The Cat and the Claus

Scoop, grunt, thwump was the rhythm of his work as he dug the grave.

He was interrupted when his pocket buzzed and a tinny rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas echoed around the dark cemetery. Matt squatted down behind a headstone, swiping a numb finger at the luminous screen, cursing that this had happened to him on the coldest night of the year. He peeked up, surveying. No one there, just black silhouettes of snow-topped headstones looking like some huge, macabre game of whack-a-mole. He put the phone to his ear.

‘Hello? Mr. Delaney?’

Delaney. He wracked his addled mind. Yes. The pseudonym he’d used for this client. ‘Speaking.’

‘Have you an update for me?’

‘Ahem.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have a lead for where your sister is being held. Something I, uhh, found that the cops didn’t.’ He hesitated to mention that his lead involved summoning a demon. He tried not to think about that task at all, which wasn’t too difficult when preoccupied with burying a corpse. Burying a corpse on Christmas. Merry fucking Christmas to me, Matt thought.

‘What is your lead, Mr. Delaney? And tell me what the police have.’

 The cops. Images flashed into his mind with nauseating vividness. ‘Nothing useful.’

‘Remember I’m paying you well for this.’ Not well enough, Matt thought. ‘Tell me everything. Don’t spare any details.’

‘Everything,’ he restated, staring at the grave he’d dug, massaging his temple. He blanched and suppressed a wave of queasiness. ‘Can I ask you something before I start? Does your sister own a black cat?’

‘A cat?’

#

The large hourglass had a mysterious, squirming, sand-like substance within its glass bulbs. Twisting his hands, Matt pried the contraption apart from either end. It let out a soft hiss as he walked up a meandering frost-glazed drive lined with tall conifers, their shapes black but for the sparkle of settled dew turned to ice. Beyond the next curve a mansion appeared, the lower level lit in the halogen glare of floodlights. Maybe at some point the grand entrance had been inviting, but now the steps up seemed an extended tongue, the doorway a mouth agape, waiting to consume whatever silly creatures stepped in.

He passed three officers huddled in the doorway for a smoke, necks bunched into their collars against the chill. They were unmoving, stuck in various candid poses. One balanced a cigarette in the crook of his knuckles, its glow fading fast in the cold. Matt rescued it while he explored the officer’s pockets, finding a wallet containing two fifties.

‘How kind of you to subsidise me for my night’s work, officer,’ Matt said, cigarette bobbing in his mouth. He returned the wallet and cigarette and washed the taste down with a swig from his flask.

Within the foyer he was met with an extravagant Christmas diorama. Christmas trees trimmed to perfect form and decorated with burgundy and gold baubles stood either side of a polished wood stairs that tapered up to a landing. A huge window on the landing showed snow beginning to fall outside. Crimson bows and pine garlands were interspersed along the banisters, the garlands and trees decorated with red and gold lights that pulsed in unison. Every surface edge twinkled, lights hung with invisible thread. Only missing was Bing Crosby crooning softly, but it would have been a strange juxtaposition to the crime scene laid out before him.

Most of the local police station seemed to be present, all suspended in a variety of investigative poses, still as wax statues. The throb of the lights made features shift and pupils rove unnervingly. A murky trail of blood showed where someone had been dragged, but the trail disappeared before the door, the floor suddenly spotless. Nearby, a detective in a black peacoat, his shoulders and thinning hair damp, was mid-scribble in a notebook. Matt peered over his shoulder, cradling the hefty hourglass between his thighs as he scanned the notes, but they contained only bullet points describing the scene. He started to carefully extract the notebook for thorough inspection, but the hourglass slipped and his breath snagged. He waited for a smash against the floor. When it didn’t come, he unstapled his eyelids, and realised he’d squeezed his calves together and caught it. Shakily, he retrieved it and placed it gently on the glass topped mahogany table by the entrance. As he went back to the detective, the hairs on his neck prickled and a chill swept up his spine. He turned, shoulders tensed.

