Santa Goes Bananas: A Cozy Christmas Mystery Page 4

  There was no arguing with the results, and Santa had felt both more centered and energetic after steering clear of distractions. Able to apply himself to all the last minute tasks with renewed vigor, in a much better frame of mind. Moreover, he’d made a point of spending upwards of five hours a day in The Gift Box as was only right and proper at this time of year. His discipline rewarded with a series of heartening visions as several of his distant ancestors came forward to throw their weight behind the festive cause, offering words of encouragement that were kindly, stirring, and instructive in equal measure. Their luminous presence giving his confidence a much needed boost.

  But despite the obvious benefits, Santa couldn’t have said it had been easy – steering clear of seasonal content. In particular, the Bzaah advert had continued to nag away at him somewhere at the back of his mind. The knowledge it was still out there – everywhere – rubbishing his honorary position and Santa Claus both. And with this harmful knowledge came the considerable impulse to go watch it all over again. .

  It was this same gnawing temptation that made itself known as Santa turned away from the map and began staring at the laptop sitting on his wide, walnut-topped desk. The laptop was switched off, its lid closed shut, but still his eyes stayed fixed on it.

  The internet calling to him, loud and clear.

  As Santa felt the pull of it, he looked over at the door to his study guiltily as if he’d already committed the ill-advised act. He knew that Jissika was nine miles distant, visiting her second cousin, and that there’d be no interrupting his online activities. But at the same time he knew how disappointed his wife would be if he broke his digital fast. It was the main source of disagreement between them, especially at this time of year – Santa’s constant obsessing over what people thought of him. For which reason, his wife would shake her head sadly whenever she caught him in the act: rifling the pages of a publication or clicking the mouse button over and over again.

  How many times do I have to tell you – for a man who relies on self-belief, you’re doing an awful lot to undermine it.

  Still, Santa couldn’t quit the habit, and time and again he found himself on the hunt for as many cruel jibes and hurtful comments as he was able to access – desperate to learn what the haters had to say.

  Now, on the verge of doing so again, he came forwards, lifted the top on the computer, booted it up, and sat himself down before the desk. Then, like many a weak-willed individual, Santa found himself asking what harm it could possibly do – a little trawl of one or two websites – without bothering to answer the question honestly.

  No harm at all! is what he said to himself.

  Making light work of the menu page, he started up the Chrome browser and headed over to Twitter, promising to do no more than scroll through a handful of mentions. Putting his first name in the search bar, Santa watched the first batch of results arrive. Then, scanning through them, it became clear that one hashtag in particular was trending like crazy.

  #santaisadick

  For a few moments, he gawped at the first half dozen use cases. Then he dove right in and started digesting the tweets as a whole. Afterwards, forgetting himself totally, he brought up ever more of these personal attacks, reeling from the astonishing number of them. All the while Santa’s heart raced, and his stress levels went through the roof, as he sat there mesmerized by the ugly spectacle. Having jumped down this miserable rabbit hole, it was as if a vast army of trolls was beating him around the head with metal clubs.

  What made it worse was that a great many tweeters had incorporated the Bzaah advert into their posts – employing a vast array of unflattering images and video clips to prove their point. Clearly, it had turned into a meme, this hatchet job. One that had spurred these people on, and encouraged their hateful remarks, as was no doubt the original intention. This went way beyond any notion of fun or gentle mockery. It was an all-out assault on all that he stood for. Bzaah, and Jon Moran, were intent on destroying what was left of his reputation and doing away with Santa Claus himself.

  Choking up with anger, he typed “Bzaah” in the search bar, wanting to bring his enemy into view. As it turned out, not unlike himself, the company was currently blowing up on Twitter courtesy of another trending hashtag.

  #bzaahNY

  Clicking on the first of these, Santa read the attached tweet.

  Live updates from the new flagship opening – everyone who’s anyone is here! bit.ly/345nt

  Then, following the link, he was redirected to a major entertainment portal. There, taking up much of the screen space, was a black rectangle with a green play button inside of it. And after clicking on the button, a live web feed started loading up.

  Several seconds later, Santa was staring at a smartly dressed young woman who was holding a stylish yellow microphone. Away behind her, in the background, he could make out small crowds of elegantly attired and overtly glamorous individuals, all of them suggesting a high class affair.

  Fascinated by the entire spectacle, the reporter’s head kept turning this way and that way, not knowing where to look next. Finally, returning her attention to the camera, she shook her head and explained herself to viewers.

  “NBA, NFL, Silicon Valley, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, you name it. It’s clear that Jon Moran has got all his bases covered here tonight!”

  Then, looking away to her left, it was clear that something in particular had caught her eye and now she gestured for the camera to focus in on it. Following the reporter’s lead, the camera wheeled around and captured a handsome young man who was stood in one corner, half visible in profile.

  “And there’s Kyle Moran, one of the ten most eligible bachelors on the planet according to Vanity Fair. Although by the look of things, he might not be on the market for very much longer. . .”

