Doctor Trek - Santa Claus Is Coming To Town (1) DOCTOR TREK THE NEW ADVENTURES SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN BY IAN KIDD CHAPTER ONE The United States of America, 1955. The small North American town of West Hampshire, December 24. Danielle Connor, a sweet, petite, innocent fifteen year old schoolgirl, was stringing tinsel along the walls and desks of West Hampshire's tiny Police Station. In her opinion (though she would never dare voice it) doing it on Christmas Eve - this late in the day - rather defeated the purpose - it'd be time to take it down in a day or two - but this was the earliest (hah!) that her father, Sheriff Roy Connor, a somewhat uptight, balding thirty-nine year old, would allow such frivolity (frivolity? What the hell kind of word was that?) in his Police Station, despite the fact that the most the Police got to do in this town was chase missing gerbils. "Having fun, Danni?" handsome, twenty-five year old Detective Dan Davison, a dashing, debonaire devil Danielle (and every other teenage girl in West Hampshire) had a major crush on, entered with her father, who ignored her in his usual affectionate manner. "Not really," Danielle shrugged. "But someone's got to do it. If it was left up to you men, Christmas would go by without so much as a mention." Cutting off this conversational frivolity, Roy turned to Davison. "Anything to report, Detective?" "Nothing, sir," Davison replied. "It's dead out there." "Less use of the word 'dead', if you don't mind, Detective," Roy reprimanded. "I find it offensive, and not the kind of word you drop into polite conversation," he sniffed contemptuously. "Oh, stop being such an old grouch," Davison complained. Roy frowned. It was a good job it was Christmas, he figured, otherwise he would have had that young man's badge for such insurbordination. And they said he wasn't in the holiday spirit! Hah! Davison turned to Danielle. "Hey, Danni - come over here under this mistletoe, and I'll give you a kiss. Give you something to brag to all your little girlyfriends about." "Nooo!" Danielle squealed, going bright red from head to toe. "Your loss," Davison shrugged, looking less disappointed than he really was. He'd been wanting to lock lips - and other bodily parts - with that kid since she'd reached puberty. Still, there was plenty of time yet. "Either way, I'd say we're in for a quiet Christmas." "Never say that, Detective, that's one thing you should know about being a police officer," Roy reproved. "Just NEVER say that." The clock struck 12 Midnight in the bar of The Cow's Nuts pub. "Merry Christmas!" rang out several times, and numerous people embraced, although, strangely, such couplings were always restricted to male-female or female-female (with the exception of Stephen and Adam, of course, but then everyone knew about THEM). Mick Raines, Landlord, raised his wine glass. "I for one," he said in his most serious voice, the tone usually reserved for throwing out rowdy patrons, or disciplining his wife, "regard this year's celebration as a true opportunity - to get totally pissed out of my skull!" he finished, to general applause. Newly married David Underwood clinked his wine glass with that of his young wife, Alice. "Personally, Mick, I regard it as an opportunity to stay sober - and do unspeakable things to my wife!" Alice winked. "That's our present to each other." "What is?" The inside door, leading upstairs, opened and Mick's eight year old daughter Zoe entered. "What are you going to give to each other?" Mick went purple. "Should I answer that, Mick?" David asked with considerable delight. "Saucers," Mick's beautiful forty-year old, dark-haired wife, Alexandra, told her daughter without blinking an eye. "Cups and saucers." "Boring," Zoe yawned. "And what are you doing up at this time, young lady?" Mick asked sternly, confidence restored. "Well...since I'm up...and it is OFFICIALLY Christmas now..." Zoe reasoned. "Cunning as a fox," Alexandra shook her head. "Oh, alright," Mick sighed. "Go on - but just one present, then it's back to bed!" "Yeah!" Zoe ran to the big Christmas tree in the corner of the pub and rummaged among the brightly wrapped presents beneath it's branches. Soon, wrapping paper was a thing of the past. Mick flung an arm around Alexandra's shoulder. "Kids, eh?" he smirked. David and Alice rolled their eyes. Stanley McDermott was one of West Hampshire's - not to mention life's - great losers. Once, Stanley had been a pretty successful guy - wife, kids, good job - if nothing outstanding. His