Santa's Christmas Eve Blues: A Short Story Read online

  #

  Half an hour later, with his entire Christmas empire on the verge of collapse, Hans Gruber, still in his pyjamas, walked into Santa Claus’s sitting room. Santa was sitting in the same position as before, except now there was a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the table next to him.

  Gruber stood with his arms folded and surveyed this unfortunate scene, and was terribly disconcerted. However, just as he was about to speak, Santa caused him even greater distress by breaking into song:

  ‘I’m completely washed up, I’m all out of gas.

  This whole Christmas thing, is a pain in the…’

  ‘Enough with the blues, already!’ shouted Gruber, interrupting, waving his hands with a Germanic flourish. (Gruber’s family had left Bavaria in 1867.) ‘Enough with the blues, enough of this foolishness. You must put on your suit and deliver the presents. Accept your fate, Mr. Claus. The world is about capitalism and greed, that is what matters. You have created this monster, so do not pretend that it appalls you so. It is you who has fashioned this beast. You must do your duty or, for sure, the entire capitalist structure of the western world will collapse!’

  Santa hung his head down low and then, much to Gruber’s further consternation, he once more burst into song:

  ‘So what you’re sayin’ is,

  I make things worse.

  This is some kind of tragedy

  bein’ Santa’s a curse.

  That don’t make me happy,

  don’t make me impressed.

  It just makes miserable, gloomy,

  sad and depressed.

  And I’ve got the blues,

  yeah I’ve got the blues.

  I’ve got the blues,

  I’ve got the Christmas Eve blues.’

  By the time Santa had finished his lament, Gruber had already left the room. Santa hardly even noticed. He didn’t care about Hans Gruber. Nor, he had to sadly admit to himself, did he care about Christmas.

  #

  Shortly afterwards, Hans Gruber presided over the final ever board meeting of The Big Fat Father Christmas Corporation. He stood gloomily at the head of the long table, Henry F. Potter at his side, and miserably regarded the room full of frightened executives.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘we must not hyperbolise this terrible situation in which we currently find ourselves. Nevertheless, I do not think it too much of an exaggeration to say that Christmas will not be happening this year, that no children anywhere in the entire world will be getting presents – even the very few who have actually been good – that the entire infrastructure of the world’s capitalist economy will collapse, and that we will all die, penniless and alone.’

  To a man and woman, the board members looked ashen-faced. Someone swallowed, very loudly. A couple of them wondered if it was an appropriate time to start crying.

  ‘Obviously,’ continued Hans Gruber, ‘when I say that we will all die penniless and alone, I do not include myself. If I was a nation rather than an individual, I’d be the third richest country in Europe. Most of you, however, are now destitute and ruined. Your futures are hopeless. Content yourself, however, with this knowledge… You need not worry about me, I will be fine.’

  With these heartwarming words, Hans Gruber left the building and was soon being whisked away in his chauffer-driven Rolls Royce Silver Badger.

  Once he was gone, Henry F. Potter wondered if he should rally the troops with a stirring Shakespearean soliloquy, however he too had been taken by a sense of foreboding.

  The Board of Directors looked out the window at the snow falling softly over 5th Avenue and sadly packed up their things and prepared to go home. Christmas had been cancelled and life would never, ever be the same again.

  7

  Up in his penthouse apartment Santa finally laid down his guitar, stretched massively, took a last sip of hot chocolate, took a final look out at the beautiful falling snow, then went to the bathroom to clean his teeth.

  He felt old and tired and jaded. It was true that he had not lost the special magic which allowed him and the reindeer to deliver so many presents to so many children in one night, yet undoubtedly Christmas had lost its special magic for him. The days with his elves making wooden toys for appreciative children seemed so long ago.

  Another age. A golden age, when the world was full of promise. Now the world, and all the children in it, seemed as old and tired and jaded as he himself. Cynicism had swept across the land, bringing with it greed and conceit and narcissism. Santa belonged in a different world. Society had moved on, and it was time for Santa to let it go.

  He washed his face, changed into his pyjamas and walked into the bedroom. Christmas was over forever and, when he got up in the morning, he could decide what to do in the future instead. He had no idea what that would be, but he did know that it would not involve a red and white suit, a sleigh or any reindeer. And, as he stroked his beard, he wondered if perhaps it was time to shave it off. He couldn’t even remember the last occasion he’d seen his chin.

  Santa stopped. Sitting on his pillow was a small parcel, wrapped in red, silver and green paper. Santa felt a funny sensation tingling down his spine and, for the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of gloom and sadness lift from his shoulders. Someone had left him a present.

  This, in itself, was strange. It had been years since anyone had given Santa a present. People were happy to take from Santa, but no one ever thought to give him anything other than a small glass of milk, or a shot of whisky. Santa liked neither, and no one ever left him a mug of hot chocolate.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted the small package. He studied it, he shook it. It was a book. There was a little gift tag on it, handwritten with immaculate care.

  To Santa,

  Merry Christmas

  From your friends, the Elves

  Suddenly Santa felt warmer than a cup of hot chocolate. He looked around the room to see if any of the elves were there but his bedroom looked back at him, the same as it did every other night of the year. He wondered if the elves had been here earlier in the day, or whether they were lurking somewhere. They had always had the knack of surprising him.

