RAZZER’S LAST CHRISTMAS
a
cautionary moral tale for those who don’t believe….
Timothy
Razzell was not a very nice boy. Perhaps he had been long ago, at a
time in his life when
most small children are sweet and good. But by the time he had
reached Year Six at Mosery
Lane Primary School he was a proper little stinker. In school he
bullied younger children, cheeked the Dinner ladies, stole things and
damaged other kid’s property. Just
for a laugh.
He
had “issues.”
He had somehow become a little
twisted up and damaged inside
so he did all this because he
felt sorry for himself and he
wanted other children to like
him. He thought challenging
adults would make him a hero in
their eyes. He was wrong about that. It
just scared them. This twisted him up
even more. So
he spoiled their lessons, making their favourite teachers
bad-tempered and grumpy. His mates called him
“Razzer.”
Except…well… he had no mates really. No-one liked him very
much.
Razzer
hated Christmas, and he hated it especially badly at this exact
moment. Stamping
home from school in one of his “moods”.
Miss Goodwater had nagged him
at home time because
he’d torn up all the paper chains and put them in the bin. She
also moaned at him because he’d
threatened to batter his little sister Keeley-Jo at playtime. Keeley
Jo was going to get it again
now as soon as he
got home. For grassing him up. After
that she’d get it again if
she told Mum about him
battering her afterwards.
It was
dark as Razzer got near his house but something seemed to be going on
outside it. He couldn’t see anything
too clearly because some other
kids had bricked out all the
street lights a few days ago. Some
old bloke was lying on the pavement there, gasping. He was breathless
and muttering to himself. Drunk, probably.
As
Razzer got close, he saw that the old man had a white beard and a
jolly picture-postcard sort of face, with plump, rosy cheeks. Razzer
wasn’t the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer, so all this meant
nothing to him, not even at Christmas time. Neither did the red
trousers or the black boots click
with him.
‘Ouch!
I think I’ve sprained me ankle!’ cursed the old Man.
‘So
what?’ snapped
Razzer. He was wary of Grown-ups. He didn’t like them very much.
Only if they gave him money.
‘ Oh
come on son! Fair play! Give us a hand up here! Got to get up! Got me
job to do!’
“No
way!’ said Razzer, carefully circling the old bloke and opening his
own front garden gate.
‘ Ah
yes! You’ll be Timothy
Razzell then!’ said the Old Man, struggling to his feet, unaided.
‘The Timothy
Razzell From Number 12, right
here. Oh yes! I’ve heard lots about you. And all of what I’ve
heard seems to be true!’
The
old geezer hobbled around, picking up some shopping
he’d dropped. Parcels
and packages, anyway.
-’So?’
‘Yes,
I know all about you,’ said the Old Man, sitting on the garden wall
and rubbing his ankle.
‘Big
Deal!’ sneered Razzer .He
wasn’t a clever boy remember and so
when he was frightened, he
tended to keep conversation very basic. And for some reason he could
not quite explain, he was frightened now).
‘You
don’t know who I am then?’ sighed the Old Man. ‘ I suppose I
shouldn’t be surprised.’
‘ No
I don’t. And I don’t care, neither.
But if you don't go away and get off our wall, I’ll tell my Dad,
and then he’ll come out the house and batter your head in.’
But
how did the
old bloke know
him? wondered
Razzer. That was worrying.
Perhaps he was checking up on his attendance? Razzer bunked off
regularly
so he had a passing knowledge of Social
Workers. (But
did they carry big sacks? Or stuff their red
trousers into
their wellies?).
‘ You’re
treading a downward path ,Razzer! ‘ said
the old man sadly. Even in the darkness. Razzer could see his eyes
were twinkling.
‘ Am
I ? ‘
sneered
Razzer,
adding
ghost
noises. ‘
I’m
really
well scared!’
But
however hard he had tried to reassure
himself, he was
scared, actually. Really, really scared. Of something. Had the local
shopkeepers complained about
him again?
‘ I’m
definitely telling
my dad about you now.’ Razzer declared not very convincingly,
‘You’d better do one!’
