What Child Is This? (I.P)

What Child Is This? – I.P.

“Next!” the department store tannoy boomed, “please proceed to the grotto.”

            “It’s us,” shouted a gorgon of woman dragging her offspring, bottom first, from the pyramid display of Christmas chocolates.

“Get off!” he screamed, thrashing bandy ninja legs so the chocolates catapulted to the four corners of the kiddies department. Shop assistants tutted but inspected their shoes. Managers did what managers are so good at; they turned to look the other way. No-one wanted to get involved with this pair.

            “Come on,” the woman yelled, the electric frizz of her hair spitting in rhythm with her over slicked ruby lips. With several bashes of her padded hips she pushed to the front of the queue rendering parents speechless with fear and several small children airborne.

 “We’ve waited long enough. It’s your turn.” Spinning the boy, she spat into her hanky before deftly scrubbing his freckles. “And remember what I told you, Santa will dish the dirt, so, if you want to get a present off him, you’d better lie convincingly. Show me your tongue.”

The boy poked out his forked purple tongue to drip what appeared to be acid to the floor. The puddle caused a small cloud of vapours, melting the tiles into demonic shapes. A couple of elderly ladies sipping tea in the nearby shop café fainted into their scones, splatting jam like blood in a Tarantino film, up the nearby wall.

            The child stared at his mother, momentarily dazed by the waft of the spit hanky and the wisdom of her words. “So I’m finally gonna bag some goodies?”

            “Course, but not if he finds out what a little beast you are.”

            The boy lifted himself straight beneath his itchy jumper, twisted his trousers and stomped off into the grotto.  

            “Ho, Ho, Ho, little boy! Come and sit on my knee,” tempted Santa.

            “You’re having a laugh mate,” spat the child, landing a kick on Santa’s shin. “Now, where’s me stash of treats?”

            “Here, next to my little elf helper,” said Santa, wincing in pain as he gestured his prize corner.

The boy shot out surprisingly sharp finger nails to pop the inflatable elf guarding the gift wrapped pile. “Oops,” said the boy as the elf drizzled down onto the artificial snow with a resounding pshhhhhh.

 “Little bugger,” Santa mumbled, rubbing his newly bruised leg. “That’s my varicose vein done for; I don’t get paid enough for this.” However, he was a wise Santa, knowing well the dangers of litigation in the Santa industry, so he opted for not throwing the child straight back through the grotto door.

            “Where’s my present?” growled the child, brows knotting on his tight forehead. “You better have something or I’ll send me mother in!”

“Ho, ho, ho,” yelped Santa pulling forth a huge sack spilling over with priceless toys and lashings of computer games.  “But first we have the small matter of if you have been well behaved this year.”

            The child thought hard til his eyebrows met in the middle, giving him the ominous look of a mini werewolf. “Is this the bit where you ask me if I’ve been good and I answer ‘YES’?”

            “Generally speaking,” agreed Santa, “But in your case I have a few lose ends to tie up first.” Delving in his pockets he pulled out a long scroll which he flicked out with the relish of a red carpet at a premiere.

            “Number One,” he cleared his throat obviously wallowing in the moment, “Did you or did you not render a terror campaign at your school using pre-chewed bubble gum and fart spray, thus rendering every bottom to stick to every chair and releasing noxious fumes into the school?”

            “You mean the incident where the Fire Brigade had to call in reinforcements with extra thick breathing gear?” The child sniggered as Santa nodded, but said, “Um, No, I didn’t.”

            Santa put a huge cross next to the charge. “And did you singlehandedly cause an outbreak of gastroenteritis by your ‘charitable’ works with home-made, some would say poisonous fudge, which you sold around the neighbourhood with menaces?”

            Again the child giggled until he had to hold his sides so he could reply, “The one where the Health Inspector closed down our school and several local restaurants?”

            “The same.”

            “I, um, let me think,” said the boy, scratching his head to release two little horns from vicious grip of hair gel his mother had so generously applied earlier. “Nope, I don’t think so, definitely no.”

            “And was it you who stole washing from gardens overnight and somehow managed to sneak into private residences, whereby you dressed sleeping people in clothes that were clearly not their own?”

            “Dunno what you mean,” ventured the boy, “sounds like quite a job for one kid doesn’t it?”

            “I mean, for example, the vicar who awoke in full Moulin Rouge costume or the elderly gentleman who awoke to find himself regaled in a wedding dress. Or perhaps, the lady who awoke sporting her neighbour’s dog’s false teeth. That kind of thing, need I go on? Was it you?”

            The boy’s cheeks turned a deep puce as he laughed, “Nope, not me mate.”

            Santa swallowed hard as the child met his gaze. “Have you got more dirt to dish?” he demanded, “only I want me stuff, and you keep making me laugh is making me want a wee.”

            Santa’s life force sapped as he looked down the endless list. “I’ve never seen a list this long, not in all my career,” he moaned knowing he’d be there until Easter if he read the lot. Now the boy was hopping from foot to foot, gripping his bladder area and howling.

            “Too late,” wailed the child instantly colouring the polystyrene snow a vibrant yellow.

            Santa felt the warm spread of wee enter the hole in his boot, soothing his gouty toe but sparking his temper. “That’s it!” he yelled, “Never in all my days, why this’ll be the death of me….”

            “What’s going on?” screamed a banshee bursting into the now dishevelled grotto with its deceased elf, scattered snow and certifiable Santa. “How much longer til my son is finished?”

             “Your son? Your son?” Santa chanted through the froth of his mouth. “What child is this?”

            “Child?” screeched the mother, “He’s no child, he’s my little changeling! And he’s been good all year, now give him his sack of toys.”

            “Gggg-good?” Santa drooled shaking the charge list for her to see.

            “Idiot!” laughed the mother, “that wasn’t him, it was me. He’s behaved like an angel all year with this day to look forward to, nearly killed him it did. And it shredded my nerves I can tell ya! I’ve had to make all the mischief by myself.”

The boy, the child, the changeling stepped forward to drop a kiss on Santa’s pale cheek. “Thanks a lot mate,” he whispered picking up his promised toys with a satisfied, if somewhat fang toothed smile.