A black cat slunk in the front entrance, wrapping itself around the doorframe like a thick oil clinging to the wall, its eyes lambent in the lights' glow. It ventured out in a smooth undulating lurch, like it might keel over at any moment, then it sat and inspected the scene of stillness. Matt gawked, his mouth dried up. Nothing alive should have been able to move in here, but then cats were often inexplicably immune to certain magics. It stared straight at him with startling straw-yellow irises, its pupils adjusting to narrow black slits, then wandered off left, its sleek coat shimmering as the lights cycled. He had no idea what to do. He didn’t want to test what would happen to the time-freeze if he chased the cat and knocked into someone, and intuition also suggested that firing the snub-nosed handgun in his coat would break the time-freeze.

The cat stopped at the mahogany table and coiled into itself like a loaded spring, then leaped soundlessly onto the tabletop.

‘NO!’ Matt yelled.

It skulked towards the hourglass, testing the air, twitching its button snout in evil contemplation.

‘Stop, cat! Do not do that! PUT THE PAW DOWN.’

It thwacked the hourglass and the device wobbled then settled back onto its base. Matt burst into a reckless sprint, dodging and sidestepping bodies.

But too late.

The little bastard lifted a paw and with extra pomp, slapped the hourglass. It clunked to its side and rolled slowly towards the edge of the table. Matt dove, watching it plummet, then smash loudly. Glass shards skittered across the ground in a cacophony of tinkles. He slid a short distance, outstretched hands belatedly finding the broken pieces of the hourglass. He waited for movement, shouting, perhaps a beating, handcuffs to be clamped on his wrists. Then, in the centre of the broken pieces, the sinuous, grainy substance moved. It rose from the debris and began to whirl in the air. Matt scooted back, catching a streak of black scuttling out the door as the swirling gathered torque and with it a brilliant light grew. He shielded himself, half-blinded, until it calmed, and he could make out a tall burly figure, darkly clad.

He frowned, tilting his head as his vision returned.

‘Are you…Santa?’ He looked him up and down. Long burgundy coat. Check. White trimmed cuffs and collar. Check. Floppy hat with a woolly snowball at the tail of it. Check. Big white beard and gold rimmed spectacles, it was all there.

His blank expression changed as Matt named him. ‘It’s a name I’ve gone by,’ he said huskily. Behind his spectacles, his eyes scanned, observing his surroundings. ‘Christmas,’ he stated.

‘What…what were you doing in there?’ Matt said, struggling to find words.

Santa’s head swung like a heavy pendulum, a torporific gaze settling on Matt. He worked his tongue in his mouth, like an aphasic tying to sculpt a word they knew but couldn’t say aloud.

‘Trapped,’ he rasped. His eyes dulled again.

‘So,’ Matt said, still lost for words. ‘How did you...end up in there?’

Santa slowly surfaced from his stupor again. ‘The list,’ he proclaimed. ‘Yes, the list,’ and Matt thought he detected a hint of jolly glee in his voice. His mind seemed to wander and circle back. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.

Matt summarised for him, finishing with an apology. ‘I had no idea someone was in there, let alone that someone was old Saint Nick.’

Santa’s eyes rose from the blood trail on the floor to meet Matt’s. ‘The perpetrator is Shapeless,’ he declared.

Matt looked at him dumbly.

‘Transmutation.’

Matt’s expression didn’t change.

‘He can do this.’ Santa disintegrated in a swirl of gold dust, falling into himself with a soft crackle and sparkle.

A hand tapped Matt’s shoulder. ‘Agh!’ He turned to find Santa behind him, a haze of gold settling on him, rejoining him. ‘They can do that?’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘So. Santa’s real, and can teleport.’

‘In layman terms,’ Santa said, seeming more lucid. ‘It was necessary for my work, as was the manipulation of time.’ He gestured at the stationary police, and then he lifted his eyebrows, something registering. ‘It’s Christmas,’ he said again, and chuckled.

