VOTE HERE: Variations on a Theme #13: Yuletide Yarns

The Pooka

This is the voting thread for Variations on a Theme #13: Yuletide Yarns (see the ‘origin story’ here: http://www.boards.ie/vbulletin/showthread.php?t=2057336165 )

The prompt for this round was to write a story based on the title of a popular Christmas song.

Thanks to everyone who submitted stories, of which there were 8 in total (representing about 2/3 of those who signed up) – all are now posted below. You can cast your votes over the next five days, until the morning of 23rd Dec. Voting will be kept secret until the competition closes, though to ensure full impartiality I will not be casting a vote.

(This next part is copied wholesale from previous VOATs, so props to pickarooney for his wise words!)

“All entries will be posted anonymously for the duration of the contest and the authors revealed at the end. Contestants, please resist the temptation to respond to questions on your stories or defend them until voting is over, so as to retain anonymity and fairness for all.

You may vote for as many entries as you like, but we would ask you to please provide feedback on the story or stories for which you vote and for as many of those for which you didn't vote as you can. Don't hold back if you have negative criticism, but please make sure any and all feedback is in some way constructive.”

Best of luck everyone, and happy holidays

The Pooka

Sign language had become a way of life for everyone since the pandemic. The virus, named SN/1 by scientists but known colloquially as Silent Night had swept the globe in a few short months. It started out with flu symptoms – streaming eyes, running nose, cough and sore throat. It's mortality rate was less than three per thousand but for everyone else that pulled through, there was a permanent residual symptom – disability of the larynx, the organ in the neck responsible for voice.

In the years that followed, people adapted. Sign language became the primary method of communication. Some tried moving to technology but it was too cumbersome. TV viewing figures had started to drop dramatically – viewers couldn't get used to hearing synthetic voices from their favourite actors.

Michael feared for his future. He was the new SVP of SynVox, the leading synthetic voice company in the world. They had made billions of Euros in licensing their technology in the early years, but sales had plateaued, and even decreased in some regions. He had just left another impassioned meeting with the directors, during which his CEO had punched him in the face.

Thirty minutes later, Michael was in his office with an ice pack in one hand and a brandy in the other. The man who punched him, Julien Lacroix, appeared at the door. He began signing:

- Can I have one of those?
- An ice pack or a brandy?

Lacroix smiled. Michael gestured towards a bottle in the corner of the room, and Lacroix mouthed the word Merci.

- I'm sorry. It was in the heat of the moment. We knew sales would plateau, but weren't expecting it for another 2 years.
- We'll figure it out, Julien.
- Are you and Lisa coming to my Christmas party tonight?
- Looking forward to it.

Lacroix downed his drink in one, nodded his appreciation and left the room.

~~~

Later that evening, Michael was at home getting ready for the party. Lisa appeared from the bathroom wearing just a towel and a smile.

- I wish we didn't have to go to this thing, Lisa. My boss is an asshole.
- Come on Michael, it'll be fun. We haven't been out in ages, not since you joined SynVox.
- I know I've been busy. New job and all that. It'll settle down in a few months.
- I'm really looking forward to letting my hair down tonight.
- I'm not sure it's that kind of party, honey.
- What time does the party start?
- We have about an hour to spare.

They both smiled as Lisa's towel fell to the floor.

~~~

When they pulled up to the Lacroix mansion, the place was already buzzing with activity. Paparazzi lit up the car as they passed through the gates. This party had many international business leaders from across Europe, and some from further afield.

The cars parked in the driveway went some way towards setting his expectations. Not one car was worth less than a hundred thousand Euros. The twelve foot high oak front door dwarfed a security podium, where Michael's invitation was scanned and he and Lisa were allowed to enter.

Opulent was the word that sprang to mind when Michael took in the reception area, but even that word seemed ill-suited to what he saw. The floor of the reception area was polished marble, flanked by two massive gold-trimmed staircases on either side. Underneath where the staircases met on the first floor, the wall shimmered with a huge water feature in the shape of the SynVox logo.

Michael and Lisa had their coats taken, and they were guided towards the drawing room. Where the lobby was sparsely decorated, the drawing room was the opposite. A large fire cast a glowing canopy onto the ceiling. The south west corner had the largest Christmas tree he had ever seen indoors, while the north east corner had a bar, stocked better than any place in the city. The room was so big that it comfortably fit over one hundred people. Waist-high tables were scattered around the room so people could put down their food and drink to sign with both hands. Parties since the pandemic were very different to how they used to be. The only sounds in the room were clinking glasses and classical music.

Michael and Lisa worked the room for the first few hours. Everyone mingled pretty well to start with but as the night wore on, the wives and husbands separated like oil and water. One side of the room was black and white in a haze of smoke, the other all sequins and white wine.

Michael didn't drink, so the more people got lubricated, the more he found these events a chore. He was having a conversation with Julien's brother, Henri. Henri was the youngest of the three Lacroix brothers. Another tray of tiny hors d'oeuvres was offered to him, but he declined. He hated all that fancy crap and would murder a good sandwich right now. His hunger got the best of him, so got up to find the kitchen. Henri thought that was a great idea and joined him – he said he knew the way.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting at a kitchen counter, the only thing left from their toasted sandwiches were crumbs. Michael licked his finger and poked at the plate until it was completely clean. He felt much better. Henri signed:

- So you and Julien work together, eh?
- Yeah, new SVP.
- Ah, the inner circle.
- I don't know about that, I'm new there. I replaced Charlotte Moreau when she quit.
- Charlotte didn't quit, Michael.

Henri drained his bottle of beer and opened another. He offered one to Michael but he waved it away. Henri's eyes were glazed over and he was swaying a little. Even without voice, it was still easy to tell when when someone was almost drunk.

- You don't know how far down the rabbit hole you are, Michael.
- What do you mean?

Henri paused for a beat, and signed:

- What do you know about my brother?
- I know this company has made him very wealthy, I know he has a temper, I know...
- No, no. I mean Marc. What do you know about Marc?

Michael knew Marc was the middle Lacroix brother, but not much else. He shrugged.

- Marc and Julien are meeting tonight at midnight. You'll need to see for yourself. Meet me a few minutes earlier in the security room on the first floor, third door on the left in the east wing.

Henri stood up and left the room. Michael stayed in the kitchen, a frown on his face. He'd find out what was going on soon enough.

~~~

By 11:45, the party was still in full swing. There were now three distinct groups in the room – those who were conversing, those who were dancing and those who were sleeping on various couches around the room. Staff were circulating with blankets for the sleepers. Michael kissed Lisa on the cheek and excused himself.

Michael found the door to the security room easily enough. He knocked once and the door opened moments later. Henri was alone in the room. The main light source in the room was large bank of fifty touch screens on the wall, ten by five. Michael looked along the screens. A few were showing the party from different angles, some were from the lobby, various bedrooms, corridors, the grounds, the kitchen and miscellaneous parts of the house. Henri went to a screen towards the right and touched an icon. The view expanded to fill a bank of five by five screens in the middle. The view showed a room with thousands of books on shelves – some sort of library. The room was empty.

Henri got Michael's attention and started signing.

- My brothers have been working on this for years – he gestured towards a chair – you may want to sit down for this. Marc works for LCP, a pharmaceutical firm in Bordeaux. They were researching a cure for H5N1, a strain of avian influenza, when they created Silent Night.

Michael was wide-eyed. Henri continued.

- A worker got careless and contracted the virus in a lab accident. Accident my ass! It was on purpose! There were thousands of visitors to the city that weekend for Epicuriales, a food festival. Before anyone knew what had happened, the epidemic had become a pandemic. The next part of the plan was Julien's. He had perfected the synthetic voice technology and was ready to go within a few months of the outbreak. SynVox was the fastest growing media company of the 21st century. He had a five year plan to dominate this space – all TV in the world had the choice of subscribing annually to SynVox technology or using subtitles. Most went with the technology. They've hit a stumbling block this year because quite a few large networks have decided not to pay the fee. TVF, Sky, NBC, Hunan, SABC and others. They've gone to a new open source solution – not as good as SynVox, but it's free. This wasn't part of Julien's plan. This is only year three out of five.

- Jesus Christ, I'm working for a Bond villain. Charlotte found out, didn't she?

Henri nodded.

- Rumour has it that she is somewhere at the bottom of the Seine.
- How do you fit into all of this? You aren't part of either company?
- Because I'm too fucking clever for my own good. I figured out what was going on within the first three months. I confronted Julien and Marc and they bought my silence. What's the harm, they said. Everyone wins, they said. Talk, and things will happen to those I care about, they said.
- So why tell me? Why now?
- My family are safe. I've moved them out of the country.

Both men were distracted by movement on the big screen. Julien and another man (Marc, Michael assumed) sat opposite each other in the library. They seemed to be just sitting there. Michael didn't know what was going on. Henri tapped a red little speaker icon in the corner of the screen and it turned green. Michael couldn't believe his ears. The two men were talking. ACTUALLY TALKING. For the first time in three years, he was eavesdropping on a live conversation. Marc was speaking:

“Your timetable is fucked, Jules. That open source piece of crap is going to RUIN you. You've had your run, now it's my time to get rich – time for LCP's cure.”
“As soon as you release the cure, SynVox is finished!”
“That was always the plan! It's just going to happen sooner rather than later.”
“Just six more months, that's all I ask. We can turn it around.”

Henri tapped the green speaker and muted the sound. He faced Michael and spoke!

“None of this matters, Michael. Tomorrow morning, news stations all over the world will receive this video. I'm going to blow this conspiracy wide open. I'll be long gone before my brothers find out. In a few hours, everyone who had food at this party will get a nice surprise. The genie is well and truly out of the bottle.”

