I was stood on the deck of my pride and joy, Icarus, fastidiously removing any trace of smear or smudge from the brass safety rail when Suzi dropped the question. I turned, unkinked the knots in my back that seemed to be growing more numerous with each passing winter, placed my hands on my hips and stared at the young woman who stood in front of me, fidgeting.
I’ve known Suzi Maloney since she was knee high. Her mum and dad were old friends of mine from way back. Jack’s been passed away some ten years now, so there’s just Suzi and her mum. Plus, Kendra, Suzi’s sweet little four-year-old bundle of energy and questions. You know the sort of stuff: “What you doing that for? How fast can your boat go? Have you fought pirates? Have you got any liquorice?”
Not the sort of thing that her mum had just asked.
The dark-haired twenty-something was worrying at the edge of the sleeve of her thick parka as I held her with my disapproving stare. I was hoping for an explanation. Instead, she just kept tugging away at a rogue thread that was trying to escape the frayed edge of her coat, her eyes studiously avoiding mine.
I eventually let out a deep sigh, my warm breath fogging in the frigid air. “Suzi?”
This time she indeed looked up and my heart ached as I saw the desperation in her dark eyes. “I said that I need to hire Icarus. Buster has a very important business deal. He needs somewhere private to carry it out.”
“I’ll bet he does,” I growled, and Suzi’s eyes suddenly shot away again. “What is it this time? Timeshares on the Algarve? Holiday homes in Mull?” Those were the usual things that darling Buster was usually pushing. Suzi’s latest paramour was one of those oily jerks who never quite stepped over the fine line of legality, but he definitely danced incredibly close, occasionally kicking a certain amount of sand on it to blur the edges. In the two months that he and Suzi had been dating, I had seen him leave a trail of disgruntled customers chewed up, spat out and empty of pocket with not a thing that they could do about it. He was certainly clever, I’d give him that, but he just stank of dishonesty and deceit.
I folded my arms and leant against my freshly polished safety rail, the cold harbour water lapping down below against the side of my yacht. “Tell me,” I asked, “why on earth do you go for these types? Is it the cars? The flash cash? Seriously, Suzi, didn’t you learn when Kendra’s dad skipped out on you when you were six months pregnant? Why can’t you get yourself a nice lad?”
“Buster is a nice lad,” she protested. “He looks after me. With this deal, he says we’ll be able to put thousands by for Kendra’s uni fund. Plus, we’ll be able to get her something sweet for Christmas, better than the usual tat that I can afford. Imagine the look on her face when she opens something worth having! Not like the battered second-hand garbage I got her last year.”
I shook my head. It was the same old story: the boys would let their eyes wander over Suzi, and they would like what they had seen, so they would get at her through her kid. Promising Kendra the world was guaranteed to make her mother more pliable than a ball of potter’s clay. “So, what’s he planning this time? What luxury property is he selling off now?”
Suzi’s young face suddenly brightened and she rummaged around in her handbag as Christmas shoppers wandered past on the quayside, chattering brightly about their seasonal purchases or otherfestive crap. “Oh, it’s nothing like that,” the young woman explained, handing over an envelope she pulled out the bottomless depths of her ridiculously large handbag. “Buster’s been able to sign a deal with a bank to let him sell bonds that they back.”
Even before I opened the envelope, Suzi could not have failed to see the utter disbelief on my face. I ripped the envelope open and yanked the piece of paper out from inside. “What the hell is this?” I breathed as my eyes scanned the most godawful piece of fraud that I had ever lain eyes upon. “Seriously, Suzi, have you even looked at this?”
And there, finally, was the flicker of doubt. It crossed her eyes like a gull skimming the prow of Icarus: brief, but definitely noticeable.
I pressed home my advantage.
“Banks don’t let other people sell their merchandise. They keep a very tight rein on those things. They’re not going to want to share the profits.”
“But Buster said…” Her voice drifted off.
“What? That it was a swell idea? That it would be the last scam he would have to pull?” I waved the A4 sheet in front of her. “Come on, Suzi. It’s time to wake up. He’s using you. You need to go to the police. There’s no way he’s doing anything remotely legal here.”
Suzi chewed her bottom lip and my heart sank.
It was a habit that I had seen before from her many times as a kid. Whenever she got caught doing something she knew to be wrong, the lip would get tugged and bitten as the guilt wormed away inside of her.
“Suzi, what is it?”
“Buster said that the bank needed an up-front payment to release the bonds into his business.” I groaned. “How much?”
“It… it was just fifty pounds. He said that it was a guarantee and would be paid back once we had sold the bonds for them. He said it was all above board.”
I turned the letter over in my hand. The thick paper and the cream, embossed envelope felt expensive. Obviously, Buster hadn’t wanted to stump up the cash himself this close to Christmas. Perhaps he was too busy saving up for a flash new car to park under his tree? “Did the money come direct from your bank account?”
She nodded.
There was no way that we could go to the police now.
“Okay, so this is what we do. We need to get him to back off. You tell him that everything should be fine here, but that I need to have a small chat with him over the fine details. Health and safety, you know? Can you do that, sweetie?”
Another silent nod.
“Good girl. Get him back here tonight at six. “I’ll sort this for you.”
I’ll sort this for you.
Those were the last words that I ever heard my old man say.
When I was still a kid of single digits, my Nana, Dad’s mum, lived with us. She was the oldest person that I knew. Her hair was pure white and incredibly thin, her skin wrinkled and she smelt funny. She stayed in bed all day, reading her bible and saying her rosary. I once asked her why she did this and she said that she had nothing else to do at her age, so she might as well make sure that she was right with God when he came for her.
Then, one winter, she fell ill. Seriously ill.
Her skin turned a pale grey and her jaw became slack, dribble running from the edge of her lips. She could hardly talk and obviously my dad was worried.
It was the day before Christmas and there had been a hell of a snow storm the night before. We lived out in the countryside, miles from nowhere. It was one of the perks of Dad being the senior partner in the town’s largest legal practice. However, it meant that our nearest neighbour was only vaguely visible over on the next hill. The phone was out due to the heavy snow having brought down the lines, so we could not call for a doctor or an ambulance. Dad decided that he had to go into town and get help for his mother, so he pulled on his warmest clothes and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Bending over, kissing her softly on the forehead, he whispered the same words that I would say to a desperate young mother sixty years later.
Then he turned, left the house, drove off in the car and I never saw him again.
He was found dead in a frozen ditch the next day. Christmas Day.
Not only that, but an hour or so after he left the house, there was an almighty scream from Nana’s room. Mum and I hurried up the stairs. I was smaller, faster, so I got their first. What I saw would haunt me for the rest of my life. The elderly woman who had been quietly making peace with her maker was sat upright against the quilted headboard of the bed, her arm stretched out with her fingers splayed wide. Her dead face was set in an horrific, contorted scream of terror.
So, no, I’m not a big fan of the festive season. Whether it brings credit card debt or family anguish, Christmas sucks.
Six o’clock and Suzi arrived dead on the dot with dear old Buster. Suzi’s latest is one of those who has a wide, insincere smile permanently fixed to his orange face. The guy is just awash with teeth, bronzer and expensive cologne. Hell, it was almost Christmas and he looked like he was partying in Bermuda!
“Well, hi there, Harry!” he grinned, his snake eyes not once leaving me. “I believe you’ve agreed to host my little shindig.”
