Hellblazer: Deck The Halls
By Dex (bryant.telfer@sheridanc.on.ca)

This part of the Project is hosted by
Jacque's Waste Of Time...Waste Of Space...Sanity Control Centre

Disclaimer: All characters herein are the property of DC Comics and are used without permission, but no harm is intended and no money is being made.  Please do not archive without permission from the author.  Feedback is appreciated.

"It always seemed a bit dodgy to me, luv.  I mean, a fat man in a bright red suit and knee-high boots, shimmying down into stranger's houses, leaving little 'surprises' for their kids.  Sounds like a bloke with a bit of the pervy in him, ready for the nut house, in me mind."  John Constantine lit another cigarette and leaned back as his niece, Gemma, cleared away the breakfast dishes.
"You make it sound so sinister, Uncle John.  Where's your holiday spirit?"
"Aw, I don't mean to get you down, luv.  Holidays change a bit when you get older, then.  Not so much a party but a reminder of who's not around ta share it with you any more."
"Thinking about Kit?"
"Always."  John turned away, snubbing out his cigarette and looking at the clock.  "And you better get moving.  You mum will have me head if you fail out cause I'm making you late pissing about."
"Yes, Uncle."  Gemma grinned, and dumped the rest of her supplies in her book bag.  "Did you want me to stop by the shops on the way home?  Get a bit of a Christmas dinner ready for you before I go back home?"
"Thanks, but I'm going to be late tonight.  Bit of business to take care of.  Say Merry Christmas to your mum for me."
"Business that has seventeen arms and two dozen eyes?"
"None of your cheek.  Off to class now."
"Yes, Uncle John."

 

 
 
 

"You see, Gemma wasn't far off.  I'm going to be pissing about in that church on Highbury.  Honestly, if I didn't owe a favour to Ric the Vic's old flame, I'd be sitting down at the Red Door with a pint of heavy."
"That blonde smasher with the big--"
"That's the one."
"So, should I tell the missus to expect you for Christmas dinner then?"
"Why?  Have you decided that you don't like me enough to make me eat her cooking?"  John lit a cigarette, and offered the pack to Chas, who shook his head.
"Trying to stop.  Promised the missus that I'd quit for Christmas."
John grinned at Chas' obvious discomfort.  "She going to ask for your bollocks for her birthday then?"
"Shut it, John.  You're always going on about her, and never have a good thing to say."
John grinned.  "Think there's a reason for that?"

 

 
 
 

"CHAS!  YOU BLOODY BASTARD!"  Constantine yelled at the rapidly departing cab, fist in the air.  He made a gesture of helpless fury before turning angrily towards the nearest Tube station.    Out of the corner of his eye, John swore he caught a red flash on the rooftop of one of the shops.  Shrugging, he turned back to the steps leading down.  The station was thronged with last-minute shoppers of all types; mothers with four children and a dozen shopping bags that ringed her like bumpers on a tugboat, men in natty suits with long packages in expansive looking gold wrapping, and younger women with little brown bags from trendy bookshops and specialty shops.
"Excuse me, guv," muttered a small man as he manuevoured a coatrack with a red bow tied on it past John.
"I fuckin' hate this season," he muttered as it the tube pulled out of the station.

 

 
 
 

"Cheers, John.  Come on in."  Mary stepped aside to let him into the small house behind the Highbury Church.
"Hello, Mary."  Constantine slung his trenchcoat over the back of the chair and sat down.  "You rang?"
"That I did.  Tea?"
"Cheers."
"It's been yonks since I've seen you, John.  How've you been keeping?"
"As always.  A bit of this, a bit of the other.  How's the church?"  Mary had parleyed her relationship with Ric into a job as the caretaker of the church, running the grounds and the finances with an iron hand.
"Still doing Ric's work."
"Wot?  Getting pissed up and making fun of the Pope's hat?"
"You know what I mean."
"I wonder."
"Stuff it, Constantine.  You still involved in the magic?"
"Trying to cut down," John muttered, lighting a cigarette.  "Why?  Doing God's work require a conjuring or two?"
"Three kids have disappeared in the last two days.  Parents sent them to bed, woke up in the morning, and found empty beds.  Say they can't think of any reason or way the kids could have skinned out on them."  Mary sipped her tea, staring into the thin brown liquid.  "The last two worked at the church, here.  Good boys, a little wild at times, but not the type that would just go larking about."
"And where do I get involved?"
"Something better then a kidnapping twat took these kids.  That's your department."  Mary meet his stare, her eyes hard.  "And, you owe me and Ric."
"I knew this would come back to haunt me."
"With interest, John.  What goes around, comes around."
"Fuck you, Mary."
"Merry Christmas."

