death sounded surprised. “I’m very busy. In fact, I really must be going. We’re having a devil of a job catching souls at the moment.”

“Since when have you ever had to catch a soul, Big D?” Father Christmas was curious. Nobody escapes Death but that’s because souls generally don’t put up a fight; an authoritative figure, no matter how ridiculously short, can easily control a distressed soul in crisis.

“Oh, three years, give or take. Usually, we can mop up fairly quickly after a mass death event, but this one doesn’t look like it’s stopping soon. If anything, it seems to be speeding up.” Death shook his head. “Either there’s a timing glitch in the aether net or something despicably evil and wicked has been perpetrated on humanity. Neither option is easy to resolve.”

A piece of glass fell from the broken bar shelf and tinkled sweetly as it hit the shards below.

“Anyway,” Death said slowly, “As I stated, I must be going.”

“Wait.” Father Christmas placed his hand on the top of Death’s head. “And there was no more to God’s message? Did she say which ghosts would visit?”

Death shooed Father Christmas’s hand away and shot his retractable scythe from the sleeve of his robe. “No.”

Father Christmas frowned again.

“You know, you don’t look too good, Soda Pops,” Death said earnestly. “Perhaps you should get back up on the bar and go back to sleep. At least that way you can tell yourself tomorrow that this was just a dream.”

Father Christmas guffawed. “A dream.”

“Whatever,” Death said and disappeared.

***

It wasn’t Timons sweeping up broken glass that woke Father Christmas, but the sound of pounding on Lapland’s front door.

“What the hell?” He expelled foul air from his lungs and groaned loudly. He wasn’t sure if the banging was internal or external of his head. “What is that?”

Timons leaned his broom against the bar. “Don’t worry, Santa, I’ll get it. You stay there.”

Father Christmas slowly raised himself into a sitting position. He felt as stiff as a board and cold, too. He shivered and tried to remember what happened the night before. After surveying his ‘bed’, the damaged shelves at the back of the bar and the large amount of broken glass that Timons had been busily sweeping up, his memory flooded back. “Oh, you are an old fool,” he chastised himself softly.

He slipped down from the bar carefully and walked toward the exit with a stilted gait. “Who is it? What do they want?” he shouted to Timons. “Tell them we’re closed.”

“What do you mean you’re closed?” a voice asked from the doorway. “I thought Lapland never closes.”

“Xi Xi!” Father Christmas was genuinely happy to see his old friend Xi Xi Fat, who also happened to be Famine. It did strike him as a strange coincidence that Famine should appear so soon after Death paid a visit. Or did he dream Big D’s visit last night? He wasn’t sure.

“What are you doing here?”

Timons pushed past the visitor. “Sorry, Santa, I tried to stop him coming up.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Timons. You remember Xi Xi.”

Timons shook his head. “No, not really.”

“Yes, you do,” Father Christmas insisted. “He won the Elvis Karaoke and Striptease Challenge competition we held here a couple of years back.”

Xi Xi curled his lip and pointed at Timons. “Thagyouverramuch.”

“Oh, do you mean the night the celebrity chef popped his clogs with sparkly g-string on his face? That night?” Timons asked.

“Ah, that’s right,” Father Christmas replied. “What was his name?”

“Freddy Calender,” Timons and Xi Xi answered together. 

“Yes, that was a bit of a downer on the evening.”

Timons turned to Xi Xi. “I’m sorry, Mr Fat, I didn’t recognise you in the daylight with your clothes on.”

“Don’t sweat it, little buddy,” Xi Xi said amiably. “I’m in town for some Christmas shopping. I thought I’d check in on my old friend Soda Pops.”

“Who’s Soda Pops?” Timons asked.

“He means me,” Father Christmas said gruffly. “I say, Timons, I could really do with a double-strength espresso. Would you venture down to Luigi’s and get me some?”

“Okay,” Timons said slowly, his eyes darting suspiciously between Santa and his unexpected visitor; he suspected Santa was trying to get rid of him. “How many?”

“Six or eight,” Father Christmas said airily, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “How about you, Xi Xi? Would you like a coffee?”

“I’ll take a hot water and lemon,” Xi Xi said. “I’m on a diet.”

Timons looked the skinny Chinaman up and down. “Why?”

Father Christmas quickly handed Timons two crisp notes. “And get something for yourself, of course.

The elf eyed the open wallet. “I’m not sure that’s going to be enough. Prices are going up daily.”

Father Christmas pulled out another note and then another before relenting and handing his wallet over to Timons. “Take it. Just make you sure you leave enough for a taxi later. Remember, I have that gig this afternoon.”

“Okay, boss,” the elf said brightly as he secreted the wallet inside his jacket. “Six or eight double-strength espressos and a hot water and lemon coming up. Would half an hour be long enough for me to get them?”

“Yes, thank you, Timons,” Father Christmas replied brusquely.