I stroked my rough beard with my gnarled fingers. “About that. Not happening.”
There was the slight hint of surprise in the corner of his eyes, but still that damned smile did not flicker. “Oh? And why would that be? It’ll be a great evening, so much fun.”
“No, Buster,” even saying the stupid name made me feel nauseous, “what will be fun is if you get all your shit together and just get the hell out of here. You’re a fraud and this time you’ve gone too far. How dare you use Suzi like this?”
He chuckled to himself. “Well now, Harry, I don’t see why I should follow you up on your advice.”
“You know who I am. You know who my father was. People respect me, people who matter. You may be able to twist and manipulate the facts to keep you out of legal trouble, but I can make it so that life here is extremely uncomfortable for you.”
There was a pause, then Buster took one step closer to me, his bright blue eyes fixed on my face. “Do you know what’s uncomfortable, Harry? I’ll tell you what’s uncomfortable. Feeling me chowing down on your soul, that’s what.”
Well, this conversation had just taken an unexpected twist.
Buster nodded. “Mmmm… yes, there we go. That sense of unexpected doubt and fear. Delicious. Now, for the last few years I’ve been dining mainly on greed. The modern society are so hard to scare these days, what with their precious internet and darling television. They just don’t get me and my old kind anymore. No, but they get greed and, once it’s been stoked up in them, I’ll quite happily slurp away all that bitter brew.
“But fear… Now fear is something else. It slips off the plate in waves, so sweet, so moist.” His tongue slid across his thick lips which seemed more engorged than they had been just a moment ago. “Yesss… so sweet. It really hits the spot. Just like it did when I appeared to your dear old Nana. I walked up to the side of her bed and peered deep into her frail eyes. Do you know what she saw in mine?
“Nothing.”
“All that reading. All those prayers as those stupid beads clicked away. All for nothing.”
He licked his lips once more and this time there was no mistaking just how plump his fat lips had become. What’s more, his tongue had changed colour from pink to a dark purple. It seemed to snake around his bright, white teeth.
Buster chuckled again, but this time it was more of a sibilant hiss. “Oh, yes. There’s the good stuff. I can smell it all over you. You reek of it. It makes me so hungry…” And, with that, his tongue shot out of his mouth and lashed itself around my neck. I gagged and fell to my knees, my old hands trying desperately to unwrap the muscular noose, but it was wet and slippery so my fingers could gain no purchase. Buster continued to chuckle in his weird sibilant hiss. His eyes faded from blue to orange and I was aware of a green mist beginning to permeate from his tanned skin.
I was also aware of Suzi behind him. She had reached into that abyssal handbag of hers and damn me for lying if she didn’t draw out a knife. I couldn’t tell what sort it was as my vision began to blur, but I could see the sharp blade glint against the twinkling fairy lights of the festively decorated quay.
I reached out towards her as she drew the weapon up and tried to cry out that this was not a good idea, but my words failed as the blade arced down into the meaty shoulder of boyfriend Buster, or whatever the hell he was.
There was a blinding flash and I was aware of a powerful force crumpling me down onto the deck as the tongue released its grip around my neck. I was also aware of a woman’s scream and the sound of Suzi careering over the safety rail into the frigid wintry waters.
I forced my old body to take control of itself and dragged myself past where Buster had once stood. I hauled myself up against the railings and peered down into the black depths. I could not see her. She must have fallen like a stone and plummeted downwards, taking in water as she fell.
I thought about her four-year-old daughter sat at home waiting for her mother to return and I cursed Christmas even more.
Lancaster’s master of the macabre is well known for marking his home town’s place on the horror map of the United Kingdom. His Sam Spallucci books, with their quirky blend of urban fantasy, film noir and dry humour, have gained a cult following over the last few years with fans journeying from around the country to see where reality meets an ever expanding universe of vampires, werewolves, angels and a plethora of other supernatural characters.
For Christmas Takeover, Thomas R. Clark has given us the first three chapters of his story, All I Want for Christmas: A Tale of Holiday Horror, which can be found on Amazon.
And don’t forget that his book, Good Boy, is available for order today.
A mysterious, foul-mouthed Santa offers Christmas wishes, but at what price?
“Nick? You’re playing some fucking joke, right? I mean what are the odds of this happening?” Bob Clark, manager of the Great Ontario Mall said to the elderly man in a Santa Claus outfit sitting before him. This guy was on point with the familiar red suit, complete with white and black trimmings. Oh, and the classic Santa hat. He even went as far as to wear the round-lensed spectacles. He was good. “Let me guess, you changed your name to Nick when you grew that beard out and started playing Santa?” He watched the old man shake his head.
“Nope,” the applicant said. “It’s always been my name. Nick Samuel. You do know Nick is a common fucking name, right? It shouldn’t surprise the shit out of you or anyone else.”
“It’s ironic, that’s all I’m saying.” Bob opted for damage control, so they could get on with the process. He wasn’t sure if he trusted this creepy old dude. “So I assume you’re interested in becoming our Holiday-”
“Yes,” Nick interjected, “I fucking accept. I’d like to be your holiday Santa.”
“Hold on a minute, Nick. I didn’t say you had the job.” The old man released a jolly chuckle of ho’s in response. Bob cut back in, “What’s so funny.”
“What? The ho-ho-hoing? I’m Santa, it’s what I fucking do. And, we saw you were looking for Santa’s Helpers, too.”
“We?” Bob raised an eyebrow.
“I have my own assistants. We’re the remedy to your situation.” The old man made a fist with each of his black-gloved hands and pointed his thumbs behind him. A pair of sultry women stepped out from behind Nick. Bob wondered where they came from. The last he checked, only Nick here in his Santa suit entered his office. These women manifested from out of nowhere. The pair stood at Mr. Samuel’s left and right. “These are my elves, Lily and Aggie!” The women curtsied on cue and handed Bob their resumes. He reached across his desk and took them, nodding as he did.
Bob was forced to admit, this was convenient. It would save him time and headaches. His former Santa, Kenny Saint-Claire, used his daughters as his helpers for years. But they grew up and moved out of town and Ken got caught groping one of the replacement Elves last year. It was quite the scandal for a small city like Fenton. Now Ken was fired and Bob needed a new Santa.
“Well, Bob? What do you say? Is it a deal?” the old man’s tone startled Bob. It was almost rehearsed, wooden, as if Nick were playing a role, not that of Santa, but of Nick Samuel. Bob fumbled with the resumes in his hand.
“Yes, that’s nice. Do you have references?” Bob forced out to regain control of the interview.
“We’re not from around here, as you probably guessed. We only come through this way every so many years. Last year I was in Auburn at another dying mall. They had the busiest season since their catalog anchors left. But, of course, I have references! Elves, do we have references?”
“Yes we do, Santa,” the women replied in unison.
“But Bob here, he doesn’t need to check them, does he.” He wasn’t asking them a question.
“That’s right, Santa, Bob doesn’t need to check our references. We’re all set.”
“I don’t need to check your references. You’re all set,” Bob said. He felt a warmth in his groin and was surprised to find his dick was getting hard looking at Santa’s helpers. This was an odd one. Bob was gay, and for the first time in his life since coming out, he questioned his sexuality, “You start next week, on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving.”
“Excellent, Mr. Clark. It’s a pleasure doing business with you. Now, one thing, for insurance purposes, all the parents must sign a waiver in order for their children to sit on my lap. It protects me, protects them. You know how it is.” This was something Bob hadn’t considered. Nick was right.
