A Story For Christmas - Dead Santa

Here's a fun Christmas story, just in case you've already exhausted all the offerings on Netflix or Prime or whatever.

No intro required other than that it's not fantasy, it's not sci-fi and it's probably not one for the kids.

DEAD SANTA by Mjke Wood   While Shepherd watched his stocks go down, depleted, on the ground. The Angel of the Board came down and… “Mr Shepherd? Sir?” “Huh?” “Are you okay Mr Shepherd?” “Oh, it’s you, Angela. Yes, I was just… thinking.” Angela Booth was HR director for Shepherd Brothers department store. Her office, right at the top of the building, in the apex of the roof, like the top of a Christmas tree, earned her the nickname Angel of the Board. “You know what, Angela? No, I’m, not okay. You have shares in the company? Of course you do.” Shepherd stabbed a finger at his pink Financial Times. “Have you seen this? Their value, today?” “I know they’ve been slipping of late.” “Slipping? They’re down the toilet. We’re finished, Angela. Department stores are finished. We’re a broken business model not fit for the twenty-first century. Nobody shops in department stores these days.” “Well, right now that might not be the case, sir. There’s something you need to see. It’s why I came down,” said Angela. She held the door open and beckoned her boss to come out onto the mezzanine from where the entire store could be seen. Shepherd joined her at the balcony rail, and surveyed his domain, five levels down to the sprawling, ground floor perfumery department. “There’s a queue of people.” He looked at his watch. “It’s only ten-thirty. Why are they queueing? Something’s happened.” There hadn’t been a queue in Shepherd Brothers in years. “I think they’re queuing for the basement,” said Angela. “Follow me,” said Shepherd, setting off at a trot. The familiar smell of a thousand perfumes hit Shepherd’s nostrils as he came off the escalator. He followed the line of people down the stairs to the toy department. The grotto. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Mavis, head of department for toys and leisure. This month she was playing the role of Tinkerbell. Mavis tipped the scales at plus thirty stone, and, kitted out with tiny wings, a wand and an off-white frilly tutu, she was a force of nature. “All these people, Mavis. What the hell’s Santa done now?” Shepherd Brothers had the best Christmas grotto in the city. When all other grottos had gone minimalist and cynical, Shepherd’s grotto was a haven of magic where traditional Christmas could still be found. Ian Shepherd stood by tradition, even while controlling the department’s cash flow sometimes felt like holding back Niagara Falls with a flour sieve. The grotto, Ian was sure, would have been a hit, except for Santa, aka Peter LeFey, drafted in each year from dispatch. Ian’s father, Donald Shepherd, the older of the founding Shepherd siblings, had always insisted on Peter LeFey for Santa, because he was rotund, red-faced, and wore a white beard that was entirely natural. Peter LeFey was also a drunk, a lecher with the young mothers, and hated children. Shepherd knew he should have sacked Peter years ago. But getting someone to dress up in a red suit all day for less than minimum wage was challenging. Peter LeFey was the only staff member willing to do it; it got him out of dispatch for a whole month each year; it placed him within reach of all the young mothers, “who couldn’t resist his charms”, as he liked to boast. Peter LeFey was, of course, delusional. He had no charms. But in the Shepherd Brothers basement they had learned to work around his shortcomings. “Why are they lining up to see him?” said Shepherd. “Looks to me like he’s asleep.”

“Maybe that’s his secret,” said Angela. “He can’t get up to much debauchery, that way. The mums feel safe.” “He’s not asleep,” said Mavis. “I, er… I think he might be dead.” “What do you mean, dead?”