gambling had been his undoing. And with every failure, every loss, every moan his wife flung at him, the gambling brought something else - the drinking. The combination had lost him his self-respect, his job, his family, and ultimately, his home. That, and the fact his wife had come home early from church one Sunday and found him dressed in his dead mother's clothing and sticking one to the family budgie. Now one of West Hampshire's homeless, he huddled in the street corner, pulled his filthy rags around him, and took another swig from his beer bottle. Old Mick Raines, Landlord of The Cow's Nuts, had given it to him. Christmas. Always pulled at the heartstrings. Bet there'd be no bloody Turkey, though, eh? Tight gits. He slept for a little while, then jerked awake with a jolt. What was that noise? Had he been dreaming? No...it was there. Bells. Someone was ringing bells, lots of them. And it was getting louder - louder and nearer. Then he saw it, up in the sky, and he knew he was either dreaming, or REALLY pissed. It was Santa Claus, resplendent in his red uniform and fluffy white beard, on a sleigh, being pulled in the sky by flying reindeer. As Stanley watched in bewilderment, the sleigh pulled up beside him. "Wo - ho - ho!" Santa pulled the reindeer to a stop, watching Stanley with a smile. Stanley staggered over to the reindeer, inspecting them. One of them even had a red nose. "Hi ya, Rudolph!" he gawped, safe in the knowledge that this was all an hallucination. "Merry Christmas!" the cheerful Santa shouted at him. Rudolph leapt on him, buckling him to the floor, ripping out his throat. Stanley had no time to scream, before Rudolph and the other reindeer began chewing on his innards. "And a happy fucking New Year!" Santa finished jovially. CHAPTER TWO Outside The Cow's Nuts, snow began to fall, and a harsh wind sprang up, almost - but not quite - covering the sound of the space/time continuum being briefly ripped open as the the teleport cubicle materialised behind the pub. Captain Who stepped out, followed by Fred and Frobisher, looking surprisingly normal, albeit dressed as a Viking warrior. Who took a sniff of the air. "Ah, bracing!" he sighed. "So what's the surprise?" Fred looked around disapprovingly. "This!" Who waved his arms around impressively. "20th Century Earth! Perhaps now you can see why it's my favourite planet?" "Aside from the fact it's where your home world where you were born and raised - not really, no," Fred admitted. "It's just got such -oh, I don't know - atmosphere!" Who sighed. "It's cold, it's wet, and it's ugly," Fred told him. "Have these people never heard of Gravitron weather control?" "Bit before that time, technology wise, I'm afraid, Fred," Who told her. "When exactly are we?" Fred asked. "December 24th - no, sorry - December 25th, 12 am, 1955. It's Christmas!" Who shouted. "Oh, goody! And neither of you got me anything! I have to say I'm very disappointed." "Shut up," Fred told him. "Sorry," Who apologised. "And where exactly are we?" Fred asked. "West Hampshire, a small town in North America," Who frowned, momentarily troubled. "What's wrong?" Fred inquired. "It just occurred to me," Who pondered. "I have the whole of time and space to explore, and yet, excepting that one time in the Fiction Universe, this is the first time I've landed anywhere on Earth outside England. Why is that?" "Budget?" Frobisher suggested. "Never mind that now," Fred interrupted. "Let's either go back or go forward and look around. It's bloomin' freezing just stood here nattering." "Good idea," Who pointed down the street. "Let's explore!" He set off at a brisk pace. Fred and Frobisher struggled to keep up. "Is no one going to ask me why I'm dressed like this?" Frobisher demanded. "No!" Who and Fred snapped in unison. Eight year old Benjamin McNair simply couldn't sleep. It was Christmas! He'd vowed to stay up all night to find out the truth of who DID put his presents under the tree at Christmas. He still believed in Santa, of course, as did most of his peers, but a couple of the kids in his class had been going around saying Santa wasn't real (preposterous!) and that who put the presents under the tree were actually his mum and dad (even more preposterous! Since when did they have fluffy white beards and wear red uniforms?!) So Benjamin was waiting up in the living room, against his parent's knowledge. Just waiting for Santa, or Mum and Dad. But he'd fallen asleep. He woke - 12.10am. He looked at the tree. There was someone standing by it! Benjamin flicked on the torch. It