“Damn, I don’t have one. I can draw a form up-”
“No, no need to do that. I have forms they can sign. It comes with being a freelance Santa.”
“Oh, okay, Mr. Samuel.”
“Call me Nick. Old Nick is what my friends call me.”
“Old Nick it is,” Bob corrected himself.
“So what would you want for Christmas, Bob?
“I wish for this Mall to have a successful, record-breaking shopping season.”
“Amen to that, Bob. Amen to that,” Old Nick said, before breaking back into a low series of ho-ho belly rolls…
2
Mike Lombardo stood in the reception line at Steve’s funeral, trying to think about everything but his brother dying. It was difficult to do, to keep his mind blank, with the constant stream of mourners shaking hands, hugging or just nodding. Mike and his wife stood with his sister-in-law and mother. The line of people coming to pay their respects was a nonstop train all day. It was finally beginning to abate some, much to Mike’s relief.
Mike hated funerals, but he hated cancer more. The shit ran in the Lombardo family, rotting the men from the inside. First their father, John, and now Steve. Mike didn’t know what killed Grampa Lombardo over in Italy, but he was confident ass cancer ate him, too. Mike’s older brother came clean about how sick he was just after New Year’s, and he didn’t make it to fucking Thanksgiving. Mike didn’t feel sick. His brother hadn’t, either. But fear of a positive diagnosis prevented him from going to a doctor.
A man Mike didn’t know was approaching the line. He looked familiar, but Mike wasn’t sure. Elderly with a white beard, and accompanied by a pair of lovely, albeit much younger women- one blonde, one red-headed. Both were painted into skin-tight black mini-dresses. And as cute as those women were, this was his cue to leave.
He felt the urge to pee come on. Mike knew his bladder and feared pissing his suit pants. He excused himself and made haste to the restroom, avoiding making eye contact with anyone who might wish to stop him and make conversation. Lombardo nodded to them, mouthed the words ‘Thank you’ in a nearly inaudible whisper, and ran off.
Mike made it to the urinal in record time, dripping while in the act of unbuttoning his pants. His dick was hard, for some reason. It was odd. He wondered why he would be sporting a woody at his brother’s funeral. It made pissing and directing the stream all the more difficult. The relief of finally breaking the seal was euphoric. Much like the last ten months of Steve Lombardo’s life.
The brothers shared a bucket list year. From concerts, finally seeing KISS, their favorite band, together. A trip to the State Fair, camping at the State Park. A trip to Atlantic City where they lost more than they won. They scoured garage sales, buying toys they owned as boys growing up. Their best picks?
The Shogun Warriors they got for Christmas when Steve was five, and Mike was four. This Christmas in particular stuck with Mike. Though he was young, he remembered it clearly to this day, playing with his brother with those giant robots, nearly as tall as they were. So when Steve insisted on being buried with the Shogun, Mike didn’t find it to be odd.
“They say you can’t take it with you. Well, I say fuck them, whoever the fuck they may be! If it’s what damned me, then it’s coming with me. Fuck ‘em!” Steve told him at Halloween. His wife balked at the notion. Earlier today, Mike handed the mortician a hundred dollar bill, and he slid the Shogun Warrior into the bottom of Steve’s casket. It was there now, resting next to his legs.
Mike left the lavatory and found his way back to the reception line. It was empty, for the first time today. He saw his son, five-year-old, Brian, standing by the photo board. It was covered in pictures of Steve, from his time in diapers up to the concert back in August. Brian was focused on a single picture, looking at it with curious nods of his head. Mike went to his son’s side.
The Polaroid printed picture was from the Great Ontario Mall about forty years ago. Mike and Steve were sitting on Santa’s lap. The eyes of all captured in the picture glowed a demonic red from the reflection of the cheap camera used. Christmas 1978. The year they got the Shogun Warriors. Mike remembered this picture and the day it was taken as if it were yesterday.
“Hey, son. That was your uncle Steve and me when we were your age.”
“Why is one blurry?” Brian asked, pointing to Steve, sitting on Santa’s knee. His image was a blur. His face, his hands, all clouded up. You could tell someone was in the picture, but who they were, you couldn’t tell. Mike only knew it was Steve because he knew the picture. He pulled the picture off the poster board and put it in his pocket.
“Come on, let’s go stand over here with Mommy and Gramma and say hello to people coming to say goodbye to Uncle Steve.”
“Okay, Daddy.” The little boy took his father’s hand, and the duo joined their family in the reception line…
3
Snow assaulted Fenton, New York on Black Friday. A freak lake effect storm with a below-freezing wind chill struck from the north of Canada. The snow was dropping an inch an hour on the Ontario shoreline city. Visibility was next to nothing. But that didn’t stop the regional shoppers from filling the parking lot of the Great Ontario Mall with their cars, trucks, and vans. If this were an indication of the shopping season to come, the mall was in store for a record year.
Retailers within the complex’s walls were holding incredible sales, drawing out the local residents. The mall was alive with activity, including the seasonal debut of Santa Claus and his helpers, taking Christmas wishes from the young brave enough to sit on Santa’s lap and have their picture taken.
Lines of traffic, headlights burning white circles into the falling snow, circled the building. Stuck in this jam, trapped in their Chevy Cruze, Mike and Lexie Lombardo waited patiently. Their son was sound asleep in his car seat. They were doing this for him, taking him to see Santa on the day he appeared at the mall.
For weeks little Brian had looked forward to this event. The little boy nagged his mother until she made a treat to bring Santa. Sugar cookies covered in green sprinkles. And yes, they brought enough to share with Santa’s helpers. After all, the elves were important, too! They made the toys.
The only positive thing? There were so many cars in line, the snow wasn’t covering the road. It was covering the cars, instead. The wipers of the Cruze pushed piling snow off the windshield. It was falling fast enough to cover the hood, the hot engine melting patterns in the accumulations. The farting sound of rubber squee-geeing across glass filled the car.
“Can you turn the wipers off? That sound is driving me up a wall.” Lexie asked her husband.
“I wish. The snow is falling too fast. I can’t believe this weather, Lexie.”
“Remind me again why we came out in it.” She said, rubbing her hands together.
“For Brian. To see Santa and give the jolly old elf some cookies and a Christmas wish-list.”
An hour and another inch of snow later, they found parking. Once inside the mall, the congestion wasn’t any better. Sure, there was no snow, but the heat of the mall combined with the heat of the bodies in the mall made for tropical conditions. Mike was sweating his balls off, beads of it poured down his forehead and neck. Lexie was flushed, her ponytail dripping in her own perspiration. But little Brian was a smiling bundle of joy.
The boy was here to see Santa and tell the legend what he wanted for Christmas. He was a good boy all year, so no coal in his stocking. He gave zero fucks about the temperature. He cared even less about the line to see Santa, which curled through the mall and moved at a snail’s pace.
He stood there, holding a bag of snacks for Santa in one hand, and his mother’s hand in the other, being…
Good.
With all the stress of the moment and location, Mike and Lexie had to admit their son was not a contribution to the trouble. The little things in life were working in their favor here. All of this made enduring the experience tolerable. As did Santa’s helpers.