~~~

Michael found Lisa. She was tired and ready to go. On the drive home, Lisa sensed that something was wrong. She signed for Michael to pull over, and he complied. He got out of the car and sat against the bonnet. Lisa joined him. It had started to snow – he put his jacket on Lisa's shoulders. She signed:

- Well? What is it?
- Interesting night. Things are about to change. For everyone.
- What do you mean?

Michael had been thinking about this moment for the last hour. He cleared his throat and in a low, clear voice said:

“I love you, Lisa. Happy Christmas.”

The Pooka

Philip stabbed at the pre-sets on the radio of his hire car with increasing annoyance. Only two had been programmed in and both were playing Christmas music. The other four were broadcasting static. This was when he missed a passenger to fiddle with the settings and find something worth listening to. Alison would always get something. On their summer holidays she had found English language radio the whole way across Europe while doing the map-reading. She never once got them lost although she didn’t bother with a sat-nav. Communications and orientation were two of the skills she picked up in her time in the army. The Christmas Eve traffic was too heavy and fast for him to take his eyes off the motorway so he went back to the first pre-set and found that with a total lack of imagination they were playing Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas. The DJ was seasonally upbeat.


“That was for Kevin and Claire driving to Bantry, the Kelly family on the way to Castlebar and for everybody out there driving home for the Christmas. Take it easy and drive carefully. We want you all to get there safely.”


Philip wouldn’t be breaking the speed limit. He was in no hurry. He had booked the last flight from London, allowing no leeway for delays caused by bad weather but there was neither fog nor snow to strand him in Heathrow. Given the choice he would have spent Christmas in the airport rather than in the place that used to be his home. After their father died and their mother became increasingly frail Stephen had moved his family from their new bungalow into the farmhouse so they could look after her. Philip could pretend he was too busy at work to visit often but there was no escaping the annual Christmas trip. At least he had insisted he didn’t want to crowd them out and had booked into a hotel but he would call to the house first. He had expensive presents for his two nieces, Teresa and Bernadette, and for his nephew, godson and namesake, Philip Jnr. Alison had picked them out and chosen a classy but practical dressing gown for his mother. She suggested some perfume for Helen.


“No,” he said. “I always get a joint gift for Stephen and Helen, something for the house... a crib maybe... a handmade one. Helen likes the individual, the unique.”


So Alison found the perfect crib made by an up and coming young craftsman and wrapped up each figure carefully for the journey. She was so practical and so efficient it was easy to believe her cover story that she was a personal assistant to the CEO of a major company. Philip never questioned the irregular hours and long absences and only when they moved in together did she tell him the far more unlikely truth.


“I still think you should bring Helen something,” Alison said. “She does care for your mother, she is making your Christmas dinner and she did offer to put you up. Pick up something at the airport.”


“No. You don’t get it. Stephen is a farmer. He doesn’t have somebody like you to pick out the ideal gift. Every year he gets her something last minute and inappropriate and she pretends that she likes it. If I land with something she does like it is embarrassing all round.”


“Okay,” Alison said. “They are your family. You know them best.”


Alison, for all her intelligence gathering skills, had no idea how well he knew Helen. Even Stephen didn’t know how well his brother and his wife knew each other. He knew they went out together in college until Philip made the biggest mistake of his life in introducing his quiet, almost silent, brother to the effervescent Helen. In a classic case of the attraction of opposites they clicked and Philip ended up as best man at the wedding of the woman he loved. Afterwards he fled to England where it had taken twelve years before he met another woman he cared about.


“I wish you were coming with me Alison. Do you really have to work?”


“You know I have to work over the holidays but I can give you a lift to the airport on Christmas Eve and see you off. Kidnappers and terrorists don’t take Christmas off so I can’t either. I am getting a bonus.”


“I’ll give you a better kind of bonus if you come to Ireland and protect me from all gossips who think I’m so sad I had to invent a girlfriend nobody has ever seen.”


“Tempting... but you couldn’t afford me.”


What she charged for her services was one of the many things he didn’t know about Alison but he knew she was one of the top people in her field so no doubt her rates reflected her reputation. Her great asset was that few people associate the words female, slim, petite, attractive and blonde with a bodyguard. Looking at her you would never suspect she was stronger and fitter than the vast majority of men and in a drawer somewhere was medals she’d been awarded for bravery in Afghanistan.



This Christmas Eve Alison was guarding somebody important and Philip was driving home all alone with only the radio and the relentless Christmas songs for company. After three and a half hours driving he was almost there. It was only another four miles or so but ahead was the worst stretch of the journey along narrow, pot-holed country roads. He turned a sharp corner and up ahead saw the hazard lights of a car. He slowed down and saw a woman standing beside it, the bonnet open. He stopped alongside her.



“Need a hand?” he asked.


The woman slammed down the bonnet, pushed back the hood of her coat and said, “The old damsel in distress trick works every time.”


“Alison! What are you doing here? How the hell did you get here?”


“Same way as you did. Same flight actually, sitting four rows behind you. You must be the most unobservant and most unsuspecting man I’ve ever met. I got Helen’s number from your phone to let her know I was coming but she hasn’t told anybody else and I changed your hotel booking to a double.”


“How did you even know where I was staying? I never told you the name of the hotel.”


“I have the password to your email account.” She tapped her index finger against her nose twice. “I know everything about you.”


He mirrored the gesture tapping his finger against his nose. “Not everything is on the internet. If you knew all my secrets you might not want to come home with me for Christmas.”


“I don’t care. I can’t wait to meet your family. I’ll follow you the rest of the way.”


“Okay, but can you do one thing for me first?”


“What?”


“Get something other than Christmas songs on the car radio for me. I never, EVER, want to hear Chris Rea again.”

The Pooka

Harry burst into the office. Freddy didn’t have time to answer as Harry dragged him out of his seat and thrust him up against the wall.

“I go to New York for the weekend to talk business with Saul Wechsler and I come back to find you cutting a Christmas record. What drugs are you on this time?”

Harry was a few inches from Freddy’s face, spittle drenched Freddy as Harry roared at him. Freddy was frozen in fear. He could see veins pounding beneath Harry’s face. He could feel Harry’s whole body heaving with anger.

“Well?”

“Hey, just let me go and we can talk quietly about this”, Freddy pleaded calmly.

Harry didn’t want to let him off easily. He held on for a few seconds more, his hands gripping Freddy’s flowered shirt just beneath the collar. Slowly, he eased up and Freddy relaxed. Harry let go of his shirt and turned away from him as he began pacing the office. Freddy remained with his back pressed against the wall. Slowly, he began.

“I was going to tell you when you got back.”

“Tell me what? That you think you can call the shots around here when my back’s turned? That’s my office at the end of the hall and don’t you forget it, jackass.”

“Look, I went out on Friday night and got talking to some guys over at WB. They said that it’s a massive cash cow. Everybody loves Christmas music.”

“You ever think they were telling you that so you’d make an ass of yourself?”

“Easy, Harry. You need to calm down.”

“It’s your fault. Your little coup d’etat is what’s got me worked up. If you can explain yourself then maybe I just won’t stomp your ass to **** right here, right now.”

Freddy put his hands up, fingers spread out and lowered them slowly. Easy.

“There’s no coup here, Harry. I just wanted to get working on this ASAP. The songs are already written, it’s just a matter of getting our artists to make it their own. We could have this whole record wrapped up in two or three weeks. Get it out by Thanksgiving and maybe Santa will put one of those platinum discs in our Christmas stocking. Imagine that: Diamond’s first platinum album?”

“Of ****ing Christmas songs? What’s going on up there, Freddy?” said Harry, arms folded, with one index finger pointed at Freddy’s head.

“Hey, Ol’ Blue Ones made ‘em.”

“Sinatra’s a crooner, it fits his style. We have rock ‘n’ roll bands on our payroll, heavy ones at that. Who wants to listen to heavy versions of ‘Deck the Halls’ and ‘Santa Baby’? How the hell can I convince Saul Wechsler to go for that with the way things are going?”

There was a pause. Things had settled down a bit. Harry had stopped pacing. Freddy finally moved away from the wall and edged over to his chair. He sat down while never taking his eyes off Harry. Harry was standing with his arms folded, his tie loosened. He was staring intently at the floor. Freddy leaned back in his chair and put his right ankle on his left knee. He had to know the details.

“How was New York?”

Only Harry’s lips moved.

“A disaster. We’re in the hole big-time. We’ve made six-figure losses three years running and this year we’re looking at losing half a mil. New American want a full audit. Saul didn’t say it but I know he thinks I’m on the take.”

He raised his head and his arms slowly dropped to his side. He looked exasperated. Freddy picked up a pack of smokes and took one out. He tossed the pack at Harry, who greedily popped one out and lit it up. Harry sat down in the creaky, wooden chair on the other side of Freddy’s desk.

“We need a miracle, Freddy.”

“That’s what the holidays are all about, Harry!”

