The short stories of Kinsley Castle.

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The Substitute

A Very Infernocrusher Christmas

For my first addition to the new website, I thought I'd rework and reprint a story I first published online way back in 2005. It did attract a modest smidgeon of interest at the time. It also happens to be a Christmas story. But here in Australia we have this thing called Christmas in July - a tradition invented by the skiing and snowboarding industry. It's a story in the "Infernocrusher" genre, which was a thing back in 2005.

It was a midsummer's Christmas eve in Sydney. No snowflake or branch of holly braved the heat and the cloying humidity. None dared. Mr Clarke entered Centergate Mall and stopped for a moment to appreciate the air-conditioning, and to unstick his shirt from his back. Then he pushed his way through the crowds of last-minute shoppers, coming eventually to the atrium. He stopped there and surveyed his domain, like an anaemic hawk in a collar and tie.

The largest Christmas tree in the southern hemisphere stretched from the ground floor to the glass dome four storeys above. Mr Clarke had personally supervised its selection and removal from the forest. Four conservationists had chained themselves to it as the workmen moved in, but he got his way in the end. And here it was, hung with three kilometres of Christmas lights and tinsel. The star on top was as tall as him, and came within a hair's breadth of scraping the underside of the dome. It was the tree of all trees.

Such a massive tree might have dwarfed anything near it, only Mr Clarke had paid special attention to Santa's grotto. It had taken almost a year to build, and a week to assemble on the floor of mall. It had fibreglass mountains and animatronic elves that sang Christmas carols. It had plastic trees and polystyrene snowdrifts. There was even a pen with two real reindeer -- though the handlers had balked at painting a reindeer's nose red.

On a podium framed perfectly by the branches of the tree, sat a throne of gold and red velvet (or, at least, something that looked like gold and red velvet if you didn't look too closely). This was a throne fit for the king of all Santas. Only, the king of all Santas wasn't there, and the podium was roped off.

Mr Clarke frowned, but he did not rush or shout at people. Instead, he made his way to his office, where he put on his jacket, retied his tie, and straightened his desk. Then he picked up the phone.

Five minutes later Mr Tuttle shambled into the office and stood wringing his hands. They were two very different men. Where Mr Clarke was tall, immaculate, and bloodless, Mr Tuttle was broad, shabby, and red in the face.

"It's a disaster," said Mr Tuttle. "We'll be ruined."

Mr Clarke raised an eyebrow. "I think not. Just tell me what happened. Where is our Santa Claus?"

"We'll be ruined, I swear it. I'll be out on the street, begging for a pittance and cashing unemployment cheques."

"Quite possibly," said Mr Clarke.

"It's that tree. Oh, I curse the day I ever laid eyes on it! And you insisted we sit Santa right underneath it. I really wish you hadn't. Just after lunch the tree shed quite a sizeable branch. It fell right on our Santa's head and knocked him out."

"I see."

"It was horrible. Blood everywhere. The ambulance officers had to take him away on a stretcher. They said he had a concussion."

"Yes, thank you. Did you telephone the agency to have them send a replacement?"

In spite of the air conditioning, Mr Tuttle loosened his collar and fanned himself with a clipboard. "Oh, we're for it. I'll have to sell my yacht. We're being boycotted, you know. The agency can't persuade anyone to come, and their union says we don't have a safe working environment."

"Well Mr Tuttle, you'll just have to get into the Santa suit yourself. You and I both know that the crowds are coming from all over Sydney for our Christmas display. That's how I've persuaded all our store holders to stay open until midnight and give us all that extra rent. That's your Christmas bonus, Mr Tuttle, so why aren't you in the red suit already?"

Mr Tuttle shook his head sadly. "My children will have to go to public schools. Oh dear. Oh dear me. There's no suit Mr Clarke. The agency Santas came with their own. And I don't know where we'll find another on Christmas Eve."

Mr Clarke opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a dogged-eared Yellow Pages.

"We must find either a suit or a substitute Santa. There are no maybes about it Mr Tuttle."