Mike noticed the scantily clad beauties as soon as they rounded the bend. Santa was smack dab in the middle of a fake Christmas Village, but these ladies were shifting duties. And they looked familiar, as did the Santa. One blonde and one redhead. The sight of them made him forget about how uncomfortable he was standing in this line. Now the only thing uncomfortable was the unexplained boner Mike was popping in his jeans.
He put his arm around his wife. She reciprocated, dropped her hand and squeezed his ass. He never expected this from her in the mall, the sign she was horny. Maybe being drenched in sweat after being stuck in traffic during a whiteout of snow was a turn on. If it paid off, they’d have to do it again.
Another hour passed before they got near enough to the front of the line to fill out the paperwork for the pictures. They wouldn’t want anything more than the one complimentary shot, but there were still release forms and whatnot requiring signatures. It seemed like too much of a big to-do over something as simple as pictures with Santa.
“What’s up with all of this paperwork?” Mike asked the redheaded elf. Her name badge said ‘Aggie’.
“Legal mumbo jumbo. It’s the Twenty-First Century. Santa can’t afford any legal trouble, handsome.” She wiggled her eyebrows and shook her tits. Jingle bells hung off her tight sweater. They jingled and jangled as a result.
“Jesus, it’s like I’m taking a test. I’ve filled out auto loans and mortgages with less paperwork.”
“You can just flip through and sign at the ‘X’ on the bottom of each page if that will make it easier for you,” she suggested. He hesitated.
“But, what if we’re giving you permission to sell our child into slavery?” Aggie laughed out loud.
“With some parents, you’d think they wished for that. But no. It’s worse. You’re signing his soul away.” Mike shot Aggie an inquisitive eye. “Isn’t that what remote tribes of people think when you take their photograph, that you’re stealing their soul?”
“I forgot about- ” Mike started.
“Just do it, honey,” Lexie interjected. And Mike did, signing his name at the ‘X’ on a dozen more pages.
Fifteen minutes later Lexie handed little Brian off to Lily the Elf. A shit-eating grin covering the boy’s face with his eyes as wide open as they could go. A half dozen steps later, he found himself sitting on Santa’s lap.
“Hello Brian,” Santa said, following the boy’s name with a jolly roll of ho’s. “That’s a keen name!”
“This is for you and your helpers!” Brian handed Santa the bag of cookies.
“Oh isn’t this nice! Thank you very much, Brian. Lilly, could you take these and put them with our snacks for tonight?” The blonde Elf shimmied over to Santa and took the bag of goodies.
“I hope you like them!”
“What is your Christmas wish, young man?”
“My Christmas wish is for a puppy! I want a puppy for Christmas, Santa. I’ve been a good boy! My Christmas wish is a puppy! That’s it, nothing more!” Mike and Lexie heard their son. They looked at each other, sadness in their eyes.
“Well, that’s an easy one, Brian. It’s something Santa can handle. You keep being good until Christmas Eve.”
“I will, Santa. You know I will!”
“Okay, Brian. Look at the camera and say ‘Amen’ with Santa on three!” Lily the Elf said. “One… two… three… Amen!” Brian laughed as he repeated the words with Santa. Lilly snapped the photo and the flash lit up the Holiday set. The digital print captured the moment. Aggie handed it to Lexie. Brian took his father’s hand.
“I asked Santa for a puppy. Not a toy puppy but a real dog. Do you think he can swing it? He said he would! He said all Christmas wishes come true for good little boys, amen.” Brian eagerly spewed words out to his mother and father. They looked at Santa.
“I don’t know about that one, sport. We’ll see,” Mike replied.
“But Santa said my wish would come true if I was a good boy! And I’ve been a good boy, I’ve been the best boy, ever!” The tone of voice was downtrodden and dejected.
“Is there a problem with the boy getting a pet?” Santa asked.
Mike looked at Lexie.
“We live in a rental. The landlord has a strict rule. No pets,” Lexie told Santa. She held Santa’s gloved hand. He was strict about it. Not even a hamster in a ball or a goldfish in a bowl, ”I wish I could do something to change it for him.”
“Stranger things have happened. Amen.” Santa said, grasping Lexie’s hand with both of his.
“Yeah, whatever. Amen and all of that stuff. Merry Christmas, Santa.”
“Merry Christmas to all of you in the Lombardo family.”
Mike shook his head in denial. He hated disappointing Brian. Lexie hugged her husband and hung her head so Brian couldn’t see her face. Mike held her tight for another moment. Then, the three of them walked away from Santa and his helpers at the Great Ontario Mall.
Thomas R Clark is a musician, writer and podcast producer & engineer. His podcasts, including the popular Necrocasticon, can be heard on the Project Entertainment Network. He is the author of the novellas Bella’s Boys and Good Boy, published through Stitched Smile Publications. You can find Tom’s short story collection, A Book of Light & Shadow, on Amazon through his personal imprint, Nightswan Press. Tom lives in Central New York with his wife and a trio of Jack Russell terrier companions.
“Well I suppose, ’tis the season and all that crap, but they are the best at what they do. Keep trying.”
“Yea, yea I will,” John said, “but are you sure they can help me with this?”
“Look, they’re fantastic, and will advise you how to do it right the first time, and if you don’t think you can pull it off on your own, they’re more than happy to come and assist you.”
John reached for his phone and dialed the number again.
“It’s ringing.”
I’m sorry, due to a higher than normal volume of calls all our agents are busy. Please remain on the line and an agent will be with you shortly. The annoying robotic voice squaked at John.
“It’s a recording, I’m on hold.”
“Stay on the line, you don’t want to lose your spot in the queue.”
John laid the phone down and put it on speaker and Burl Ives sounding like he was stuck in a tin can began singing Holly Jolly Christmas.
“Can’t you help me with this Ted?”
“I can’t, you know that. They have a license for this and I don’t.”
It’s a holly jolly Chris…
“It’s ringing again.”
“Merry Christmas, Suicide Hotline.”
Steve Thompson is the author of two short and flash fiction collections. You can check out his 2 latest short stories “Kill Point Club” in the anthology When the Clock Strikes 13 from his In Your Face Publishing that he started in June 2019 and “Malignant” which he co-wrote with Kenneth W. Cain which is in the Shallow Waters 2 flash fiction anthology by Crystal Lake Publishing.
The sun blazed in the sky on the first day of summer vacation and Bobby stared at the clouds as they migrated across the perfect azure canvas above them. She and her best friend Joe sprawled in the grass of Bobby’s backyard, the way kids with a long summer ahead of them do.
“What do you want to do today?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m bored.”
She sat up and laughed. “If we’re bored, it’s because we’re being boring.”
Joe wrinkled his nose at her in disdain and smirked. “Where did you hear that knowledge gem?”
“My mother always says it to me when I tell her I’m bored.”
Joe shook his head and returned his attention once more to the Rorschach clouds. He tucked his hands behind his head and sighed. “Bored.”
Bobby nudged her friend’s worn sneaker. “So let’s find something to do.”
“And if we can’t find anything to do?”
She pulled out a clumb of grass and threw it at him. “I dunno. We’ll make it up as we go.”
He shrugged and sat up to face her, brushing the grass from his shirt. “Fine. What did you have in mind?”
Bobby pointed toward the dense woods behind her house and grinned. “Let’s go exploring. I heard there was an abandoned house in there. Do you want to see if we can find it? Maybe find a ghost, too?”
Joe paused as he considered her proposal. At last, he nodded. “We’ll need flashlights.”