“Don’t start that crap, Freddy.”

“C’mon, this is the City of Angels, where all your dreams can come true. Why do people come to LA? Hollywood, showbiz, lights, camera, action, all that jazz. This is the city where you can make it big. That’s why I came here, that’s why you came here. Everybody knows it. We can still come out of this looking like gold.”

Harry looked across the table at Freddy. He smirked and tipped his cigarette. He leaned back in the chair, feeling the creaks.

“Ok, Freddy, sell me on the Christmas album.”

Freddy thumped the desk with his palm. He rolled it all out.

“It’ll make us look like we can joke about ourselves. These guys we have are all too caught up in living the dream. They need to come back down to Earth and connect with the audience again. These Christmas albums are sure-fire sales, they never fail. Also, we’re putting our own twist on the Christmas album. It’s a niche we can slot into. Then if we ship a million copies, we get the publicity of a platinum record. I’ve a distant cousin that worked Tin Pan Alley in the thirties and forties, I can twist a few arms and get rights for nothing. Well, practically nothing.”

Harry raised his hand, palm out, the cut-off sign. He reached across the desk and picked up the telephone. He spun the dial several times, then slipped the receiver between his ear and shoulder. Harry was shaking. The gravelly voice answered on the other end. The words flew out of his mouth before he even thought of them.

“Hey, Saul, Harry here. Look, me and Freddy have an idea to reduce the deficit by the end of the year. You wanna hear me out?”

A sigh.

“Go.”

“Well, we put out a Christmas album. You know, covers of Christmas classics, that kinda thing.”
A pause.

“It’s November sixth, Harry. How do you expect to get it out in time?”

“****, Saul, those songs are already out there, everybody knows them. We could get all the guys in here and start recording this afternoon. I just need you to give me the green-light.”

Another pause.

“No. Harry, I admire your chutzpah but you’re down half a mil for this year alone and now you want to spend more rolling this thing out? It ain’t going to happen. I don’t want to hear about anymore Diamond LPs in ‘77. You guys don’t have the money for it. Wait ‘til the next year comes round and maybe you can tap us for some more. You can release some singles if you think it’ll pay off but no more albums. Now, do you have something important to tell him or just some more of this pie-in-the-sky bull?”

“No, Saul. Sorry to bother you.”

He dropped the receiver back in its place. He slid down in his chair.

“He said we can release singles, Harry.”

Harry didn’t get it. Freddy shifted in his chair and leaned across the desk.

“We put out a single, to test the waters. We can still get a platinum single, it’ll be the same thing. Get Diamond some buzz. Hey, if it works out, we can put out a Christmas album next year. Remember I told you about my cousin? His name was Felix Bernhard.”

“Who’s that?”

“The guy who wrote ‘Winter Wonderland’. More specifically, just the music. We take the music, put in our own lyrics and we’ve got it.”

“Ok, but what about the money?”

“We get it off some loan shark, use the future sales as collateral.”

Harry pulled himself up. Freddy lit another cigarette and took a long drag and blew it out.

“You know how to get a platinum record, don’t you Harry?”

Harry nodded.

“Sure, one mil sales.”

Freddy chuckled.

“Not exactly. You need to ship one mil. You don’t have to sell them all.”

Freddy filled in the blanks before Harry asked him to.

“We press a million copies and spread them out across the country real thin. Who knows? We might even sell a mil but we can rock up to the RIAA with the receipts for one million shipped and claim the record. The press will give us a massive boost and we’ll start selling. Trust me.”

Harry stared across the table. Freddy was leaning across, his eyes begging.

“Don’t be like Saul, give me the green-light.”

“Ok, Freddy, let’s do this.”

---

Champagne popped and flowed. Glasses clinked. It was the annual Christmas party but they were also celebrating their first platinum record. ‘Winter Wonderland’ had ‘sold’ a million copies. The song had sold well, not platinum but enough money was coming in to cover the expenses, pay off their debt to their backer and make the accounts for 1977 look a little healthier. Freddy’s gamble had paid off. The party was just getting started when Audrey pulled him aside and told him to go to his office. He had an important call.

“Hello?”

“Harry! Congratulations, boychik! I just heard about the big news!”

Saul sounded happier than ever.

“Thanks, Saul. You don’t know how happy I am to here you say that.”

“Come on, Harry. I know I’ve been tough on you but I’m proud of you and I’m delighted that you’ve pulled this off.”

There was a pause and a loud exhalation.

“You’ve got some balls, kid. “

The last sentence came off terse.

“Harry, did I ever tell you how I got involved in this biz?”

“Sure, you were managing a nightclub singer and got her a deal and it went from there. “

Harry heard heavy laughter on the other end.

“Yeah, that’s the family-friendly version I normally use. But every now and again I have to roll out the real version, the one I only tell when business dictates. You know where I’m from?”

“The Bronx?”

“I mean originally.”

“Oh, em, somewhere in Eastern Europe.”

“Bingo. It’s a little town called Grodno in what’s now the Soviet Union. See, my family left because of the anti-Semitic vibe and we came to New York. We were following some other family who’d already come out here. One of them was my cousin. See, he fell in with some bad apples and made a name for himself while he was at it. My cousin’s a man called Meyer Lansky, you’ve probably heard of him. I used to run with him. The nightclub singer story is kinda true. She was a girl I had on the side and I wanted to make her a star. It didn’t work out but the record company was a brilliant laundering front.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You see, I never gave up the whole business with my cousin. I’m cleaner than he is but I’m still involved. And one thing I’m involved in is money-lending. Here in New York but in Boston, Chicago, New Orleans. And other places.”

“Like LA?”

“Well done! That loan shark you tapped works for me and I’m telling him to call in the debt. And on a legal side, all the money you make from this single is going towards NA to pay off your debt here, as is within our rights. So think fast Harry ‘cause you need to pay off that guy and I’d suggest finding a legit way to do it.”

The conversation had shifted gears far too quickly for Harry.

“Don’t mess me around, I’ve given you plenty of credit over the years. You shoulda listened to me when I said no more LPs. You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass over the years and this is your comeuppance. You shoulda cut the umbilical chord and got on with things and maybe you’d have done better but your neediness, constantly ringing me for advice, for permission is pathetic for a grown man. Goodbye, Harry.”

The phone was slammed down on the other end. Harry put his phone down and started thinking.

The Pooka

I'm on the ninth floor of Macy's on West 54th Street when I see my mother pirouetting from the branch of a fake Norwegian spruce. She looks out of place among all the gaudy gold baubles. She's small and white and delicate, and I would recognise her anywhere. The store's audio system is spewing Sleigh Ride, and it's in congress with her graceful spin. I stop her from twirling, her china cool on my palm, her face perfectly painted, identical to my memory of her.

I remember her last Christmas with us, and Dad telling me the story like he did every year. I was thirteen, and really I was too old for fairy stories, but there was something about the way Dad told it that made me feel like I was four years old again. Like I was perched on his knee, listening hard to see if his heart sped up when he talked about Mum.

He got a real tree that year, and it was my job to decorate it while I waited for him to come home, smelling of the cold and of early lambs. I’d kept the box with the figurine aside for him, and once he had his tea gone, he asked for it.

Too big for his lap, I sat next to him and watched him cradle the little box. His hands always seemed so big and rough, but when he stroked my cheek they were gentle. It was the same when he held the box. I knew not to try to hurry him; he'd open it when the time was right. I fancied that he might be waiting in case his voice would break with sadness, and that he thought it would frighten me.

When he was ready, he eased the lid off, and there was the china ballerina, smiling beautifully up at us, looking just the same as every year, perfectly preserved in a nest of white tissue paper.

“Tell me about her, Dad,” I said.

“Which part?”

“I dunno. All of it?”

He laughed and turned to me, eyes twinkling in the tree lights. “You have school in the morning, Claire.”

“Okay then, just the important stuff.”

“All right,” he said and touched my cheek with a rough knuckle. "Before you came along, your mother was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I fell in love with her instantly, and she with me.”

“And did you get married then, Dad?” I asked, knowing the answer, but not wanting to deviate from our well-worn routine.

“No, but we planned to once we’d saved enough money. As you know, your mother’s great love was ballet; she was graceful as any swan. Her dream was for us to move New York, where she would dance, and I would work on the buildings. We would live in a tiny flat and it would be perfect, because we loved each other, and as your mother used to say, ‘love makes everything perfect.’ And then, before we got the chance to go to New York, or to even get married, love did make something perfect. It made you."

He placed a kiss on my head and a palm on my back, and I stared at the little ballerina in the box, waiting for my Dad to continue.

“Dancing was your mother’s passion, but I never had one of my own. Not until you came along. For the first time it felt like my heart was beating for a reason. And that's why I understood when your mother told me that she still needed to follow her dream. She needed to go to New York and dance in the ballet. But we couldn't both afford to go and take you as well. So we decided that it would be for the best for me and you to stay in Sligo, and for your mother to go and follow her dream.”

He carefully took the china ballerina from the box and placed her into my palm.

“When your mother became the prima ballerina in the New York ballet, they made this decoration in her image. She sent this over to us for our tree so she could be with us at Christmastime."

I turned the ornament over in my hands and traced the initials on the back. NYCB: New York City Ballet.

