*Fanks for linking Part 1, Clicky…*
*I can see that… /lights up and smokes… Ronageddon started with a Halloween story, Clicky…*
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…*
*Jesus, Clicky! …/slaps hand to chest… Don’t creep up on me like that. You nearly give me an ‘eart attack…*
*Yeah, stretching two visits out of Dear Reader… /lights up and smokes… hopefully three if they go back and read Part 1…*
“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…”
*You’re still finking about your post at the weekend, Clicky… /stubs butt…*
*SPOILERS!!!*
*Happy Halloween, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… I’m gonna post my story from the anthology today. You can have the day off…*
*/coughs… Really? …/deep drag…*
If she didn’t have her cigarette, Aida Roundtree was quite certain she’d have gone stark staring mad by now. In the ten months since her death, Aida had discovered that ghosthood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Ghosts, it turned out, are extremely limited in what they can do. Yes, she was invisible to the living, could move through solid objects and even fly, all appealing attributes, no doubt, to MI5, but entirely limiting for the purposes of get anything done. All ghosts could really do, Aida had discovered, was to think, and they had an abundance of time to do it in.
From the start, Aida had decided not to disclose to the other ghosts in Fright Club that she had another, separate set of acquaintances. To Aida’s way of thinking, discretion is always the better part of valour, especially as her other set of acquaintances consisted of three of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in corporeal form, plus a diminutive Grim Reaper. Aida wasn’t at all sure how the other Fright Clubbers would react upon learning that she was on personal speaking terms with War, Famine, Pestilence and Death. Not in a good way, Aida had decided, and remained resolutely mum on the subject.
To be fair, Aida hadn’t apprised her Apocalypse buddies about Fright Club either. She’d only met Death once – at her own – and War and Famine were infrequent visitors. They only came by to see Pestilence, whom Aida lived with and had been tasked, post-mortem, to keep watch over. At only two years old, Pestilence was far more interested in the duck-ducks in the park and the contents of his cereal bowl than hearing how the victims of a sinister depopulation agenda, currently being perpetrated by world governments on their citizens, were faring in ghost-life after death.
The biggest difference between Aida and her fellow Fright Clubbers was that she had chosen to enter this state, whereas ghosthood had been thrust upon them. Naturally they assumed that Aida had made the same fatal, compliant choice they had, but she had not and she did not disabuse them of the notion. Nor had Aida explained to them that her cigarette, the source of every cigarette now shared between ghosts upon entry into Fright Club, had been a gift from a stranger. A godsend.
She did not want her fellow ghosts to think of her as special because Aida knew that she was not. In her 77 years of life, Aida had been happily smoking for seventy of them, without paying heed to increasingly hysterical warnings about it. But what if smoking had killed her or at least contributed to her death? Aida had spent plenty of her new-found time thinking about that. She’d come to a realisation, that when push came to shove, her post-death craving for a cigarette was for comfort, the exact same comfort the Fright Clubbers had sought when they rolled up their sleeves and took the medicine on offer. With cigarette in hand, Aida had complied just as readily as any Fright Clubber had when she signed up for something she knew absolutely nothing about.
A choice that really wasn’t a choice at all, Aida thought as she floated onto the kitchen ceiling of the Darling household and blew a smoke ring, to Pestilence’s delight. Still, at least smoking helped keep Aida and the rest of the growing number of ghosts in Fright Club sane.
“Happy birthday, Paul.”
***
“Paul’s doing it again,” Molly informed her mother.
“Doing what?” Jocasta Darling replied distractedly. She had her back to the kitchen table as she prepared Molly’s packed lunch for school. She turned round and faced her daughter. “Is it the ceiling thing again?”
“Yes.” Molly slid off her chair and went to stand next to her baby brother, sat giggling in his high chair. She pressed her cheek against his and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what he’s laughing at but he does it a lot.”
“He’s just a happy child,” Jocasta said, as she placed Molly’s packed lunch on the table. “Is your school bag ready? Go and get it.”
Molly pecked Paul on the cheek and went to retrieve her school bag from her bedroom.
Jocasta slumped onto the empty chair and started to wipe Paul’s face. In the background, the plummy presenter on the radio solemnly reported the morning’s news: a developing scandal about a minor celebrity’s sexual proclivities dominated the headlines, bumping turmoil on Wall Street and the political escalation toward World War 3 down the pecking order, right behind a thinly disguised lecture on climate change. Jocasta was suddenly glad that Molly was deaf and didn’t have to listen to such rubbish, before instantly chiding herself for such a wicked thought. She reached over and switched the radio off.
Three sharp raps from the front door letterbox broke the silence.
