Just Tricking! (19 page)

It's getting late. I'm getting desperate.

Perhaps I could build a fire around the bottom of the box so that it heats up and becomes like a huge oven and incinerates everything inside it.

Or maybe I could grab the hose from the house opposite and fill the box with water. Then the ink on the front of the envelopes would smudge and run and the post office won't know where to send them.

They are both brilliant plans, but neither would be fair to the innocent letters already in the box. I don't want to stop them getting through – I just want Jen's letters back.

I hear a squeal of brakes behind me.

I turn around. It's the postman!

‘Am I glad to see you,' I say. ‘I just posted some letters, but I think I forgot to put the postcodes on and I was wondering if you could get them back for me.'

‘Sorry, mate,' says the postman, ‘I can't help ya. I'm not allowed to do that.'

He puts a sack underneath the door and turns the key.

Hundreds of letters flow into the sack.

‘Besides, it'd take ages to find your letters in amongst this lot,' he says. ‘Go down to the post office. They might be able to help.'

‘But I can't get there now,' I say. ‘It's too late.'

He shrugs. ‘Too bad.'

‘Please?' I say. ‘It's a matter of life and death.'

‘So's my job,' says the postman. He gets into his van and zooms off.

So much for Christmas spirit.

I don't see much of Jen for the rest of the week, until Friday afternoon. The mail arrives late. There's the usual boring letters for Mum and Dad, a couple of cards for Jen and, as usual, nothing for me.

I go to Jen's room and knock on her door.

‘Yes?' she says.

‘Some letters for you,' I say.

She opens the door. Her eyes are puffy, as if she's been crying. I hand her the envelopes. She takes them without a word and closes the door.

A few minutes later I hear loud sobs coming from her room.

I can guess why. It's just as I feared. Her friends are sending her horrible cards. I should confess, but how can I?

And what if Father Christmas finds out? He only comes to
good
boys and girls. What a dumb prank to play right before Christmas.

It's the night before Christmas. I'm in the loungeroom. It's dark, except for the blinking of the Christmas tree lights.

I've just put out a glass of milk and some chocolate-chip cookies for Santa, like I do every year. I've laid a pillowslip on a chair and written my name on it in black texta so he'll know it's mine. I'm just adding a few last-minute items to my letter to Santa when I hear the unmistakable sounds of jingling and reindeer hooves on the roof.

He's early!

I quickly fold the letter and stuff it into the envelope.

But before I can get out of the room, there is a huge crash. And then a stream of angry cursing. Well, I think it's cursing. Some of the words are new to me, but they sound like the sort of thing I'd get into trouble for repeating.

A cloud of black soot explodes from the fireplace, followed by Santa.

At least, I
think
it's Santa . . .

There's no big white beard or red suit, and he's as skinny as a rake. He is clad in black leather with chains and silver studs. His face is covered in a dark three-day-old growth and one of his front teeth is missing. He has a black eye and a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his ear. And worst of all, little Frankenstein bolts coming out of his neck.

He seems strangely familiar. Where have I seen this man before?

And then I remember.

I created him. He's one of the mutant Santas from Jen's Christmas cards.

‘Stop right there, you little weasel!' he booms. ‘It's time all
good
children were in bed! What are you doing still up?'

‘I–I–I was in bed,' I say, ‘but then I remembered I'd forgotten to put out some cookies and a glass of milk for you.'

‘Milk?' he snarls, and then spits into the fireplace. He picks up the glass and throws the milk in my face. ‘Milk? What sort of a wuss do you think I am! Got anything stronger?'

‘There's maybe a coke in the fridge,' I say, wiping the milk from my eyes.

‘I mean even stronger! It's cold out there dammit! And as for these . . .'

Santa picks up the chocolate-chip cookies in his bony hands and crumbles them into dust.

‘These are for kids! I travel all the way from the North Pole and you think a few cookies will satisfy my hunger. I want a steak! Medium rare! Now!'

‘I'll see what I can do,' I say. I run to the kitchen and open the freezer. There are no steaks. All we've got is vegie-burgers. Completely frozen. I guess they'll have to do. I grab the box and go back to the loungeroom.

Santa is scratching his bum.

‘Well?' he says.

‘How about a vegie-burger?' I say, offering the box.

He shakes his head.

‘You're an idiot!' he says. ‘I don't know why I waste my time. What's that in your other hand?'

I'm still holding my letter to Santa.

‘It's a letter for you . . .' I say. ‘With a few of the things I was hoping for . . .'

‘Give it here!' he says, striding over and snatching it out of my hand.

But he doesn't read it. He wipes his nose with it, crumples it into a ball and throws it into the fireplace.

He sniffs loudly and reaches into a black duffle bag that's slung over his shoulder.

‘Okay, Mr Vege-bloody-tarian! Since you like vegetables so much, this is for you. Catch!'

He throws me a small silver ball.

It stinks.

‘Open it,' he says.

I peel off a bit of the foil. The smell gets worse.