They gathered supplies from the house, careful to pack their snacks toward the top of their backpacks for easy access. Each of them carried a notebook and pencil to facilitate note-taking, and they each carried a flashlight.
As they made their way through the barrier of underbrush surrounding Bobby’s backyard, her mother poked her head out the back door.
“Hey! Where are you two going?”
“Exploring!” Bobby called back.
“Be careful, and be home by dinner!”
“I will, Mom!”
Bobby and Joe continued on their way through the bushes. The pair winced as blackberry brambles and wild rose thorns scratched their bare arms and legs. After a few yards, the thorns thinned and cleared, and they found themselves in the thick of the old forest.
They crunched through layers of dead leaves for several yards, then Bobby paused. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a piece of bright yellow string. As she tied it around a tree branch, Joe watched her.
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.
“So we can find our way back,” Bobby explained. “I brought a decent supply of string, but once we run out, we should head back to the house.”
He nodded. “Good idea.”
“Better than breadcrumbs, right?” she said with a wink.
The pair explored the woods for the majority of the afternoon. They took copious notes about the forest, the stream they discovered, and the animals they encountered.
When they had used all of their string and the sky had turned a shade of twilight indicative of dinnertime, they looked to one another wearily.
“I guess that’s it for today.”
“We can come back tomorrow and pick up where we left off.” Joe indicated the trail of yellow knots dotting the path they had left behind them.
Bobby smiled. “Yeah, I guess. For now, let’s get home and eat. I’m starving.”
As they turned to head back, Joe grabbed her arm. Bobby stared at his hand and looked to him, readying a sarcastic remark when she noticed the expression on his face. His eyes were wide, staring. He pointed with his other hand and she followed his gaze.
She hadn’t noticed the clearing before. She could have sworn there had only been a new-growth forest of saplings and underbrush in the spot when they had come through earlier. Now, a ramshackle house leaned into the space.
“Do you see it, too?” Joe whispered.
Bobby nodded. “Yeah. How did we miss it?”
“It wasn’t there. That’s how we missed it.”
She started toward the house and Joe pulled on her wrist, holding her back.
“What are you doing?” Joe hissed.
“Gonna go check it out, duh.”
“You said it was haunted.”
She looked at him and crossed her fingers. “Here’s hoping!”
She shook him off and started to sprint toward the house. Joe shouted behind her and ran to catch up.
“Bobby, stop!”
She paused at the steps to the rotting porch. Her stomach gave a lurch and the hair on her arms prickled. She tried to see into the old house, but the light was fading. She turned on her flashlight and shone it into the broken glass of the front entryway but the shadows beyond hid the interior.
“Bobby, don’t go in there. It looks dangerous,” Joe panted as he caught up to her.
She stared hard into the gaping darkness, then at the sloping roofline and warped wooden slats of the porch. Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yeah. You’re probably right. We’ll come back tomorrow when it’s daytime and check the place out.”
They followed the strings back to Bobby’s house and realized they had not gone nearly as far into the woods as they had thought. They had only gone three houses over, in fact. When they looked back, the house was obscured by underbrush and trees in the gloom.
Bobby’s mother waited for them on the back porch. She smiled and waved as they climbed back through the blackberry brambles and emerged sweaty and coated in forest dust.
“What have you two been up to?” she asked. “Nothing dangerous, I hope.”
“We looked for the haunted house in the woods,” Bobby began.
“But we didn’t go in!” Joe finished.
“Haunted house in the woods, huh?” Bobby’s mother chuckled. “I’m glad you didn’t go in. Haunted houses are no place for explorers.” She ushered the friends inside the house. “There is no haunted house in the woods. Kids have talked about that thing since I was young.”
“Did anyone ever find it?” Joe asked as he washed his hands for dinner. He gave Bobby a sidelong glance.
Bobby’s mother shook her head. “There used to be an old barn, back when the land around here was a farm and there were no trees. It fell in years ago and the owners of the property took the wood and stones to recycle on other projects.”
“But we found the house,” Joe said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Bobby nudged Joe. “We wasted a day looking for something that wasn’t there.”
Her mother pointed to the notebooks. “Wasted? Look at everything you’ve done today, and all the things you’ve explored! You both had quite an adventure!”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, Mom. Thanks!”
“Sure, honey.” Bobby’s mother looked at them, becoming serious. “And if you do find a house in those woods, come get me. I want to see this thing, too.”
Bobby and Joe looked at one another over their dinners. Tomorrow they would explore the house that wasn’t there.
The End
Suzanne Madron is originally from the Bronx, NY, but grew up in northeastern Pennsylvania. Yes, the woodsy part. No, the other woodsy part. No, not the one with the pterodactyl sightings, the other one with the re-enactors.
When not writing horror, Suzanne writes hard-boiled noir and speculative fiction under the pseudonym James Glass and post apocalyptic stories under the name Xircon. Currently she lives on a battlefield with her husband and son in the less woodsy part of Pennsylvania. Yes, her house is most likely haunted.
The 2007 Ford sedan had been reupholstered, retouched, retuned. Every stained and sullied part of it cleaned, mended, replaced. Disinfected, neutralised. Purged. That was the word. The interior of the car had been purged. The way fire burns disease, erases plague. The way any smaller-scale atrocity gets itself denied: written over, glossed over, the facts whispered into the ground until the earth swallows it whole. It’s an evil thing, how eager people are to forget. The lengths they’ll go: atrocities in themselves.
Still, the car was as innocent as any blood-stained patch of earth, as blameless as the grass that grows there after. It was just a car, no matter what had happened inside of it. Engine, wheels, seats. A mode of transport free of sentience. It wasn’t the car’s fault it had been stolen. It wasn’t the car’s fault it had been used in a crime. A murder. The taking of a life. Not its fault—the mess inside. The lawyer-friend who helped Jake get the car back had warned him about that last part.
‘It’s a… mess. Inside. I’d advise you get it cleaned first. The Police can send it on for you. They know the right cleaning companies for this kind of job.’
The car had spent a year in Police custody before it was returned, enduring all the evidence-gathering and forensics-sweeping and months of aimless waiting. Because this is how inanimate objects are questioned, interrogated. How their confessions are extracted. The cops even used those words: in custody. And Jake imagined his car jailed in a locked yard, saw the ‘holding cell,’ its ‘isolation block.’ High metal-mesh fences complete with barbed wire, security guys swaggering around the perimeter with radios on their hips, batons holstered to their belts.
It was in Police custody. But now you can take it back.
Take it back. Like a jailbird relative in need of a fresh start.
Take it back.
Complete with new secrets and veiled histories. Ordeals, which it would never divulge.
Sullied. Then purged. Then returned.
You’re lucky, Jake had been told. You’re lucky you’re even getting it back at all.
It was in Police custody. Take it back. You’re lucky.
Don’t you know.
“Here it is! Good as new.”
The floor manager for SafeClean lead Jake across the lot to where the car stood waiting. His tone was jocular; proud. The Ford gleamed under the late-afternoon sun; a blank shell of spotless glass and rust-free metal. Pale blue, opalescent sheen. Reborn, almost. There was something terrible about the fact that it looked better now than it had before. Jake hardly recognised it—saw it as a stranger in that moment. The Ford was a gift from his father when he turned eighteen—an outdated heap even back then, but one with a steady frame and a solid engine. Also: it was the only true gesture his father had ever shown him. Something of value, something that had cost him. From his blank-eyed, still-mouthed father: a man who shared nothing he didn’t truly mean. Jake had never been worthy of this car. No wonder it’d allowed itself to be stolen. No wonder it had wanted to get away from him. The way a runaway kid falls in with the wrong crowd.