Mr Clarke rang every costumer and employment agency he could find, but met with no success. Every working Santa Claus had been booked out months in advance. Every Santa suit had been rented. He had been offered a gorilla suit and a clown called Tompkins, but it just wasn't the same. He hated to admit it, but Mr Tuttle had been right. You couldn't hire a Santa Claus on Christmas Eve for all the money in the world.

Mr Tuttle had to leave, so he could take some medication for his high blood pressure.

Mr Clarke went back over the yellow pages one more time. There must be someone somewhere with a red suit and a fake beard. He'd even settle for a real beard, if that's what it took to get someone on Santa's throne and posing for the camera (at twenty-five dollars for a framed print -- your Christmas memories preserved forever on high quality acid-free paper). There was one more listing he hadn't tried, in print so small that Mr Clarke had to squint to read the phone number.

It simply said: "Call on Christopher Winston Ash for all your Christmas needs."

And if that was all Mr Ash had to say for himself in his listing, he can't have been any good. On the other hand, a small-time Santa Claus might not be booked up.

Mr Clarke picked up the phone and dialled the number. "Hello," he said, "can I speak to Mr Ash?"

"Christopher Winston Ash at your service. But please, call me Chris. What can I do for you?"

Mr Clarke explained his predicament, glossing over the industrial accident and the union boycott.

And Mr Ash was obliging. "You're in luck sir. I happen to have, in my employ, the finest and most authentic Santa Claus ever to take on the profession."

I bet you have, thought Mr Clarke. But the quality or otherwise of a Santa Claus was not his concern. Just so long as there was a Santa Claus sitting in the grotto, he could fulfill his part of the agreement and collect lots of lovely rent.

"I'll take him."

"Excellent," said Mr Ash.

The very moment Mr Clarke hung up the phone, there was a knock on his office door. "Enter."

It was a young man. He wore an Italian suit and a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. He carried a bulging briefcase. "Good morning sir, I'm Christopher Winston Ash."

"That was quick Mr Ash."

"Call me Chris. I can't hang about Mr..." he looked at the name plate on the door, "Mr Clarke. As you might imagine, this is my busiest time of year. There are just one or two formalities."

Mr Ash laid his briefcase on the desk and released the latch. The lid sprang open and reams of paper spilled out. He picked up the thickest bundle of papers and set it before Mr Clarke.

"If you could just sign this contract."

Mr Clarke leafed through it. The writing was as dense as the typeface was small. "Is this entirely necessary?"

"Just routine sir. You sign it right there."

Mr Clarke signed, because he was intimately acquinted with the magical world of limited liability companies.

"Splendid," said Mr Ash. "And if you don't mind, would you initial the indemnity clause on page nine... Excellent! Now sign this insurance policy... and this affidavit... and this - well, you don't need to know what it is, just sign on the dotted line. Thank you very much."

"Is that all?" said Mr Clarke, who was starting to get writer's cramp.

"Nearly there. I'll take payment up front, if you don't mind."

"Would you accept a cheque?"

"Certainly sir. Just make it out to C. Ash... Marvellous. Congratulations Mr Clarke, you've just hired yourself the finest Santa Claus who has ever lived. He'll be here in precisely one hour. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm a very busy man."

Mr Ash stuffed all of his papers and contracts back into his briefcase and hurried out the door. Mr Clarke made to follow him, but when he stepped into the corridor, the young man had disappeared. A slightly flustered looking Mr Tuttle stood in his place.

Mr Clarke frowned. "Where did that Ash fellow go?"

Mr Tuttle shook his head. "Who? There's no one here but me. I didn't pass anyone coming the other way."

Half an hour later, as Mr Clarke and Mr Tuttle waited for their substitute Santa Claus, it grew suddenly chilly in the office. The maintenance crew had strict instructions. Through the winter, they were to keep the mall warm enough to raise a sweat. Through the summer (and especially during a heatwave like this), they were to keep it cool enough to raise goose-bumps. But when it grew so cold in his office that Mr Clarke could see his breath, he decided there was something amiss.

"Did you just feel a sudden drop in the temperature, Mr Tuttle?"