“Do you miss her, Dad?” I asked, and felt his hand hesitate on my back.

“How can I miss her when I have part of her here?” he said, gently taking the figurine from my hands to hang it on the tree.

I knew it was a lie. How could he not miss her? How could he tell a story like that and not be affected? But I said nothing. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.


My mother had sent me a letter some weeks earlier, saying she wanted to meet me, that she wanted to explain why she hadn’t before. I wrote back and told her I wanted to meet her too and asked her to come to the house on Christmas eve. I wanted her to be there waiting when Dad came in from the land. I wanted to watch as his face lit up.

That afternoon I lit the candle in the hall window and waited. When the bell rang, I sprang up. The woman on the other side of the door was not what I had expected. She didn't have the long graceful body of a ballerina, nor did her face match the painted ideal of the decoration.

"Claire?" she said, shifting the strap of her handbag higher on her shoulder.

I nodded.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah," I said and let her pass into the sitting room where I had tea in a pot by the hearth to keep it warm.
She sat on the sofa and looked up at me with a little smile as I moved to sit on the armchair. "I'm so glad you agreed to see me. I wasn't sure you'd want to."

"I've always wanted to meet you. Dad's told me all about you."

"Really?" She sounded surprised.

"Yeah. About New York and the Ballet..." I looked at her again, and felt my stomach sink. She didn't know what I was talking about. "You don't live in New York," I said.

She shook her head. "No. I live in Galway."

She opened her handbag and started to root through it. I could feel my heart dying as I stared at this woman who was clearly my mother. I was as sure as I was that she wasn’t a prima ballerina. She took out an envelope and passed it to me. I took it and slid out the photos inside. There was a little girl, who looked almost like me when I was smaller, and a baby in red dungarees.

"That's Laura and Matthew, my children—my other children. I'd like you to meet them. I'd like you to be their big sister. If that's what you want." She was wringing her hands.

I slid the photos back into the envelope and gave them back to her. "No," I said, my voice wavering. I stood up. "Can you go now? Before my Dad gets home."

"Claire," she said and reached out for me, but stood back. "I wasn’t much more than a child myself when I had you. I mean, I didn’t know how to take care of you, and your father did. So I—”

“So you left us and got yourself a nicer family.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Her eyes were glistening with tears. “I didn't mean to upset you, Claire."

"I'm not upset," I said, feeling tears prickle in my own eyes. "I just want you gone. I shouldn't have let you come here." I marched to the front door and held it open for her.

"Can I write again?" she asked as she passed out through the door.

"You can, but I'll just burn the letters," I said and slammed the door after her. I could hear her sobbing on the other side and wished I could slam it a second time.

I went to the tree, plucked the china figurine from the branch and squeezed it in my hand. My father's betrayal grew larger in my chest than my mother's abandonment of me. How could he lie to me and claim that he loved me? Feeling a rush of anger, I smashed the ballerina on the hearth and watched the pieces fly across the floor and skitter under the furniture. That was the last I saw of the ballerina, little white shards through the blur of tears.


I haven't thought about my mother in ages. Even when planning this trip to New York with the girls, she never crossed my mind. And to see this decoration here, identical to the one I turned to smithereens, is making my chest hurt. It hasn't opened up old wounds; it's created a fresh one. Because I now realise that Dad had spun me a yarn of kindness. He could have told me the truth, but instead he provided me with a mother's love when none existed.

"Claire! There you are!"

I quickly thumb a tear away, and look around and see Lisa coming towards me with arms full of shopping bags.

"Sorry,” I say, “I got a bit swept up in all the decorations."

She grins at me. "The others are downstairs. We're going to head back to the hotel to drop our bags off and find somewhere for lunch. Are you ready?"

"I’ll be with you in a minute," I say. "I just want to pick up a Christmas present for my Dad."

I free the ballerina from the branch and hold her in my palm. She smiles beautifully up at me, and I smile back at her.

The Pooka

Everyone at the North Pole knows that I’m sensitive to the cold. I tell them often enough. So when they refused to allocate me extra furs I decided to take matters into my own hands. After I had picked the lock to the storage room I flicked on the light and saw them. Santa and my Mother, my own Mother smooching and canoodling in the mink. Startled by the light they gasped and Santa hopped up, straightening his green waistcoat while avoiding my eye. Mother propped herself up on one elbow and sighed.

“This isn’t what you think Clarabelle.”

“I think its exactly what I think,” I said, toeing a soft fur stole towards me.

“You can’t take that,” said Santa. I gave him the side eye and he looked at Mother who shrugged and stood up.

“You’re not going to tell are you?” she asked.

“Well that all depends,” I said. “You know how angry Daddy gets.”

We stood there for a few moments, Santa and Mother communicating furiously in silence as I surveyed the room for my next pieces. I waited for them to run out of ideas before I made my move.

“I’ll keep quiet,” I said. “If you take me with you on Christmas Eve.”

Santa stroked his greasy black handlebar moustache and ground his teeth. He was trying to think of a way to fob me off but I knew I’d gotten to him by invoking Daddy’s name. The year before, Daddy had paralysed JimmyJon the Elf with a lump hammer, and all he’d done was wink at Mother. Santa looked me up and down and gave in.

“Fine,” he said. “But you’re responsible for your own safety.”

I clapped excitedly before quickly nabbing a gorgeous pair of mittens from the mink pile.

—

The sleigh was bulging with presents and the wolves were harnessed. They skittered and howled, raring to go. I climbed up onto the seat and pulled my fur hat down over my ears. Santa adjusted his eye patch, wrapped his long leather coat around himself and leapt up beside me. Gripping the reigns in his gloved hands he turned his good eye towards me.

“Its going to be very cold,” he said.

“Oh I don’t mind the cold,” I said. And the blackguard rolled his eye. He turned his attention to the wolves who were beside themselves with excitement.

“Hup boys,” he cried. “On!”

The wolves scrabbled on the concrete floor, their nails clacking as they took the weight of the sleigh, the presents, Santa, and a dainty delightful girl. They strained against their harnesses and suddenly we lurched forward. The elves slid open the gates and the wolves dragged us out onto the ice. The air cut through me like a thousand tiny icicles and I couldn’t help but shriek.

“Shush,” said Santa. He snapped the reigns and the wolves gained speed. We slid across the ice towards the mountains, faster and faster, and just when I thought we’d crash into a snow bank we took flight. The wolves paws clawed against the air as we climbed higher, above the snow, and the trees until the peaks of the mountains passed beneath us. I clutched the seat with both hands, realising for the first time that I had no safety belt. Santa saw me cringing into the seat and laughed. He took one hand off the reigns and reached inside his coat producing a flask. He took a drink and offered it to me. It was hot and sour and I spat it right out. Santa punched my shoulder.

“Don’t waste it,” he said, grabbing it. “You’re the worst.”

I rubbed my arm and grumbled quietly. I was thinking of cutting things to say when I spotted the lights in the distance. I pointed and Santa nodded without saying anything. He gave the reigns a tug and the wolves veered towards the twinkling village that was growing nearer. We set down on the outskirts of town and led the sleigh into the cover of the fir trees. Santa checked his notebook and ordered me up onto the top of the sleigh. He read through his list of presents and I rummaged through the sacks, throwing each one down as I found them. I hopped down from the sleigh and crunched ankle deep into the snow. Santa piled me high with presents and we trudged through the trees and out into the clearing that held the village. All of the huts had a lit candle in a window.

“That’s how they guide me in,” he said.

“Well obviously,” I said. If I wasn’t carrying an armful of gifts I suspect I would have gotten a clatter.

We approached the first house and Santa shuffled all of his cargo into one arm as he checked his list again.

“Alexander,” he said, squinting. “He’s been reasonably good.”

Santa pushed open the unlocked door and we kicked the snow off our boots before entering. Alexander’s family had left us some treats, cigarettes for Santa, and a big bloody slab of reindeer meat for the wolves. Santa shoved the meat into one of his big pockets and tucked the cigarettes into his waistband. He allowed me to place the present at the foot of Alexander’s bed. He was tiny, with dark hair and pointy ears.

“Look at him,” I said.

“We’re in Norway,” said Santa. “They all look like that.”

And they did all look like that. Each child seeming to have pointier ears than the last. When we were finished Santa and I sat on the sleigh smoking as the wolves devoured the hunks of meat.

“This is fun,” I said, blowing a circle of smoke and breath into the air.

“That’s only the first stop,” he said. “You’ll soon get bored.”

“Oh I could never get bored of this,” I said, throwing the butt of my cigarette into the snow, where it hissed. “It’s magical.”

—

By the time we reached Russia I was over it.

“God damn it, why is it so cold?”

“Its December you idiot,” said Santa as he threw a gift at me from the top of the sleigh. I hopped out of its way and slipped on the icy footpath, bouncing hard on my derriere.

“You did that on purpose,” I said, checking to see if I’d damaged anything. Nothing seemed broken. The wolf closest to me wagged his tail. God damned Blitzen always taking Santa’s side.

“I might just stay here by the sleigh,” I said, as Santa jumped down beside me.

“No way Jose,” said Santa. “You made me bring you, you can carry your own weight.”

He filled my arms with parcels and together we doled them out to the curly tailed children of Donetsk. I pushed the final present through the bedroom door of a moderately good child that whistled when it snored. On my way out I helped myself to a selection of the pirated DVDs they’d left for us. I handed Santa a couple and set off towards the sleigh when he clamped a hand on my shoulder.