Maybe he'd judged his lucidity too early. He struggled to think of a single action that could resolve the situation. But Santa had helped progress the investigation; maybe he knew more.

‘How am I supposed to find someone who can move like that, let alone stop them?’ Matt pondered.

‘Well, the quickest way to find anyone is through a demon of knowledge,’ he said, as if it was most obvious. Santa’s gaze found the smashed hourglass and his face darkened. ‘And the only way to stop a Shapeless is to capture him before he forms.’

Matt gulped. Santa, speaking of summoning demons? Dirty, dark work, summoning demons. Risky.

 ‘I was trapped for over a century,’ Santa said, his plump cheeks reddening.

‘That’s...a long time,’ Matt said lamely.

‘What felt long were the eons before that, where I was slave to an impulse that I eventually realised wasn’t my own. I started pursuing more meaningful work until…I was imprisoned. And you,’ he acknowledged Matt fully for the first time. ‘You freed me.’

A list of potential reasons Santa Claus had been imprisoned began to scroll rapidly through Matt’s mind. Concern fast evolved into a tetchy anxiety and he felt the impulse to run. But that would be a disservice to his profession. Aside from investigative work, a major part of his job was to stand his ground when normal people would rightly turn tail and run.

‘The list,’ Santa said with renewed vigor. ‘There is work to be finished.’ He evaporated in a glittering tornado and coalesced from a twirling gold streak over by an officer whose eyes were half-closed. Santa placed his hands either side of his face and shook his head, disappointed. ‘Naughty,’ he judged, and with a jerk of his hands and a crunch the officer was staring at Matt over his left shoulder, slack-jawed, eyes rolling white. The officer collapsed in a sloppy pile of limbs, his head loose.

‘NO!’ Matt shouted as he comprehended not only the violence, but the implication.

Millions, maybe billions, would be judged so. Slaughtered. Executed.

Bile rose from his gut at the magnitude of what he’d set in motion. You freed Santa from eternal imprisonment, surely you’re on the nice list, Matty his brain said, but it was a distant consoling whisper. His mind raced. He was not prepared for an unhinged serial-killing Santa. His inventory was lacking. He had his revolver of course, but he couldn’t risk it not killing him. A set of regular keys. A wallet that contained a changing ID. Glasses that allowed the wearer to see far into the distance. A pocketknife that never dulled. A coin that if activated would eviscerate everyone and probably bring the building down. And whiskey in a flask.

Matt desperately tried to stall him as he thought. ‘Santa, let’s talk. About the list. A lot has changed since you’ve been gone. The list may be inaccurate.’

He stalked from one person to another, judging with a mutter, moving on. ‘The list is an instrument of the Gods. You think such an instrument could be wrong?’

‘Maybe I could– ‘

There was an explosion of blood as Santa clapped his hands with terrifying speed, catching a head between them. Matt cringed away, whimpering as another collapsed.

‘Unfaithful to his wife, mean to his children,’ he advised

‘Maybe…maybe people can change. Maybe if given a chance, he would've been better.’ The officer’s head was squished like an accordion and spattered in blood where it had shot out of his orifices. One eye bulged out, the other dribbled onto the floor like watery eggnog.

Santa laughed heartily. ‘I used to share your naivety. See, you cannot tell the ones who'll change from the ones who won’t. And there are so many. This way is…cleaner.’

‘I…I can see wisdom in that,’ Matt stuttered. He tried a different tack. An exceedingly stupid one. 'I could be by your side. I know the workings of this world and would be…honoured to serve a deific being like you.’ He bowed his head and watched the floor. A kick of pearlescent dust formed in front of him, like when sand catches in a curl of wind, and then Santa merged in two heartbeats. Matt felt his deep-set eyes considering him.

‘Have you taken a life before?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Matt told him truthfully.

‘And was it righteous?’

Matt paused. ‘I believe so.’

‘Perhaps you could be of use.’

He phased to the forensics unit, resting a hand on a hunkered woman. Matt grimaced.

