*Fanks for linking Part 1, Clicky…*

Welcome back, Dear Reader, for the second part to ‘Just Us (Part 2)’, the latest episode of the Ronageddon series of stories, published in the Underdog Anthologies…

*I can see that… /lights up and smokes… Ronageddon started with a Halloween story, Clicky…*

… Enjoy! ❤

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Just Us (Part 2) by Roo B. Doo continues…

Victory Park junior school was bustling with noise and activity as the pupils, teachers and parents participated in the Christmas fete. Lessons had been suspended for the afternoon and the school gym/dining room and surrounding hallways and classrooms had been transformed through the magic of crepe paper, paint, tinsel, fake snow and rubber glue into a winter forest, fit for Santa’s grotto.

There were a number of stalls set up around the forest, selling donated books, clothes, and all sorts of bric-a-brac at pocket money prices. There were food stalls and toy stalls and stalls with games of skill and chance to win prizes. Everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves, except for Jocasta Darling, who was pacing back and forth nervously.

“Ring him again. Please?” she asked her friend, Wanda.

Wanda sighed. “Ringing his agent again is not going to help, Jo,” she patiently explained. “Timons already told us, Santa’s on his way. He should arrive anytime.”

“Yes, well, he’s twenty minutes late. I really hoped he’d be here for the start of the fete.” Jocasta glanced up the stairs that led to the principal’s office. “There’s already a queue forming.”

Wanda rubbed her friend on the arm. “Hey, you need to calm down. Why don’t you go and have a cigarette? Settle your nerves.”

Jocasta hemmed and hawed. “I’ve smoked two today already.”

“Well, have a third.” Wanda removed the shawl from her shoulders and slipped it around her friend. “And should Santa turn up while you’re out there, you’ll be the first one to know he’s arrived.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I need to eat.” Wanda sniffed the air. “And I smell something so incredible, my salivary glands are literally going into overdrive.”

“That’ll be Mrs Gupta’s Christmas Curry stall in room 2c, down the hall.” Jocasta said, adjusting the shawl and patting the cigarette box in her pocket. “Her pakoras are to die for. Okay, I’ll go wait outside. Maybe the fresh air will calm me down.”

“Or a fag will,” Wanda said, licking her lips.

With a last concerned glance at the grotto queue, Jocasta left and Wanda turned in the direction of room 2c.

“Your Father Christmas had better ruddy well show up!” a voice said from overhead.

“He will,” Wanda said through gritted teeth. She pulled out her mobile phone, held it up to her ear and started to walk and talk, led by her nose. “Aida! What’s up, girl?”

Aida Roundtree, resident ghost in the Darling household for the past year, floated along above Wanda’s head. “You’re using your phone as a prop.”

Wanda’s fake laugh was loud. “Of course! Otherwise, everyone will think I’m mad.”

“A better use for it would be to ring that Timons fella again,” Aida said sternly.

“Not you too!” Wanda rolled her eyes. “He’s travelling across London, it’ll be the traffic. ULEZ has really f-” Wanda stopped herself. “effed up driving.”

“Wouldn’t he have taken the tube?”

“I don’t know! I’m not his travel agent. Look, I really have to go, I’m about to eat. Speak later!”

Wanda pretended to switch off her phone and put it back in her pocket, before gently forcing her way to the front of Christmas Curry Stall.

Aida knew there was no point trying to talk to her; Wanda was extremely adept at ignoring ghosts when she wanted to. “Well then, I might as well wait with Jocasta.”

Wanda Warren didn’t respond; she was busily placing her order with Mrs Gupta and wiping the drool from the corners of her mouth.

***

Like all schools, the grounds of Victory Park juniors were strictly non-smoking, but recently the pavement in front of the gate had been deemed ‘smoke-free’, as well. With a CCTV camera primed at the gate, Jocasta decided not to risk being caught and crossed the road. The bus stop opposite the school was also meant to be non-smoking, but it fell outside the gaze of the school camera’s unblinking eye. Jocasta hated standing up to smoke outside in the street; it was one of her pet peeves. At least at the bus stop she’ll look like she was waiting to catch a bus, not pick up a John.

She lit up a cigarette and stamped her feet. It was cold, but it wasn’t raining, and Wanda’s shawl was wonderfully warm. It was a dark grey cashmere with black fur trim and felt uber expensive. Jocasta made sure to hold her cigarette away from her body, so as not to accidentally burn it. She took a deep drag and let out a long stream of smoke, hoping to expel the anxiety that was turning her stomach into knots.

