that billowed under the heavy snoring. At the side of the bed a joint had been allowed to sit unattended and lit in an ashtray, it had burned to a finish, leaving an ashy deposit all over the bedside table.
He found what he sought stuffed into the top drawer of that bedside cabinet, draping down over the handle and brushing the floor: a stocking, bright red under the beam of torchlight.
He took the top two presents from the bag, held his nose and then entered the room. The wall of noise battered him away but he powered through like a trooper, dropping the two carefully wrapped presents into the beckoning stocking and then quickly exiting the room.
He shone the torch back in to admire his handiwork. The present bulged inside the stocking like a chubby calf. He whispered softly and proudly: “Merry Christmas...” he paused and shone the light over a white tag on the stocking where a name had been emblazoned in thick black letters. “Chip,” he finished with a smile.
He closed the door, threw his sack over his shoulder and headed back into the night.
****
When Michael woke he did so to the joyous calls of his typically ill-tempered flatmate. Chip was happy; Michael was worried. The last time he had seen something remotely resembling happiness on the face of the grumpy tooth fairy was when he successfully trapped a rat that had been plaguing the flat for several weeks, his shrieking yells of accomplishment came right before he beheaded the rodent, impaled a thin pencil through his body like a sickening stake, and displayed it on the kitchen windowsill to ‘ward away the others’.
Wondering what macabre horrors awaited him in the other room Michael staggered out of bed, using the side-cabinet to hold his balance and keep him from falling flat on his face. The small digital clock on top of the table told him it was just before nine. He hadn’t fallen asleep till the early hours of the morning, doing so in a mild drunken stupor that left his mouth feeling like the inside of a kangaroos arsehole.
He had left the pub before midnight, Naff was depressing him, but he had continued his drinking at home. Chip had returned home from work not long after, heading straight to bed and drowning the house with his chorus of snores.
He coughed a clump from his throat, rubbed his tired eyes and staggered forwards, towards the fading cheers of joy.
He found Chip in the hallway, proudly clutching a small tablet computer in his hand, a ball of hastily torn wrapping paper lay discarded at his feet. He waved the device at Michael when he approached, a broad smile on his ugly face.
“Look at this,” He exclaimed joyfully. “Tablet computer, see,’ he flicked a grubby finger on the screen. His brow furrowed, his eyebrows arched into disappointment as he retracted the computer. “Well, it was working before. It doesn’t matter,” he assured, regaining his excitement. “It’s mine!”
“Who did you steal that from?” Michael asked dryly.
Chip looked offended. He hugged the device to his chest. “What makes you say that?” he asked, feigning hurt, not letting on that he had been trying to steal one for months but hadn’t found an owner dumb or naive enough.
“Where did you get it?”
Chip grinned like a smug child. “Santa Claus.”
“Fuck off.”
“It’s true!”
Michael raised an eyebrow; put a hand on his hip. “Tell me, who did you steal it from?”
“I didn’t--”
He waved his friend short, “I don’t really care,” he muttered, feeling a tired headache creeping through his skull like a parasitic worm preparing to lay its eggs in his conscious. “Just make sure you give it back when you’re done.”
He brushed past his friend, leaving the little tooth fairy struck sour and outraged in the hallway.
“I didn’t fucking steal it!” he yelled, incensed. Michael waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and disappeared into the living room, Chip followed, keen to declare his innocence the one time he really was innocent.
“Why won’t you believe me?” he wondered, following his friend around the kitchen as he filled the kettle and plonked it lazily on the stove.
Michael shrugged, leaned back against the counter and struggled to keep his eyes open.
“You should believe me. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“You always say that. You’re always lying.”
“Not this time! Honestly”
“So you’re admitting that you were all those other times?” Michael wondered. “Like the time you said you didn’t know who stole my phone, or my bike?”
Chip diverted his