“There’s one more,” he said.

A small wooden shack stood on the outskirts of town next to a frozen river. Santa pushed the door and it creaked open slowly. I stuck my nose in but could see nothing in the darkness. Santa produced a soft, lumpy present and gave me a push inside. When my eyes adjusted I could see that I was in a small room. There was a table, and some chairs, and a stove in the corner, but there were no doors. And if there were no doors then where were the bedrooms? I turned to Santa who threw his eyes upwards. I followed them and found a young girl hanging upside down, her clawed feet gripping a wooden beam. I screamed, clapping a hand over my mouth to muffle it. But it was too late. The girl’s eyes snapped open, wild and pulsing bright red. They swivelled around the room before they landed on me. She screeched, drowning out Santa who was in gales of laughter outside.

“Drop it,” he shouted. “Just drop it and run.”

Still screeching the girl raised a pointy finger at me. I flung the present at her, it bounced off her head, causing a momentary blip in her screeching. She shook her head, stunned and I ran for the door, slamming it behind me. Santa was beside himself, clapping his thigh. He sighed and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“You should see your face,” he said.

“I God damn nearly wet myself,” I said, shaking all over. “What was that?”

“Who knows,” he said. “But she’s on the list, and I don’t want to find out what happens if I leave her out.”

I put an ear to the door and could hear a snuffling, ripping sound as she tore through the wrapping paper.

—

All the suspicious Londoners kept their doors locked so we donned crampons and clambered down their chimneys. Londoners, suspicious and filthy. Not one chimney was clean, not one! By the time we got to Number 34 I was resigned to being sooty forever. Santa went upstairs to deliver the presents and I went looking for food. I was standing on the kitchen counter rifling through a cupboard when someone burst through the back door and shouted “Erewotchoodoininmyowwwse?” He lurched towards me and I spun, delivering a kick to his face. I’d forgotten to remove my crampons. There was a squelch and a crunch and he toppled over backwards, taking me with him as my foot was still embedded in his face. We hit the ground and the impact shook me loose. Santa poked his head around the door.

“Why are you making such a racket?” he whispered.

“That wasn’t me,” I said. “It was him.”

Santa came in and peered around the kitchen island. The man of the house lay flat on his back, blood seeping through my cramponed holes.

“For God sake Clarabelle,” said Santa. “Did you kill him?”

I shrugged.

It took us a few minutes to drag the man to the garden. Santa found some shovels in the shed and we started picking holes in the frosty ground.

“This will take forever,” I said. “We’ll never get him buried in time to deliver the rest of the presents.”

Santa stopped and looked to the roof where the sleigh was teetering. The wolves perched next to it staring into space or scratching themselves. Santa gave a low whistle and they all turned our way. Another whistle and they scrabbled off the roof and into the air, before landing in the small garden. Within ten minutes they had dug a decent sized hole. Santa ruffled each head in turn and they panted noisily, watching as we rolled the man towards his grave. I gave him one final push and he toppled into the hole, landing on his back with a loud “Oof.”

“What was that?” asked Santa.

“Jezuz!” said the man, who’s eyes were now open, looking from me, to Santa. “Jezuzchrist.”

I looked at Santa. He looked at me. Without saying a word we dashed for the sleigh and with a snap of the reigns we took off. I looked back and saw the man climb out of his grave, wobbling as he got to his feet. He shouted something at us but it was lost in the noise of the wind whipping past my ears.

“Is it always this exciting?” I asked.

Santa gripped the reigns tightly and spoke through gritted teeth.

“No,” he said. “Its never this exciting.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

—

As the mountains passed beneath us I realised that we had forgotten someone.

“Where’s my present?” I asked.

Santa clipped my ear, sending my beautiful hat tumbling into the darkness below.

“There’s your present,” he said. “You’re the God damned worst Clarabelle, I mean it. The God damned worst.”

The Pooka

Let’s kick things off with the heady beats of Norman Cook’s Wonderful Night, traversing techno, dance, rap and hip-hop in a neat, two-point-five minute nugget of pure rhythmic momentum. To be followed by... Well, that’s out of my hands. Perhaps the perennial favourite Ce Plane Pour Moi, screaming frenzied agency down to the split second; or it could be Scissor Sisters’ iconic Take Your Mama, the pinnacle of nu-glam rock; or even Animal Collective’s synth-soaked masterpiece Summertime Clothes – a little out of season, sure, though the difference here between a bad day in June and a typical one in winter is pretty much negligible.

The idea is that each track, no matter where it falls in the shuffled order, shall serve to complement the concatenation whilst shifting the overall mood only slightly.
All traditional festive fare has been dispensed with.

- Excuse me...

And here it is: B*witched come bursting in, energy high, melody raw, name of song immaterial; just good pop.

- Excuse me.
- Wha’? I mean, sorry?
- I’m looking for the wine glasses. With the yoghurt lids.
- Wine with... Come again?
- Those wine glasses that have sort of, well, yoghurt lids on them. The kind they give you in the theatre. To stop spillages. We’ll be having guests over, you see, five at the last count; should things get raucous, I want to be prepared.

An unmistakable croak in her voice, stopping just short of a pervasive waver - definitely a ma, more than likely a grandma, possibly of the great variety.

- I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t think they sell those outside of theatres; I didn’t even know they sold them in theatres, to be honest –
- So what is one supposed to do if drinking wine at home?
- Just... Try not to spill?
- You’re sure you don’t have any? In the stock room or somewhere?
- No, no, definitely none with, um, lids... Although, have you tried looking in the drinks section? ’Cos I think it’d have to be poured in at, like, the factory or somewhere –
But with a Hmmph!, she’s gone.

- Anderson!
And now the gruff yawp that could only belong to...

- Anderson, when I said you were in charge of our music selection, I didn’t mean to the detriment of your work – y’still have to help the customers, for fuxake.

...McCabe, his gasconading a pathetic entreaty for authority without the issuer first bothering to earn it.
- I was helping. Sir. She wanted something, we didn’t have it; I told her, thereby helping.
- Don’t try to be smart, lad; doesn’t suit you. And as for yer selection itself... Sweet Jesus, what even is this? I was expectin’ stuff more along the lines of O Holy Night, not O Get Down Tonight, or whatever the fuck.

ALL traditional festive fare has been dispensed with.

- With respect, sir, that’s not really my area of...interest. I think you’ll find this playlist offers a refreshing –
- We all have to make certain concessions, Anderson – metaphorical ones, obviously. Y’think I like having to shell out on feckin’ tinsel and those giant novelty presents and what have you? ’Course not; it’s about creating an atmosphere.
- Yes, Mr. McCabe. I’ll, er, work on it.
- Well, now’s your chance to start. See the fella over there, by the tobacco counter? Runners, tracksuit, face only a drug dealer could love...

Hey Ya has just begun; the first truly rousing anthem of the early Noughties, some would say, though its catchiness underlies a timely exploration of the stark dichotomy between love and lust – one of the all-time greats. Of course, recognition of this means I’ve missed the end of McCabe’s edict: just two words, I think, and those being either Watch it! or Watch him! At least I can take now some comfort in hearing his distinctive trudge depart as I make my way towards the convenience till – perhaps the nicest thing that can be said about the bloke is that he bestows a wonderful absence.

- Hey, there. Anything I can help you with?
- Eh, yeah, ’ow much fer some cigs? Th’Olive Branch wans?

Fuck me – chords ravaged beyond ravaged, yet not entirely masking an oddly familiar nasal whinny; this guy’s been through the ringer.

- That’ll be, er, €5.13.
- ’Ow much? Ah Jeez, why’s it so awkward?
- Well... They’re cigarettes, aren’t they? ’Tis the excise duty, or somethin’.
- But, like, I’d understand if ’twere two things what ended up comin’ to that, but fer just the wan...

Some truth that’s been faintly stirring at the back of my mind finally springs to life and screams out – I know this fecker.

Evidently, he’s realised this at the exact same time.

- ’Ang on... Yer Marty Anderson, ain’t ya?
- Er, yeah...
- Ah, ’ow’s it goin’? Tom. Tom Tarrant. Bassist in Inverse Helix –
- Ah, yes –
- Back in the day –
- Of course! Good to see you again, Tom... Um, how’s things?
- Ah, not the best, bein’ honest. Fallen on ’ard times a biteen.

Such masterful economy of expression: we get together, oh, we get together, but separate’s always better when there’s feelings involved...

- Well, gosh, I’m...real sorry to hear that, Tom. Hope things, erm, pick up for you.
- Aye, cheers... C’mere, ya couldn't do an old buddy a favour, eh, and spot us fer the fags? Ya work here, like – don’t ya get a, y’know, five-fingered discount?
Christ, so it’s as bad as that: bumming a pack of cigarettes off someone he hasn’t seen in about ten years. Fine, I'll just pay for them myself later – anything to get him the hell out of here.

- Alright, then; why not? Season of goodwill and all that.
- Good man yerself! An’ how ’bout a lil’...extra? Just while we’re at it, like?
Shite.
- Ah now, Tom; I’d love to help out where I can, but you're not seriously asking –
- Nah, mate, nah - not askin’ anythin’.
A rustle of polyester as something’s drawn from his pocket.
He cocks the trigger.
- I'm tellin’ ya to.