As one of the parent organisers of the fete, Jocasta had been tasked with constructing a grotto and finding an authentic looking Father Christmas to fill it. The self-appointed leader of the organising committee – Pip the Ogre, as Jocasta had come to think of her – wanted a ‘diverse’ Santa to show support for Black Lives Matter, but Jocasta was having none of that. She argued that, yes, black lives do matter and as the only black parent on the committee, more weight should be given to her choice for Father Christmas: Jocasta wanted Santa fat, she wanted him old, and she wanted him white. She wanted authentic.

It was surprisingly easy to shame the rest of parents into voting for her choice. Jocasta suspected that they were secretly relieved at her intransigence on the matter. A vote was taken, and Jocasta’s Santa won four votes to one; it had been like Twelve Angry Men, only a lot shorter. Pip the Ogre exacted her revenge, however, on Jocasta for her defiance – she could have her authentic Father Christmas but Jocasta would have to source him herself. And build his grotto.

Shaming the parents to vote for her Father Christmas was one thing, finding him was a whole different matter. With little to no budget, hiring a professional was out of the question. Jocasta had six weeks to find, persuade, vet and costume the right man for the job, the problem was she didn’t know anybody that fit the description. The only old, white men she knew had lived at Frampton Lodge, but she had lost her cleaning job there two years previously for refusing the Rona jab. A lot of them were now dead and besides, Frampton had been transformed into a refugee hostel and Jocasta very much doubted that she’d find the perfect candidate there now.

After weeks of fruitless searching, a simmering panic set in and the sleepless nights began. Jocasta became irritable and snappy as she worried that she’d bitten off more than she could chew. If she couldn’t find someone to play a traditional Father Christmas, she just knew Pip the Ogre would revel in her failure, and then act Lady Bountiful to take over the search. If Jocasta failed, the school fete’s Father Christmas would be at least black, probably gender fluid, definitely in drag, all just to virtue signal Pip the Ogre’s goodness and Jocasta’s worthlessness.

One night, toward the end of the November, instead of tossing and turning in bed, Jocasta got up and sat in the front room. She did two things that she never did under normal circumstances: she lit up a cigarette and smoked it in the flat, and she asked God for help. She confessed aloud to her sin of pride at manipulating the committee parents into getting her own way. She knew she was failing because of that but implored God to please, please intervene and help her find Father Christmas for the fete.

God must have been listening because the very next day, miraculously, salvation arrived. Not in the shape of an old, white, fat man, but in that of a super fit, super attractive and just all round super woman: Wanda Warren. They’d been friends for just over year. Wanda was one of Jocasta’s cleaning clients and Jocasta occasionally took one of Wanda’s outdoor self-defence classes when the weather was warm, but they’d become really close over the death of Aida, an elderly resident of Frampton Lodge, who’d become a very important part of Jocasta’s life, a surrogate mum of sorts.

Just before Christmas, a year ago, Aida had suddenly died whilst babysitting for Paul, Jocasta’s infant son and it turned Jocasta’s life upside down. Wanda had stepped in, taking control of everything. She even arranged for Aida’s funeral and, as the date of the school Christmas fete quickly approached, Wanda was about to save Jocasta’s bacon once again.

Unusually, she was home when Jocasta went round to clean the next day. Wanda asked her why she looked so tired and when Jocasta explained, she laughed and said she knew a professional Santa. He was an old friend and absolutely ‘the real deal’; Wanda would get him for Jocasta’s fete, no problem; just leave it with her. A huge weight was lifted from Jocasta’s shoulders and that night, she slept like a baby. She knew Wanda wouldn’t let her down and concentrated all her efforts on completing the rest of ‘Operation Get Santa’ as Wanda called it.

The grotto had been completed that morning and personally stacked with individual gifts for each of the school’s pupils by herself and Principal Peabody. That was another of Jocasta’s ideas although Principal Peabody had stumped up the cash. She’d worked hard and was proud of the result, but if Wanda’s Father Christmas didn’t show up, Jocasta feared that this would be the very fall she’d set herself up for, for her prideful ways.

Her cigarette smoked, Jocasta crushed the end mercilessly under the sole of her boot and placed the flattened filter in her cigarette box. She scanned the length of the street and sighed, before slipping another from the box and lighting it up.

***

Father Christmas spotted the ghost immediately, as the mini cab he’d taken from the station pulled up outside of the school. The ghost was that of an old woman, smoking a cigarette! Ghosts don’t smoke! If she hadn’t been floating six feet in the air, Father Christmas might not have been tipped off to her state of ghosthood at all. This must be the first of the ghosts Death warned him about the night before.