was Santa Claus! He was real! So real! "F- Father Christmas!" Benjamin gasped. "You're really really real!" "Of course I am, boy," Santa smiled jovially. "Who told you I wasn't? Tell me - I'll tear their hearts out." He came over to the sofa and sat by Benjamin, patting his knee. "Come sit on me, boy." Benjamin climbed onto his lap, terrified, but happier than he had ever been in his life. "Have you been a good boy this year, Benjamin?" Benjamin nodded, wide-eyed. "You sure?" "Y-yes, Santa," Benjamin nodded. "Good. Close your eyes, and I'll give you your reward," Santa smiled, the essence of purity and goodness. Benjamin closed his eyes. And knew nothing more. Mick was just about to tell his customers to bugger off, when the pub door opened and three strangers came in. Mick could tell instantly they were weirdo troublemakers. You only had to look at them! One was dressed like a Roman or something, one was wearing the weirdest ensemble he'd ever seen, and the girl - she looked like one of the weird mutations you saw in those daft horror movies. They were the weirdest trio he'd ever seen, and he made sure his gun was in easy reach beneath the bar. Captain Who, Fred and Frobisher took stools at the bar, ignoring the looks from the other patrons. "What can I get you gentlemen and..." Mick paused, wondering how to address Fred, "lady?" "Glass of water, please," Who asked. I knew it, Mick thought, weirdo. Who else comes into a pub and asks for water? "Lemonade, dude," Frobisher told him. Mick eyed him warily. Was he insulting him? "Pepsi Max," Fred ordered. Mick handed the drinks out. "There's your Pepsi. And the name's Mick." Fred looked bemused. "Nice town," Who remarked. "Why?" Mick asked suspiciously. "What's wrong with it?" "Nothing...it's...nice," Who sipped his water. "Bit warm," he commented. "From the tap," Mick told him. "Shall I put it in the fridge for you?" he asked sarcastically. "Oh, if you would," Who handed it to him, oblivious. Mick glared. "Last orders," he called to the rest of the patrons - ie David and Alice. "No more for us, I'm afraid," David and Alice were putting on their coats. "Past our bedtime." They left the pub. "See you," Mick called after them. That's right, he thought, leave me alone with these freaks. Alexandra leaned on the bar. "So where are you people from?" "The future," Fred told her with blank honesty. "Ho - ho!" Who slapped her on the back. Fred slapped him back in the face. Who continued as if he hadn't noticed. "She was just joking, weren't you, Fred? We're from New York." "Ah," Mick nodded. That DID explain a lot. The pub doors banged open and David and Alice rushed in. "What's up?" Mick asked. "Thought you were going home?" "It's Stanley McDermott!" David said breathlessly. "He's out back! He's dead!" Who stood up. "Dead?" he questioned, immediately on alert. "Murdered!" Alice burst out. "How do you know he was murdered?" Who questioned suspiciously. "Because people don't tear out their throats themselves!" Alice spat. Who frowned. "I see your point," he conceded. 12:35 am. Sheriff Roy Connor parked his car outside The Cow's Nuts, and stepped out, muttering to himself in irritation. He didn't appreciate being dragged out of bed in the middle of a rather erotic dream about a tub of banana yoghurt and his daughter Danielle - no wait, that couldn't be right, surely? And what was he being dragged out of bed by? Stanley bloody McDermott had finally carked it. So? Sure, Mick had said on the phone it was murder, but he doubted it. There hadn't been a murder in West Hampshire since before he was born. He looked around the back. "Where's the body?" he demanded, then saw it. He saw Stanley's half-mangled corpse, innards almost completely removed, forgot all about how it couldn't be murder, and had to choke back vomit. "Good Lord," he managed to gasp. "When did this happen?" he asked the police pathologist, Dr Moody, who was already there. "Within the hour, I'd guess," Moody told him with morbid glee. "The man's insides are still steaming." "Really, Doctor," Roy said disgustedly. "Put your hand in and have a feel, Sheriff," Moody grinned. "It's hot. Like you do when your daughter's having a bath." "I beg your - " Roy began. "One thing I can tell you," Moody continued, ignoring his outrage. "It was definitely murder. We've got ourselves a Jack the Ripper!" "You don't have to sound so pleased about it," Roy told him. "Mick? Where's Mick?" "Here, Sheriff," Mick hurried over. "Who else was in the pub?" Roy asked. "David and Alice Underwood - " "Yes, I know, they're