"Ah, yes. Sorry. I thought that was just me breaking into a cold sweat. Oh dear, I hope you know what you're doing with your Mr Ash. He doesn't sound too reliable from what you say."

"Mr Tuttle, I'm going to act like a good manager and delegate. I'll worry about the substitute Santa, and you can contact the maintenance staff and see about the air conditioning. I like it cool, but not so much we get ice forming in the office water cooler."

"Yes Mr Clarke."

Mr Clarke decided to go back to the grotto to meet the new Santa Claus, so he could hustle the man straight onto the throne. It was cold enough in the office, but out in the mall itself, it positively icy. The customers in their summer clothes were shivering and stamping their feet to keep warm. When he reached the atrium, he had to stop and help a mother unstick a small child's tongue from the aluminium railing.

Enough was enough. He took out his mobile phone and speed-dialled Mr Tuttle.

"Ah, Mr Tuttle. How are you coming along with the air conditioning? Tell maintenance I want this fixed ASAP."

When Mr Tuttle answered, he seemed a little distracted. "Um, well Mr Clarke... you see, we've discovered there's nothing actually wrong with the air conditioning. The source of the difficulty is somewhat more fundamental. Oh dear, we'll be ruined for certain. I know it."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"No sir, not on the lives of my wife and children. Perhaps you should come up to the roof and see for yourself."

Mr Clarke sighed and headed for the elevators. So much for delegation. When he stepped out of the elevator, he discovered that drivers were having a great deal of trouble navigating the car park on account of the snow. Powdery snow had settled in sweeping drifts right across the roof and on top of people's cars. To his knowledge, it had never snowed in this part of Sydney before. Especially not in midsummer during a heat wave.

Mr Clarke went and found Mr Tuttle by the air conditioning tower.

Mr Tuttle just stood and stared at the snow. "Have you ever seen anything like it before?"

"I agree it is a little out of the ordinary. But let's try to prioritize, shall we. You are my two IC, after all. Have maintenance shut down the air conditioning and bring the heating on line. In the meantime, I have a Santa Claus to meet."

But Mr Clarke did not go straight to the grotto. He stopped at the home-wares store and had them tune their wall of televisions to the news.

"...freak weather conditions," said the news reader. "While the greater Sydney region swelters in heat-wave conditions, the residents of one suburb are enjoying a white Christmas this year. After the break, we'll talk to Doctor Richard Flood, climatologist and specialist on the greenhouse effect."

Fifty-six minutes after Christopher Winston Ash left the mall, Mr Clarke and Mr Tuttle stood by Santa's grotto. But as yet they had seen no sign of a bearded gentleman in a red suit.

"Oh dear," said Mr Tuttle. "He's going to be late, isn't he. And people are starting to notice we've been without a Santa for three hours on Christmas eve. We'll all be paupers by sunrise tomorrow."

"You exaggerate I think. People are still shivering too much to notice. After we have Santa settled in, I think you and I should pay another visit to maintenance and see how they're coming along with the heating."

After another three minutes of standing in the cold, Mr Clarke could not feel his feet anymore.

"He's cutting it rather fine. And Mr Ash was very precise about the time. I'm starting to suspect it was all for show."

Nonetheless, some strange compulsion kept Mr Clarke's eyes on his wristwatch, and he counted down the seconds as he held his breath. When the hour past without incident, he felt a little foolish. What exactly had he expected?

Then the dome over the atrium exploded. Mr Clarke instinctively ducked and covered his head as the debris showered down from above. Women screamed and babies cried. It was just as well the panels of skylight were made of perspex rather than glass, otherwise there would have been carnage.

"This is it," said Mr Tuttle. "We're all going to die."

Mr Clarke looked up to see what had caused the damage. There was a red sleigh, drawn by a team of reindeer. It flew a sort of victory lap around the walkways on all four levels of the atrium, causing laden shopping trolleys to tumble, and frigid shoppers to scatter in fear of their lives.