Staring up at the ghost, he was totally unprepared to be accosted by a younger, black woman who tackled him out of nowhere. She was definitely not a ghost as she wrapped arms around him, pushing him back against the car.

“You’re here! Oh, thank you, God!” the woman cried, squeezing him tighter. She sounded faintly hysterical. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Well, now.” Father Christmas hugged the woman back; it would have been rude not to. “What a lovely welcome. I’ve not had one like this in a very long time.” He glanced up at the ghost. “Most unexpected.”

“That’s because you’re late,” the ghost said, between puffs on her cigarette. “Poor Jocasta’s been mad with worry.”

Father Christmas gently extricated himself from the woman’s fierce grip. “Jocasta? Are you Jocasta?”

The woman looked up at him and smiled broadly. “Yes, and you’re Father Christmas.”

“I am.” Father Christmas laughed nervously and looked between the two women; one of them was besides herself and other was a ghost. Considering the message he received the night before he wasn’t sure which of them he should be addressing.

“I can’t believe it!” Jocasta blurted out. She giggled as she ran her hands up and down his arms and tugged his beard. “You have the suit, the hat, the fat belly… everything!”

“Thank you.” Father Christmas laughed again. “Do you know Wanda? She’s booked me for an appearance here.”

“She’s inside, stuffing her face with curry,” the ghost answered.

“Wanda’s inside. Come on.” Jocasta grabbed Father Christmas’s hand. “We need to get you into the grotto. You have a lot of presents to give out.”

“Well,” the ghost sniffed. “At least he looks authentic.”

“Thank you,” Father Christmas said.

“Oh no, thank you,” Jocasta gushed. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

With a last backward look at the ghost, who continued smoking whilst floating in mid-air, Father Christmas allowed Jocasta to pull him through the school gates and into the building.

The cheer that greeted him inside was as unexpected as Jocasta’s welcome and was just as forceful. The lobby and hallways were filled with children, jumping up and down and screaming with excitement at his arrival. It had been so long since he had actually been around any children – Lapland being the X-rated venue that it was – that he was suddenly overwhelmed by the energy their exuberance generated. His eyes were twinkling, which he had to blink back before continuing.

“I’m sorry I’m late, children,” he boomed over the noise. A shushing hush set in. “My most magnificent sleigh is currently in the North Pole workshop getting a service before the big day in less than two weeks. Does anybody know what day that is?”

“Christmas Day!” was the overwhelming answer.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! And No! No! No! It’s Christmas Eve. That’s when I put my sleigh to work, to deliver presents all over the world. On Christmas Day I put my feet up.”

The children laughed; they were so happy to see him. The noise volume returned to its previous high.

“You’d better take me to the grotto, Jocasta” Father Christmas shouted.

Jocasta nodded and led him to stairs that entranced the Grotto. Children thronged the steps, gawping and whispering excitedly to each other that Santa had arrived.

Two adults, one dressed like an angel and the other like an elf, waited at the bottom of the stairs, maniacally grinning but there was still no sign of Wanda. The ghost, however, did reappear, hovering discretely on the ceiling, watching events unfold below.

“Father Christmas, this is Mr Peabody, Principal of the school,” Jocasta said, introducing him to the elf.

Mr Peabody stuck out his hand. “Call me Peter.”

“Pleased to meet you. Call me Santa.” Father Christmas shook his hand. “If I’d known I’d have an elf helper, I’d have brought my whip,” he said mischievously.

The elf and angel looked at each other and laughed nervously.

“And this is Philippa Ogilvy, chair of the fete organising committee.” Jocasta’s face was a picture of beneficent smugness. “Pip, this is Father Christmas.”

Was that a frisson of animosity Father Christmas detected between the angel and Jocasta? Did the tension have any bearing on the, much appreciated, but overly enthusiastic welcome from the young, black woman? His suspicion was confirmed when a voice overhead rasped, “Yeah, up yours, Pip the Ogre!”

Father Christmas shook Pip’s hand. “Delighted to meet you, Philippa. Now wait a moment, I know that name.” He theatrically pulled out a black notebook from his pocket and ruffled through the pages. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said furrowing his bushy eyebrows. “Looks like it’s just a tangerine and some walnuts for you this year, my dear.”

Above his head, the ghost laughed again. “You’re funny.”

“That’s quite alright,” Pip replied in clipped tone. “I’m vegan.”