“Who can that be?” Jocasta asked Paul excitedly, as she got up from her chair. “It’s too early for trick or treaters. Perhaps it’s someone with a birthday present for you,” she said knowingly.
Paul Darling squealed and clapped his chubby hands together. Jocasta went to answer the door.
“Morning, Jo.” Wanda Warren stamped her feet and let out an icy breath. “It’s freezing today.”
“Good morning, come in.” Jocasta ushered her friend inside and shut the door against the cold. “We’re in the kitchen, it’s warm in there.”
Molly appeared with her school bag. “Hello Wanda. Happy Halloween.”
“Happy Halloween,” Wanda spoke and signed back. “Did I get that right?”
Molly smiled and gave Wanda the okay signal.
“Wah. Wah.” Paul bounced up and down in his seat at the sound of Wanda’s voice.
“There he is!” Wanda exclaimed and kissed the top of Paul’s head. “Happy Birthday!”
Paul raised his arms up toward Wanda. “Hug-me!”
“He’s stringing words together?” Wanda lifted Paul out of his high chair. “Wow. That definitely deserves a hug.”
Paul wrapped his arms around her neck and nuzzled her hair.
“So what’s the plan of action for today?” Wanda asked. “How long do you need me for?”
“A couple of hours,” Jocasta replied as she finished putting the breakfast dishes away. “I have to walk Molly to school and then I’ve got a meeting there.”
Wanda moved round so that Molly couldn’t see to read her lips. “Is she in trouble? She’s not being bullied, is she?”
Jocasta laughed. “No, nothing like that. It’s with some other parents. We’re planning the Christmas fete. I don’t know how I get roped into these things, but I do.”
“We’ll come with you, if you want. As far as school that is and then me and this little one can go scour the high street for a birthday present. Sorry, I’ve had no time to go shopping.” Wanda leaned her face down to Paul’s. “Would you like a toy?” she drawled.
“Toy,” Paul repeated and chuckled at the shock on Wanda’s face. “Yes-toy.”
“Blimey, his vocab’s really coming along.”
“It is,” Jocasta said proudly and took Paul from Wanda’s arms. “Thank you so much for this. I’ll go get him dressed. Do you want a cup of tea?”
Wanda sat down at the table and unbuttoned her jacket. “No, I’ll only need to pee it out later and I hate using public lavs. The seats are always wet these days now they’ve let cocks in frocks have free access to the ladies. Men love to mark their territory. It’s their nature. Do you mind if I switch on the radio?”
“No, go ahead. Come on Molly, you need to get dressed too.” Jocasta and the children left the kitchen, leaving Wanda alone.
She switched on the radio.
***
‘… has been taken into custody, a spokesperson for the Metropolitan Police said in a statement. It follows a raid on the star’s sixteen million pound mansion in Buckinghamshire, where he kept dozens of live animals in an area described as a ‘sex dungeon petting zoo’. The BBC has so far refused to comment…’
“Can you believe it?” Aida floated down from the ceiling. “Bestiality for breakfast. Whatever is the world coming to?”
“An end,” Wanda said drily. “Don’t ask me when, though. This is like no apocalypse I’ve ever been through before.” She kept her voice below the volume of the radio to disguise the fact she was having a conversation.
Aida was afraid to ask but asked anyway. “Have you… experienced many apocalypses?”
“Oh yes. Too many to count.” Wanda rolled her eyes. “Life, civilizations, stars, there’s no escaping entropy.”
‘…Two activists have been released on bail. An NHS spokesperson has confirmed that the patient whose heart surgery was interrupted by their demonstration against the use of the gas desflurane, used in anaesthesia, has subsequently died. Climate change is suspected…’
Aida nodded. “And when did the current apocalypse start?” She tried to sound nonchalant but could tell from the narrowing of Wanda’s eyes that she’d failed.
‘… In economic news, panic…’
“Why don’t you,” Wanda said eventually, “come shopping with me and Pesto today. You should get out more. Do you get out much?”
Wanda was good: her innocent question was crafted better than Aida’s nonchalant effort, but Aida wasn’t fooled. She knew when she was being probed.
“Well, I go to the park sometimes with Jocasta and the kids. I’ve seen you there exercising.”
Wanda looked dubious. ”I haven’t seen you in the park. I hold classes there nearly every day.”
“I know. It was back in the early summer. You were ordering lots of muscular, young men around and getting sweaty.”
Wanda bobbed her head. “That sounds like one of my classes.”
“You looked far too busy to chat.”
‘… in a diplomatic effort to sooth tensions after the US President accused China of white supremacy for its support of Russian aggression…’
“So you’ll come shopping with us today?”
