Page 7 of Short Stack 3

I raise one eyebrow at his flight of fancy, aware of my fellow tiny sceptic eyeing Dylan from beside me.

“Wouldn’t Santa drown under the sea?” Kyle asks.

A chorus of distressed comments greets this statement. “No,” the twins shout, their pigtails bouncing in a rather apoplectic manner.

I happily step back to allow Dylan to deal with this, as it was entirely his decision to stick his nosy beak into my group.

“No, no,” he says hurriedly. “Santa ismagic. He can go anywhere.”

“Well, that’s not even remotely disturbing,” I mutter. I cannot fathom how having a fat old man creeping into children’s bedrooms ever managed to catch on.

Kyle stands next to me, and I jump as he slides his hand into mine. “Santa doesn’t exist anyway,” he says as insouciantly as if he’s remarking on the weather and not throwing a truth bomb into the arena.

“Sir, Kyle says Santa isn’treal,” Polly shrieks at me.

I shake my head to clear my eardrums. “I am well aware of that, Polly, as I’m standing right next to him.”

“Santadoesexist,” she says, glaring at Kyle as if she’s going to belt him.

He shrugs, displaying a casualness that I admire. “Nope, and you can’t tell me what to think. Santa isn’t real.” He points atone of the boys in my group. “Thomas says his dad brings his presents.”

As the entire group turn to stare at him, Thomas immediately looks as if he wishes he’d been left out of this discussion. “Well, erm,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Tellthem,” Kyle demands. “You said your dad fell over some toys on the floor and woke you up last year.”

Thomas looks around the group, who are staring at him with more militant poses than I saw at a climate protest in London the other week. “Yeah, maybe,” he mutters and then rallies. “But maybe he was just standing in for Santa.”

“What was Santa doing, then?” a little girl breathes wonderingly.

“Maybe he’s at the pub,” Kyle says.

“Santa doesn’t go to thepub,” Polly scoffs.

“He might do,” Kyle says fiercely. “Everyone gets thirsty at times.”

“Very true,” I say solemnly, winking at Dylan, who looks as worried as if World War Three is going to break out. I roll my eyes. “Oh, ye of little faith,” I mutter. “Watch this.”

I step forward. “Of course Santa gets thirsty,” I say briskly. “He works nearly as hard as a lawyer on a school trip. Who wants the gift shop?”

All discussion of Santa’s drinking problem ceases immediately.

“Me, me!” they all shriek.

“Okay. Pack up tidily, and we’ll go.”

I stand back and offer Dylan a modest look. “I think it’s in the way you handle them. They’re like Charlie Hunnam, really.”

“Oh, yes? And how many times have you taken our dog to a gift shop?”

“Well, never, but how bad can it be?”

“Gabe, there is you, a group of seven children with pocket money in their hot little hands, and a shop full of scented rubbers and coloured pens.”

I sag. “I’m going to kill Jude.” Dylan laughs, and I prod his side. “And then I’m coming for you.”

“Promises, promises.”

I smile at him. “I always keep the ones I make to you.”

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