It
came out as a bit of a squeak more
than a threat. Razzer
flounced angrily into his
house, without looking back. His ears were hot. Someone was talking
about him. And that was a lie about his dad. His dad didn’t live
there no more. He hadn’t got a dad. Not one that he knew of,
anyway. He scuttled inside, thrilled with his own daring.
Back-chatting
nosey adults. He did it all
the time.
Inside
the house, he crept into the darkened front room without putting the
lights on. He almost fell over the useless
Christmas tree by the window.
Cautiously, he eased a curtain aside. Outside it had begun to snow.
He could tell that, from the white reflected glow on the pavements.
It was beautiful stuff, snow but it wouldn’t last. It never did,
where Razzer lived.
The
old man had now faded to become merely an energetic silhouette on the
other side of the road. There was a whistle and the clip-clop of
hooves. A horse and cart or something with bells on came
up the street. It stopped outside their house, opposite.The
old man swung up onto the driver’s seat. The
wagon was all glittery and
sparkling, like a....a..
‘ A
sleigh!’
whispered
Keeley-Jo, having arrived silently at Razzer’s side., ‘ Oh it’s
a sleigh,
Timothy! Awesome!
It’s so beautiful!’
Her
breath misted up the window as she craned forward eagerly to see it
better. Razzer cuffed her and
then cuffed clear the misted-up
window, urgently. But the street was now empty. He pushed Keeley-Jo
away, roughly.
‘ Shut
it! Loser! It was nothin’!’
he snapped at her angrily . ‘Nothin’
‘
Then
it began to rain. The snow was melting already. Just as he thought it
would. Keeley-Jo got an extra slap for that.
Next
morning, Razzer inspected the droppings piled high in the gutter
outside the house. Like nothing he’d ever seen before. Grandad said
they’d be good for the roses, but they hadn’t got any roses.
Razzer didn’t tell anyone what he thought he’d seen last night
because
if he did they’d
just laugh at him and tell him he was stupid.
That
afternoon, as Miss Goodwater read them a story, Razzer eventually
tired of kicking Tajvinderpal Singh’s
chair and began listening. Some
soppy stuff about Santa Claus. Father Christmas. Whatever. Patron
Saint of kids. The only Santa Razzer had ever met had a cotton wool
beard and smelt of beer and fags.
But something about the
description she was reading out in the story suddenly touched him
like an electric shock. The boots..The sack...
That
red hat! And was them
horses………... reindeer?
On
the way home from school he fretted about yesterday’s encounter
outside their house. In fact, he fretted about the
incident all the way up to that
year’s Christmas Day. In case he didn’t get the Megadroid Death
Ray Killer Gun that Grandpap had promised him. But it was all there,
as usual on Christmas Morning.
*
* *
Then
he’d forgotten the
whole episode
until another cold December night several years later. It really had
snowed then, heavily this time and it settled. Razzer's gloveless
fingers were almost blue with cold. So cold that they were having
some trouble breaking the lock on the door of the local convenience
store. Razzer had put this
coldness down to the sudden drop in temperature at first, but then
there was a scuffling noise on the roof above him. He peered upwards,
half expecting to see a black uniform there. But
instead, a pattering of fluffy
fresh snow powdered gently onto his upturned face. A familiar figure
was beaming down at him.
‘Ho
Ho Ho! It’s our Razzer again!’ the old man chuckled. ‘A bit
taller perhaps and unsuccessfully trying to grow a moustache but
unmistakeably the same fellah.’
‘ And?’
‘ And
as talkative as ever, I see
!’ The old man tutted, shaking
his head with mock sadness.
Razzer could still only see him vaguely. His image was fuzzy like a
busted television set or a buffering download.
‘ Breaking
into Mr. Datwana’s shop?’ asked the old man. Razzer tried to
quieten his chattering teeth.
‘ It’s
me uncle Wayne’s
shop,’ Razzer
lied, ‘ He’s lost his keys.’