Aida puffed on her cigarette and slowly floated back up to the ceiling. “Okay, let’s.”
***
STATE OF SOULS
QUARTERLY BOARD MEETING
31ST OCTOBER 2023
GOD LOBBY, ROOM 2B
1000H – 1200H
BOARD: GOD (G) – CHAIR
DEATH (D)
MARGE GERANA (MG)
MINUTES: BRIAN (B)
AGENDA
Actions From Previous Meeting – All
Update on Births – MG
Update on Deaths – D
Forward Plan – G
A.O.B.
Next Meeting – t.b.c.
Tap Tap Tap Tap
Death sat alone in room 2B of the God Lobby, rhythmically drumming his phalanges against the gleaming surface of the boardroom table.
Tap Tap Tap Tap
He wondered about the numbering of the room; as far as he was aware, the God Lobby only had one meeting room.
Tap Tap Tap Tap
Rummaging in his robes, Death pulled his Psi-Pad out from beneath the folds and flipped opened the cover. The time said ’10:03′.
Tap Tap Tap Tap
He considered proposing the elevation of ‘unpunctuality’ to primary sin status, out from under the auspices of Sloth. However, a quick check on his Psi-Pad informed him that he had missed the ‘Sins for the Twenty First Century’ submission deadline. By twenty three years.
Tap Tap Tap
The door to room 2B opened.
Tap
Death stood up and bowed his head as God entered the room, followed by Brian, a pompous goose and Chief Administrative Assistant to the deity. He was looking more ruffled than his usual polished self as he hoisted his white, downy behind onto a chair at the far end of the table. He slammed his writing case down with a thud.
God took the seat next to Death.
Good morning, Big D. I do apologise for being late. Unfortunately, Marge Gerana is not well. Or rather, she is not feeling herself.
“Good morning, Ma’am. Is Marge okay?” Death asked with concern. He and Marge went back a long way.
No. She is in the bathroom and will be here shortly. When she arrives…
God hesitated.
This can’t be good, Death thought. “Ma’am?”
God turned to the goose at the end of the table, who was ready with parchment and quill, poised to record all the minutia of the meeting.
Brian, our conversation right now is not for the minutes.
Brian laid down his quill and folded his wings. God turned back to Death.
It would be best not to stare.
Death was puzzled. “Stare?”
And don’t say anything. Brian said something to her earlier, which has resulted in the late start to this meeting.
What could Brian have said to upset Marge Gerana, the Great Birthing Stork? Death was at a loss. Insults to Marge were like water off, well, her own back, all birds being pretty waterproof after all. Death looked toward the scribe who was angrily preening his feathers.
“Ma’am, I will endeavour not to… GAH!”
The door to the room cracked open, slowly revealing a disheveled mass of dreary, grey feathers, atop quivering, stick-thin legs. From the doorway, ferocious, green eyes stared fixedly upon Death, over an enormous bill that looked like it was made from driftwood.
Death couldn’t help it; he stared.
God subtly shook her head, with eyes closed.
“Gah, ha, hello, Marge.” Death knew he should attempt to recover the situation, but the drastic change in Marge Gerana’s appearance was shocking beyond belief. Where was her resplendent white plumage and slender beak? “You look… Why do you have a clog on your face?”
Marge lifted her oversized head and cried out, clattered her gargantuan jaws together rapidly. She ran off under, what sounded like, machine-gun fire.
Oh, Big D!
“I don’t understand.” Death was perplexed; Marge Gerana was always immaculately turned out, even if she was prone to over-accessorize, at least in Death’s opinion. Her fondness for shoes was legendary, but even she wouldn’t wear them on her face.
She’s a Shoebill.
“Ma’am?”
It appears that Marge has morphed into a Shoebill Stork. They’re not even storks. They’re herons.
“But what has caused this profound change?”
I do not know but I fear the successful delivery figures for the previous quarter were less than optimal. I will go comfort her.
God stood up from the table.
I think it best if we adjourn this meeting for today. Brian, please reschedule it.
Brian honked acknowledgment and swept his writing accouterments into the writing case with a majestic swipe of his wing.
God left the room, closely followed by Brian, who took the opportunity to give Death a supercilious look that only a master bureaucrat can give, before closing the door.
Once more, Death found himself alone in room 2B. He retrieved his Psi-Pad and checked the time. It was ’10:07′.
***
“I thought we were going shopping.” Aida floated above Wanda and Paul, as they neared the park gates. “The high street is the other way.”
Wanda ignored her, instead stopping to adjust Paul’s woolly hat and wipe a candle of green mucus from his nose. “Eww, Pesto. That’s nasty.”
“Aren’t you talking to me?”