Timons saluted dramatically and marched out of the exit. Father Christmas and Xi Xi heard him whistling Jingle Bells before the slam of the main door closing.

“Having help is good, no?” Xi Xi asked.

“Sometimes.” Father Christmas pulled a couple of bar stools out and patted the seat of the empty one for his friend to join him.

Xi Xi climbed up and noticed the damage to the back of the bar. “What happened? Was there a fight last night?”

“No. Now tell me,” Father Christmas said, changing the subject. “Why are you here? Do you need money because I’m currently a bit strapped.”

He looked sternly at Famine, but his friend’s face only registered confusion at the question.

“I told you, I’m in town for the day to go shopping. I thought I’d say hello.”

“Really?” Father Christmas asked in his best ‘have you been naughty or nice?’ voice. That usually elicited truth.

“Yes!” Famine laughed. “It’s strange, though. I was on the train, travelling in, when I suddenly started feeling really guilty that I hadn’t seen Soda Pops in such a long time. Not since, the Elvis night.”

“Oh.” Father Christmas detected no lie.

“Or maybe I just smelt the alcohol on you when the train reached West Ham,” Famine said sarcastically. “Damn it, Soda Pops, you’re drinking again!”

“Ah.” Father Christmas hung his head in shame. “Did Big D send you?”

“What? No, I told you why I’m here.” Famine was quite emphatic. “Booze always makes you so paranoid.”

“Not any more,” Father Christmas said with resolve. “Last night, after I threw everybody out-”

“You threw everybody out?!” Famine exclaimed. “Nobody has ever been thrown out of Lapland before.”

“Well, it happened last night,” Father Christmas said gruffly. “If you’ll let me finish.”

“Sorry, sorry. Carry on.”

Father Christmas continued, “As I was saying, after I threw everybody out, I was left all alone with a full bottle of tequila. And I was quite ready to neck the lot but then I had a sudden moment of clarity: my drinking, that’s the problem, not everybody else having to accommodate it. I decided to never drink another drop again.”

Famine nodded. “That’s a good start but you must stick with it, Soda Pops. Why did you start again in the first place?”

“To dull the pain,” Father Christmas said softly.

“Pain? What pain? You are a hero to children the world over. You give them presents and smiles.” Famine was incredulous. “You want to try my shoes? I give them extended abdomens and rickets.”

“Those are terrible gifts,” Father Christmas agreed. “Even the naughtiest of children get a tangerine. Perhaps a handful of walnuts.”

Famine smiled weakly at Father Christmas’s attempt at levity, but he was not going to let his friend of the hook. “When did you start drinking again? What triggered you?”

Father Christmas pursed his lips and cocked his head. “It was not so much a trigger.” He paused as he recollected, “I had a small sherry on the night of your Elvis competition. After the after show-”

“The after show was amazing!” Famine bounced excitedly on his bar stool. “I still can’t believe I got to hear Elvis singing live, even though he’s dead! Kudos to Big D for making him a reaper. I just wish it could have been a longer set.”

Father Christmas waited patiently for Famine to calm down before continuing. “That was the night when I first recognised you as ‘Famine’ and not just as my old friend ‘Xi Xi’.”

Famine threw up his hands. “I had no idea I was Famine! Not until Big D appeared. As soon as I saw him, it was like, BAM! I just knew who I was.”

“But I didn’t know who you were, and I really should have.”

“And that’s why you drank a sherry?” Famine didn’t sound convinced.

“No, it was the glass of sherry I poured for God. It was only after you all had left and I was clearing up that I noticed her drink was still on the bar, untouched. Well, it seemed a shame to waste it and it was a very small glass.”

“Wow. Bad decision.”

“Indeed,” Father Christmas agreed. “Anyway, speaking of small things, Big D stopped by last night. At least I think he did, it could have been a dream.”

“Are you absolutely sure nobody died here last night?” Famine teased.

“Yes.” Father Christmas wasn’t biting. “He had a message for me from God.”

“Was it ‘you shouldn’t have drunk my sherry’?” Timons casually suggested from the doorway. He held up two brown paper take-out bags. “I’m back!”

“Timons!” Father Christmas roared and jumped off his bar stool. “You were eavesdropping?”

The elf calmly walked behind the bar and placed the bags on the counter. “Occupational hazard,” he said, waggling his pointy ears. “Now, I know you asked for 6 or 8, Santa, so I plumped for nine because Luigi’s double-strength espressos kick like a reindeer. Plus, I got you a bacon and cheese melt baguette with extra bacon, extra cheese and red sauce. Hopefully that’ll soak up some of the caffeine and alcohol before this afternoon.”

“Exactly how much of our conversation did you overhear?” Father Christmas demanded. His face was starting to turn puce, and his eyes bulged.

Timons continued to unpack the first bag, ignoring his boss’s anger. “Um, from the part where you confessed to being a bit strapped for cash.”