Oh, she’s one of those, Father Christmas thought. “Ah well, I’d better include a sense of humour for good measure.” His eyes twinkled, but not with tears this time. “I say, I should get up to the grotto. Is it this way?” he said pointing up the stairs.

Principal Peabody snapped into action. “Come along children, move to the side and let Father Christmas come through.”

He started to ascend the stairs but Father Christmas grabbed his shoulder. “If you don’t mind, Master Elf, it was quite a journey getting here. Is there a restroom I could use?”

“Of course!” Principal Peabody said, brandishing a key. “My office has an en suite, you can use that.”

Father Christmas plucked the key from Principal Peabody’s hand. “Thank you, Master Elf. I will need just a few moments alone before you start sending the children in.” He stared up at the ghost.

“Oh, okay,” Principal Peabody said, moving aside. He craned his neck to see what Father Christmas was looking at, but there was nothing there. “Just follow the queue, you’ll find it.”

“Thank you.” Father Christmas turned to Jocasta. “And thank you for your welcome, young lady. If you see Wanda…”

“I’ll let her know you’re here.” Jocasta was still beaming. “I need to go check in on my children anyway. We’ll be back later to see you.”

“Angel.” Father Christmas nodded at Pip the Ogre before taking the stairs. He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Make way, make way, children. Santa coming through!”

He slapped the outstretched hands that lined his route, up the stairs, along a corridor to a pool of children waiting outside a locked office door. Father Christmas unlocked the door and told the gathered children that the Grotto would be open for visitors in five minutes. He opened the office door, stepped inside, and leant back on the door to shut it, with his eyes closed. He could do with some Aspirin; the day was catching up on him.

“Watcha, Soda Pops.” Wanda Warren lounged on a large chair at the centre of the grotto, eating a bowl of curry and rice. “Nice of you to show up at last.”

“War! How’d you get in here? The door was locked.” Father Christmas shouldn’t have been surprised to see her there; War had always been resourceful.

The old lady ghost suddenly materialised through the office wall. “That’s where you’re hiding. Jocasta’s looking for you,” she told Wanda.

“Who are you?” Father Christmas demanded of the ghost. “And what do you want of me?”

The ghost looked shocked. “You know I’m here? I did wonder. And you can see me?”

“And hear you.” Father Christmas turned to Wanda. “War, what is going on?”

“That’s Aida Rountree,” Wanda said, tearing off a piece of naan bread and wiping the inside of her bowl. “Don’t worry, Soda Pops. She’s friendlier than she looks.”

“Then, Aida Roundtree, tell me whatever it is you must tell me and let me get on with my work.” Father Christmas eyed the wall of brightly wrapped boxes stacked up behind the chair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aida said indignantly. “I’m only here for Jocasta and the kids. How is it you can see me?”

“Because he’s Father Christmas,” Wanda said, swallowing the last of her food. She blew out of cheeks. “That was bloody handsome. I’m gonna get another bowl.”

“You’re really Father Christmas?” Aida took the cigarette from her mouth and placed it behind her ear.

“Yes” Father Christmas and Wanda said in unison.

“And you can see ghosts?”

“I can see you,” Father Christmas replied snarkily.

“Right then, don’t go anywhere.” Aida suddenly zoomed upwards and disappeared through the ceiling.

“War? What is going on?”

Wanda got out of the chair and motioned to Father Christmas to sit down. “I’m going to leave now, and a bunch of kids will come in and you’ll give them one those presents with their name on.”

“I know how Santa’s grotto works!” Father Christmas fumed.

There was a knock at the door and it opened a crack. Principal Peabody’s face poke through. “Are you ready for the-” He saw Wanda. “Wanda!”

“Hi Pete.” Wanda gave the blushing principal a dazzling smile.

“What, what, what are you doing here?” he stuttered and smoothed down his elf tunic.

“Meeting Santa and eating curry. This is the best Christmas fete I’ve ever been to.” Wanda turned to Father Christmas. “Peter, here, is my best, most dedicated client at Fighting Fit. He never misses a session, and he always pays promptly, every month.”

“Ah, a rarity indeed,” Father Christmas said. “You’ve caught a good one there.”

“I have,” Wanda said with a wink. She turned to Principal Peabody, who was looking more than a little flushed. “I’d better let you get on. The kids are sounding impatient.”

“Perhaps we could, um, go for a drink later?” Principal Peabody asked nervously. “If you’d like to of course.”

Every time, Father Christmas thought. War can just wrap men round her finger.