at the station giving Davison a statement," Roy answered. "Anyone else?" "Alexandra and Zoe and - those three," Mick pointed to Who, Frobisher and Fred, who were standing just outside the pub. "Ah," Roy observed them warily. Fred observed them warily. "Likely suspects if ever I saw any. Who are they?" "Don't know. Visitors, though, I know that much," Mick told him. "Complimenting me on how nice our town was." "Nice?" Roy scowled. "I'll give them nice," he stomped off toward them. "Hello, I'm Sheriff Roy Connor - " "I am Captain James T. Who," Who smiled warmly. "The pretty one is Fred, and the one who looks as if he's just stepped from the pages of a decidedly inaccurate history book is Frobisher." "You think I'm pretty?" Fred inquired, looking rather flustered and feeling unexpectedly pleased at his compliment. "Well, in a roundabout sort of way I suppose," Who admitted. Fred's smile faded. "I'd like to talk to you about the murder," Roy began. "Oh yes, I thought you would," Who smiled. "I wish I could help. We were in the pub when Mr and Mrs Underwood found the body, and that's all we know." "I find that very hard to believe," Roy told him. "Really?" Who was genuinely surprised. "Well, I suppose that's your problem, really, isn't it?" "Do you know what else I find hard to believe?" Roy began. "No," Who shook his head, his disinterested tone indicating he didn't really care much, either. "Coincedence. Don't believe in it," Roy told him. "That's why I find it hard to credit that you three - pardon the expression - weirdos just happen to arrive in town on the same day the first murder in over fifty years happens to strike." Who stared at him blankly. "So what's your point?" Fred nudged him. "He thinks we did it, Captain." "Ah," Who frowned. "Not again." "This happened to you before, has it?" Fred inquired. "All the time," Who complained. "I think you'd better come down to the station with me," Roy said. "Why?" Who asked. "Just to eliminate you from our enquiries," Roy said smoothly. "Make us sign false confessions, that sort of thing," Frobisher continued. "We haven't time for this tot," Who waved his hands at Roy. "We've got to be on our way, tracking down the real killer before he strikes again." "But we'll get arrested by the stupid cops so a few more people can die first," Frobisher cut in. Roy glared at him. Frobisher shrugged. "Well, that's the way it usually works." "I've asked you once, now I'm telling you," Roy growled. "You're coming down to the station with me," he began reaching for his gun. With a quick, karate-style kick, Fred knocked the small town cop to the floor. "Run!" she yelled. She, Who and Frobisher took to their heels. Roy dived to his feet and fired the gun after them, missing. "Call the station!" he yelled at Mick. "Tell all units to be on the lookout for a dandy, a Viking and a weirdly dressed - but nonetheless oddly fetching - teenage girl!" He paused, as if checking whether what he'd said made sense. Realising it didn't but that still didn't change anything, he yelled after Mick. "And tell them not to hesitate to shoot!" Who, Fred and Frobisher raced down the street. "It strikes me, Fred," Who gasped. "That this 'running for our very lives' scenario might not have been the best of ideas." CHAPTER THREE Daniell Connor was in bed, dreaming about locking lips (and other bodily parts) with Dan Davison, when a noise woke her up. She listened, and heard it again. In the house. "Dad?" Danielle got out of bed, wrapped a dressing gown around her and left her room, turning the hall light on. "Dan?" Ooh, she hoped it was him. A midnight seduction... The noise came again, and she realised it emanated from downstairs. She headed down. "Hello? Dad?" The noise was coming from the living room. It sounded like...she didn't know what it sounded like. Like the noise Father Christmas might make coming down the chimney. She chuckled to herself, and suddenly burst out laughing at the mental image the innuendo suggested - that of a red-faced Santa, trousers round his ankles, wanking down the chimney. What the hell was whoever the hell was in there doing in there? Danielle burst into the living room. "Dad, what are you - " she stopped, scarcely able to believe her eyes. A red-faced Santa was pulling himself out of the fireplace. He saw her, and grinned jovially. "Why, hello little girl," he beamed. "Come give Santa a tug, would you? I appear to be stuck." Danielle may have been young and innocent, but she was way old enough to know Santa Claus didn't exist, and that whoever was