Here it is.
Good as new.
It not She. An unspoken understanding, between Jake and the SafeClean manager, that it would be callous to speak sentimentally about this car. Insensitive. Wrong.
“We had to do… a lot,” the manager said.
“I can imagine.”
No you can’t.
“Some stains were all the way in the front passenger seat. So in the end we just ripped that all out. It’s basically a brand new chair, except for the frame.” The manager smiled, something in his expression rich with pride.
Even a horrendous job can be well done, Jake thought. And why not? There had to be something satisfying in taking out blood stains, repairing criminal damage. Getting things back to ‘normal’ in the wake of the unthinkable. A symbolic way of righting the wrongs.
The mess inside.
“I appreciate the work,” Jake said.
“Our pleasure,” said the manager. “It’s all yours.”
It not she.
Let it be it. Let it just be it.
It’s just a car. It’s just a car.
And Jake took back his keys.
It was late afternoon on a summer Saturday when he left the lot, the day’s heat melting down to a cool caramel evening. Tangerine and peach tones layered the sky, mellowing the light, reflecting off the mirrors and glass storefront windows, the glazed surfaces of downtown commerce. He dropped the visor against the glare. For a moment red flared through his eyes; the sudden switch from bright to dim.
I’m blind, he thought.
But then his eyes adjusted, and he could see again.
It was three weeks to Christmas, and the southern hemisphere was strangling itself with faux winter cheer. It might be summer across half the planet, but the northern hemisphere tells the world what’s what, and the dictate stood that ‘Christmas’ means ‘winter’. Every section of the city was agonised by the farce. White spray paint flecked onto glass panes to look like frost. Mistletoe stickers blistered on storefront windows, warping in the heat. Shopping mall Santas sweltered in thick red suits, their cottonwool beards damp with sweat. The Christmas specials jingling out on Jake’s TV were all about magical reindeer and mittened kids, while outside a hot wind swirled baked dust across his balcony. The evenings were cool, though, and the Christmas lights came up pretty against the balmy night skies. It was already moving into a pleasant evening, with all that warm air lifting in the breeze. Jake rolled his window down. He breathed it in. The taste was like the scorched tar rolling beneath his wheels, like the wide-open flowers that grew on the hills.
Here it is! Good as new.
It not She.
Jake had never been the Christmas type. Too cynical for the happy-family falseness, the goodwill obligations. The glittery veneer layered over gritty streets. Like a smiley-face sticker smacked over something that bleeds. The murder of Cora Mason had been well-timed for this, in its own macabre way. Just enough shock to get people choking on their eggnog as they watched the evening news. What a downer. What a party-pooper. A girl getting herself gutted in a random stolen car.
Turn it off!
That’s awful!
I don’t want to hear about that!
With the ho-ho-ho echo thrumming just behind. As if evil puts itself on pause in December, just to avoid spoiling anyone’s mood. What a naive thing to expect. Jake could say a few things about that. It was his car that got stolen. His car that turned itself into a goddamn murder scene. This car his father had given him.
“Fuck Christmas,” Jake said aloud. Bitter.
Ho-ho-ho.
“Fuck Santa.” And for a moment, he almost laughed.
Good as new.
None of it would’ve happened if he hadn’t been out with Tanya that night. If she hadn’t made him go to her place, and park on that street.
“Fuck Tanya, too.”
Almost exactly a year ago. Those tinsel-strangled lampposts, those twinkling fairy lights. A hot-wired car and a girl gone off the streets. This car. His car.
It not She.
That night, nearly a year ago. An aeon ago. That last night with Tanya.
Ho-ho-ho.
It was an evening almost exactly like this. Peach-toned, balmy. Electric, the way the air feels before wild things begin. Her hand on his thigh on the drive back. Her fingers tucking in. They’d been drinking cocktails. Before that, they’d been arguing. The aftershock of the fight still shuddering between them, they’d spent their evening at the bar switching from ciders to mojitos to highballs with reconciliatory enthusiasm. The bars were full, with all the office parties and end-of-year get-togethers. It was easy to catch the fever, easy to drink too much even without the added incentive. They should’ve gone to his place, except Tanya’s apartment was closer to the bar than his, only two blocks, and—
“Let’s not take any chances, Jake, okay? Let’s just go to my place for a change.”
Outside her apartment building, he’d parked under a grey-haze streetlight that spilled murk into the shadows, smudged itself into the cement instead of illuminating it. A bad-luck spot to park. You could feel it. There was a reason it was the only open bay on the street. He’d swung in anyway, only vaguely aware of a presentient flash of doubt, dread.
Don’t park here.
Not here.
Of course the whole thing was cursed. He’d never liked going to Tanya’s place anyway. He should’ve known it would go wrong from that point. It was always better when she came to him. Better when she was in his domain. No edging around her possessions, no overwhelm of her scent, her inner life, her other existence. Better when it was his balcony, his couch, his bed. His alcohol he handed her, his cigarettes they shared. She was drunk and loose on her feet that night, and he’d known exactly how she would be—enthusiastic, playful.
“The things I want to do to you…” he’d say. He’d said. And she nipped at his neck as he closed his arms behind her waist, pressing tight. Her warm, soft belly smooth and taut against his.
Bad-luck spot.
Let’s just go to my place, she’d said.
If not for all those highballs, he wouldn’t have agreed. That last night they shared.
And this car took us there.
To her place.
For a change.
“Tanya, you bitch.”
Ho-ho-ho.
Traffic on the highway was thin, the drive pleasant for its easy stillness. Usually he only found himself on this road during rush hour, in the thick of a mid-week morning when everyone was irritated and aggressive, everybody acting out against the crush. Pushing in, crossing lanes. High-beams stab-flashing in rear-view mirrors; the insensible Morse code of the enraged. None of that now. Just a sky the colour of scorched tangerines, that pine-soap smell of his freshly-detailed car, and the road wide open ahead of him. Jake rolled his window down a few more inches, enjoying the warm, ripe air.
Got my girl, he thought.
Got my girl back.
It was stupid. It was dumb. This echo-memory thought. In the past it had been a phrase his mind repeated after a few drinks, when he looked over and saw it was Tanya standing next to him, lying beside him. Clasped close to him.
Got my girl.
Happy. Grateful. Proud. In those moments, anyway.
It would be nice to have a girl beside him, now. Right now, he thought. Something pretty curled up sweet in the brand-new seat, her feet up on the dash to show the smooth slide of her shins, the brace of her calves, the backs of her thighs curving in firm arcs where they melded into her buttocks. He imagined her dressed in something short and red. One of those slutty Christmas party dresses, all thin red velvet and white trim. They’d talk about how beautiful the sky was this evening: wild peach shades. She’d put her hand on his leg, slide it snug. He’d do the same. He’d drive faster, snitching his fingers higher up, deeper in.
Not here.
Bad-luck spot.
Jake stopped his thoughts.
Thinking, The mess inside.
Remembering, We had to do a lot.
