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?