*

Next up, the unmistakeable tempo of a Vampire Weekend number, those contemporary masters of the toe-tapping jangling hook. Thank fuck the order wasn’t reversed – the last thing this headcase needs to be told is to start ‘shaking’ anything.
- OK. OK. Just...calm down, Tom. OK?
- I am calm, Marty.
- Right, yes, well... Good.
- An’ I didn’t want it to come to this, y’know? But like I said – ’ard times.
- I know. But – I mean, is this really the way? We don’t even have all that m–
- Ah, come off it; don’t be tryin’ to tell me Tesco ain’t rakin’ it in two days ’fore Christmas - sher, the booze alone must get ya fucking thousands!
Shit – he’s actually put some thought into this.

And then, with the impeccable timing of a banjaxed clock, McCabe’s vociferous booming makes its return.
- Everything in order, Anderson? I think you may be spending too long with the customers now, har har... Oh!
- This the boss man, aye?
- Aye - er, yeah. Tom, Mr. McCabe; Mr. McCabe, Tom.
- Alright, now, just – just take it easy –
- Easy as pie, mate. Let’s start roundin’ up the dough, shall we?
- You came here for bread?!
- Money, sir. He wants all our money.
- Oh...oh, but there’s very little cash on the actual premises –
- That ain’t gonna work, sir.

The silence that follows is the very definition of ‘strained’; then:
- What d’you reckon, Anderson? Is it loaded?
McCabe’s lowered his voice slightly, as if that alone’ll prevent the loonie gunman five feet away from hearing. It’s pertinent, though – and even if so, how likely is he to use it? The Tomás Tarrant I knew hadn’t been a killer, but then, we’d been seventeen, still cocooned in the last flush of youth and merely playacting as punk delinquents - not out the other end and actively aspiring to be one.

- I think we’d...best do as he says. All things considered.
- Thas’ right – ya always were a smart wan, Marty...even if ya couldn’t play drums for shite.
- You two know each other?
- We were in a band together. Forever ago.
- And what, for a reunion ye decided to rob my store?!
- Sir, he's pointing the gun at me too!
- Lads! Time’s pressin’ on – can we maybe get goin’?
- Wh-where do you want to go?
- Tills first. Then the back office. Just tell all yer minions here to co-operate an’ nobody’ll get hurt... Ya may as well come along too, Marty; be good to catch up.

Three pairs of footsteps join the chorus of others making their way across the polished terrazzo floor, as – in a particularly cruel display of serendipity – Dick Dale’s version of Misirlou provides the musical backdrop (like the situation isn’t fraught enough already). My attention is quickly drawn elsewhere, however, as McCabe's frantic gait veers off in the direction of the frozen food.

- Actually...we do things slightly differently here; no main office; the money’s just kept in a safe. Inside the walk-in freezer. Provides extra security, y’see – the heavy door.

Mother of God - does the eejit really expect that to work? It’s noble, sure, trying to get Tom away from everyone else, but Tesco’s bound to be insured against all this kind of shit – best just to leave him at it. And what’s he gonna do anyway, clobber him with some frozen peas?
Yet, as transparent as I think he’s been...

- ’Tis me lucky feckin’ day, then. Lead on.

...unless, that is, Tom’s also copped it and is now planning on doing much the same to him.

Whatever they’re both thinking, they’ll have to act soon; the industrial hum of the refrigeration units is fast approaching. And then, just as we’re about to reach our terminus:

- Hello again! I think I’ve cracked it; I'll just buy regular glasses and some – what on earth do you think you’re doing, young man?

What happens next is wild cacophony, a twisted percussion:
a click -
a whistle -
a squelch -
a scream -
a thud;
the iconic theme building to its final crescendo;
and everywhere, a pulsative ringing growing ever louder ’til it swells into shrillness and engulfs all.
And the rest is silence.

*

This sonic submersion gives way to what seems to be scattered peals of applause; bit by bit, more bites filter through...
- Bloody hell -
- How brave!
- Ah fuck, Marty, what’d ya do that fer?
- Keep sittin’ on him!

Then, sirens; brakes; keys and belts jostled by running transit; further chatter...

- Y’alright, son?
- Anyone need medical assistance?
- You have the right to remain –
- Aimed at that woman, officer, but instead hit -
- Just leapt without a second thought –
- Think you can drop in tomorrow and make a quick statement?

... until a familiar tenor joins the fray:
- Well, now, Martin... Some extraordinary work, there, I must say.
It’s taken a while, but through sheer osmosis I’ve begun to piece it all together.
- Oh, thanks, sir. Just...doin’ my duty.
- Quite... Although... The funny thing is, I could swear you only jumped... AFTER he aimed in the direction of the hi-fi.

A beat.
- Well, sir... The eyes can be deceiving, can’t they?
- Mmm... Very well, then – let’s get back to work.

The activity is ended; calm has been restored. Some silent signal reignites the whole process and the bustling choreography of store life resumes once more. And, right on cue, a new song – I’ve missed at least two – starts up: Jarvis Cocker, making sublime of the banal, soothing all that still rings sour as the tannoyed voice of McCabe calls for a clean-up in the poultry aisle.

The Pooka

I look up from the dirt. My faithful companion Buzz is to my left. He has never left my side especially during a crisis. And if ever there was a situation that you could call a crisis it would be now. We are sheltering behind a large mound. Ruby Laser blasts cut through the air above our heads hissing at their passage. The lasers whistle as they fire. The shots that strike closer to home throw dirt on our heads. I can smell the grass singe. "Looks like this may be it old friend." I say to Buzz. "But at least we are facing it together, best friends forever." Buzz said nothing but I know he was thinking the same. He was never one for words, not when action was needed.
I clutch my trusty blaster in my right hand. I am the greatest hero in the galactic patrol. Master of space - My people call me the air walker. But this time I may have met my match.
My partner and I were on a routine patrol on the edge of Federation space when we received a distress call from a previously unexplored planet. Naturally it is the duty of the Galactic Patrol to investigate so Buzz and I set course. Why anyone would be out here was a mystery. No doubt we would get the answer when we found whoever sent the distress signal.
The planet was pretty much one gigantic forest. This was not looking easy. We flew at speed across the surface of the planet from pole to pole, scanners set to maximum. "I can't see them anywhere" I said to Buzz. We had been searching for almost an hour and I was getting really annoyed, but not Buzz. He is the greatest tracker this side of the galaxy and he was on the trail of something. "Ok Buzz lead on" I said. All I had to do was follow my partner's nose and eventually, after flying back and forwards for what seemed like a year we found it! High up hiddent in the branches of the tallest tree was a base! This must have been where the signal came from. There could be no other explanation.
That's when it happened. A laser blast shot out from the treetop. "We're hit Buzz!" I shouted over the sound of alarms. Smoke filled the cabin. Fortunately we were already wearing our space suits so we just had to shut the visors on our helmets. At least we wouldn't suffocate to death. I had to help Buzz with his as he was too busy making sure we landed in one piece. He struggled with the controls trying to keep us level. We kept getting lower and lower until finally we were in the trees.The air walker was about to be grounded. Branches exploded all around our ship. I was thrown from my seat across the cockpit and struck the main control panel.

I must have blacked out because the next thing I remember was being pulled from the wreckeage of our ship. I shook my head a couple of times to clear the stars I was now seeing. "What's going on Buzz?" I asked. He pointed to the giant tree ahead of us. What luck! We had crashed close to the tree that supported the base that had shot us down. "Let's check this out." I said. The Air Walker wasn't going to let a little thing like a crash landing stop him! That just wasn't how a galactic patrol hero was built.
Even though we were so close to the base, it took us over an hour to cover the ground. Every step was blocked by vines and creepers which we had to cut down with our laser swords. "Good thing we came prepared." I said. We had just about reached the foot of the tree when suddenly, I heard a crack. It was a good thing I did because we had just enough time to dive to the ground before laser blasts took off our heads. And that is how we found ourselves in our current situation, crouching behind a dirt mound facing over one hundred robo-troopers.
"Only one man uses troopers like that!" I shout to my friend. "My arch-enemy Zoltar, Master of Darkness!"
I can hear a deep laugh above the sound of the laser fire. "Yes it is I your nemesis. Prepare to meet your doom Air Walker."
"Not like this!" I shout back. "I'll make you pay!"
Just as I am about to run over the mound towards my enemy, Buzz grabs my sleeve and throws me his communicator. There's something faint coming through. I barely notice it and am about to run again but Buzz holds me in place. "Alright friend what is it? I ask. It must be Galactic Patrol headquarters. No one else can use the communicators. I listen to the signal...

"Timmy, Timmy! Come in , dinner's ready". I can't ignore a summons from headquarters, so the Air walker holsters his laser pistol and heads for home.

The Pooka

When it happened, Joseph’s face cast across her mind. His was a round face with round eyes, a nice face, not handsome, not grotesque, just normal she supposed.



This time it felt like a horse had just kicked her right under her ribs. Her left knee wobbled like jelly while her spine stiffened and jolted her head back behind her shoulders.


Her right hand - pruned from detergent and water that was either far too hot or far too cold - reached for the railing along the wall at her work station.