‘ Oh
ho! And still fibbing ,eh? Badly,as usual! But you can’t lie to me
,boy! Don’t you know that?’
Razzer
squinted upwards.
‘I
ain’t your boy!’ he
snarled.
‘ An’ come to that, what are you
doin’ up on a roof at this time of night?.Trespass, that is.’
‘Pahhh!!
You mean you still
don’t recognise me?’
‘ I
seen you once before, yeah. You threatened me when I was a little
kid. You want to watch it, mate. Old blokes can get put away for
picking on kids.’
‘ So they
can, Razzer and rightly so. But good children have nothing to fear
from their Patron Saint,’ answered the old man. ‘And you are
still a child, Razzer. In mind if not in body. Look! You’ll regret
it if you break into there tonight. I’ll tell you what….Go home!
Go home to Keeley-Jo and your Mum.’
‘ What?”
Razzer squeaked, incredulously, ‘You
are gonna stop me
,are you? Er....duhhh!!...How does that work then?’
‘ Goodness
me, no! I won’t stop you. I’m
far too busy. I’m just offering you a warning.’
‘ Yeah?
Well I’m going in,’ said
Razzer.’ I told you, it’s
me uncle’s shop. I gotta get some, er... stuff
for him, see? And if you’re still up
on his roof when I come back
out here, you’ll get a right good seeing to. I can promise you
that, old timer!’
‘ We
both know I won’t be here when you come back out,” The old man
sighed. He sounded like when Granddad used to talk about Grandma. As
if he was going to cry. Sad.
Just for a second , Razzer hesitated.
‘ Look……I
ain’t being funny but
….I….gotta get me uncle’s
coat,’ Razzer
mumbled feebly.
‘Bahhh!!’
A
large pile
of snow landed at Razzer’s feet as the old man rose and waddled
back up the roof towards a chimney stack. Had
he..had he thrown a snowball at him?
He half
thought of chucking one back.
‘ Your
Uncle,’ echoed the old
man mockingly, stepping nimbly across the ridge tiles and clasping
the
chimney stack expertly.’Your
uncle!
Another fantasy Razzer! You live in fantasy
permanently! And so why can’t you accept who I
am then? Eh? Tell me that,
Laddie!
If Mr. Sarbjeet Datwana really is
your uncle then I’m…I’m…’
Razzer’s
hand was turning the broken door handle now.
‘ Yeah
, yeah! I know!,’ he muttered, as the lock finally gave, allowing
him to enter the darkened shop. ‘ You’re Father Christmas. And
I’m Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.’
*
* *
That
encounter had been quite a few
Decembers ago now.
Razzer had left home since.
He’d decided he wasn’t going to spend another Christmas in the
Tower Blocks. Even though he
was sleeping rough there now,
holed up in in a storeroom at
the base of one, hiding like an
outlaw.
He
had collected a few bottles and some rags, and he planned on giving
one or two people who had crossed him that year a Christmas box they
would never forget.
Then
he heard…..what? Sleighbells? Nahhh! Bully
Dog with a fancy collar on
maybe? He buttoned up his jacket and reached for a fag to calm his
nerves. But then he heard…..what…hoofbeats?
Hooves drumming like
a stampede in a cowboy film. And a whiplash. With
loud, merry, defiant laughter
way up high, way above among
the bristling Mobile phone
masts on top of the block
of flats.
‘ Yah!’
Razzer scoffed,’
You again! Who believes in you!
What can you
do to me?’
Striking
the match in that confined basement
space ignited
the petrol vapour and catapulted
him through the flimsy storeroom
doors with the other
flying debris. On
fire like a Christmas Pudding
soaked in Brandy. Keeley-Jo, Mrs. Goodwater, Grandpa and Mum all
seemed to flash past Razzer, as he sailed like
a flying stuntman into the
street, landing on his back.
Lying
there on his back in the rain, Razzer stared blearily up at the sky.
He glimpsed pretty, coloured lights winking
fleetingly through the breaks
in the cloud. A low flying jet bound
for Heathrow. Or Gatwick.
Or
was it....a sleigh?