“Maybe,” Wanda said huskily, as she eased past him in the doorway. “Let’s see how the afternoon pans out.”

“Master Elf. Master Elf!” Father Christmas bellowed, attempting to get the simpering Principal’s attention. “Please admit the first child to Santa’s grotto and let’s get this party started.”

***

The afternoon moved along at a fair clip, as the sky darkened and the lights in the school building shone ever brighter. There was a steady stream of parents arriving and children and parents leaving. Mrs Gupta’s Christmas Curry stall was the first to close for the afternoon when she ran out of food. The games stalls were still busy but even they began to thin eventually. The queue for Santa’s grotto had finally cleared the stairs with only a few left waiting outside the door.

Jocasta and Wanda sat in the principal’s outer office with Jocasta’s daughter Molly and son, Paul. Molly had been busy running the book stall all afternoon and sat slouched against her mother, with Wanda’s shawl draped over her, watching Paul being bounced up and down on Wanda’s knees.

“They could have used you in the crèche today,” Jocasta told her friend. “You’re a natural with kids.”

“Ah, kids have so much energy. It’s how you channel it,” Wanda said.

“Excuse me, Wanda, Jocasta,” Principal Peabody called out and approached the group. “Molly,” he enunciated clearly so that she could read his lips. “Do you want to come and meet Santa? He has a present for you and your brother. Your mum made sure of that.”

Molly sat up and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “’Hank you, Mr Peabody,” she said, taking Paul from Wanda and carrying him to the Grotto.

“You go on in.” He waved Molly past. “I need to speak with your mother,” he said without taking his eyes off Wanda.

Molly entered the Grotto, holding Paul on her waist. They both looked up at the hundreds of strands of glittering lights that hung down from the ceiling as the office door silently closed behind her.

“Hello,” Father Christmas said kindly from the big chair he sat on. “You must be Molly and Paul. I have only two presents left, and they’re addressed to Molly and Paul. That must be you. Come closer.”

Molly stepped forward and stared at Santa. “This is Molly and Paul Darling.”

Father Christmas gasped. He knew that voice and it wasn’t that of a child. “Ma’am?”

“Indeed, Soda Pops.”

Father Christmas was non-plussed. Why was God speaking to him through a pure soul? She could come and see him herself at any time. She always used to.

Molly’s countenance was calm as God spoke through her. “This is Molly Darling. Big D came to speak to you about her. Do you remember? She wrote you a letter.”

“Ah, yes the Santa/Satan glitch, I remember.” He shifted nervously in his seat. Death had come to see him three years back about a misdirected letter to Santa that had inadvertently been delivered to Satan, granting him an opportunity to start the apocalypse. “I granted Death a wish.”

“You did. Unfortunately, Armageddon was not prevented and Molly turned out deaf and fatherless.”

“Well now, I can’t be held responsible for how wishes turn out,” he blustered angrily. “Death knew the risks when he made it. Perhaps he should have asked for something else, like, like wishing the letter had not been delivered to-”

“Your brother?”

Father Christmas flinched. “Oh! You know!”

“And so do I,” Death said, appearing next to Molly. There was an audible bing from the Psi-Pad hidden in his robes. “That’s just my ‘Molly alert’. I receive one whenever we’re in close proximity to each other. Unfortunately, it means Molly has been around quite a lot of death for one so tender in years.”

“We know you helped your brother with disposing the bodies.”

Father Christmas loosened the top button of his jacket and pulled the collar from his neck. “The bodies?”

“The bodies of War, Famine and Pestilence,” Death said flatly. “The Halloween horror trap Satan set for them in the back of his taxi three years ago.”

“I had nothing to do with that.” Father Christmas blurted out. He shook his head and pulled off his hat. The top of his head was pink and bald and covered in droplets of sweat. “I just drove the taxi to its final destination. It made me feel sick to do it, but I had to.”

“Why was that?”

“Why?” Father Christmas sat up in his chair. “Because, Ma’am, he’s a complete bastard, that’s why. He’s Satan. When he couldn’t tempt me with money, he threatened to ruin me with false and disgusting stories of child abuse. Blood may be thicker than water, but it’s not as thick as mud and he threatened to bury me in it. He would have done it, too. He might still.”

Silence fell among them until Paul gurgled. He’d been looking up at the twinkling lights but now his gaze fell on Father Christmas.

“Sody Pop?”

Father Christmas rubbed his eyes. “Pestilence? Is that you?”

Paul stretched out his arms toward Father Christmas. “Sody Pop! Hug!”

