A Santa Slaying Christmas Novella

Well, the Manesbury Community Service Group had certainly outdone themselves with this year’s Christmas Performance. Not. I cringed and clenched my stomach as the eleven nine-year-olds on the Manesbury Town Hall stage hit a particularly shrill note on their recorders. Ach. Who was I kidding? Every note on a recorder was shrill. And being blown into a microphone made it a bazillion times worse.

Carina—my Irish friend and fellow journalist—who sat to my left, shifted closer. “Would it be considered rude if I covered my ears?”

“I wouldn’t think you were rude—it’s self-preservation. I was considering it myself.” My one filling vibrated as a couple of the piping pipers hit another off note, and I rubbed my cheek.

Carina’s eyes narrowed as she peered across me to the hot, dark-haired guy—a.k.a. our work colleague—sitting next to me. Finn, or Vinegar as I liked to call him, didn’t appear to be worried about the cacophony. Hmm. He wore a beanie, but surely that wasn’t enough to block out the “music.” I looked at him. “Enjoying the entertainment?”

He turned his head to me, face blank. I raised a brow. Right… something was going on. I reached up and lifted the side of his beanie, uncovering his ear. “Oh my God, you’re such a cheat!”

He removed the AirPod and grinned. “You’re just sorry you didn’t think of it.” 

Carina’s face morphed into a disgusted but impressed expression. She leaned across my lap. “Why didn’t you give us a heads-up? I’m very disappointed in you, mister.”

“Ditto.” I gave him my best dirty look.

“Amateurs.” His dimple appeared as his grin expanded. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m listening to some actual music.” He faced the front, pushed the AirPod back in, and slid his beanie over it. Carina and I shared an eyeroll.

The middle-aged lady in front of me turned around and shot us a glare. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the entertainment. Please be quiet. That’s my Frances up there.” It was difficult to keep a straight face, but she finally whipped back around. Carina and I laughed as quietly as possible. Okay, so we were behaving like two-year-olds, but honestly, couldn’t they have gotten kids who could play the flute or who could play an instrument properly, full stop? Plus, I was childless. Things were never as cute to bystanders as they were to the actual parents. If I’d wanted to be tortured by kids playing recorders, I’d have my own kids, thank you very much. Not to mention that I had to write an article about this later, and I’d have to lie and say how great it was. I hated lying, even though I did it a lot. But it wasn’t my fault I could see ghosts, and I didn’t want everyone to think I was off my rocker.

When the racket finally quieted, I let out a relieved breath. Eleven pipers piping finishing meant there was only one more act left—twelve drummers drumming. At least I didn’t have to photograph anything. My boss, Julian, had gotten one of the MacPherson Media videographers to video the whole thing from near the stage. It was one of the biggest events on the Manesbury calendar each year, so it was always covered thoroughly. This was my first Christmas here after arriving from Australia a few months ago and thus my first Manesbury Christmas concert. I was considering making it my last—I wanted viable hearing into my thirties.

Jenna Mathews, the tall, lanky member of the Manesbury Community Service Group walked onto stage, microphone in hand. “Let’s give a round of applause to our eleven pipers.” She clapped, and everyone followed suit. My clapping was enthusiastic because I was celebrating that they were finished. Plus, they were kids, and even if none of them should ever pick up an instrument again, I wanted them to feel encouraged. Jenna patted her beehive hairdo—what a waste of time that must be every morning. I just managed to brush my shoulder-length blonde hair, and if I was feeling particularly energetic, I’d put it in a ponytail. That was all I had the patience for.

As the kids shuffled off stage, Jenna smiled. “And to end the show, let’s welcome our twelve drumming drummers.” We all clapped again. When I was done, I crossed my fingers. There was no way drums could be worse than recorders, could they?

“Ooh, I have hope for d’is one.” Carina smiled.

“Because it isn’t recorders?” My voice must’ve been too loud because the woman in front of us turned again and shot me another cranky look. Oops.

Carina sat up straighter and stared at the stage. “My neighbour’s playing.”

The drummers wore the drums around their necks and carried their sticks. At least they were adults ranging in age from it looked like twenties all the way to a slim, white-haired man who could’ve been anywhere from seventy to eighty. This shouldn’t be too bad. “Which one is he?”

She frowned. “I don’t see him.”