currently jammed by his big fat arse into her fireplace was not only not that mythical present-giving figure, but was also likely to be rather...er... screwy. "Who the hell are you?" she cried. "I'm Santa Claus, who the bleedin' 'ell do you think I am? Kris Kringle?" Santa paused, as if realising that didn't make any sense. "Help me out of here." "I don't think so," Danielle shook her head. "I haven't believed in Santa since I was ten." "That's alright," Santa smiled. "Santa still believes in you." His red gloves suddenly burst and sharp talons emerged from his hands as he dragged himself out of the fireplace, latched onto her and dragged her to him. Danielle screamed. "Ho, ho, ho," laughed Santa. Captain Who, Fred and Frobisher were running down one of West Hampshire's quiet, suburban streets when Who suddenly pulled up short. "Halt!" he ordered. "Why?" Frobisher demanded. "'Cause I'm knackered," Who explained, sitting down on the kerb, wafting himself with his long, multi-coloured scarf. Fred looked up and down the streets. "They don't appear to be after us." "No," Who agreed. "Probably going in entirely the wrong direction," Frobisher snorted. "Typical cops." "Mm," Who sighed. "Although I do wish you hadn't attacked that policeman like that, Fred." "Yeah, well," Fred shrugged. "He was just getting on my tits, is all." "Really?" Frobisher looked up. "Couldn't you have let him finish?" "The point is," Who interrupted before Fred could belt Frobisher. "It would have been easier in the long run just to go the station with him. We're innocent, so we wouldn't have been arrested." "God, you're naive," Fred laughed. "When now we're running from the police and making them hunt us, while the real killer is still on the loose," Who continued. "And we could have been working together." "Why us?" Fred asked. "Why don't we just get in the teleport cubicle and go home? This doesn't have anything to do with us. It's none of our business." "Because, my dear Fred," Who told her. "I happen to believe everything is our business," he stood up, drawing himself to his full height. "There are some corners of the universe that have bred the most terrible things, things that act against everything we believe in. They must be fought." "And besides, he's a nosy bugger," Frobisher put in. "Sirs? Miss?" a voice made them turn. "What the hell?" Fred began. Standing across the road was a small child, wearing a hideous green costume, party hat, and green shoes that curled up at the end. He appeared to be carrying a (blunt, Fred assumed) spear. "How old are you, Miss?" he asked. "Three hundred," Fred said proudly. "Er - I mean fifteen." "Young enough," the boy moved toward them, and they saw he wasn't a child at all. His face was lined and old, teeth black and rotten, hands gnarled. "What the hell?" Fred said again. "He's a midget, a dwarf," Who whispered hurriedly. "Just act like you haven't noticed, it's the custom." "As a matter of fact," the dwarf said, "I'm not a midget, or a dwarf. I'm an elf." "A what?" Fred exclaimed. "Er - yeah, right," Frobisher stifled a chuckle. "One of Santa's little elves, as it happens," the elf chuckled. "And you're surrounded." Who, Fred and Frobisher looked around. In seconds, an army of stupidly-dressed, spear-wielding elves surrounded them. "And the girl is coming with us," the elf finished. Santa's little elves raised their spears menacingly. CHAPTER FOUR "Oh well, if it's only her you want, we don't mind, do we? Take her!" Frobisher dropped to his knees in abject terror. "Take the girl! Take the girl! But spare me! Please spare me!" "Frobisher!" Who snapped. "Stand up and stop making a spectacle of yourself!" Frobisher climbed to his feet reluctantly. Who turned to the elf. "Now then, Mr Elf, I'm sure we can - " "My name's Rumpelstiltskin," the elf told him. "Of course it is," Who babbled. "Why wouldn't it be? Now, I was just thinking, if we put the spears down, and had a nice, civilised chat about things - " he suddenly stopped short, staring at the elf in horror. "Did you say Rumpelstilskin? Oh, my giddy aunt!" "You've heard of me?" the elf grinned maliciously. "Who hasn't?" Who asked, thankfully not rhetorically. "Me!" Fred and Frobisher shouted in unison. "But that would mean - " Who looked around fearfully. "Santa isn't here too, is he? Oh, lordy." "Santa?!" Fred and Frobisher shouted in unison. "Enough!" Rumpelstiltskin shouted. "Kill them! And seize the girl!" "Ah, er - " Who began to protest.
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Copyright © 1994 Ian Kidd |