THREE FRENCH HENS (a Christmas Collection) Revised Edition by Gayle Ramage Copyright (c) 2011 Gayle Ramage Revised Edition Copyright (c) 2012 Gayle Ramage http://www.gayleramage.co.uk Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental. ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS MY TWO FANG TEETH She shuffles along the deserted street, dragging a wheeled, tartan shopping bag that leaves two dark tracks in the thin blanket of snow. Her other hand grips a brown leather handbag that swings as she moves. I am careful to keep my distance, fiddling with the piece of mistletoe in my coat pocket; a memento from an earlier visit to one of the houses in the richer part of town. I have been shadowing this woman for the past quarter of an hour beginning in the town centre, where I first caught sight of her browsing in a discount shoe shop, then a bus and now through this abandoned street. She has not looked at me once or noticed I was there. This was going to be an easy kill. Under a military blue sky I see the Christmas lights and decorations, which adorn most of the buildings and shops back in the centre of town, have not spread this far. The street lamps standing guard along this road have succumbed to the depressive air that infests the neighbourhood and can only muster up a dim glow. As I walk past a row of houses to my right, I note they are either boarded up or lie empty with shattered windows, half-hearted graffiti staining the walls and doors. Any normal, respectable person would worry for such an elderly woman residing in a place like this. Not me. I am neither normal nor exactly respectable. I bring up the hood of my cloak as the snow intensifies its attack. The woman wears no hat to shelter her head from the elements. Her clothing - a caramel-coloured jacket, deep blue skirt and tan tights do not look warm but I am far from concerned about her welfare. She carries on through the snow, my footsteps making no sound behind her. A trace of lavender lingers in her wake. I inhale deeply, the thought of what is about to occur arousing my senses. My prey comes to an unexpected stop beneath one of the lights. I manage to prevent myself from walking into her and take a considered step backwards. She bends down, with an audible groan, to lift something she has dropped. I make my move. I swiftly stand before her as she straightens up again, my hood pulled down to reveal a thick obsidian mane of hair. A surprised gasp escapes from her open mouth at my immediate presence. ‘Good evening, madam,’ I say with all pleasantness. Despite being a foul creature to many, I do not forget my manners. I lower my head in a bow, noticing the woman putting a set of keys into the handbag. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks in a barely-there voice. A finger acts as a window-wiper as she rubs her thick spectacles to see me better. ‘Why yes, you can,’ I respond. ‘I would very much like to drain you of all the blood flowing through your body.’ She frowns, a clutch of wrinkles creasing her forehead. She wipes the side of her nose and sniffs. ‘Taken something illegal tonight, son?’ ‘I’ve had a bite or two, yes.’ A vision of a blood-soaked room forms in my mind and I take a moment to savour the memory before returning to the present. ‘You see, dear lady, it is not the young I desire.’ I flash her a glimpse of my pearly - and pointed - whites. She doesn’t react, so I continue. ‘If truth be known, young blood tastes revolting. Has an acrid aftertaste which I do not much care for.’ Though the woman is still looking straight at me, there is still no visible sign she can hear my words and I wonder if a hearing-aid hides beneath the grey, neck-length hair. Regardless, I carry on. ‘Of course, all the books and films would have you think we crave after the young, the beautiful. This is not so. We favour the more mature to quench our thirst.’ I move closer, peering down at her owl-like eyes. My charm is working. She gazes back at me, spell-bound like a thousand other meals. Something smashes against the side of my head, making me cry out and I slump unceremoniously onto the snow. My first thought, aside from wanting to find out what had hit me, was to seize the woman and make my escape. One of my kin has obviously spotted me stalking my prey and come to claim the old dear for themselves. But when I scan my surroundings to find my competitor, I see no one. No one, that is, except the old woman. There’s a definite glint in her eye as she swings the handbag like a lasso. Round and round it goes, faster and faster until a faint wooshing can be heard. One moment the handbag is a blur in the air, the next it’s whacked me on the other side of my head. Coming to my senses, I try to scramble away from the attack but she has a hidden strength about her. A cold, thin hand curls around my ankle and drags me back into the gaze of the street light. ‘Oh no you don’t, my dear,’ she utters in a sweet voice, as she hits me once again with the handbag, this time on the forehead. What on Earth has she got in that bag of hers? My vision flip flops out of focus like an amateur camera man trying to use the zoom button. I try to get to my feet but she pushes me over. I stay down, letting the snow fall over me. ‘What are you doing, woman?’ I ask, half in admiration at her strength, half in shock that a mighty and magnificent creature such as I should be humiliated by a mere pensioner. I throw my arms over my head to ward off any more blows from this blue-rinsed brute. I am in exquisite agony already and do not wish for more. As the seconds pass without another attack, I dare to take a look. Perhaps she has gone. Not a chance. She stands before me, all five foot of her, and takes out a heavy-looking grey brick from her bag. She lets the leather satchel slide from her fingers and land on the ground, then removes something from her pocket. With my vision still hazy, I cannot make out what it is. ‘Sorry, dear’ she says and drops to her knees, her small frame looming over me. ‘This is for the best.’ I’m about to ask her what she means when she strikes me once more and knocks me out. I awake to dawn creeping in like a teenager sneaking into the house after a night out. Vampyrs do not turn to dust in daylight, we just become thoroughly depressing company. It is why we do not socialise with one another during daylight, if we can help it, or else we’d just bore everyone to death. Figuratively speaking, of course. I carefully sit up. Three strikes to the head will make you value your skull a lot more than usual. The snow has stopped falling though a thicker blanket covers everything. My new-found nemesis sits on a kitchen stool, steam rising from the flask she sips from. Her attire is more suited to the chilly atmosphere; beige trousers, a knee-length winter coat, and matching hat and gloves. Noticing I am awake, she gives me a wide, toothy grin. The flask is raised in a toast before she quaffs a healthy dose of it. A sliver of milky-brown tea glistens as it runs down her chin. She wipes it away with her sleeve and stands. Instinctively I back away. All I want to do is get as far away from this woman as possible but I am too weak to flee. She approaches me and crouches down, levelling her eyes with mine. A look falls across her grizzled face that is unfamiliar to me. And then I realise, it is pity. I am not offended. Any creature who lets someone like her get the better of them deserves this humiliation. ‘They will grow back,’ she says. Her voice is full of optimism, reassurance, but of what I do not know. ‘Eventually, they’ll grow back. I’m not sure how long it’ll take, though. I hear it’s anything from weeks to years. Never mind, eh? I’m sure you’ll still have a lovely smile.’ I regard her with utter bewilderment, and start to ask if her senility is kicking in but the words catch in my throat. With alarm, my fingers dart to my mouth and feel around. ‘No,’ I say in a panic. ‘You can’t have.’ She is on her feet again, arms folded, and looking proud. In her hand is the object she slipped from her pocket earlier. A pair of red-handled pliers. ‘Where are they?’ I demand, looking at my fingers, a combination of saliva and blood covering the tips. The woman giggles and fishes into her other pocket. She opens her hand, showing off two small white things. My fangs. ‘You… bitch,’ I shriek, more with indignation than anything else. A vampyr without fangs is just an immortal Goth. This just won’t do. I’ll have to go into hiding until I am whole again. The shame of just who has claimed my fangs is enough for me to stay away from the vampyr community for a good while. Word will get out about this, it always does. I’ll be a laughing stock among my peers. The giggling starts up again, mocking me. With a couple of stumbles I rise to my feet, straining to maintain what little dignity I have left, and unsteadily walk back along the road, focussing on putting one foot in front of the other. ‘Oi,’ the woman calls from behind me. Seething, I ignore her and continue onwards, but she shouts at me once again. ‘Please. I just want to say something before you go.’ I close my eyes for a second and then come to a stop, turning round to face her for what I hope will be the last time. A smirk plays across her thin lips as she raises the flask again. ‘Merry bloody Christmas, dear.’ HARK! THE HERALD ANGELS SING ‘And action.’ A roar of uninspired, generic dance music flooded the studio heralding the start of the live show. Beams of kaleidoscopic lights played chase with one another across the massive screen that acted as a backdrop to the stage. From between the silver double doors that slid open to the left of the stage, a young besuited man called Larry came bounding out, microphone clamped in one manicured hand. He had enough blatantly fake enthusiasm to power a generation of children’s presenters. Affecting a dopey-but-cute gurn, he almost smashed his head against the nearest camera in his haste to give everyone at home a flash of his award-winning grin (Best Smile 2009). He took a step back and smugly stood there, taking in the adulation from the cheering crowd until the screams and shrieks eased up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, his voice low and husky from almost twenty years of chain-smoking. ‘Welcome to a very festive edition of Va Va Voom!’ Larry paused and watched as the studio audience began hollering and stamping their feet. ‘We’re down to the final three of the competition,’ he went on, despite the noise, ‘and the excitement, as you can see, is almost unbearable!’ That was the audience’s cue to go wild - screaming, applauding, stomping their feet and whistling. Larry laughed at the primal sound and then slowly crossed the stage, his attention back on the closest camera. ‘Now we can’t go any further without the nation’s favourite judges. So would you please welcome onstage Francis McCoy, Ben Steel, Siobhan Hardy and Cassandra Mayhew! There came an upsurge into complete frenzy by the studio crowd as the silver doors swept open once more. Four people stepped out, all looking immaculate and displaying expensively white veneers. The men, both middle-aged, were clad in flashy suits. Extravagant dresses, more suited to the red carpet of the Oscars hung from the younger women’s thin frames. All four paused and waved to the audience before taking their seats at a long, rectangular desk between the audience and the stage. ‘So,’ said Larry, finally tearing his gaze away from the cameras. ‘Francis, are you looking forward to tonight?’ he asked, addressing the tall man whose hair was ink-black, courtesy of a bottle. ‘Look,’ Francis began in his famously monotone voice. ‘We’re getting to the end of the series and we’ll soon have our winner crowded, so yeah,’ he paused and shrugged, ‘I’m excited.’ ‘Yeah,’ the northern woman to his right trilled, ‘you just want it over with so you can get back to Barbados.’ Larry chuckled and turned his attention to the other man sitting at the opposite end of the desk. Ben was fiddling with his clip-on microphone attached to his jacket lapel, and running a hand through his greying comb-over. ‘And Ben, you’ve been mentoring the first ever girl group to get through to the final three. You must be over the moon.’ Ben looked up, realised the cameras were on him and dropped his hands onto the desk with a thud. ‘Oh, I am,’ he began, leaning forward in his seat and bouncing like an excitable puppy. ‘I’ll tell you this, Larry, they’re like a younger Nolan Sisters.’ ‘Except none of them are Irish,’ Larry added before moving on to greet Siobhan and Cassandra. Backstage, the finalists watched the broadcast via a small, old-fashioned television set. The last male in the competition, Mac MacCormack, a young Liverpudlian, sat nervously biting his nails. Fifty-something school cleaner, Nell Johnston, the last from the Over 25s category, filled the chair next to him. She’d won the support of the older viewers and a number of the younger ones too thanks to her flirtatious banter with the male judges and Larry, not to mention her soaring singing voice. Across the country, the bookies were all in agreement that if Nell wasn’t to win, she would definitely come second. The Angels, a trio of young, attractive sisters, stood behind them, gazing intently at the screen. Their mentor Ben had given them their name due to their looks as well as heavenly harmonies. For the live final, the girls had all been put into short black dresses with tinsel headbands acting as halos. Feeling ridiculous already, all three had refused the plastic angel wings that had been offered to them. ‘I’ve got butterflies in my belly,’ Cora, the middle sister, whispered as she lightly stroked her stomach. ‘We’re still on first, right?’ The eldest sister, Helen, was getting some last-minute touches to her make-up from a large, Chinese woman. She waited until the woman had finished before speaking. ‘Mac’s on first, then us, then the trollop,’ she told Cora, glancing at Nell who was too engrossed in the broadcast to hear the name-calling. ‘And did you remember to drink that honey remedy I left for you in the dressing room?’ Cora asked, addressing the youngest sister Ada, who stared unblinkingly at the close-up of Ben onscreen. It was an open secret that the fledgling Angel only had eyes for the ageing Irishman, something her sisters were at a loss to understand. ‘Yes, yes. I drank it,’ Ada replied in a tetchy tone. Ben had just made the audience laugh and she had missed what he’d said. A skinny woman, clutching a blue clipboard and wearing a discreet earpiece, waltzed into the room. Immediately, all attention was on her. None of the contestants were sure of Natasha’s role in the production company other than she told them what to do and shouted a lot. ‘Right, everyone,’she said in a loud voice. ‘There’s been a change of plan. Nell, you’re performing first. Mac, you’re second. And girls, you’re going last.’ Nell turned round so quickly that her chair was forced onto two precarious legs for a moment. ‘I’m in the graveyard slot?’ she said with disbelief. ‘I may as well go home now, then.’ Arms folded under ample chest, she glared at Natasha. The graveyard slot was so called because of the general idea that whoever performed first was normally forgotten about by the time the phonelines opened to vote for people’s favourite act, and thus would end up going home that night. Nobody liked the graveyard slot. ‘Yes, can’t be helped. Sorry.’ Natasha answered, barely acknowledging the singer as she pressed a finger to her earpiece, listening to an inaudible voice. ‘I guess that spread I did in that woman’s magazine helped,’ Mac said, beaming with pride. ‘I knew I should have done that topless shoot,’ Nell muttered to herself. Natasha turned to The Angels. The look on her face made it clear to everyone just who her new favourite finalists were. ‘Girls,’ she began, an indulgent smile playing on her lips, ‘I don’t know what you’ve done but your popularity’s never been higher. Everyone’s talking about you.’ She breathed out a lchuckle. ‘Have you sold your souls to the devil, or something?’ The younger women indulged her by appreciating her obvious joke with polite laughter. ‘Anyway,’ Natasha went on, back to her serious self again, ‘if you can all head to your respective doors, your mentors will meet you there and - well, you know the drill by now,’ she said with a shrug. Fixing her gaze onto each of the finalists, she swept out of the room, finger on earpiece again. ‘Bitches,’ Nell hissed from behind The Angels as all five of the contestants followed Natasha out of the room. ‘Ignore her,’ Helen told her sisters in a loud voice. ‘She’s just jealous.’ The girls broke away from Nell and Mac, heading across to their designated door. ‘This is it, girls,’ she continued. ‘We’ve been building up to this for months. Don’t screw it up.’ ‘Ladies, looking gorgeous as ever.’ Ben called out as he approached. The show had paused for a commercial break, giving the judges enough time to dash backstage and join their respective categories. Judging by the whiff of menthol cigarettes coming from the man, The Angels hadn’t been his primary concern. Ada immediately started to twirl a section of her hair coyly, gazing at the middle-aged man. ‘Apparently, we’re going last,’ Helen told him, adjusting her headband. ‘We’re more popular than Nell, now.’ Ben’s smile broadened. ‘Ah, didn’t I tell you?’ He put his arms around her and Ada, who stood nearest to him. While Helen glared at the hand that hung loosely over her shoulder, the younger Angel blushed. ‘Just a shame nobody told me, you know?’ Ben went on, with a shake of his head. ‘Nobody bothers telling you anything,’ Cora mumbled. One of the production team runners came sprinting past them, two large bottles of Evian water clutched in big hands. ‘Door’s about to open. Get ready!’ he holllered before being swallowed up by a swarm of backstage hands coming the other way. As if on cue, the doors slid back to reveal a dazzle of lights which blinded them all for a few moments. A cacaphony of sound from the audience erupted as they caught sight of the girls and Ben. ‘Ben Steel and the group finalists, The Angels!’ Larry boomed into his microphone, before going onto introduce the other finalists and judges. Siobhan, who had lost the last of her acts the week before, was already seated on her judge’s chair, pouting. Everyone stepped forward to the front of the stage to lap up the applause and adulation before the contestants were bundled to the wings. Being the first on, all the make-up ladies descended on Nell, buffering, wiping, smearing and spritzing. No part of her exposed self was left untouched. Eventually, the make-up artists stepped back and Nell stood there looking like a burnt orange and smelling worse than the perfume counter at a department store. Mac and the Angels stayed in the sidelines while she was ordered onstage as a backing track started to play in the studio. The cleaner launched into a Shirley Bassey-esque take on Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer, complete with flirtatious and coy looks to the judges, audience and especially the cameras. All the songs chosen for this live final were to be famous Christmas songs. The finalists had expected the songs to obvious ones like Band Aid’s Feed The World or The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl’s Fairytale in New York, but it was not to be. After Nell finished, recording paused for another ad break. Then it was Mac’s turn. His mentor Cassandra had chosen for him Little Drummer Boy with the young lad surprising everyone with a rap in the middle of the performance. Finally, it was the turn of The Angels. The trio stepped onstage to much cheering and wolf whistles, and took their place on the three stools laid out for them. A sole trumpet started the song before a full orchestra joined it on the backing track. The Angels began to sing. Barely had the last line been sung when the audience resumed the applauding and hollering. Cora, Helen and Ada glanced at one another. This was going fantastically well so far. They were going to win Va Va Voom 2012. Except that things didn’t go quite as anyone expected. The first sign that something wasn’t quite right was the flickering of all the studio lights. It seemed that the majoity of the audience assumed it was part of the performance and whooped with delight, awaiting the girls to launch into a rockier version of the song. The judges and crew, however, were exchanging baffled looks. Without warning, the music cut out, leaving the girls to sing acapella until their voices faltered with uncertainty. The booing started immediately. Someone wearing large headphones scurried across to Francis and spoke to him in a hushed tone. Natasha barged past Larry who was standing near the judges and grabbed his microphone. Fruitlessly, she tried to calm the audience down while signalling to go to an ad break. But no one cut to any adverts. They were all too stunned at the puff of smoke that had materialised on the stage, near the girls. The audience shrieked. Ben shrieked. Natasha screamed and ran offstage, cowering behind the judges.The Angels remained seated, though all three looked not a little worried by the appearance. As the smoke dispersed, a short but stocky man in a navy blue track suit and scruffy white trainers was unveiled to all. His tousled grey hair came down over his ears and he wore a blue sweatband around his head. ‘What the hell -’ Francis began, forgetting to cover his microphone. The new arrival cast a suspicious eye over the judges before turning his attention to the girl group. ‘Girls,’ he said with a subtle Yorkshire accent. ‘What are you doing?’ Helen, being the eldest and the one who had coaxed the others into entering the competition, lowered her microphone and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong, dad.’ Larry had been pushed back onstage by one of the crew members so had heard the exchange. He raised a hesitant hand as a microphone was thrust into the other. ‘Um, ladies, you told us your parents were dead.’ The tracksuit man gave Larry a baffled look. ‘Yes, that’s right. What of it, lad?’ Larry leant towards close-by camera and flashed an omg this is so insane, folks look into it, and addressed the girl group again. ‘Helen, what’s going on? You know this man?’ The oldest sister nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s our dad,’ she said with a sigh. ‘We didn’t tell him about auditioning for the show.’ ‘What? You mean to say he’s just found out you’re in the show? Forgive me but you’ve been in the papers, magazines, on chat shows - and he’s not noticed until now?’ He gave the man an amused look. ‘Where have you been, buddy?’ ‘The usual place.’ The man shrugged. ‘Hell.’ ‘Ah,’ said Larry, beginning to understand. He affected a concerned look as he moved closer to the man. Inside, he was jumping for joy. Here was a potential sob story, on a live final, that would take the ratings into the stratosphere. If he played this right, he was sure to get a hefty pay rise. ‘Drugs, was it? Assault?’ He paused and turned his head to the audience. ‘Or was it murder?’ ‘No, he really means it. He’s been in Hell. He rules over it, you see,’ explained Cora. Larry looked sceptical as he turned back to The Angels and their father. ‘Look, this is getting silly. You’re on live television being watched by millions and you, sir,’ he stared at the man, ‘have just humiliated your daughters in front of the entire country. Now I’m not sure how you appeared like that, but I -’ Just as he was getting into his stride and started pacing the stage, he was interrupted by sudden, panicking screams from the audience. Larry could only watch as, like one, they leapt from their seats and hurried up the aisles to the exit doors. The judges’ chairs were empty. All four were pushing their way through the crowds, not wishing to stick around any longer. The shrieking intensified as people became aware that the doors wouldn’t open. Nonplussed, Larry glanced back at the people onstage to see if they’d done a runner, too. His microphone clattered to the floor, the piercing squeal of the feedback joining the noise of the terrified audience. Larry fell to his knees, unable to form any words to say. ‘Now do you believe us?’ the father asked, the Yorkshire drawl contrasting sharply with his now-horrific appearance. ‘You’re… You’re… You’re…’ Larry stuttered. ‘Lucifer?’ Ada suggested. ‘Satan?’ said Cora. ‘Santa?’ the abomination offered. ‘What?’ Larry said, frowning. The beast laughed, a throaty painful laugh that echoed around the studio, curtailing the wailing from the audience as they couldn’t help but look back at the atrocity. In a flash, the old, careworn human form returned. Larry slowly got to his feet and backed away to a safer distance, unsure what to do next. ‘I was only messing with you, lad,’ the man said with a smile. ‘I’m not really Santa Claus. I’m just a sucker for anagrams. Call me Lou.’ ‘Okay,’ Larry breathed. Lou turned his attention to the crowds who were still huddled around the steadfast exits, and smiled indulgently. ‘Come back here, you lot,’ he said, in a reassuring voice. ‘Nothing to be scared of. I’m just here to pick up my girls and then I’ll be off. That’s right, sit back down,’ he added, as half the audience slipped back into the nearest empty seat. The rest remained standing though their futile attempts at opening the exit doors were forgotten about. ‘Dad, can we not finish the song first?’ Ada grumped. Lou reached across and stroked his youngest’s hair, giving the tinsel hairband a suspicious look. ‘No, lass. We may be demons but even we are far too good for this kind of thing. Come on, let’s get back home. It’s Games NIght tonight, remember? Sinner Monopoly, and I know it’s your favourite, Cora, love,’ he added, smiling at his middle daughter. Cora returned the smile, and looked at her sisters. ‘Dad’s right. It was a bit silly to come here. I mean, what if we’d won? We’d only fade into obscurity within a year. At least back home we’re worshipped for all eternity.’ ‘Aw, Dad,’ Ada whined. She’d been sneaking occasional looks towards Ben. The judge had returned to his seat along with his colleagues, though they all gripped the arm rests, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Those glances were not lost on Lou, though. He regarded Ben, thoughtfully. ‘ I don’t much care for your taste in humans, Ada, love. Still,’ he paused and smiled, ‘if you want to take him back with us, I won’t stop you.’ Ada threw her arms around her father. ‘Oooh, thank you!’ Ben gulped and looked at his fellow judges with desperation. ‘You’re on your own,’ Siobhan said firmly. Sitting next to him, she edged her chair away. ‘Francis,’ Ben squawked, peering along the desk. ‘We’ve been friends for twenty years. You can’t let them take me!’ Francis looked uncomfortable but he knew all the cameras would be focussing on him, picking up his every word. ‘I’m curious,’ he asked Lou. ‘After you’re gone, what then? Will we all remember what happened?’ Lou shook his head. ‘No. It’ll be like the girls never existed, or lover boy across there.’ ‘So,’ Francis went on, looking as if he was trying to work something out in his head. ‘The cameras recording this, the tapes of this incident won’t exist either?’ ‘Not after a wave of my hand,’ Lou answered, raising his right hand and wiggling his chunky fingers. ‘Right.’ Francis nodded and turned to Ben. ‘Look, if truth be known, I was going to let you go after this year, anyway. People are getting a bit tired of you, Ben. You come across as being boring, repetitive, and you do have an unhealthy obsessions with singers on stools. Maybe you’ll have more fun in Hell. I know I would.’ He shrugged, illiciting a giggle from Siobhan next to him. ‘Oh, is that right?’ Lou said, arms folded. ‘You don’t really respect your friends much, do you?’ ‘Too right,’ Ben scowled. Lou spoke to his daughters. ‘What say you girls to another one joining the family? We can keep Francis here as the family pet. We haven’t had one for a few centuries.’ Helen arched a well-plucked eyebrow. ‘I’ll go with that,’ she said, giving the judge a smug look. ‘So I don’t have to come with you?’ Ben asked, his voice drowning with hope. ‘Oh no, you’re still coming with us,’ Lou said. He clicked his fingers and the two male judges suddenly found themselves standing onstage between the girls and their father. Ada took a firm hold of Ben’s arm and leant in to whisper. ‘You’ll love it where we’re going, my love. Just wait until you find out what I really look like underneath this skin.’ Ben’s screams lingered for several seconds as he and Francis vanished along with the Devil and his daughters. SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN Darcy placed the last of the silver glittered acorns on the tree and then stepped back to admire her handiwork. Silver and gold tinsel, multicoloured fairylights and other festive decorations adorned the spacious drawing room, turning it from its usual tidy-but-bland appearance to one that screamed Christmas. It had taken her a few hours and half a bottle of wine, to separate the newer trinkets and baubles from the tatty ones, and put them up with the help of nails, pins, blu-tac, cellotape and superglue. Outside, the sky had darkened to a midnight black with only a sprinkle of stars visible. Darcy picked up a small sprig of plastic mistletoe from the cardboard box that housed the decorations for most of the year, and stuck it in her pink headband. She strolled over to the wooden-framed mirror hanging above the fireplace and gazed at her reflection. ‘Well, Darcy,’ she said with a sigh, ‘there’s no one here to use this on, so Happy bloody Christmas to you, darling.’ Taking the mistletoe out and holding it above her head, she blew a kiss to her reflection, laughed, and put it down on the mantelpiece. ‘God, I’m bored,’ she said cheerlessly to the mirror before turning to stare at all the wrapped presents beneath the tree. There’d be no harm in just opening one. It was technically Christmas Day now and her housemates wouldn’t be back until much later on. ‘No.’ She gave her reflection a scornful look. ‘Your new year’s resolution is to be more patient, starting right now.’ Having been cooped up the house for most of the day, Darcy decided to get some fresh, bracing air. She grabbed her warm winter coat from the coat stand in the hallway and stepped outside. The snow crunched softly underfoot as she crossed the manor house’s driveway, making a bee-line for the century-old bench that stood underneath the gnarled oak tree. She didn’t particularly like to have to smoke outside but had enough respect for her housemates to do so, even if they did drive her up the wall with their constant warnings about how smoking would be the death of her. Even on occasions like this, when no one else was in the house, she would take herself outside for a puff. Swiping the snow off the seat of the bench, she sat and lit the cigarette hanging from her mouth with a yellow lighter. She took a long, luxurious drag and leant back, gazing out to the quiet, surburban street that ran past the entrance to the property. No doubt all the kids were in bed with promises of many presents in the morning if they didn’t try to sneak a peek at Santa Claus. The parents would be frantically wrapping the presents or relaxing with a glass of wine and trying not to think about the chaotic day ahead. Darcy shivered and took another drag of the cigarette. She tried - and failed - to blow a smoke ring up into the air. Her fingers tingled with the chill and she regretted not putting on her thick, leather gloves before heading outdoors. In fact, thinking it over, she wasn’t sure where her gloves were. It was far too easy to misplace things in that house. She rose to her feet and wandered into the street to stop her feet from going numb. As she failed at yet another attempted smoke ring, a night bus trundled into view, headlights beaming ahead. Darcy held her head high, ready to have a nosy through the windows as the bus passed, but as the vehicle drew level with her, it stopped. It wasn’t the kind of stop that involved a slam of the brakes and the bus crawling or skidding to a halt. This was a stop stop like someone had paused a DVD in the middle of a film. Puzzled, Darcy dropped the cigarette, crushing it underneath her boot, and ambled over to the stationary vehicle. A quick glance through the closed doors revealed the driver sitting with one hand on the steering wheel, the other investigating the inside of his left nostril. Darcy moved along the side of the bus and peered up through filthy windows. Two youths, both clad in black and with long, dark hair, sat frozen in mid-snog. Just to check this wasn’t some sort of hallucination, Darcy rapped loudly on the glass. ‘Take a breath, will ya?’ she shouted but the pair remained still. Well this was interesting, thought Darcy, stepping away from the bus. Being no stranger to the effects of Time, she had never known it to stop so abruptly. ‘The weather can’t be that cold,’ she quipped, wondering why she was still able to move. Perhaps anomalies like this didn’t affect time travellers in the same way as everyone else, or were slower to influence. Maybe she was safer going back inside the house. ‘Who are you kidding?’ she muttered to herself. ‘You’re too much of a nosy cow.’ Whoever or whatever had caused this time freeze would make their appearance soon, Darcy wagered, and there was no way she was going anywhere until she saw them. She stood scanning the street. A cat stood in the middle of the road, mere feet from the bus. By the look of him, he had been caught up in the time-freeze, too. He had turned to face the oncoming bus when time halted and had been in the process of running to the safety of the kerb. Darcy contemplated moving it to safety. If time was to suddenly correct itself, there was a fifty fifty chance the cat wouldn’t make it from its current position. ‘Can’t change the timelines’ she reminded herself, and gazed at the cat. ‘Sorry, buddy. If you’re meant to get run over by a Number 62 tonight, who am I to stand in destiny’s way?’ A distant ringing sound pulled Darcy’s attention away from the cat and she turned round again, peering beyond the bus to a dark mass approaching at a casual pace. She caught a better look at the thing as it passed underneath the beam of a street lamp, and swore softly. The breath from the eight-strong reindeer team created a smoky hue around them as the beasts towed the red and green-striped sleigh along the snow-coated road. A figure sat at the front of the sleigh and as the reindeers moved between Darcy and the frozen bus, he stood up and pulled on the golden straps in his hands. ‘Ho Ho Ho’ he cried, in a deep and measured voice, producing a delighted smile from Darcy. Once the sleigh had come to a stop, the man scratched his trimmed white beard and then climbed down. ‘Ho Ho Ho,’ he repeated, but with less enthusiasm this time. ‘What kind of catchphrase is that?’ Muttering to himself, he shuffled along to the back of the sleigh and hoisted a substantial sack over his shoulder. ‘Bloody starving, too,’ he went on. ‘Should have brought a packed lunch with me.’ Carrying the heavy load, he walked the length of the sleigh and then carried on, coming to a stop in front of the reindeers who were all watching him with small, black eyes as if they were listening to every word. ‘Well,’ the front reindeer said, surprising Darcy, ‘you’ve only got yourself to blame. Every year you’re told to bring something with you but do you listen?’ The reindeer’s voice reminded Darcy of Noel Coward. ‘Alright, Donner,’ Santa - for it was he - mumbled. ‘But if we weren’t in such a mad dash to get going, I would have plenty of time to remember, wouldn’t I?’ he parried. The reindeer gave Santa a haughty look. ‘You have all year to remember. By the way, there’s someone watching us.’ Santa spun round, almost whacking Donner across the head. Luckily, the reindeer had the foresight to duck. Cover blown - not that she had really been hiding, anyway - Darcy stepped forwards, holding out a hand in greeting. ‘I guess you’re Mr Claus,’ she said, beaming with delight. The man didn’t respond. He frowned at Darcy’s offered hand and addressed the reindeers behind him. ‘You did make sure everything in this city was time-frozen, didn’t you, boys?’ ‘Hey, I’m a girl,’ squeaked one of the reindeers nearest the sleigh. ‘Sorry, Vixen,’ Santa said, rolling his eyes. ‘But seriously, why have we got a woman moving about?’ ‘Listen,’ said Darcy, placing her hand on the man’s sleeve. He was wearing a soft, moss green cloak that skimmed the snow when he walked. ‘Don’t worry about me. Time locks, time freezes - whatever you want to call them - don’t appear to work on me. Just carry on what you were doing.’ ‘Why?’ asked Donner, his face peering around Santa’s generous frame. ‘What makes you so special?’ ‘Let’s just say I dabble in time travel,’ she answered, folding her arms. Santa’s bristly eyebrows rose at this piece of information. ‘Really?’ His voice was full of curiosity. ‘I thought I was the only one with time travel capabilities.’ ‘That reminds me,’ Darcy said. ‘Why have you frozen time?’ ‘Dear god, woman,’ Donner guffawed. ‘How else do you expect us to deliver millions of presents in one single night?’ ‘Ah,’ Darcy said slowly, as if the workings of a magic trick had just been revealed to her. ‘So that’s how you do it.’ Santa nodded, a look of pride on his fleshy face. ‘Time comes to a stop so I can do my job. But I’d still like to get finished as quickly as possible, if you don’t mind.’ ‘Hey, did I hear you say you were hungry?’ Darcy asked. ‘You’re more than welcome to have a spot of supper with me, if you like. I’ve got some nibbles in the kitchen and no one to share them with.’ ‘I’m sorry, but are you flirting with Santa Claus?’ Donner asked, scandalised. Darcy exhaled sharply. ‘You know, for a reindeer you do talk a hell of a lot.’ The reindeer sniffed and looked away. Santa chuckled and readjusted the bag. ‘I’d like to take you up on that offer,’ he said, smiling. ‘After all, time is at a standstill for everyone else. I may as well get a bite to eat now.’ ‘Suppose the offer doesn’t extend to us, then,’ another reindeer called out in a hoarse voice. ‘So what are we supposed to do? Stand here and freeze our fur off until you come back?’ ‘Oh, don’t you start, Blitzen,’ Santa said, irritably. ‘I’ll unattach you from the reins and you can do what you like. I’ll call for you when I’m ready to leave.’ ‘Look, you guys do what you have to do. I live in that house there,’ Darcy said, pointing to the manor house. Just ring the doorbell when you’re ready.’ Leaving them in the street she sauntered back inside the house, only erupting into a fit of the giggles when she closed the front door. She couldn’t believe she was about to play host to the Santa Claus. This was going to be something to remember. In the kitchen, she threw crisps, peanuts, cupcakes, and whatever else she could find, into bowls and took them through to the drawing room, settling them down on the 18th century wooden sideboard opposite the window. The drinks cabinet was already fully-stocked so she took out a bottle of red wine and filled two wine glasses. Crossing the room, she switched on the CD player and smiled as a jazz version of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town played over the wall-mounted speakers. She turned the volume down. As she turned to check the room looked sufficient enough for such an important visit, Darcy’s gaze landed on the mistletoe, where she’d left it on the mantelpiece. It only took her two seconds to cross the room again and slip the mistletoe beneath her headband, so it stuck out a little just above her left ear. A peck on the cheek from the old man would end the night off perfectly. As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Darcy checked her reflection and then went to receive her visitor. She opened the door. ‘Come on in, Santa,’ she said warmly. The white-haired man gave her a nervous smile and stepped over the threshold, slipping off his green cap as he did so. ‘Can I take your cloak? It’s very nice, by the way. Looks nice and snug,’ Darcy said, closing the door on the cool air. ‘Yes, thank you,’ Santa replied with a croaky voice before clearing his throat. He undid the clasp around his neck and handed Darcy the cloak which she hung up on the coat stand next to her own coat. ‘Just go along the hallway and it’s the third door on the right. I’ve put out some nibbles and poured a glass of wine for you.’ ‘Oh lovely,’ he started to say, and then his genial expression darkened. ‘You haven’t got any Coca Cola in the house, have you?’ ‘Sorry, no. Why, did you want some?’ He grimaced. ‘Goodness, no! Just asking, that’s all.’ ‘Okay.’ She gave him a bemused look. ‘Well, if you want to go through.’ She moved past him and led the way into the drawing room, watching his reaction to all the decorations like an eager-to-please child. He nodded appreciately. ‘Very nice.’ He stood and looked around him. ‘I find a lot of places go overboard with the tinsel and such, but you’ve got the balance perfect.’ ‘Thanks,’ Darcy said, grinning now. They moved into the room and she handed him his wine and offered him one of the armchairs. Once he sat down, Darcy did likewise. Unfortunately, the conversation died there and then, and both sipped their drinks, aware of the awkwardness. Finally, Darcy spoke. ‘So, your reindeers can talk, eh?’ He nodded, rolling his eyes again. ‘They do nothing but talk.’ He settled back in the chair and swallowed some more wine. Darcy tried to think of something else to say but he wasn’t finished. ‘They’re always threatening to strike on Christmas Eve, did you know that? It’s because they’re celebrities back home so they think they can make demands. Just because they can fly, they think they’re something special.’ ‘….right,’ Darcy said finally, and decided perhaps the reindeers weren’t the best topics of conversation. ‘So, not a fan of Cola, then?’ Santa stared at his wine glass and then regarded Darcy. ‘Am I wearing a red suit?’ he asked, a little too brightly. ‘No.’ Darcy took in his grey trousers, white shirt and moss green waistcoat. ‘No, you’re not.’ ‘Exactly!’ he said, suddenly sitting forward and spilling some of the wine onto the wooden floor. ‘Years ago, those bastards from the Cola marketing company decided to emblazon me - or what they thought I looked like - onto their products wearing red. Red! Just because the brand colour is red! So, typically, everyone jumped on the bandwagon and started portraying me as wearing a big red suit!’ Darcy stayed quiet, just watched as he continued his rant. She did note that he was wearing red, a red face. ‘It wasn’t so bad when it was just a few companies doing it. That I could live with,’ he puffed. ‘But when kids at home draw me wearing that colour, well, it just took the biscuit! I’ve never worn red in my life, not even red underwear. Ask the wife!’ He seemed to run out of steam and sighed. ‘Why couldn’t they have pictured me in what I actually wear? What’s wrong with green?’ ‘They’re only colours,’ Darcy said with a shrug. Her attempt at playing Devil’s advocate had failed before it even began. Santa glared at her with an incredulous look. He finished off his wine with one long quaff and then proceeded to launch into a tirade covering the food left for him on Christmas Eve, the reindeers, his wife - who Darcy suddenly felt really sorry for - and then a full five minute rant about Coca Cola again. ‘All right, mister,’ Darcy said when it seemed that he’d finally finished. ‘You can sod off, now.’ He gave her a surprised look, a face of innocence. ‘What? What have I done?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘What have you done? Are you serious? Do you do nothing but bitch and moan all the time, or is this just a treat you give yourself at Christmas? Jesus Christ, mate. Get a grip. So people think you wear something you don’t. Who cares? What does it matter?’ He sat there, looking slightly lost. His mouth opened and closed but no words were uttered. ‘There’s millions of kids out there who love you - yeah, mainly it’s cos you bring them presents - but in their eyes, Santa is cool. What’s not cool is some grumpy old git who doesn’t know how lucky he is!’ She was going to say more but thought it pointless. Instead, she got to her feet and swiped the empty wine glass from Santa’s hand. ‘Just bugger off, will you? I’m going to settle down and watch a bit of telly until I fall asleep.’ Without waiting for a response, she hauled the man to his feet and stalked out of the room with him. With her free hand she yanked open the front door and then lifted his cloak from the coat stand and chucked it at him. Flustered, Santa threw the cloak around his shoulders, not bothering with the clasp, and then looked at her, apprehensively. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Santa,’ Darcy said, holding the door open. ‘That it, until you opened that gob of yours.’ ‘You’ve got mistletoe in your hair,’ he said, pointing above her ear. ‘So?’ He shrugged. ‘No chance of a kiss, I suppose?’ he asked, boldly. ‘I’d rather kiss your reindeers’ backsides,’ she replied, and glared at him until he slouched out of the house. After slamming the door shut, just for effect, Darcy returned to the drawing room and polished off the wine and nibbles. Then she wobbled tipsily up the stairs to the television room and fell down on the sofa. Fishing the remote control from under a cushion, she switched on the TV and flicked through the channels until she found a movie that caught her eye. It was a typical saccharine Christmas movie with a sickly child meeting a long-bearded Santa Claus who, of course, was wonderful, kind and sweet. ‘Ha,’ Darcy said outloud. ‘If only they knew.’ NOTES I hope you enjoyed these three short Christmas tales. If you would like to know more about Darcy and her time travelling exploits, you can find her within the pages of Cigs, Bolan & Strange Men With Guns and The Shoemaker’s Son, both by the author. BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR Cigs, Bolan & Strange Men With Guns The Shoemaker’s Son The Visitor (and Other Stories) The Whispering Tombs (Quality Times, #1) The Grandparent Trap (Quality Times #2) Curiosity Killed (written as Izzy Hunter) www.gayleramage.co.uk