When she was steady she pulled her left hand over the bump and rested it and the phone contained in it on the top of the bulge and right between her breasts. She looked at the phone. She congratulated herself; she had eight moves left on level 44 of Candy Crush with just one more fruit to drop.


She couldn’t remember what pair of shoes she wore that day. She could look down. That would involve sliding her left leg out wide and bending over the bump to hopefully catch a glimpse of the toe of one of the shoes. Instead she lifted up the big toe on her right leg and wiggled it. She never liked feeling her toe-nail skim along the criss-cross mesh of the black running shoes, most especially when it collided with the leather piece above the toe. They were comfortable at least.


She turned her head as far left as she could without moving her body and began scanning the laundry floor for the supervisor. The Swaddling Laundry Company of Nazareth, Limerick never hired kind or caring supervisors. Their unofficial motto was “A scared worker is a productive worker”.
Mary glanced at the calendar and following a quick calculation worked out that she was eight months and eight days into her first pregnancy. Maternity leave wasn’t an option just yet, deciding that she could hold out for another two weeks. Even at that the baby could be late.


Mary brought Joseph’s face back into her mind and her body shivered as she imagined looking into his eyes to tell him the truth. His eyes were unusual. The best way she could ever describe them to friends that had never met Joseph, was to ask them if they remembered talking to their dolls. Then she would deliver the punch-line and state that those little glass beads had more life in them than Joseph’s eyes.


She loved Joseph, even though the mouse that ran on the wheel in his head packed up and moved out many years previously, she loved him. She feared telling him the truth about it all, about how she was living with a lie for the past few years.
Joseph and Mary had sat night after night going through baby names and they weren’t happy with what they found. They checked books, they scoured websites, they asked friends and they consulted family. They were never happy with any suggestion for a name.


Back when Mary was ending the first trimester they invited The Fortune Teller Gabriel to visit their home. All that day Mary was on edge. When he arrived a swarm of butterflies engulfed her stomach and her hands shook so much that she knocked Joseph’s favourite cup and it smashed to the ground. She was sad about that but she would worry about it the next day. Her immediate concern was if Gabriel told Joseph all about what Mary was covering up.


After the session Mary asked Gabriel if he would like a cup of tea. “No E’ll better be going.” He replied. The Fortune Teller Gabriel had a strange accent and a person could tell by his clothing and demeanour that he wasn’t from Limerick, Ireland or even Europe. He left with a wink from his sparkling eyes for Mary and closed the door behind him.



Mary was woken early the next morning by Joseph tugging at her elbow. “Throw those curtains wide Mary, this day this year has seen me right and besides we need some light.”


Joseph jumped from the bed, he stood and faced her - wearing only the superman underpants she bought for him for their first anniversary. He outstretched his arms and declared: “It’s just perfect Mary: We’ll call the child Noël.”


She leaned over to the side table and shoved aside her little tub of mint flavoured Vaseline that she always applied to her lips at night, she swiped at the four tissues and rolled up piece of toilet paper and deftly knocked them to the floor. Mary carefully avoided hitting the glass of water and finally from between the glass and the radio she retrieved her phone. While doing this - and it only took three seconds - Mary was bracing herself for Joseph to confront her with the truth.



She entered “Baby name Noël” into the phones search engine – the result came back: “No such name for a human has ever been recorded.”


“If we go with that name Joseph– it would be the first Noël”


“What do you think Mary? If it’s a boy we’ll call him Noël and pronounce the name quickly with one syllable something like ‘knoll’ and if it’s a girl we’ll pronounce it with two syllables placing the emphasis on the ‘elle’ – I think it’s genius altogether.”


Mary couldn’t contain her joy; she spread herself across the bed and smiled while saying to herself: “He didn’t know, he really didn’t know. Gabriel must have said nothing.”


She perched herself on one arm bringing her elbow in close, grinned at Joseph, and shouted: “It’s perfect, absolutely perfect – now get over here my Superman carpenter.”


Mary snapped out of the memory recall and checked the time. She had five minutes before work would end. She tidied her station as was customary on Friday evenings and the fear of telling Joseph built up inside her once more. She kept mumbling under her breath as if reciting a long and monotonous prayer: “I can’t do it, I really can’t do it.”


Mary could never have imagined that Joseph would indeed find out the very next day. Joseph had no inkling that what was about to happen the next day would alter both their lives forever.


Joseph woke quietly at 6am. Without disturbing Mary he made breakfast, drove to the petrol station and bought a newspaper and magazine to keep Mary occupied on their journey. When he returned he served breakfast in bed.



Mary couldn’t look him in the eye. She would pretend to struggle with breaking off a piece of toast between her teeth while pulling back her head just enough to check Joseph’s expression. He was excited. He chewed quickly on his toast, the one leg that hung from the side of the bed bounced rapidly up and down. Joseph’s facial expression was like a child’s when they saw all their birthday presents. This was not the time to tell him.


While Joseph was talking, Mary wasn’t listening. She was trying to plan when she would tell him the truth. Internally she said: “I can’t continue, he needs to know sooner rather than later. What am I going to do after I tell him?”


Joseph had all his clothes laid out the night before and he was planning this day ever since the news broke. This was going to be one of the most memorable days in his life. Yet, he was worried about Mary. She seemed to be nervous about something. He knew when she was apprehensive; he knew when she was holding something from him. “What’s with her today? It’s probably the baby.”


In 1988 Joseph established the Irish Fan Club of Japanese Progressive-Rock and Country band “Census and the Counting Civil Servants”, it was years before he met Mary and at times he felt guilty as he probably gave too much time to his hobby. It was more than a hobby; Joseph devoted 26 years of his life to the fan club. In 1998 he was honoured by the band when they sent him a signed copy of their latest album “The Sea of Galilee”. In 2003 he was elected European secretary of the global fan club.


When founding member and original lead singer Clarke Kunt died in suspicious circumstances in 2007, Joseph entered into a period of melancholia and only emerged from it fully after Mary agreed to go steady with him in May 2010.



Mary and Joseph’s wedding was themed on the band’s seventeenth studio album and incidentally Joseph’s favourite “All King Herod’s Men”. The guests were treated to – as Joseph continues to claim – a Census and the Counting Civil Servants tribute band flown in from Bad Homburg, near Frankfurt who played for seven hours straight. They were the musicians at the church and had adapted some of the milder rock anthems for playing during the service.



Mary and Joseph walked down the aisle as a married couple accompanied by a musical version of the band’s honky-tonk classic “Space Girls are Easiest after Uzo”.


Joseph’s life was Census and the Counts as they were affectionately known or 3CS for short and Joseph had two tickets to the Bethlehem Arena in Dublin for this night. It will be his 87th time to see the band live and Mary was by his side for eighteen of those occasions. Mary will be by his side tonight.


He slurped the last of his coffee and walked over to the wardrobe. He removed his 3CS leather jacket. He unzipped the first plastic covering and discarded it. He viewed his coat through the second plastic covering and decided not to remove it at this time. That Jacket has been with him for 22 years. He began to count the chrome plated studs that he himself had lovingly placed on it. There should be 472.



There are a total of 471 on the jacket. Joseph knows this only too well. He can remember the colour of the back-pack worn by that French student when it snagged on the one stud that Joseph hadn’t placed properly. It ripped the material. That was the last time Joseph used public transport.


Joseph spied on Mary, she was dozing. Joseph decided to take his shower. He brought the portable CD player to the bathroom - he loved showering to 3CS’s fifth live album “The Dead Sea”. He had an hour to get ready.


In the bedroom the music could be heard by Mary who was dreaming that she was swimming in the sea. The warm water around her legs felt so good, she was threading water when a cramp hit her.
Mary’s eye opened and she found she was in the middle of a scream. Gasping to catch her breath she thought she was drowning. Seconds later and fully awake it hit her – she was in labour.



She called out to Joseph while tapping in the Doctor’s number.


“Right now doctor – Joseph left the door open” Mary screamed into the phone.


Joseph turned off the shower and reached for the towel, he heard screaming, covered himself and ran to the bedroom.


He saw Mary’s knuckles where white as they grabbed the side of the bed and their doctor between her propped up legs saying: “One more push Mary. Come on”


Mary inhaled deeply and braced herself for the final push by screaming: “I ****ing hate Census and the Counting Civil Servants!”


Joseph’s jaw dropped when he heard that from Mary and in complete shock he let go of the towel as his world spun around him.



“It’s a boy” the doctor declared.


Weeping, Joseph fell to his knees.

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Okay so
I quite liked Silent Night,I loved the idea, liked the ending, well written.
Should be a longer story but well done. Voted for that one

I liked Driving Home for Christmas as I like those little snippets of everyday life, normal thoughts and feelings, and the little surprise of her showing up at the end was just right. Well written again. Voted for that also

Winter Wonderland could have been a very good story but I think it was a bit all over the place and I didn't like the ending being the way it was after all that build up.

Fairytale - I loved this one. It was very well written, sweet, and touching. Voted for this also

I saw Mommy - liked the idea. Liked the interaction. Not enough to vote for though, sorry

Little Drummer Boy - found it extremely hard to follow and no idea what was going on. Sorry

Walking in the Air - not bad at all, I liked the idea

Noel - I liked the idea and it was pretty funny but a bit muddled (imo of course) in the middle. It was a bit dramatic with "finding out would change his life forever the very next day" and then it didn't really.Or maybe it wasn't the kid he was crying at? I found it a little bit too long particularly to match the humour. I think it would have been really excellent with slightly less build up and length.