  To make the point clear, the camera zoomed out and brought a young woman into the frame. She was stood very close to the eligible bachelor, her bare shoulder brushing against the arm of his suit jacket, and at a glance you could tell that these two were romantically attached.

  The young woman was partially obscured also, but there could be no mistaking her identity. Not for Santa Claus, anyway. What with him being her father and having helped bring her into this world. For a few moments he tried denying it all the same, and allowed himself a double-take, but that didn’t help matters any or make them go away.

  It was Amka.

  Amka was there!

  Chapter Eleven

  As if he’d been jabbed by a cattle prod, Santa staggered up and out of his chair. Unable to think clearly – or at all for the moment – he started walking around the floor of the study, making agitated circles of eight. It took a full dozen of these before he had the presence of mind to act. Taking the mobile from out of his pocket, he tried calling Amka’s number, taking shallow panicky breaths as the line rang out and then went to answer phone.

  Please leave a message, etc, etc.

  Too stunned to respond, Santa said nothing. Instead he snatched at the next idea that arose for him, which was to go there immediately and confront them in person – confront the whole lot of them – come what may. Seized by this thought, he stormed from the room and started racing down the stairs.

  Bounding down the steps, Santa considered using the delivery van, but before reaching the hallway he’d ruled that idiocy out. As things stood, there was barely enough magic in the tank to get him through the whole delivery round, so however large the crisis he couldn’t afford to fritter that magic away. That left Santa Claus with only one other option, as far as he could see, and he was loath to make use of it. But it was completely unavoidable if he wanted to reach New York within the hour.

  Grabbing his coat from the peg, he opened the front door and headed out of the log cabin, his sense of grievance deepening. The cold weather only serving to sharpen the anger and hurt swelling up inside of him. Anger and hurt which now extended to Amka – the apple of his eye turning the knife and sticking it to Santa like
never before. Swanning around with the son of his very worst enemy. Whatever her reasons for doing so, she should have known better. She should have known way, way better than that.

  Now that he was on the warpath, Santa gave free reign to his paranoia as he strode towards the stables. Had Jon Moran somehow masterminded this whole elaborate production to wreck Santa’s head and ensure that Christmas was a bust? He wouldn’t have put it past him. By this point, he wouldn’t have put anything past Bzaah’s CEO.

  Throwing open the stable doors, Santa felt for the light switch and flicked it on. This brought into view the long passageway that ran the length of the stables, and those two dozen sleeping quarters away on either side. At this point it was customary for him to exchange a few pleasantries with the old guard, all of whom were housed near the front of the building, but tonight Santa rushed past them and hurried over to the far end.

  Before he’d reached it, the younger reindeer were already up and on their hooves, peeking over the wooden partitions, all sensing that something was afoot. This was especially true of Naima, the oldest of Rudolph’s two daughters, whose pert red nose was positively ablaze with anticipation. And as the undisputed leader of the younger pack, it was she that Santa stopped before and addressed.

  “I might have a job for you this evening,” he said.

  At this, Naima’s nose flared up again, even while the rest of her gang started braying and stamping their hooves in approval, frisky with unabashed delight.

  “Now don’t get too excited, it’s not a delivery round or anything, I just need to get to New York City in a hurry. Is that something you think you can do?”

  As one, they nodded wholeheartedly .

  Count us in!

  It was, after all, what they’d been lobbying for these past two years. The chance to step up, and slip into the famous harnesses, and speed Santa upon his merry way. To this end, every time they were let out into the open, they made a point of showing him what they could do by arcing and swooping and banking steeply as they soared high over the boreal forest. Making a playpen of the skies, but also serving notice of their strength, their stamina, their freewheeling grace. All in an attempt to catch Santa’s eye and convince him of their readiness for duty; dropping huge hints that he need only say the word.

  But while it was true they were nearing maturity, Santa had still doubted they were able as yet to pilot him over the long haul. Supercharged games of tag were one thing, but criss-crossing the globe in a matter of hours was something else again. And yet, having long doubted their abilities, Santa was now of a mind to trust in the youthful beasts, although it was a desperate kind of faith. For there was no other way to crash the party in Manhattan and call time on this shocking outrage. It was this or nothing. He needed this doing. He had to get there.

  Now, away behind him, Santa became aware of the old guard rising from their slumber. Turning to face them, he was confronted by a score of looks that were all weary and concerned. This was especially true of Rudolph, whose own red nose was barely recognizable from days gone by, and not a patch on its former glories, having no more radiance than a forty-watt bulb.

  Taking a few steps towards the greying reindeer, Santa held his hands up.

  “I’m sorry, old timer, I wouldn’t be doing this unless it was strictly necessary.”

  At this, Rudolph gave his head a tired shake and looked up towards the heavens, firmly of the opinion that their definitions of “strictly necessary” were poles apart.

  It pained Santa to see that look – and to know, deep down, that it had merit – but still he pushed it away. Walking back as far as Naima’s crash-pad, he reached out a hand and undid the front latch on it.

  “Alright then, youngbloods – let’s get this show on the road.”

