the reflective light of the moon, seemed to be staring right at him. Its ears were pinned to the air for any sound he might make, but it was reluctant to move. It didn’t even lift its head. The boy didn’t notice Michael at all; he was using the dog as a pillow, his head resting on its rising and dipping chest as his hand continued to gently stroke it.
“What was all that about?” Naff asked when Michael joined him outside.
“Nothing,” Michael said, attempting to restrain his emotion.
“You look different,” Naff noticed, hopping around him like an excited and quizzical child. “Something happened in there didn’t it?” he exclaimed, “Ah, what was it? What was it? Tell me. Did someone finally pull that stick out of your arse?” he asked, practically skipping with joy.
“Fuck off Naff.”
****
“This is bloody heavy,” Chip complained. He slugged a wrapped box through the living room to a fireplace, where a selection of presents had been laid out between three bulging stockings.
Santa watched the tooth fairy struggle with the box, nearly trapping his fingers between its edge and the soft carpet as he plonked it down with little care or attention, before cracking himself upwards with a jolt and holding his back with a pained expression.
“I think that one’s a train set,” the fat man noted. He glanced around at the room and smiled. It was alight with tiny, multi-coloured lights and bristling tinsel, all neatly and carefully placed -- covering the frames of paintings and pictures and dangling from light fixtures. An advent calendar was open by the stairs, all but a few of its chocolate filled doors stood open.
“You like this, eh?” Chip said, watching the fat man’s expression.
Santa nodded, feeling massively cheered up after the depressing incident with the youth on the bus. “Very much so.”
A hushed sound caught both of their attentions and they turned towards the stairs just in time to see a little head pop out and then disappear. The sound of hasty footsteps on creaky steps followed and Santa ushered for Chip to hurry up. Before he heeded the advice he heard the gleeful chants of a little boy who had made it to the top of the stairs and was calling to his parents.
“Mummy! Daddy! Mummy! Daddy,” came the joyous screams. “Santa is downstairs! Santa is downstairs!
“Ah, sweet,” Chip said, despite himself.
The kid continued, “And he’s brought his ugly little elf with him!”
“The little fucking shit…”
“Come on,” Santa beckoned with an open arm, “the night is young.”
****
Michael gazed up at the dazzling house in awe, his jaw hung open like a hungry toddler. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself. “It’s lit up like…”
“Christmas?” Naff offered.
“Yeah,” Michael said noncommittally, ducking his eyes from the house -- whose every inch had been covered with glittering, multi-coloured lights -- and feigning an unimpressed look.
Naff waited by the front door with a big grin on his face. He was enjoying their adventure, the Christmas spectacle draped over the house before them and the battle of wills that ensued on his friend’s face.
“After you,” he nodded at the front door.
Michael gave him a vexed stare as he passed through the front door. Inside it was just as colourful and spectacular as it was outside. The walls were strewn with an assortment of glittering tinsel and flashing pinpoint lights. An army of ornaments -- Santa Rudolph, snowmen -- lined up on the windowsills, coffee table and mantel piece. Stick-on snowflakes adhered to the insides of the windows, advent calendars waited by the front door and stockings hung from the mantel.
Michael quickly and silently unlocked the door before walking deeper into the room. At the back of the room a large Christmas tree stood defiantly. Its plastic bristles scratched the ceiling; its arms reached every piece of furniture within a two-foot perimeter.
He stood in front of it, gazing up. On the top of the tree, sitting before a crown of branches that picked at the artexed ceiling, looking comfortable and majestic, was a hand-crafted wooden angel. A great deal of detail and care had been taken over every minute feature; every fold of her skirt, every sparkle in her eye.
Naff brushed up beside him with the sack trailing at his heels.
“I don’t think you hate Christmas after all,” he noted happily. He moved to put a hand around his friend’s shoulder, but then thought better of it and feigned a stretch and a yawn.
“I loved it as a kid,” Michael noted, smiling at the glittering