From the driver's seat came a great booming voice, louder than any ordinary human being could ever shout: "Ho, ho, ho!" It was a bass rumble that caused Mr Clarke's internal organs to vibrate in sympathy.

Finally the sleigh came to the ground and stopped by the reindeer pen. The sight of all those wild reindeer with the snow still on their backs caused a change of heart in their captive brothers. They kicked down their pen and went galloping through the mall, adding to the general mayhem.

Meanwhile, the substitute Santa Claus climbed down from the sleigh, and stomped up the steps to the throne, which suddenly looked more convincingly gold-like than it had only moments before.

The Santa sat down with thump, and real snow started to drift down from the now open roof of the atrium. "Well?" he boomed. "Where are the children? Form an orderly queue please."

And though the parents and children alike were all shocked, battered, and bruised, they did exactly that. This Santa Claus had a sort of charismatic aura that demanded immediate, unthinking obedience.

After a while, Mr Clarke returned to his office. He needed some time to think, and to decide what to do about this disastrous substitute Santa Claus. But mostly he just wanted to wrap a blanket around his shoulders and sit huddled over a bar heater until he could feel his extremities again. Being a slender man, he always felt the cold.

But it was not to be. He had barely settled in before Mr Tuttle came bursting through the door.

"We'll all be ruined. The store holders are up in arms! I'll never be able to show my face at the golf club again."

"What's that Santa Claus up to now?"

"Hmm? Oh no, it's not him. It's your animatronic elves. It must be the cold effecting them, I think, because their programming has gone haywire."

"You mean, they're not singing Christmas carols anymore?"

"Not exactly, no. Oh, I'll never live this down."

Mr Clarke stood up from his chair and let the blanket fall from around his shoulders. "Tell me then, what exactly are they doing?"

"Shoplifting. They're shoplifting, Mr Clarke."

Mr Clarke didn't quite believe it until they went down the escalators to level one and met a seven foot tall stack of cane baskets coming out of the handbag shop.

Mr Tuttle rushed forward. "You there, stop that!" He took all the baskets off the stack until the plastic elf underneath stood revealed. It blew a raspberry and skipped away.

Mr Clarke, who was somewhat more agile, intercepted it and picked it up by the ankle. "Hey," it said. "Put me down." Then it crawled up its own leg and bit Mr Clarke hard on the finger. He dropped it, and it scuttled away into a department store.

He shook his head. "I don't care how sophisticated the electronics are, no mere automaton should be capable of that degree of independent action."

But Mr Tuttle's attention had turned to some new hazard. "Look out," he said, and pulled Mr Clarke to the ground. A flutter of wings passed overhead. "What on earth was that?"

"That, I believe, was a pterosaur. And it came from the direction of the atrium. Come on. I think it's about time we asked our new Santa Claus to leave."

When Mr Clarke and Mr Tuttle arrived in the atrium, the substitute Santa Claus had an audience of children ten deep. And by the looks on their faces, they had already concluded that no rival Santa could ever top him. The remainder of the elves had their anxious parents corralled in the pharmacy. As Mr Clarke approached, a child stood on the arm of Santa's throne and whispered into the man's ear.

"Well, well," the Santa boomed. "Another pterosaur. They're certainly popular this year."

The Santa waved his hand and a second giant, bat-winged beast came soaring down through the broken dome and landed next to the throne. The child, shouting with joy, leapt on the monster's back, and with a beat of its wings they were away.

Mr Clarke rushed up the stairs, taking two at a time and stopped before the throne. "Look here sir. The generally accepted practice is that you give the children toys -- only toys. You must stop this at once."

"Now, now. You mustn't interrupt," said the Santa, in a voice that carried such depths of hidden menace that it stopped Mr Clarke in his tracks. "Who's next?"

A small, grubby boy stepped up from the crowd and climbed onto the Santa's knee.

The Santa looked at him carefully and said, "Uhuh! You're Tommy Gardner. Correct? What do you want for Christmas, Tommy?"

"Wanna plane," said Tommy.

"Now, tell me honestly, have you been bad or good?"

"Good."

