Story Excerpt

Santa Dash in Blue
by Pat Black

Santa was in the right place and the right time. Meaning: Santa, so you wouldn’t notice him. Big toy shop, large windows, a big name, very boutique, all the decorations and silver bells. A rich roast of red and green and gold. The biggest indoor tree in Glasgow stretched from the bottom of the escalators all the way to the atrium, with a giant gold star threatening to join the real ones on high. The tree had been sourced from a kingdom of fairy stories, with a castle in the background, maybe some wolves.

Santa looked the part and waved to the children and their parents, but he didn’t work there. The songs that everyone loves more the older they get were being played, but not too loudly, so as not to annoy the staff who had to endure them all day.

The atmosphere was, well, jolly. First big weekend in December. Busy.

He wore: well, the usual—red serge they called it—but not too heavy. Synthetic material, probably end up bobbled if it went up against anything else in a washing machine. Something a cat would pick at. White trim. The boots had been replaced by good black trainers. The beard was thick, white, and very firmly fixed to his face. The trainers and the big beard were the salient points.

This Santa had quick brown eyes, which was the only distinguishing feature anyone would remember about him.

Santa was in the shop with a wean, who turned out to be eight years old, a tumshie boy with a football strip half-tucked into grey fleecy trousers, no coat but a zip-up top—December in Glasgow, for Christ’s sake—and cheeks that spilled over his face. The boy had an unfortunate look about him—a slappable look, if you were honest—and given the place and the time and the jingle bells, he probably drew more attention than Santa. He was the sort of child you often saw yanked to one side in the shops and subject to punishment grooming from their mother. Abraded by hankies, wet wipes, and words.

Santa was pushing a trolley. In the trolley, piled almost to the level of his beard, and well above the head of the boy he was with, were all manner of toys. Some big-ticket stuff too. A doll’s house, emblazoned with the delighted faces of child models. Action figures in plastic bubbles, hips and shoulders squared. Dolls, fashion models, and superheroes. A gigantic horse with a glassy black eye threatened to break free from a stable. And much more.

Meanwhile, Santa’s sack dangled from a hook on the back of the metal trolley. It had something in it.

Sat in front of a screen in an office elsewhere in the mall, big Stevie clocked it right away. He zoomed in on Santa and the boy. But big Stevie did nothing apart from watch for the moment.

Santa said to the boy, “How about your big sister—what’s she into?”

“Dunno,” the boy said. “Just listens to playlists and moans about her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, eh?” Santa said, a trifle sharply. “Fourteen’s too young for boyfriends.”

“She’s eighteen,” the boy corrected him.

“Same difference. Right . . . maybe I’ll see what Mrs. Claus can do. She’ll have a better idea. How about you—what about a nice game for you?”

“Computer game?”

“Naw, I meant . . . a game. Battleships. Monopoly.”

“You just play them on yer phone, Santa.”

“Right. Maybe I should just take you to a phone shop.”

“Okay, but can I pick what phone I get?”

“The true spirit of Christmas, my boy, right there!” Santa boomed. He drew good-natured smiles from the other people browsing the toy emporium. Santa was quite loud. Performative, is what you might have said were you a cynic, and there were one or two to be found in that shop on that day, even at Christmas.

“Here—how about the Wolfman?” the boy said.

“The Wolfman? For Christmas? Okay. Why not?” Santa allowed the boy to pick up a twelve-inch action figure, a very detailed representation of a werewolf with a ripped plaid shirt and bloodstains on his teeth. His clawed hands were also bloodstained, but if those offended you, you could swap those for a clean pair, attached to the back card in clear blisters. Grinning, the boy slipped the carded container off the rail and laid it, after some deliberation, on a flat plane among the boxes.

Something occurred to the boy, then. Stevie saw it on the monitor, in his office, in close-up. “Hey! They do the Whale King in here!”

“Don’t think so,” Santa said, in more measured tones.

“Aye, they do! I saw it on the telly!” The boy leapt off his feet. “There were queues! They got a consignment! It was the first place in Glesga to get the Whale King!”

“Think they’ve sold out,” Santa mumbled.

“They’ve got an Animal Army floor! I saw it on the telly! Please, Santa. It won’t just be for me—it’ll be for my wee brother as well. We’ll share it. We can take half of this stuff back if you want. I just want the Whale King. Please, can I have the Whale King?”

“Okay,” Santa said, after a pause. “Maybe we can take a look before we go. Now let’s head over here, for a minute.”

Santa pushed the trolley, which by now resembled a tense game of Jenga thanks to all the boxes and packages piled up inside it, towards a quieter section of the shop. The green fire exit sign was clearly marked overhead.

About fifty yards away, close to a section where crowds of children watched homicidally fast mini monster trucks performing stunts on a mounted track, a big, broad security guard with a fresh young face blinked into operation, touching his headset.

“Enjoying the race?” big Stevie said, into his ear.

“Sorry, Stevie,” the guard mumbled. “Just keeping an eye on the young team, here.”

“Never mind that,” Stevie said. “Got a job for you. Western fire exit—head over there now, would you?”

“Western?” the guard said, panicking.

Stevie sighed. “Near the boys’ section, just down from the bikes. Where the soldiers are . . . Look, turn to your left. Not that much. Right. I mean, okay. Look straight ahead. You see that wee chunky boy with the trolley piled up to his eyebrows?”

The security guard in fact could not see the boy, and he peered closely at the trolley before clocking him. “Got him.”