Wanda continued to ignore Aida. She gripped the corner of the used tissue between forefinger and thumb and walked it over to the graffiti tagged litter bin inside the park entrance. She held it over the rim at arm’s length. “You do know that, by rights, we should burn this. Remember that time when you wiped out Central America with a poorly discarded snot-rag?”
“No-no. Wah.”
“Well yeah, I helped but it was mostly you. I gotta say, Pesto, it was some of your finest work.”
Paul blew a wet raspberry and gurgled in reply.
Wanda dropped the tissue into the litter bin. “Fuck it.”
“Wait!” Aida rushed down and peered into the trash. “It’s not dangerous is it?”
“Well, look who came down to talk.” Wanda stood with her hands on her hips. “Seriously, Aida, your floating above my head is giving me neck-ache.”
“I like to avoid contact with the living.” Aida was quite firm in this regard. “I know they don’t know, but I’ll know and I don’t see why death should abrogate the rules for consensual contact.”
“O…K…” Wanda widened her eyes and tilted her head back. “That’s good and ethical and all that, but I don’t care if you touch me, by accident or design and Pesto’s strapped in. He can’t move.”
Paul watched silently, his eyes flicking from one to the other as they sparred.
Aida knew Wanda had a point but she wasn’t quite ready to give in. “We were going to the high street to shop. There are lots of people there.”
“True, but we’re not in the high street, we’re in Victory park. It’s Tuesday morning and it’s fucking freezing. There’s nobody here, I promise you.”
“Alright.” Aida held up her hands. “Let’s walk in the park.”
“No, we’re going to walk through the park.” Wanda grabbed the handles on the stroller and started pushing. “We’ve got a date on the other side.”
Aida kept pace with Wanda, but floated on the grass. “What kind of date?”
“One with a birthday cake for Pesto and a fry up for me. I’m starving. I’ve usually eaten by now.”
“A birthday party for Paul?”
“No, one for you,” Wanda replied sarcastically. “Of course for Paul. Pesto.”
“Oh.”
Wanda sighed. “Sorry, I get testy when I’m hungry. Famine will be there, although I’m not sure about Death. He’s invited but he’s got a meeting all morning apparently. He said he’d make it if he can.”
“Or if he has to. Hopefully not because he has to.”
Wanda smiled. “Yeah, hopefully not.”
Wanda walked and Aida floated along in silence. One streaming icy breath, the other streaming ghostly smoke.
“Thank you,” Aida eventually said.
“For what?”
“For inviting me along. That’s very thoughtful. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“And spoil the surprise?” Wanda gave a long whistle. “Somebody hasn’t read any Clausewitz,” she said in a sing-song voice.
Aida grimaced. “Sounds German.”
“Prussian. Same thing. He was a very moral man, you know, Aida. You’d have liked him.”
“I’m sure.”
“He wrote a whole book about me. On War. It’s mandatory reading in many militaries,” she said wistfully.
The women skirted around the duck pond, much to Paul’s annoyance. Neither were out of breath.
“It’s lucky Jocasta was busy with a school meeting this morning,” Aida said.
Wanda kept striding. “Isn’t it.”
“On Paul’s,” Aida paused. “On Pesto’s birthday.”
“I’d say very fortunate.”
“You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that?” Aida asked. She had to ask.
Wanda flapped her lips dismissively. “No. Jo’s a great team player, they’re lucky to have her. It’s a lot of work organising a school Christmas fete. She’ll have fun.”
“With weekly meetings, no doubt,” Aida added.
“Twice weekly closer to the date, I’d say.”
Aida removed her cigarette from her mouth. “’The greatest victory is that which requires no battle’.”
Wanda looked round at Aida with a raised eyebrow. “You know Sun Tzu?”
Aida sniffed and resumed smoking. “I’ve read his book.”
“You’ve read Art of War?” Wanda sounded sceptical. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I was quite the avid reader when I was alive. It’s surprisingly short and easy to understand.”
“It really is. I don’t know why more people haven’t read it.”
“Unfortunately, I never got around to reading Clausewitz’s Vom Kriege,” Aida said sadly, “but then my job was delivering babies, not war.”
Wanda stopped and watched Aida floating ahead. “You’ll recognise this quote then,” she said loudly. “’One may know how to conquer without being able to do it.’”
Aida waited for Wanda to catch up. “I’ve thought a lot about that.”
“I’m sure.” Eyes forward, Wanda continued pushing the pram. “So have I since turning up in human physical form. It’s just so damn limiting.”
Aida was surprised. The last thing she would describe Wanda’s body as was ‘limited’. In any way. Wanda had the looks and physique to which ‘the sky’s the limit’ was a more appropriate description. Still, Aida knew the feeling of frustration that Wanda was describing all too well and could empathise.