‘Dog-kicker,’ Santa announced, and his great black boot slammed into her mid-back, shattering her spine, leaving her sputtering blood.

Matt closed his eyes as the life gurgled out of her. Then he re-opened them suddenly, trying to keep his expression even.

‘Santa,’ Matt said. Santa paused his perusing to look at him. ‘This one here,’ he said, containing the quiver in his voice. Matt stood by the detective. ‘He’s…racist. And sexist.’ And in case those were foreign concepts to this ancient being, he added, ‘I’ve seen him throw stones at ducks in the park.’

Santa dissolved. Matt watched the floor, adrenaline pumping through him. His heart rattled his ribs and blood rushed to his head, offering him a moment of hyperfocus, his own neurobiologically induced time-slow. Everything brimmed with crystalline detail as Santa started to form, filaments of dust fusing together seamlessly. As his head formed, Matt launched an open-handed slap, but clutched his fist closed upon contact with the dust. Santa’s head warped and he roared, a puff of dust floating away from him. A cloud of particles, twinkling pearly gold, hung in the air beside his head, another fistful in Matt's hand. He watched with dread as the cloud abruptly folded and turned like a flight of swallows changing course. The lights cycled gold to red in those long seconds, transforming the radiant cloud to a deadly scarlet steam. His palm tickled and the stuff streamed out in wisps between his knuckles. While Santa repaired himself, Matt fumbled for his gun with his free hand. One last attempt.

He stopped, his eyes widening with an idea.

He stuffed the dust in his hand into his mouth, forcing it down his throat. It was absolute agony. Like swallowing scorching, sentient sand, a thousand grains of it attacking the vulnerable flesh inside his esophagus, burrowing into him - no, burrowing out of him. With a torturous heave of effort, he gulped. He grasped his throat and collapsed to the floor, growling against convulsions that gripped him. In that blur of pain, he saw Santa dropped to one knee, his face strained in a ruddied rictus of fury, dark veins mapping his forehead. Where his left eye had been, a crater of flesh writhed, strands of it reaching out for its missing parts.

Waves of searing pain rushed through Matt, yet he still tried to stand. His bones suddenly doubled in weight and the seconds between his thundering heartbeats lengthened. Santa was exerting a time-slow on him, without complete success. He even felt his brain’s frantic activity idle, and strangely, it allowed him an insight, like finding lamplight in a snowstorm.

His hand surged down to his pocket, pushing through air that had the consistency of thick porridge. His mouth was filled with the copper tang of blood from particles gnawing at his flesh. His fingers found the flask and popped the cap with a practiced maneuver, then his hand began the journey to his mouth, his arm burning with exertion.

He got the flask to his lips and choked down the contents. The liquid gold washed the particles down in a cleansing burn. He seized as it reached his stomach and unsuccessfully stifled a scream. And then it eased. He sat up panting, cradling his midriff. His stomach roiled but it was bearable. He let rip an almighty, echoing belch.

Santa swayed and moaned while fumbling at his head. He veered towards Matt but toppled over and lay jerking and twitching. Matt crawled towards him through sludge. He eventually made it and hauled him over to look at him. Blood trickled from punctures where shards of his mangled spectacles had lodged in his face and his unformed eye oozed grey matter. It registered with him that if Santa died, people would start stirring. He battled to his feet, giggling deliriously.

‘Don’t bite the dust just yet, Santa.’

He grabbed the maniac’s fortunately long and sturdy beard and started lugging him out.

#

There was stunned silence on the line, and Matt took his opportunity to end the call, his energy for talk spent. 'I have a grave to fill,' he said, and hung up.

He rolled Santa into the pit where he landed with an unceremonious plunk. He dusted his freezing hands off and began tossing dirt in the hole, singing along to the rhythm of his shovelling.

‘Good tidings we bring scoop, grunt, thwump to you and your kin. Scoop, grunt, thwump. We wish you a merry Christmas scoop, grunt, thwump and a happy new year.’

Scoop, grunt, thwump.