  He slowly unwrapped the present. It was a small book with a hard cover. On the front was a picture of two children sitting at the foot of a wonderful and beautifully decorated Christmas tree, unwrapping presents. Their room was adorned in sparkling silvers and golds and there was a large roaring fire. The children were smiling and happy, with their mum and dad watching from the sofa, drinking mulled wine and remembering how wonderful it had been for them when they’d been children. And at the top of the picture was the title of the book: The Magic of Christmas.

  Santa felt a lump in his throat and looked round, but still there was no one there. He turned back to the book and slowly opened it up. Then he sat back and looked on in wonder, for this was no ordinary book. This was a book which delivered what it promised in the title.

  As soon as the book was open, the air was filled with the enchanting smells and sounds of Christmas, and his room, which he had steadfastly refused to decorate, suddenly began to fill with glorious sparkle and colour.

  Santa could feel the warmth of an open fire; he could smell cinnamon and spices and candles, roast turkey and the pine needles of a real tree; he could smell hot wine and chestnuts roasting, and the wonderful aroma of old Christmas decorations; he had the sweet taste of Christmas cake in his mouth, he could hear the laughter of children and the joyous ring of silver bells, and all around the room, beautiful decorations appeared, in green and red and gold; the fire in the hearth started burning brightly, and in the corner a wonderful tree appeared, the pine needles frosted white and covered in silver baubles and tinsel and small angels. It was as if the room had been infused with the distilled essence of Bing Crosby, and Santa suddenly felt warm and happy and really rather wonderful.

  And, as he sat with the book open on his lap, the joy of Christmas once more in his heart, he re
alised what he’d done and how the world would be deprived this night because of him. And suddenly he felt sad, for he had spurned so many of his visitors, he had been so consumed by his own Christmas Eve blues, that it was now too late to venture out into the snowy night. Even with his own incredible special magic, he would never be able to fulfill all his contractual obligations.

  And then, to his further astonishment, from behind the tree came four little figures in green. A huge smile came to Santa’s face.

  ‘Elves!’ he exclaimed, and the elves ran to him and they hugged him.

  It had been so long since he’d seen any of them, but they had not changed one bit in all those years.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Santa, ‘how wonderful! This is all your work?’

  ‘We’ve been practicing,’ said Dudley, the tallest elf. (Although even Dudley wasn’t very tall.)

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ said Santa, ‘but what am I to do? I’ve ruined Christmas!’

  ‘It’s not too late,’ said Dudley. ‘You still have the magic, don’t you? Santa’s special Christmas magic?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Santa.

  ‘Well,’ said Dudley, ‘come with us to the North Pole. We’ve been waiting for you all these years and we have enough presents for you to deliver to all the children.’

  Santa’s eyes lit up. The North Pole! It was going to be like the good old days.

  And so, as the executives of The Big Fat Father Christmas Corporation streamed dejectedly out into the cold night, Santa climbed once more into his red and white suit, checked his beard in the mirror for snowy-whiteness, then went to the shed on the roof of the building where the elves had already hooked up the reindeer to the sleigh. Santa and the four elves climbed in, the reindeer nodded amongst themselves, relieved that Christmas was indeed going to happen, and then they were on their way to the North Pole to collect the billions of presents that the elves had been accumulating through the years.

  ‘Won’t we be too late?’ said Santa, as the sleigh took off and sped through the night sky.

  ‘It’s never too late for Christmas!’ yelled Dudley, and the other elves cheered.

  Santa sat back. He was holding the reins to the sleigh, but the reindeer did not need any direction. They were going home. He felt happier than he had in many years, and as they flew through the sky, the cold ocean many miles below, Santa began to sing:

  ‘It’s a frosty night,

  All snowy and cold

  I’m delivering presents

  Before I get old

  I’m wearing my outfit,

  I’m driving my sleigh

  It’s going to be a wondrous, beautiful

  Magical Christmas Day!

  I ain’t got the blues

  No I ain’t got the blues

  I’m saying goodbye

  To the Christmas Eve blues.’

  #

  The next morning all the children of the world, even the ones who’d been naughty, received a host of presents, magically delivered by Santa Claus in a magical short period of time, early on Christmas morning. And instead of the presents they’d been used to receiving in recent years, the children were all given the types of toys and games that their parents and grandparents had been given. Wooden trains and blocks, hand crafted board games and dolls’ houses, whistles and sticks, puppets and castles. And every gift that was given was filled with the magic of Christmas, and every child who opened a present smelled cinnamon and spices, turkey and pine needles, they heard the ring of silver bells and the laughter of all the other children, and they all, every one of them, felt warmer than a cup of hot chocolate.

  ###

  More from Douglas Lindsay

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  “Great fun and daft as monkeys” —

  Stuart MacBride, #1 bestselling author of BIRTHDAYS FOR THE DEAD

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  A stark and edgy new police thriller from the creator of the Barney Thomson series.

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  Also by Douglas Lindsay

  Novels

  Lost in Juarez

  The Unburied Dead

  We Are The Hanged Man

  Barney Thomson series

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson

  The Barber Surgeon’s Hairshirt

  Murderers Anonymous

  The King Was In His Counting House

  The Last Fish Supper

  The Haunting of Barney Thomson

  The Final Cut

  Novellas

  The End of Days

  Short stories

  The Case Of The Glass Stained Widow

  Don’t Miss Out

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  Table of Contents

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  More from Douglas Lindsay

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson

  The Unburied Dead

  We Are The Hanged Man

  Also by Douglas Lindsay

  Don’t Miss Out