STORIES | What Do You Want For Christmas?

A story about Christmas in Holbeck, written by Phil Kirby, and read beautifully by Clancy Walker. NSFW! Which in this case stands for Not Strictly Festive Writing. And does contain rude references and some strong language… it is Holbeck after all.

What Do You Want For Christmas?

It was funny to bump into him again so soon. I almost blurted out “hello again!” when I bent down to the passenger window doing my routine.

He wanted “everything.” They always do. He was obviously dressed different but I recognised the voice straight away. He sounded a bit like my uncle, booming and bullish and full of piss and wind. One of those blokes you had to watch. Funny as fuck at first. Great as long as it lasts. A drink too many and he’d turn. Nasty. Never worried me though, I can handle anything. Even this one.

He’d done this before, I could tell. As soon as I’d buckled up and smoothed my skirt he took my hand in his big warm fist and closed it tight around something crisp and clean.

“For Christmas,” he said, turning and banging the steering wheel. “Lead the way.”

I didn’t want a fucking present. I almost told him to stick it where monkeys stick their nuts. Wasn’t like I was looking for a handout. But I squeezed my hand around the notes and reckoned that there was at least two twenties – you get a feel for reckoning up without looking as if you’re counting when you’ve been doing this as long as I have – and got a grip on myself.

Usually I take them around the corner. There’s a place beside the viaduct. Just a bit of waste ground, full of chairs and bottles and tires. Weeds as high as your head. Usual crap. Nobody goes there without a reason. There’s only one reason really. But I was feeling like a change. It was fucking Christmas, so why not!

I pointed, straight on then left at The King’s Head.

He chatted away. Tedious bollocks about some bloke in the Bulls Head getting drunk last night and knocking the tree over and getting into a punch up with the guys from the garage next door which ended up with the coppers coming mob-handed and closing down Domestic Street with five Bridewell Taxis screeching to a halt all over the place . . . he went on and on. I’d not heard anyone call police vans that since my dad was around. He wasn’t really talking to me. Just talking. He didn’t need me to join in.

That was fine by me. I told him to take a left by the old library.

When we got to the old Kays building I told him to pull up. We couldn’t do “everything” in his car, so I pointed to the industrial estate. No security cameras.

He looked a bit puzzled. It was too bright maybe. The streetlamps cast harsh shadows across the empty car park. I snapped open the seat belt and asked if he was coming. When he hesitated I said, “look, it’s Christmas! Nobody’s working. It’s light . . . you’ll get a good look!”

That clinched the argument. I saw him flash a look at my legs and smile . . . a real smile! Not one of those cheap, nasty, leery smiles, but a “smile” smile. The real thing.

His eyes traveled back up to my face. “What are we waiting for!”

I led him to a sheltered bay beside a skip full of building rubble, glass and cardboard. There was no chance we’d be disturbed here and he seemed to have gotten over his initial qualms. I clearly heard a zipper rip open. He undid his belt before I knew it and was jostling in his pants . . . that’ll save me a bit of time and effort I thought.

“Everything” is a pretty straightforward routine. I can do it with my eyes shut. That’s often the best way. Usually takes five minutes maximum. I made sure he was wearing something and just let him get on with it.

For the finale I turned my back to him and braced myself against the skip. He was like most men, shoving and grabbing, occasionally stopping for a moment to study my arse and wonder if he could get away with it, but mostly he just grunts and groans and pushes on. I’m not really there. Best thing about bringing him here is that I can fix my eyes on the weird building over the road and make believe I’m somewhere else.

When my mum worked for Kays she told daft stories about the place, most of it made up I expect. Sheep on the roof and that sort of crap. She loved the place though. Loved the people she worked with. Always organising works outings and forever talking about what was going on in the place. They lived in each others pockets I always thought. She once even went to Egypt with a bunch of the office girls and took photos of the original. Sparkling white. Smooth sand. Belting sun. Not like here. Not like Holbeck. Cold and broken and black as soot. Grim. But still, it reminds me of somewhere else, somewhere better.

“So, what are you getting for Christmas, Santa?”

It just slipped out. I don’t know why I spoke to him then. Fuck knows why I said that. I felt shit about it straight away. He’d paid for this fair and square, I didn’t really want to put him off his stride, I could tell he was almost there, I just hoped he’d get it over with. Bang, bang, bang done!

But I felt him shrivel and shrink and then step back, tottering.

He pulled my skirt down and I could tell he was tucking himself away. Zipping up.

I didn’t turn around. Just kept my eyes on the floor..

As he sucked his stomach in and yanked his belt tight over his heavy waist his trousers rode up and his socks flashed for a split second.

Red socks. Winter pattern.

He hadn’t changed his socks since that morning.

Hadn’t changed his fucking socks since he’d swung my Joshi up on his lap and asked what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas, ho ho ho. Jingle Bells tinkling in the background and a short guy in a stupid green costume digging his hand into a sack and handing over a neatly wrapped gift.

Ho ho ho, and a merry Christmas…

“That’s everything,” I told him.

“Everything? . . .” he said. “It was . . . nice”

He walked me back to the car and asked if I needed a lift anywhere. That was decent of him I thought, but no, I didn’t want to be around him any longer than necessary.

I turned away towards town, walking the wrong way, hoping he’d spin around and drive back the way he came. But I could hear him start the car and drive towards me slowly through the slush. As he passes me he looks me straight in the eye. He opens his mouth and for a split second a frown crumples his face, and a look of, what… disappointment, dismay, disgust? Then he whips his head around and stabs the accelerator. He turns right onto Water Lane without even stopping.

I wonder if he’s recognised me. Wonder what he’d say if he did. What would he think?

Doesn’t matter. Funny to see him again. Funny to see those socks. Really fucking funny.