Don't Make Me Shoot You, Santa can also be found in my short story collection Adventures By Moonlight.
DON'T
MAKE ME SHOOT YOU, SANTA!
By Stephen Walker
(5,250 words)
My
name's Liz Sanford and, when I was six years old, my mother inflicted
me on Father Christmas.
He
was in a stripey tent on Barker's Pool, just down from the war
memorial and she'd carried me into it upside down, so all the demons
that possessed me would be made to fall out of me.
I
should point out, right here and now, that neither I nor my mother
thought I was actually possessed. I was just playing at being
possessed, like some kids play at being James Bond.
As
for Father Christmas, once I'd been dumped on his lap and he'd got me
the right way up, he asked me, 'Well well well, little girl, and
what's your
name?'
I
said, 'You're supposed to be Santa Claus. Don't you know?'
He
said, 'I'm not Santa Claus. I'm Father Christmas.'
I
said, 'It's the same thing.'
'It
certainly isn't, you know. Santa Claus is a cynically commercialised
misrepresentation of a dead man, whereas Father Christmas is the
living embodiment of the Festive Season; as Father Time is that of
the passage of the ages and Mother Earth is that of this very world
upon which we currently sit.'
'So
how come you don't know my name, then?'
My
mum told him, 'Her name's Liz, Daddy Christmas. Whatever you do,
don't call her Betty.'
'Well
then, Elizabeth,' said the bloke who'd already blown the gig by
admitting he wasn't Santa. 'What are you
hoping to receive for Christmas?'
'I
want the understanding and respect of my fellow children.'
'My,'
he said, 'that's certainly an unusual way for a six year old to
talk.'
I
said, 'I'm an unusual child. Highly intelligent, I have an interest
in demonology and the dark forces that surround us.'
'I
see. Well, I don't think I have anything like that in my sack but I
suspect I may have just the thing for you.' He reached into his sack,
rummaged around in it for a bit and then produced something.
It
was a snow globe.
He
handed it to me and said, 'One day, Elizabeth Sanford, you shall have
all the love and respect you deserve but you must first promise me
one thing.'
'Which
is what?
'To
never, ever, throw away this snow globe.'
*
Now,
according to my flatmate and sidekick – Alison Parker – the
preceding anecdote is complete and total bullcrap, as no six year old
talks like that and I'm clearly just filling the gaps in my memories
of a half-forgotten event, with words that I'd use as a grown-up.
Whatever.
To this day, I still have that snow globe. It lives on my bedroom
windowsill. Sometimes, when I'm depressed, I pick it up and shake it.
But
it doesn't matter how hard I shake it, somehow all the snow still
always ends up falling back to earth.
I
know that feeling. I'm this nation's official occult investigator and
sometimes it feels like all I ever do is fall back to Earth.
The
week before Christmas proved to be no exception.
As
I walked into the office, first thing in the morning, I was hit by a
beard.
Fortunately,
there was no one attached to it. It was a white thing and, after
hitting me, it fell to the floor and lay there like a dead ferret.
It
had been thrown at me by my boss Lou Ferman, who was sat behind his
desk, with Alison sat to one side of it. Months of experience told me
this was bound to signal another plunge into madness.
'Aren't
you going to pick it up?' said Lou.
I
said, 'No.'
He
said, 'Why not?'
'Because
you threw it at me. Leaving aside the fact that such an act's
disrespectful, anything you throw at me's guaranteed to lead to
nothing but embarrassment and humiliation.'
'Liz
Sanford, what's your big problem in life?'
'You
are.'
'No.
You
are. Not one person who meets you ever likes you. Well, Betty-'
'Don't
call me Betty.'
'-that's
about to change. Because I - Lou Ferman - who you've always claimed
is useless, have arranged a deal.'
'What
deal?'
'With
Meesleys.'
'What?
The department store?'
'As
you may know, this time every year they have a Santa's Grotto where
children can be fobbed off with toys so crap the store couldn't flog
them off the Christmas before. Well, this year, in a sensational
deal, they're not going to have a Santa's Grotto. What they're going
to have is Sanford's
Grotto. Kids don't
want to sit on that fat old bloke's knee. Who wants to sit on an old
bloke's knee? He probably smells of wee, booze and impending death.
Instead, they get to sit on the knee of the hottest occult
investigator in the land, who asks them what they want for Christmas
and then gives them an occult-related present.'
'Are
you serious?'
'Too
right I am. Kids love horror. That's why they love Halloween. And you
shall be their link to that night.'
'Then
shouldn't this have been arranged for Halloween?'
'That's
the thing. The store wants to get rid of all the unsold toys left
over from October 31st, so they have to wait till Halloween's over,
which means they have to do it at Christmas. So, stroke of genius on
my behalf or what?'
'I'm
not wearing a beard.'
'Then
don't wear a beard.'
'I'm
not wearing a bright red suit.'
'Then
don't wear a bright red suit.'
'I'm
not going Yo-ho-ho.'
'I
think you'll find that's Long John Silver,' said Alison.
'And
this'll make me popular?' I asked Lou.
'Not
half it will. No longer will you be that woman who only shows up to
shoot at people and throw her weight around. You'll be that nice
woman who gives toys to children.'
'Are
you in on this?' I asked Alison.
'It
could change forever the way everyone thinks of you,' she said.
'Of
course,' said Lou, 'we’ll have to have a guard with you at all
times in case you turn out to be a pervert.'
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