“Pesto, my dear boy!” Father Christmas cried with joy, as Molly placed the child on his lap. “I’m so happy to see you! It’s been such a long time.” He hugged the child and kissed his head. “Oh, he is bonny!”

“He is your third ghost, Soda Pops,” God stated.

“He is?”

“And your legacy,” Death said gravely. “Do you know what happened to the bodies of your friends after you delivered them to their destination that night?”

Father Christmas lowered his head. “No.”

“Perhaps you should have found out first,” Death said tersely.

“Big D.” Molly touched Death’s arm. “Soda Pops, the bodies of Pestilence, War and Famine were used to synthesize a miracle drug. A vaccine to cure the Rona. It was injected into people’s arms. Several times, unfortunately.”

Father Christmas’s face blanched and his jaw dropped. “I, I had no idea.” A fat tear rolled down his nose. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, Ma’am, I didn’t know!”

“I believe you.” Molly collected Paul from his lap. “We must go now. You too, Big D. before she arrives.”

“She?” Father Christmas asked but God didn’t answer. “Ma’am, will I see you again? At Lapland? I miss seeing you practice your pole dancing.”

Molly stopped before the door and turn round. For the first time in the conversation, she smiled. “It is your wish?”

Father Christmas nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Molly nodded her assent. “Good-bye, Soda Pops.”

The children left the Grotto leaving Father Christmas alone with Death. “Well then. I must be leaving, too. Much work to do.”

“Wait, Big D. If Pestilence, War and Famine were my ghost visitors, then who is Aida Roundtree?”

“Aida’s your punishment, Soda Pops.” Death’s retractable scythe shot from his sleeve. Electricity arced along its blade. “I’ll see you later.”

He disappeared and Father Christmas was alone. But not for long.

“You’re still here. Good!”

Aida Roundtree had returned and this time she wasn’t alone. A group of floating figures followed her into the Grotto.

“These are the only children we’ve come across so far.” Aida explained. “Poor mites, needlessly killed by the stupid Rona vaccine. I thought it would be nice for them to meet Santa, say hello, be acknowledged. Goodness knows, it’ll be the only present they get this year.”

Father Christmas clamped his hands across his mouth and shut his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Aida asked with concern. “You’re sweating.”

He nodded vigorously; eyes squeezed tight to hold back the tears. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Father Christmas squeaked through his fingers. “You said ‘we’ve’?”

“Yes, well, a lot of people took those shots and woke up dead. I guess we’re a kind of collective. Call ourselves Fright Club, which is a pun on film title or something.” Aida shook her head. “I’m not quite sure, I wasn’t much into cinema when I was alive.”

Still more ghosts seeped through the walls, ceiling and floor, pouring into the Grotto and filling it. Adults, young and old, in varying states of undress, all smoking a cigarette like Aida’s, regarding Santa silently. The child ghosts looked at him with a mixture of shyness and awe. They too smoked, like urchins of old.

“I only wanted to bring the children to see you,” Aida apologised. “But the chance to meet Father Christmas? I couldn’t really stop the rest from coming.”

Father Christmas wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, lifted his head and looked at the assembly of ghosts before him. They stared back and that’s when Santa really started to cry.

***

Wanda heard Father Christmas’s heart-wrenching sobs, as she sat alone in the principal’s outer office, absent-mindedly fingering the copy of the key she’d ‘borrowed’ from her client Peter Peabody, just after she’d suggested to him that Jocasta Darling would make a great choice for the Christmas Fete committee. She had decided she would go out for a drink with him after all, much to Principal Peabody’s surprise and delight, and was now waiting for him to change out of his elf costume and clear out the last of the fete stragglers.

As a rule, Wanda never dated clients, but Peter had earned it for his help, however unwitting, in the successful conclusion of ‘Operation: Get Santa’, her and God’s plan to steer Soda Pops back on the straight and narrow, and make sure he fully appreciated the error of his ways. Besides, Pete was extremely fit; Wanda had made sure of that.

She listened to Father Christmas’s growing howls of anguish and smiled a thin, bitter smile of satisfaction.

“Atta girl, Aida,” she said softly to herself. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

*******

*Liam Neeson again? You got him on fuckin’ the brain or sumfing, Clicky? …/stubs butt…*

*Ah…*

I hope you liked the story, Dear Reader. I know had fun writing it, so at least one of us got something out of the experience. And there are much better stories, by far more accomplished authors in the Underdog Anthologies. Check them out; see for yourself…

… And have a Song 😀