 

 
 
 

Christmas Eve came to London in a bank of thick, white clouds, hungrily roiling over the metropolis.  Heavy snow fall began to roll over the city, blanketing the grey stone and red brick in white shrouds.  Ice rimmed the mighty Thames River, and the freezing winds began to slow the pulse of the city to a low throbbing beat.  Winter had gripped London by its testicles.
Like a picturesque BBC holiday special, the strings of multi-coloured lights and warm yellow glows from the tightly locked homes illuminated the world, and in the hamlet of Highbury, the winds carried the sound of bells.
On a rooftop, beside a newly rebricked chimney, a hand grabbed the edge and hauled itself out of the improbably tiny flue.  He was big and fat, his heavy body clad in a bright scarlet suit, trimmed in white fur.  He wore knee-high boots, shined mirror-bright.  His beard was big and white, with twinkling blue eyes and ruddy cheeks hidden behind it.  Not a trace of the soot and smoke and filth associated with the chimney of a 200-year-old house clung to him, the bits falling away to the white blanket underneath him.  He reached back down the flue, and drew out a massive sack, edged with a border of green and red.  With a jolly grin, and a heave, he slung the bag on his back and leapt to the next rooftop.  Reaching the chimney, he set down his bag and raised his finger to the side of his nose.
"Just a second there, squire.  I need a word with you."  A red glow flared in the night as John Constantine lit his cigarette and stepped out from the shelter of the eaves.  "Before you sneak down this chimney, of course."
"My word, certainly.  But you're a little old to be waiting up to see if you can catch Father Christmas."  The man grinned and laughed at his joke, belly shaking like the requisite bowl full of jelly.
"That I am, mate.  And I've half frozen my arse off out here."  John looked around.  "Shouldn't there be a sled with a dozen ratty-looking reindeer somewhere about?"
"Call me Nicolas.  In the cities, I use my own power.  Much easier.  However, I am on the most important deadline in the world, sir.  Children are counting on me, you know."
"No worries.  Still, quite a bit of magic involved in popping in and out of all those chimneys and gas furnaces and whatnot.  Must be a bit of a rough morning involved."  John smiled.  "Been feeling a bit poorly of late?"
"I'm Father Christmas.  I have the whole year to recover from tonight, young man.  The good boys and gels deserve me at my best."
"Of course why you've been practising lately.  Don't want to blow the big night?" John said, drawing deeply on his cigarette.
"I don't understand...but I really must be off.  I'm already rather late."  Nicolas shuffled nervously, looking suddenly a touch uncomfortable in the presence of the grinning Constantine.
"Yes, all those goods kid and the like.  Still, there is one thing that I'm finding a bit dodgy."
"I'm sorry?"
"If you leave something for the good kids, what do you do for the naughty ones?"  Nicolas drew back a moment from him.  "See, I know all about this sort of magic, right?  You probably came across it running that shop down on the Green.  A book or tablet came inna the store and seemed to be singing just to you.  Following me so far?"
"I--"
"So then it all seemed so easy that your mind snapped, and you realised that you must be Father Christmas.  Only logical type of answer.  Father Christmas who somehow ended up running an antique shop on the Green in Leeds.  But you knew your duty."
"See here--"
"But you needed a few tests, to make sure it all worked.  That you wouldn't end up stuck halfway up the chimney with your own head in your arse for the paramedics to fish you out.  See, magic like yours demands a lot for everything it does, right.  A pretty hefty price.  I bloody know.  So how are you paying, mate?  What happens to the naughty kids?"
Nicolas' face turned ugly, and with an inarticulate cry, he launched himself at Constantine.  John took the cigarette from his mouth and buried it into Nicolas' eye, twisting the screaming man off balance and down the slope of the roof.  Nicolas had time for one brief cry before he hit the flagstones three stories below.
John lit another cigarette and opened up the bag.  A grisly collection of crudely hacked-off fingers, gouged out eyeballs and torn off tongues made a wet pile at the bottom.  John sadly retied the bag and carefully made his way to the edge of the roof.
In a moist, broken pile at the bottom was Nicolas, his body nothing but a punished bag of meat.  Constantine tipped the bag off the roof to land in the snow beside the body, giving the police enough evidence for even them to solve to the case.  The wind picked up, and John huddled closer inside his trenchcoat, not entirely sure that the cold he felt was the wind.

 

 
 
 

"The same again."  John tilted the gin and tonic back, relaxing in the grimy comfort of the Red Door.  Outside, the wind continued to howl unabated.  The bartender slid the drink down to him, and returned to his paper.  John stared morosely at the Christmas Tree bordered napkin for a moment before tipping his drink back.
In his mind's eye, he could see the faces of Ric the Vic, Header, Brendon, and hell, even Nige laughing.  Behind them all, he could see Kit, her eyes full of concern and her beautiful mouth thin in a worried frown.  John Constantine held out his glass to the afterimages of them, and bottomed the drink.
"Cheers, mates.  Happy holidays."  One by one they faded away, until only Kit was left.  John snubbed out his cigarette and turned his head away, his voice a harsh whisper.
"I fucking hate Christmas."

 

 
 

FIN