The santa shook his head and gave the boy a stern look. "There's no point lying to me, Tommy. I know when you've been bad or good. That's part of the deal. You've been stealing spare change from your mother's purse, haven't you." Then he turned to his audience. "Can anyone tell me what you get when you've been bad?"

Several hands shot up, and the Santa pointed to a girl at the back. She said, "A lump of coal?"

"Yes, that's right. A lump of coal."

Tommy looked frightened. He climbed down from the Santas knee and started backing away. The Santa waved an arm, and a pile of coal fell out of the sky right on top of Tommy. It buried him completely.

From inside the Pharmacy, Tommy's mother screamed and broke through the barrier of elves to come to her son's rescue. That broke the spell for Mr Clarke. He rushed forward and helped dig through the pile of coal. Tommy soon emerged, coughing, and black from head to toe.

But by now, the next child had climbed onto the Santa's knee. "I want... a monster truck!"

Again, Santa waved his hand. A monster truck, exactly as ordered, came crashing through the sliding doors and into the mall. It was black with flames painted on it. It had wheels six feet tall. The boy jumped down off Santa's knee, ran over to the truck, and climbed into the cab. The engine roared and the truck sped off through the mall, smashing though every plate glass window and shop front in its path.

Mr Clarke stood gaping in horror at the destruction. "Hey, stop it. You can't do that!"

Mr Tuttle threw his hands in the air. "We're ruined. Ruined, I tell you."

But already, things were moving on. A little girl was climbing onto the substitute Santa's knee.

"I want..."

"Stop!" Mr Clarke shouted. "Little girl, I'll give you anything you want if you just come down from there and don't say another word."

The girl stared at him for a moment. "Okay. I want a godzilla."

A deathly hush fell suddenly over the crowd. Even a hoard of eight-year-olds instinctively knew that this was going too far. The substitute Santa merely smiled and waved his hand.

Then, away in the distance they heard a deep roar. As one, the crowd of children screamed and scattered.

It was well after midnight before Mr Clarke felt it was safe to venture out of the underground car park, and counted himself lucky there was an underground car park ("Why not drive to Centergate Mall? There's parking on every level."). By that time, the snow had mostly melted, leaving a cloying humidity and clouds of biting midges in its wake. The substitute Santa Claus was gone, and so was most of Mr Clarke's mall. Godzilla had demolished all but one corner of it, then stomped off to the east and disappeared into the sea.

There were police cars and fire trucks everywhere. All the roads were blocked off, and there were multiple rescues underway. It was all Mr Clarke could do to wander from one end of the street to the other, staring at the wreckage in disbelief.

Then there was some young man standing in front of Mr Clarke and calling him by name. It was almost a minute before he registered the man, and he realized who it was.

"You!" he said. "You're Christopher Winston Ash. This is all your fault!"

"Please, call me Chris. And I think you will find, Mr Clarke, that by the terms of our contractual agreement, you have indemnified me against any minor damages that might have occurred in the congress of our business."

But Mr Clarke wasn't listening. "You! What do you want?"

"I bring good news Mr Clarke. Because you're our lucky one-hundredth customer, you've been selected for the trial of a brand new service, which you may take advantage of absolutely free of charge, for one time only."

Mr Clarke raised his hands to his temples. "Free service? What are you talking about?"

"We're expanding our business to cover New Year's eve as well."

From his inside coat pocket, Mr Ash took out a little velvet bag. Inside was a gold whistle, which he blew. "I'll leave you to enjoy it, shall I?"

He left the scene at a sort of half-run.

Then, through the wreckage came toddling a giant baby, twenty storeys tall. With its feet on uneven ground, it lost its balance and sat down heavily, causing an earthquake that demolished the last standing section of the mall and sent Mr Clarke sprawling in the rubble. But the baby was soon on its feet again, and it came lumbering relentlessly onward. It wore a giant white sash that read "Baby New Year".

Somewhere in the general carnage, a gas main must have been severed, because as the giant baby toddled away into the night, everything exploded!

[What exactly is infernokrusher? I'm glad you asked. You can read all about it here.]