Famine laughed. “So, all of it? You heard everything?”

Timons playfully waggled his ears again. “I could have made this for you for free, Mr Fat, instead of paying £2.90,” he said, handing polystyrene cup of hot water with a twist of lemon. “I’ve got the ingredients, right here.”

“Thanks, but how did you manage to go and get the coffees and listen in on our conversation? We heard you leave,” Famine asked.

Timons patted his pocket. “Mobile phone. Luigi delivers and I’ve got him on speed dial.”

“Subterfuge!” Father Christmas sounded distraught. “With Jingle Bells! For shame!”

Famine grinned like a Cheshire cat. “I like this guy, Soda Pops. He’s very funny.”

“Thank you, Mr Fat,” Timons said sweetly. “Or is that Mr Famine?”

Famine’s smile dropped. “You heard everything.”

Timons nodded. “And no, boss, it wasn’t a dream.”

Father Christmas thumped the counter with his fist. “You didn’t leave last night?! After I expressly told you to go!”

Timons thumped the counter back. “I live here! I had nowhere else to go!”

Shock replaced Father’s Christmas’s rage. “You live here? At Lapland? Since when?”

“Since my first day on the job.”

Father Christmas sat back down heavily on the bar stool. He flipped the plastic lid off one of the small polystyrene cups lined up in front of him and gulped it back. “But you’ve worked here for years. Where do you sleep?”

“In the basement.” Timons picked up a bar towel and started to wipe down the top of the counter. “It’s warm, it’s convenient for work-”

“You’ve never paid me any rent.” Father Christmas said, knocking back a second espresso.

“It’s cheap,” Timons finished. “I’m sorry, Santa, but Lapland’s hours are shocking long and commuting costs a fortune.”

“Oh, I know,” Famine cried. “My travel today will cost nearly fifty quid. For one day! I remember when that was the weekly fare.”

“So, Timons,” Father Christmas said, unwrapping the bacon and cheese melt baguette from its waxy coverings. “Did you eavesdrop on mine and Death’s conversation last night?”

“I did.” Timons pulled a large cup of coffee and another wrapped baguette from the second bag. He caught Famine watching. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get one for you; you said you’re on a diet.”

Famine waved his hand dismissively. “That’s okay. What was the message?”

Timons looked to Father Christmas, who was chewing enthusiastically on a large bite of baguette. He nodded his approval to the elf to answer the question.

“The message was, ‘Tomorrow, you will be visited by three ghosts‘.”

“Did he say which ghosts?”

“No.”

“I asked Big D that,” Father Christmas said, sucking bacon grease off his fingers. “‘Tomorrow, you will be visited by three ghosts’ was all the message she gave him.” He drank a third and fourth espresso before taking another huge bite of his baguette.

Famine watched Timons watching Father Christmas eat. The elf may be crafty and a bit cock sure of himself, but there was no mistaking the love and devotion Timons held for his leader and boss; it shone from his eyes.

“Well, I must go,” Famine said, replacing the cover on his cup of hot water and lemon. “I have Christmas presents to buy.”

“I approve,” Father Christmas said between chews. “It saves me time. It was good of you to come by. Don’t leave it so long next time though, eh?”

Famine stuck out his hand. Father Christmas clasped it and pulled him in for a shoulder hug. “You stay on that wagon, Soda Pops,” Famine whispered into his ear.

“I will, old friend.”

Famine held his hand out to Timons. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too, Mr Fat or Famine.” The elf wiped his hand first before shaking.

“Call me Xi Xi. My friends call me Xi Xi.”

Timons saluted. “Okay, Mr Xi Xi.”

“Okay, and if I see any ghosts, I’ll send them this way.” Famine waved goodbye and left.

Father Christmas had finished his baguette and was hungrily eyeing Timon’s still wrapped breakfast. “Is that a bacon and cheese melt, extra bacon, extra cheese as well?”

Timons nodded. “And red sauce.”

Father Christmas licked his lips. “Now, about your rent, Timons…”

*******

Liam Neeson as Santa 😄😄 pic.twitter.com/3J9vSdjYU3

— Wat_the_deuce 🍀🇮🇪☘️( NEW ACCOUNT ) (@wat_thee_deuce_) December 2, 2023

*You’re still finking about your post at the weekend, Clicky… /stubs butt…*

“Who is that black Santa for? I don't care, I know Santa ain't black. I could care less. I want Christmas. Just give me plain Baby Jesus lying in a manger, Christmas!”

— Stanley Hudson, The Office pic.twitter.com/zhJYIAN03q

— The Rabbit Hole (@TheRabbitHole84) December 13, 2023

*SPOILERS!!!*

So, Dear Reader, we’ll be back tomorrow with the second half of ‘Just Us (Part 2)’. If you can’t wait, then you can always purchase a copy of Underdog Anthology XXII for immediate delivery on Kindle 😉

Until then, have a Song 😀