“I mean like, he hasn’t breathed in over an hour. Hasn’t copped a handful of any of the mothers. Hasn’t sworn. Hasn’t touched his hip flask. People are focussing instead on all the magic of a Shepherd Brothers Christmas. They’re loving it.” “Don’t be stupid, Mavis. He’s not dead.” “Feel him.” Shepherd reached out a hand and touched Santa on the back of the neck. “See,” said Mavis. “Cold as a fishmongers slab.” Shepherd pulled his hand back as though burned. “Why haven’t you done anything?” “Me? Why me? And done what? Tell all these children that jolly old St. Nick’s kicked the bucket? That there’ll be no more Christmas presents, ever? Please leave, kids, while we haul Santa off to the morgue? Do you want to tell them?” Shepherd thought about it. In his mind he was arranging mental images of how his toy department usually looked – devoid of customers and cheer. Complaints department, inundated. This, instead, was how a Shepherd Brothers grotto was meant to look. Lines of happy smiling faces; cash registers ringing like Christmas bells. He saw images of how his sales graphs usually appeared, like the ski jump at Innsbruck. He took out his smartphone and checked the live sales data, and felt his knees go weak. Come January, if this continued, his pink Financial Times stock market figures would be making front-page headlines. “And nobody has noticed?” Mavis shook her head. “They seem to enjoy my patter as Santa’s mouthpiece, though some of the kids have complained how he seems a bit cold to the touch.” Shepherd thought. His mind whirled, doing sums. Profit calculations. Possibilities. “Can we warm him up a bit?” Mavis stared. Angela gasped. “Well, it’s no less hypocritical than you hauling kids up onto his knee for the last hour, like everything’s fine and dandy.” “I’ll tell you what. Angela?” “Yes, Mr Shepherd?” “Nip up to Home Appliances and borrow a fan heater would you?” Angela gave him a look. “Just do it, okay?” Ten minutes later a warm breeze was emanating from beneath Santa’s red coat. Shepherd smiled. The plan was working, although Santa was doing kind of a Marilyn Monroe impression, with the hem of his coat flying, his beard sailing in the breeze. Worse. Peter LeFey’s solution to being dressed in fur fabric in the hot basement all day was to keep his trousers pushed down to his knees while going commando, so now he was flashing his crown jewels for all to see. “Jesus Christ, cover him up before anyone notices,” said Shepherd. He should close this down, he knew. It wasn’t right. But those sales figures on his phone were flying. He summoned Angela once again and sent her back to Home Appliances to swap the fan heater for a two-bar electric fire. A shrewd solution. Half an hour later, things were good. Better than good. The lines of customers were growing. A rosy glow had returned to Santa’s cheeks. The store photographer was snapping away, selling family group shots in record numbers, and not one person seemed to realise they’d be sharing on Facebook a Christmas photo of their little darlings perched on the knee of a corpse. The store music system played Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, and Shepherd, thinking of the imagery, tried to stifle a giggle. This was how Christmas should be. He could even smell the chestnuts and the smoke from the fire. Fire? Shepherd’s nose twitched. “Fire!” He didn’t shout the word, he hissed it, for the ears of only Mavis and Angela. “Bloody Santa’s on fire,” he said. Mavis held out her arms to hold back the throngs of children. “I’ll close the grotto. We’ll get everyone out.” “No, wait,” said Shepherd. “Just… I don’t know. Divert their attention. Tell them there’ll be a short break while… while Santa feeds his reindeer or something.” They’d used that one last year while they poured coffee down LeFey’s neck to sober him up. Shepherd yanked the plug for the electric fire and grabbed the foam extinguisher. In under a minute the burning Santa was under control, but foam was everywhere. A mess. “Look children, it’s been snowing,” shouted Angela. The children cheered. “Brilliant, Angela,” said Shepherd. “Tell all the staff to keep this quiet. I won’t forget their loyalty when I hand out the Christmas bonuses.” There would be Christmas bonuses this year. A tenner each, at least. Christmas was saved. Shepherd Brothers profits and reputation were saved. On his way out of the basement, Shepherd overheard two rosy-cheeked, smiling children talking. “Hey, Tommy. Have you come to see the dead Santa?” “Yeah, saw him on TikTok. It’s viral. A million hits. They say he’s stiff as a plank.” “And cold, like frozen turkey.” “Not any more. They set fire to him,” said another. “Woah, that’s way cool. I’m so getting on his knee for a selfie.”

That's it. Hope you enjoyed it. Best wishes to you and yours. Have a great Christmas.