  Chapter Twelve

  However shaky his confidence in the young reindeer, Santa knew inside the first minute that they were up to the job. After dragging out his sleigh from the storage shed and slipping harnesses on the backs of the animals, he’d barely given the signal before they were up, up, up and away. With Naima at the helm, and the rest of her crew working in tandem, they were soon enough blazing a trial through the night time air.

  During those first magical moments in the open-topped sleigh, Santa felt a powerful wave of nostalgia wash over him, remembering all those incredible delivery runs from years gone by. But despite the burst of joy, he soon enough managed to shake off these happy memories, and as the sleigh soared high his own spirits kept on plummeting – weighed down by intense feelings of persecution and betrayal.

  Even when the famous Manhattan skyline sailed into view a mere twenty minutes later, it was all Santa could do to rouse himself from his dark brooding and steer the reindeer the last of the way. Taking up the reins again, he turned them from the Hudson River and brought the sleigh in by way of Central Park, blending with the low cloud cover. The animals easing up on their wild gallop, swapping out their speed for stealth.

  Reaching Fifth Avenue, Santa took a few flying passes of the building below, looking down on all the feverish commotion outside of it. At ground level, around the main entrance, a vast swathe of fans and paparazzi were laying siege to the glass foyer. A small army of on-duty policemen and a rigid perimeter of crash barriers holding them at bay. There was nothing to be gained, Santa knew, by joining the crowds and trying to wriggle his way through. Instead, he pulled back on the reins, slowing the reindeer to a canter, and then a trot, before they came to a graceful standstill and landed smartly on the skyscraper’s roof.

  Wasting no time, Santa was up and out of the carriage in an instant.

  “Take a breather and get your strength up – I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he assured them. “Me and Amka both.”

  At the centre of the roof there was a small concrete structure with a blue metal door in it. Racing over to the entrance, Santa pushed and then pulled at it forcefully and at the second attempt it swung upon. Crossing the threshold, he found himself at the very top of a winding fire exit that threaded down through the tall building for level after level.

  At these uppermost heights, there was only a weak orange light illuminating the passage and so it was in semi-darkness that he began his descent. Nothing to be heard, as Santa raced downwards, other than his own echoing footsteps on the bare concrete. The journey on foot taking him almost as long as it had taken to get from the North Pole to New York.

  Fifteen minutes later, the gloom started to lift as he reached those brightly lit lower levels. Adopting a more cautious pace, it was barely another sixty seconds before Santa heard the sound of voices below him and slowed to a stop. Peering down carefully over the banister, he saw the tops of two heads belonging to a couple of young men in uniform; both of them stealing hits on their electronic cigarettes to get their nicotine fix.

  “Man, you’d expect crazy mad tips at an event like this,” said one of the them, “but I made more at a New Jersey Bar Mitzvah than I have here tonight.”

  “Tell me about it – Bobby Draxler slipped me a ten spot like he was doing me an almighty favor. And this is a man who must be clearing two hundred grand a month.”

  Rolling his shoulders to compose himself, Santa started getting into character. It was that of a guest who had every right to be here but had somehow lost his way. Striding down the steps, he quickly drew level with the two waiters and pointed at the door directly behind them.

  “This get me back in to the party?”

  Together they looked at him closely, but Santa returned the favor with interest, paying special attention to the smoking devices in their hands. And it was this – their obvious guilt – that decided the issue. Shame-faced, one of them murmured in the affirmative while the other gave him a curt nod.

  Walking through the door, Santa came out into a long hallway that was

  full of service staff rushing hither and thither. Setting off along it, none of them gave him so much as a second look, busy as they were racing from A to B and back agai
n, attending to the guests’ every last wish.

  As Santa walked swiftly along, he stole occasional glances through the open doorways as staff flitted in and out of them. There were stockrooms, locker rooms, three separate mobile kitchens. But it was while passing by another doorway that he caught sight of an old fashioned Santa suit hanging from an oversized mannequin. And despite his great hurry, Santa’s age old fascination with all things Santa-related stopped him dead in his tracks.

  As he paused outside the room, a stocky bald man stepped from behind the door frame and looked Santa up and down.

  “Here you are. About time,” he grumbled. When Santa said nothing by way of reply, the man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are the replacement, I take it?”

  With little time to respond, Santa was forced into a snap judgement and felt like it was best to compound the mistake. Nodding his head, he was beckoned inside the room immediately. Then, coming forwards to meet him, the man put a hand on each of Santa’s shoulders the better to assess him up close.

  Frowning in response, he shook his head critically. “I’m a little underwhelmed, I have to tell you. Still, I guess you’ll have to do.”

  Santa said nothing. Instead he stole a look at the makeshift dressing room, turning his attention to the large oval mirror set against the far wall. It was chipped at the edges, and a little grimy, and half of the tiny light bulbs fixed into it were on the blink.

  “Here. Get this on then. We’ve no time to waste.”

  Looking back at the flustered supervisor, Santa saw that he’d already removed the costume from the mannequin and was in the process of throwing it over to him. Catching it in both hands, Santa stared down at the tacky outfit, less than impressed.