Cora Mason had died right here, exactly in this space beside him. Glancing over, he tried imagining her. How it had been. Imagining the mess. Saw her slumped down, slack, her abdomen hacked to show the coils within. Her eyes blinking away, off. Her gaze fading as her intestines rippled out of her, spilling across the seat, her lap, the floor. Like ropes of Christmas tinsel, unravelling in loops of shining white and red.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. First Tanya, riding beside him back to her place. And later Cora Mason, in that same seat.
It’s basically a brand-new chair, the SafeClean guy had said.
It better be. It better be. Carrying that kind of curse.
But who gave a fuck about Tanya, anyway? She wasn’t innocent. Not the way Cora was. Cora hadn’t known what she was climbing into. But Tanya had. Dumb bitch with her wet-eyelash smile, lips quivering like she was about to cry, saying, “Please Jake, can’t you just be nice? Can’t you just be nice for once? Huh?”
All that pleading. All that need. It turns any soft feelings sour. Would’ve been better if she’d been a little less intense.
Whatever.
It doesn’t matter now.
Bad-luck spot.
That’s all it was.
And he thought of that morning. That morning when he’d headed out of Tanya’s apartment building, ready to leave—dying to leave—and saw an empty parking bay where his car should’ve stood. As she stopped stuck behind him, useless as a plastic mannequin. Her dumb, round mouth making an O as he turned to her and said: “It’s gone.” Then:“My fucking car. It’s gone.”
This car. Of all the cars he might ever own, crash, sell. This one. And for a moment in his mind, he saw his father’s eyes.
“It’s gone.”
He’d stared at her. Like it was her fault. Because in a way, it almost was. She’d been crying earlier, and her tears had dried salt-white on her cheeks.
I don’t give a damn.
I don’t give a damn.
And he’d understood that something final had happened, here. That this time, once he left, it might truly be the end.
It was injury to all those insults, having his car stolen from outside her place. Her place, where he otherwise never would’ve been. If she hadn’t insisted. If she hadn’t told him earlier, Can’t you just be nice for once? Guilting him into trying to be soft, acquiescent. The moment came back vivid, candy-striped: the red of panic, the white of shock. He remembered the dumb, groping hope his brain had offered as he stood staring at that empty parking bay: Maybe you put it somewhere else. Maybe it got moved.
Like the car was a wallet, a phone. The key card he needed for work, and often did misplace. Something important, sure, but generally recoverable. No big deal. Inconvenient, yes, but no big—
No, you fool, he’d thought at himself. It was his father’s voice. If the car isn’t here then it’s gone, and if it’s gone then it’s been—
Snatched.
Not a perfect fit exactly, but that was the first word to mind. Snatched. Something more personal, more of a violation than a set of keys slid down the back of the couch, than a bank card left on a random shop counter. And hopeless confusion had hit him in a sick, spinning wave.
Recalling it now as he headed down the N3, Jake realised he was driving uneasy: sweat in his palms, adrenalin in his blood. Driving a little like he’d stolen this car himself. He lifted his foot. He touched the brake. The car responded smooth and easy, and he switched the gear into neutral to glide off some of the speed. Had this car ever been so smooth? He didn’t remember exactly, given how much time had passed.
Here it is.
Good as new.
The speedometer dropped. Slowing too much. He pushed the clutch back in to return to fifth, and remembered this car never liked that gear. Apparently for all the improvements, the SafeClean service hadn’t fixed that little problem. Jake free-wheeled for a few moments, shoving the stick between neutral and fourth before it eased and let him switch up.
Bitchy little thing.
That’s what he’d called the car when she’d acted up like this in the past.
Bitchy little thing.
Bitch refers to a female.
It not She, he reminded himself.
This car, cursed. That sullied passenger seat. He glanced over at it. Remembering: Some stains were all the way in…
Bitchy little thing.
It not She.
It’s a… mess. Inside.
They say viscera steams when it comes tumbling out. The inside of a body, it’s so wet and warm.
Jake moved to the fast lane.
It was a forty-minute drive home.
He was nowhere near his exit when he turned off the highway. He did it without thinking, an honest mistake—something subconscious nudging him, moving him over the lanes, sliding him into the slip road that pulled him away.
“Wait—fuck.”
He said this aloud when he realised what he’d done. Taken exit 100, a good twenty minutes before he would usually get off, and a fair way still from home. Following the signs that pointed west, not north. Getting himself turned around.
“Well, shit,” he said, slowing as he approached the yield, checking if the way was clear, already plotting the smoothest route to get back on the highway with his nose pointed in the right direction. The roads got a little tangled in this part of the city. This way on, this way off, this way to some other main artery leading somewhere else.
“Fuck it.”
He wasn’t too concerned. In a way he was okay with this mistake. Maybe even glad. He had the time, the car, a full tank. The roads were quiet, the evening was fine. It was the weekend; he could ignore the alarm tomorrow if he stayed out late.
Drive. Just drive. And see where you go.
He felt himself rise to the adventure.
That night, outside Tanya’s place. Was this how the killer had felt as he bust his way into Jake’s car? As he ripped the wires and sparked it into life? Steered Jake’s Ford out onto the dark, sparkle-lit street and headed up the road, away? Adrenalin buzz, sense of freedom, sense of power. Because when he saw the car parked there by the bushes, surely he’d thought: A good-luck spot. As in the building across the road, up on the second floor where the streetlights hit the windows low, Jake and Tanya were buzzing on their own adrenalin, a different sense of freedom. Oblivious as two over-sexed high school kids who’ve finally got each other alone. While somewhere a few blocks away, Cora Mason stepped into the warm night, her intestines coiled neatly inside of her, her unopened belly smooth and soft under the sheath of her thin, breezy dress.
Seems they were all lost in illusion for those last few moments, those final innocent hours. Too many festive lights twinkling in everyone’s eyes. Before the blow-out. Before the theft. Before the girl.
Snatched.
What kind of dumb bitch accepts a lift from a stranger, anyway? On a holiday night, out late. Hooligans in the bars and maniacs on the streets. Everybody knows this city. Everybody knows.
Christmas. You could blame Christmas. That goodwill to all men crap wrapping around the common psyche, softening the walls. No woman would normally trust a lift from a stranger. Not any other time of year. It was all the sparkling tinsel, it was all those magical reindeer and mittened kids on the television, all that ho-ho-ho going on in everyone’s ears.
Hey, you need a lift?
His smile would have been disarming, wide. Concerned. She wouldn’t have noticed the spilled wires at his knee. She wouldn’t have known the car wasn’t his.
Hey, you need a lift? This isn’t safe, you know.
Don’t you know.
Yes, you could say it was because of Christmas, that a girl like Cora climbed into this car.
And Jake thought again of Tanya. Of him and Tanya. How similar it was, in a way. All that good-time holiday cheer, softening their walls. Like all of a sudden, they mattered to each other. She seemed to think, anyway. For those few hours there. Then: resentment stinging the edges of her smile, the corners of her eyes. After that: the rejection. Her rejection of him. Saying: This isn’t worth it.
No, his rejection of her. Him saying back: Well where’s the worth?
That look on her face like he’d slapped her. Stepping away from him, her hands rising to her throat. Saying, her voice shaking: You need to go.
Why was he thinking about this now? When it had been months since he’d last let his mind turn it over. A year since they’d last locked eyes. A year adjusting to life without her touch, her voice on the phone, her teeth nipping his neck as he shoved against her.
Hey, you need a lift?
Picking her up, laying her down.
This isn’t safe, you know.
