The Night Before the Christmas Before I Was Married & Other Festive Tales by Adam Maxwell Page A

panting mouth. I rolled over so that my back was towards her and lay, inhaling carpet fibres and breathing heavily whilst she made her exit, slamming the door behind her.

    After a brief but necessary recovery my drunken brother and I resolved that decisive action was required so, with less than twenty four hours until my fiancée arrived I went to head Christine off at the pass. We called a taxi and cracked open another can of lager for the road.

    “So, you see, I can’t marry your daughter,” I explained as calmly as I could to her father. “It was just a bit of a misunderstanding.”

    He looked at me for a moment, digesting the information and inhaling the alcohol fumes pouring from me. He pulled his big white fake beard down a little and spoke.

    “Seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said, the red hat with its white trim slipping backwards on his head. “You proposed to her. You marry her. It’s that simple.”

    “What? Are you bloody insane?”

    He stood up and leaned in close to me, the stuffing inside his coat pushing against my stomach.

    “No swearing in front of the kids,” he whispered in a way that was distinctly un-jolly. “Or I’ll be forced to teach you a lesson.”

    There wasn’t much else to say. There was no reasoning with stupidity on this scale. I took my mobile out of my jeans’ pocket and dialed my fiancée’s number. I have found over the course of our relationship that honesty is the best policy. I put my hand theatrically over the mouthpiece and leaned towards Christine’s father.

    “Just going to give me actual fiancée a call,” I said conspiratorially then removed the hand as she answered. “Hi darling… delayed? Oh shame, I was looking forward to seeing you… yes… not too bad… yes… no… mmm, I got Aunt Betsy that toffee you mentioned… ah, just one thing… there’s a girl here thinks I’m engaged to her… yes I am pretty drunk… no I wasn’t when it happened… yeah, it’ll all be sorted when you get here, I’m with the crazy bitch’s father now… ”

    Santa hit me hard with the open palm of his hand, smashing the phone into my ear and knocking me to the ground. The children stared, some gawping, all of them swimming around in my blurred vision.

    “You mad bastard,” I touched my ear and found pieces of the plastic casing of my mobile phone sticking out of it, blood starting to run from the Santa-inflicted wounds.

    He came at me fast, his knee going to my chest, his arm pulling back ready to punch.

    “I told you,” he said, glancing up at the collection of infants. “No swearing in front of the kids.”

    But the old man was too slow. Adrenaline kicked in and I caught his punch, deflecting it past my good ear before rolling over and tipping him onto his back and hitting.

    And hitting and hitting and hitting.

    And hitting.

    You’ve probably got a picture in your mind now of me. This prize fighter beating an old man to death like some psychotic. But you’d be wrong. The problem is that I hit like a girl.

    I would maintain that I don’t run like a girl or throw like a girl, but hitting - something I had never really done before - I discovered quickly was done in the manner of a six year old girl in a pink dress and pigtails.

    Soon the kids became bored. Some of them walked off.

    “Mummy,” one said without taking his gaze from us. “Do you think that man didn’t get what he asked for? I liked the Santa from the other shopping centre better.”

    “No darling I don’t think he did,” she replied. “But look - I think those security guards are going to help Santa out. Shall we go and get some ice cream?”

    I looked up through the dissipating crowd and the finally saw the security guards and bolted - through the food court, hurled myself through Marks and Spencers out the doors and into the waiting taxi.

    “Sorted?” asked my brother.

    “Sorted.” I said, my chest heaving.

    He handed me a fresh can of lager.

    “Merry