“I could help,” Wanda said. “Perhaps we can help each other.”
“Really? How?”
“Well, an invite to meet with you and your little smoking buddies would be a start. I too, work on consent, you know.”
Aida burst out laughing. “No you don’t. What is it you said to me when we first met? ‘I have no qualms’ and then you punched me in the chest.”
“I was demonstrating consent.”
“I didn’t consent. You caught me by surprise.”
Aida could tell immediately that she’d won that point from the roll of Wanda’s eyes.
“Whatever.” Wanda ploughed on along the icy path.
Again, Aida had to ask. “How did you know?”
“About your smoking buddies?”
“Yes.”
“A little bird told me.”
“A little bird?”
“Yes. Plus three of your friends have been stalking me for the past four months,” Wanda said matter-of-factly. “They’ve been coming to my classes to ogle and cop a feel.”
Aida stopped dead. Her cigarette dropped from the surprised ‘oh’ her mouth made and disappeared, only to immediately reappear behind her ear. Aida plucked it from the side of her head and put it back in her mouth. “What?! No. Who?”
“One of them is called Craig. He looks about 16. Wears a football strip. I’m not sure about the other two but they’re all teenage lads and they all smoke cigarettes that never burn down, so I figure they’ve probably got some connection with you.
Aida was stunned. “You didn’t react at all?”
“To the groping and catcalling?” Wanda shook her head. “No.”
“Then they don’t know that you know that they’re ghosts.”
“No, but they probably do now.” Wanda flicked her eyes to the right. “The treeline, in the south east corner of the park. Don’t look. Okay, look, but don’t make it obvious.”
Aida caught the cigarette this time as it dropped. She didn’t need to look; instinctively Aida knew that Wanda was telling the truth. It was a sad fact but a large number of the latest Fright Club members had been young men in the peak of physical health when they were cruelly cut down. Many had never even had so much as a chance to sow a wild oat, let alone oats before they suddenly died.
“Craig’s not a bad lad, none of them are,” Aida said quietly. “They’re bored and angry. And scared that their short lives were for nought and they’re trying to be brave about it. They need…” Aida searched for the word that best described what the Fright Clubbers lacked. “Discipline.”
“A leader?” Wanda suggested at the same time. “Of course Discipline is the soul of an army,” Wanda added.
“Clausewitz?”
“No, Washington. You’d have liked George. He was big into tobacco and a great leader.”
Aida laughed out loud again. “You do make me laugh, Wanda. An army of smoking ghosts led by George Washington. What a notion.”
“No, Aida, an army of smoking ghosts led by you.” Wanda said emphatically.
“Me?
“What was it Sun Tzu said about ghosts?”
Aida wrinkled her brow as she tried to recollect. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and then she had it. She blew out a plume of smoke.
“‘Foreknowledge cannot be gotten from ghosts and spirits, cannot be had by analogy, cannot be found out by calculation. It must be obtained from people, people who know the conditions of the enemy.’”
“And who better to gather intelligence on ‘the enemy’ than the ghosts of dead people fighting for justice?”
“Spooks.”
“Exactly. Seriously, Aida, you don’t know what you’ve got. A bona fide ghost army that the C.I.A would kill for.”
“How many would they kill for it?”
Wanda snorted. “How many did they jab?”
It was a chilling thought to match the biting cold weather.
“October 31st 2020,” Wanda said flatly.
“What’s that?” Aida asked.
“You asked me earlier when the Apocalypse started. It was on Halloween in 2020 with the murder of FAMINE, PESTILENCE and WAR. Me, Paul and Xi Xi are ‘ghosts’ every bit as much as you.”
Aida didn’t know what to say so she said nothing.
They were near the park exit, when a sudden burst of blue light pulsed between tree branches, reflecting off frosty leaves.
“What’s going on over there?” Aida shot up into the sky for a better view.
“Police, Fire or Ambulance?” Wanda called up.
“Ambulance,”Aida called down. “Parked outside the cafe. Ooh, it looks bad.”
“Did you hear that, Pesto?” Wanda lent over the stroller and whispered to Paul. She picked up the pace. “Looks like Big D’s gonna make your birthday party after all.”
*Leggy posted his story, too? …/stubs butt… Bonus…*
*No, Clicky, I cruelly mutilated Walt Whitman’s poem in Underdog Anthology… /thinks… Nine. It was about…*
*Yes! Although I doubt Greta formed any opinion of it as I don’t think she’s even read it…* Continue reading “Underdog Anthology XXI: A Day Off For Angels”
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