Case #42: The Kidnapped Alphabet Letter

It’s Christmas Eve. I, agent Santa C, have a gun aimed at the criminal’s head, writer turned madman Cracker Nut. We’re in Hyde Park and the sky is charred black. I tracked him here. It feels as if we’re wrapped in a darkness that frequents nightmares. A fierce unfriendly wind bullies the trees. We stand by the Serpentine, the lake. Its surface ripples rapidly as if angered by the circumstances.

Cracker Nut has kidnapped an English alphabet letter. It’s being squeezed, tight, against his chest, suffering in his huge aggressive arms. He is large, bulky, and is dressed in the leaves and garlands a Christmas tree has sacrificed, presumably under duress. He is unusually tall and has an extremely large head; aged and brutally scarred by many years partaking in dreadful crimes. His excuse? Having failed as a writer.

The letter, circular in physique with a vacant middle, is evidently scared. It trembles intensely in his grip.

I must state that it is extremely difficult narrating this case, because this letter has been kidnapped. If I can’t save it, the English language is in grave danger.

“Santa C?”
Cracker Nut cackles. His face starts twitching.
He raises the letter skyward. The lake. In reply, the Serpentine changes resembling gaping murky jaws. The letter releases a frightened squeak. It’s being battered by the icy wind like a flag at full mast.
“Time’s up. This letter’s had it.”
I can’t let him see my fear and anger but the gun shakes a little in my grip.
“Yeah,” I hear myself speak. “Time sure is up.” I jerk a finger at him. “Release the letter, Cracker Nut.”
“Hah!” He laughs maniacally, a Disney hyena. “I’ve already updated Twitter. Alerted the press. Christmas is finished.” He guffaws. “Kiddies universally will never again receive any t...as presents. Never have any t... any playthings, ever again!”
The wind gusts fiercely, gathering speed.
“Cracker Nut, this is stupid. Just let the letter be free. This impacts everything. Why the bitterness? The hate?”
He stares at me in disgust and dangles the letter higher, releasing his grip a little at a time.
I watch him, terrified, rage building in my heart.
“Kids these days are brats! Filthy, greedy things. They believe they are privileged. Simply interested in their PS3s and Wiis. Celebrities. Rubbish like that. And the way they abuse the Queen’s English! Awful grammar, justifying it as street talk, slang! By stealing this letter in particular, a letter that is vital and irreplaceable, they will all be punished! There’ll be much suffering: difficult sentence structure, half-finished phrases, painful reading!”
I caress the gun trigger. In my head, I try finding a phrase that sums him up. The phrase I seek is sadly missing the kidnapped letter.

The night is racing away. Christmas Day draws nearer and children everywhere will struggle as they try unwrapping gifts that must include the missing letter.
Stupidly, my eyes briefly leave Cracker Nut.
“In a hurry, Santa C? Then let me finish this!”
Grinning madly, he teasingly starts pulling his fingers away. The letter shivers in fear. Three fingers... then a single finger left...
As he pulls the final finger away, I have a plan.
I’m ready.
I have few alternatives. As an agent with MI5, times like these require desperate measures.

I aim and fire at Cracker Nut several times whilst lunging at the letter. The bullets reverberate amidst the trees with large, sharp cracks, creating a frenzied mayhem in the dark night.
Cracker Nut screams as the bullets, quick, fast and true, rip his chest apart, splaying liquid that in this night seems black.

The speed at which the letter starts falling creates a piercing whistling. As it’s limbless, its survival chances are slim.

Cracker Nut falls heavily, the damp bank meeting his remains with a harsh, swift thwump.

I am large in girth, but athletic. Years training with the reindeer and MI5 see me catch the traumatised letter mid air, my knuckles kissing the lake’s surface by a whisker. Its thin edge grazes my palm, cutting it a little.

Suddenly, the letter lets rip a gigantic sneeze. I smile at it, and it sighs, it circular figure physically deflating with relief. Eventually I stand, clutching the letter against my chest.

Later, after the letter is returned and in its rightful place between N and P in the universal alphabet at headquarters, I can (and will) write anything I like, using every single letter available, as if my life, sanity and English degree were at stake.