Don’t you know.
The streetlights were sparse in this part of town, barely lighting the narrow, trash-crushed streets. The buildings on each side were cramped, hunkered down close to the ground as if bracing themselves for impact. Jake saw speed bumps ahead and slowed the car to meet them. A woman in a pink bathrobe was crossing further up ahead, curlers rolled up round her skull, a faded red leash dangling from her fingers. She was walking a dog, some kind of corgi mix. Limp coat, shiny black nose. It trailed behind her, snout to cement, zig-zag skittering in the stunted, urgent way smaller mongrels tend to move.
Yap-sized, Jake thought. And again, almost laughed.
On the corner up ahead, a young woman in a blue floral dress stood close to the curb’s edge, a lipstick smile scarred into her face. The dress stretched across her hips, her breasts. It was hard for Jake not to look again. Her dress was too tight, her smile fixed too wide. Another young woman, dumb enough to walk these streets alone. Day or night, it wasn’t safe in a place like this. And this was dusk in a bad part of town.
He considered slowing down, opening the window, leaning out.
Hey, you need a lift?
And if she got in, he would warn her. He would tell her. Caution her about her guts, her intestines, and what a challenge it can be to keep it all inside.
It can happen, you know, he’d tell her.
Don’t you know.
She turned her head as he neared; elegant twist of her neck. About to look at him. About to meet his eyes.
A bad-luck spot, he thought, and looked away. He sped up as he passed her. He glanced around for signs that would show him the way out.
This wasn’t how the killer had felt, he was sure. Uneasy, haunted. Strange. Or—had he? All the killer had wanted was a car. The evidence said so, anyway. A young man who’d led a hard life, but never before been known to attack. Making the murder of Cora Mason some kind of spontaneous impulse, strong and sudden. A vivid, vicious urge in him to destroy something. Drum up a few screams, shred some entrails. Anything to counter the false-cheer jingle-jangle of these Christmas-lit nights.
It’s tough to be alone.
Ho-ho-ho.
It’s tough to be alone at this time of year. Maybe he killed her only for that. Jake could almost understand. Was repulsed, in that moment, by how well he understood.
He glanced again at the seat beside him.
It’s a mess inside, his lawyer-friend had told him.
They say viscera steams when it comes tumbling out.
Jake felt the urge to check the car over. Pull over at a station, a well-lit wayside. Switch the overhead lights on and search for a dark patch; a mottled, almost-gone watermark. On the floor? Under the dash? Traces of Cora’s innards, the places where they’d lain uncoiled. Her blood, where it had sprayed, surging on those final sparks of life.
Good as new, the SafeClean guy had said.
But was that really ‘good’?
Jake turned left at the next intersection, spinning the wheel so it slid back smooth against his open palms.
The girl in the blue dress was far behind him. The woman and her dog. The stories of their evening errands. Whatever they may be.
The sky was darkening. Those sunset shades had seared to a sharp, vicious red, long and straight like a blade pressed to a throat. Stars were spreading out, filling in. Whatever Jake was looking for, this wasn’t the right place. Not the good luck spot, he realised, he’d sort of been seeking. He headed back to where the lights were better—where he knew he’d cut through the edge of a commercial area before he hit the residential roads again. But that side of town was brighter, cleaner. A few posh apartment blocks, a few chic bars. There would be plastic pine trees set up in the parking lots, there would be fairy lights strung across the eaves.
He gave the Ford a little more juice. She sped up smooth beneath him.
It not She, he stopped himself.
But then again.
No.
She.
Got my girl.
How nice it would be, to have a girl here beside him now. Something sweet in a Santa-esque dress. Big-buckled black leather belt, clinched around a delicate waist. Tanya was wearing black that night. A black cocktail dress that slid around her hips, silver bracelets jangling on her wrists.
I don’t look good in red, she’d said. And wrapped a rope of red tinsel round her neck. A boa shedding glittery scales. Red or not, she’d looked good. In those final hours. Their last night.
It’s a mess.
Yes, Jake thought.
Inside.
Yes, he thought. Yes, it is.
The night was blurring its lines too much: too unsure of itself, of what it wanted to be. Warm air and plastic snowflakes. His blood too hot against the chill within.
“There should be a girl here beside me,” he said aloud, to himself, to the empty seat beside him. And for the first time on the drive, he laughed.
Was that what the killer had felt? What he had been hoping for? Something pretty curled sweet in the seat beside him, her feet up on the dash? Maybe he was always too alone, too. Maybe he’d just wanted a girl with him that night. Something soft to share with. Talk about how beautiful the sky was that evening. Dreaming of her hand on his leg, sliding snug. His fingers on her, snitching higher up, deeper in. Maybe that was all he’d wanted. A moment they could share. It’s tough to be alone. It’s tough to be alone, at this time of year.
But Cora wouldn’t have liked that. She wouldn’t have understood. Or, even understanding, she would’ve wanted to get out. Panic rising in her throat, realising he was taking her down the wrong roads. Never mind that he hadn’t even touched her yet. Hadn’t done anything bad to her, except maybe drive a different way to what she’d thought. Her belly was still soft and taut, the skin unbroken, her entrails warm and safe within.
Where are we going?
Stop!
All that pleading. It has a way of souring any soft feelings.
Cora Mason. He thought of her slumped low on this seat beside him. Her thin, loose dress shredded, stained. Her soft, taut belly gaping wide. Her insides on the outside. Blood soaking into the seat beneath her, splashed across the dash. Festive lights dying in her fading eyes.
Got my girl, that killer must’ve thought.
Jake could almost understand.
“I haven’t got any girl,” Jake said aloud. “Just this car. Just this… car.”
It not She.
“No, fuck it. She.” Her. His girl. A year from that night, and this car was back. Blood stains all cleaned up, every inch switched and freshly scented. Smiling shiny and driving smooth like she’d never been sullied.
Purged. Returned.
A year gone by and Jake was driving this car alone, the seat empty beside him like nothing had happened. Like it had always been that way. Just him and his car and that chill in his heart, his blood too hot, his hands so tight on the wheel they were cramping.
“Tanya, my girl.”
Ho-ho-ho.
Can’t you just be nice for once? she’d said.
And he’d tried.
Just forget it, she’d told him. You need to go. Salt-stained cheeks. That look in her eyes like hurt hooked on hate. And what had happened after? Had she forgotten him by now?
It’s a terrible thing, how eager people are to forget. The lengths they’ll go: atrocities in themselves.
The parking space opposite Tanya’s building was open. Of course it was. It waited under the grey-haze streetlight that spilled murk into the shadows, smudged itself into the cement instead of illuminating it.
A good-luck spot.
He turned into it, straightened the wheel, stopped. He let the engine idle for a few minutes, thinking. Then he cut it, unclipped his seatbelt, and killed the lights. The building across the street was well-lit for Christmas, all cool whites and candy reds flickering around the window-frames, the entrance door. Tanya’s window, where the streetlights hit low. One light flickering up there. A television, a wide-screen shot. Tanya, pretty, curled up sweet. The seat empty beside her. Tanya and her Christmas tinsel. That sparkling red boa coiled around her neck. Her salt-stained cheeks, running wet. The skin of her belly, soft and taut. Her intestines coiled neat within. They say it’s warm and wet in there.
Here it is. Good as new.
Here it is. Take it back.
He sat in his car. He stared up at her window. It was hours before her light went out.
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