Anyway good all round, well done everyone

Hrududu

#7 - Walking in the Air

Great stuff. I read these earlier but couldn't comment at work. I'll just give feedback on the one that got my vote and then once the voting closes I'll give feedback on the others.

My vote went to The Little Drummer Boy. It was so different and unusual it really stood out for me. There were some great lines like:

"And then, with the impeccable timing of a banjaxed clock, McCabe’s vociferous booming makes its return."

I liked the changes in rhythm between the action, dialogue and bits of songs creeping in. Plus it made me laugh, which always wins me over.

Brian Lighthouse

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

"I quite liked Silent Night,I loved the idea, liked the ending, well written.
Should be a longer story but well done. Voted for that one

I liked Driving Home for Christmas as I like those little snippets of everyday life, normal thoughts and feelings, and the little surprise of her showing up at the end was just right. Well written again. Voted for that also"

May I ask how you were able to vote for two entries?

Mr E

#7 - Walking in the Air

The poll (at the top) is multiple choice. Just tick the 2 or 3 that you like.

I'm going to finish reading the stories over the weekend, give them the time that they deserve.

Das Kitty

#7 - Walking in the Air

What a great set of stories!

As I have a dog in the fight, I'll just comment on the ones that got my votes for now.

Silent Night -- I loved the premise, but I do think the story was a bit too big for the word-count, which made it get a bit expositiony (that's a word, right?) near the end so it could wrap up on time. It could have easily made a novella. It would allow for tension to be slowly built and characters like Lisa to be fleshed out a bit more.

Little Drummer Boy -- I really liked the humour in this one. I loved the main character voice. It did get a little hard to follow, but honestly I reckon that was just a formatting issue. Proper speech punctuation and a bit more tagging in the scenes with more than two people could fix that. And perhaps new paragraphs for when we're talking about the music. I don't know if enough was done to bring the title into the narrative, but I don't really care. It got my second vote.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus -- If I could have only voted for one, this is the one that would have got it. The tone, the oddness, the interplay between the main character and Santa. It was a riot. Beautiful use of language too. I had a big stupid grin on me chops reading it. Fantastic stuff.

Brian Lighthouse

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

I voted once only and it was for number 4.

I don't see how voting more than once is fair, because then the voter is giving all the stories they voted on equal weight. This would mean that the voter would like two or three stories equally. I can't see that happen, really I can't. The voter may also wish to vote for themselves in that case. (You know it wasn't me that wrote number 4 now)

Das Kitty

#7 - Walking in the Air

Brian Lighthouse wrote: »

I voted once only and it was for number 4.

I don't see how voting more than once is fair, because then the voter is giving all the stories they voted on equal weight. This would mean that the voter would like two or three stories equally. I can't see that happen, really I can't. The voter may also wish to vote for themselves in that case. (You know it wasn't me that wrote number 4 now)

The votes will be visible so you'll see if someone voted for their own and there'll be a lot of tutting and head shaking.

Personally I liked being able to vote for all the ones that really tickled me. Yeah they have equal weight in the vote, but the preferred story usually comes through.

The Pooka

Yes, the VOATs have typically been multiple choice, as far as I know - I imagine the reasoning is to 'spread the wealth' a bit, given we're not exactly the most populous forum! This way allows for both clear favourites to emerge and everyone to get a fair shot at it. It's always worked out in the past and I'm sure it will now too!

HalloweenJack

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

As one is mine, I'll just give brief comments on why I voted for the ones I did:

Silent Night: I will admit I only voted for this story for it's ending. It was a beautiful way to finish the story and really catches the Christmas spirit of spending time with people you love. The overall story was a good idea and, as bluewolf mentioned, it could easily be expanded into something bigger.

Fairytale of New York: At the start, I thought it was a bit cliched but the ending was a very nice touch and it was a nice treatment of something that I'm sure we've all done.

The First Noel: I liked this because of the humourous twist at the end and I liked all the Biblical nods throughout.

Brian Lighthouse

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Thanks Das Kitty and The Pooka,
I see your point. I agree.

dockleaf

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

I voted for 1, 2 & 4, my favourite was 4-Fairytale of New York, lovely story, so prettily written.:)

echo beach

#8 - The First Noël

Eight is a nice number of entries. There are enough to provide variety but not so many that you can't read them in one or two sittings and make a decision. All of these were worth reading and congratulations to everybody who took part.

My favourite was Silent Night. I loved how the writer took the theme and developed a story around it. I agree with some other comments that it would have worked better as a longer piece but all the important detail was there. It painted a vivid picture of a wordless world by mentioning things like the tables for glasses and plates so guests could sign. I also enjoyed the ending.

I also voted for Fairytale of New York. The opening was especially strong with the image of the young girl and her father decorating the tree and his telling the same story each year.

I also enjoyed Walking in the Air. I did see the ending coming but I thought it was computer gamers rather than kids using their imagination and that perhaps nostalgic twist earned a vote.

pickarooney

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Silent Night and Fairytale of New York for me. Strong from start to finish and a cut above the other six.

Mr E

#7 - Walking in the Air

A great (and varied) set of stories, some stronger than others.

I've voted for my favourite three. I'll post my thoughts on Tuesday when the poll closes.

Mr E

#7 - Walking in the Air

Less than 24 hours left to vote!

The Pooka

Congrats to Das Kitty on her well-deserved win with a truly beautiful story

Thanks to everyone who took part - hoped it helped get you in the Christmas spirit at least a little!

Mr E

#7 - Walking in the Air

Well done, DK.... well deserved!

I voted for DK's (the best story), I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus (very funny and great imagination), and Little Drummer Boy (loved the dialogue).

Mine was Silent Night, and I'm humbled by the feedback. There was more story there that I had to cut out - it was very hard to keep under the word limit. I'm very seriously thinking of fleshing it out into something bigger - there is scope there for an interesting world and a meatier story.

Who knows? It could be my first book.

Brian Lighthouse

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Congratulations to Das Kitty, That was one great story. Touching and thought-provoking. Well done.
Mine was number 8 - The First Noel - I didn't think I did too badly for one draft and a quick edit. Pooka, will tell you I was right up against it. Thank you to the one person who voted for my story - it wasn't me. You are amazing. Happy Christmas.
A great bunch of stories, and well done to all.

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

You can see who voted for what by clicking on the number

Hrududu

#7 - Walking in the Air

Congrats Das Kitty!

And congrats to everyone else. I loved that there was such a variety of stories.

Fuzzytrooper

#6 - The Little Drummer Boy

Brian Lighthouse wrote: »

Congratulations to Das Kitty, That was one great story. Touching and thought-provoking. Well done.
Mine was number 8 - The First Noel - I didn't think I did too badly for one draft and a quick edit. Pooka, will tell you I was right up against it. Thank you to the one person who voted for my story - it wasn't me. You are amazing. Happy Christmas.
A great bunch of stories, and well done to all.

I know the feeloing. Most of mine was written in the last 30 mins leading up to the deadline. Still it was great motivation to get something down on oaper so to speak.

Das Kitty

#7 - Walking in the Air

Thanks folks! I'm chuffed at that considering the stiff competition.

I really don't think Winter Wonderland deserved to get no votes. The dialogue was excellent. Am I correct in assuming it's the real story behind the song?

Mr. E -- Maybe I picked up the ending of your story wrong. I thought the fact he could speak at the end meant that he put the kibosh on the brother spilling the beans. I thought he'd killed him tbh. Looking at some of the other feedback I think I was misreading. :pac:

Either way, makers of small tables will be going out of business left right and centre. :P

Mr E

#7 - Walking in the Air

Das Kitty wrote: »

Mr. E -- Maybe I picked up the ending of your story wrong. I thought the fact he could speak at the end meant that he put the kibosh on the brother spilling the beans. I thought he'd killed him tbh. Looking at some of the other feedback I think I was misreading.

The food at the party contained a cure, and everyone who ate food would have got their voice back that night. Not expositiony enough, it seems.

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Food???
I was thinking along DK's lines too ;s

echo beach

#8 - The First Noël

Mr E wrote: »

Mine was Silent Night, and I'm humbled by the feedback. There was more story there that I had to cut out - it was very hard to keep under the word limit. I'm very seriously thinking of fleshing it out into something bigger - there is scope there for an interesting world and a meatier story.

Who knows? It could be my first book.

I think there is the making of a book in that plot. A world where most people can't speak (there would have to be some exceptions because there are always some people resistant to any virus) would be very interesting. Where would the deaf community fit in? They might be an elite due to their head start with sign language.

Mr E wrote: »

The food at the party contained a cure, and everyone who ate food would have got their voice back that night. Not expositiony enough, it seems.

I figured that out. Maybe you need a certain devious kind of mind to see what was going on.:)

Congratulations to Das Kitty on a wonderful seasonal story that had everything. While it wouldn't make a full novel it could probably be expanded a bit.

I wrote no 2 and a big thanks to everybody who bothered to read it and to those who voted for it. Two more votes than I usually get in a VOAT.:)

Thanks to Pooka for doing the organising.

HalloweenJack

#5 - I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Congrats Das Kitty, it was a very moving story.