The Yuletide Stratagem - a festive short story
I've been asked by million (Sam Millions, who works in the village Post Office) what happened next to the cast of characters introduced in my novel, The Xanotek Stratagem.
In this short story sequel - originally published last week, as a bonus feature in 'The Search For Eternal Youth' - the answer is revealed. And it contains a distinctly festive twist!
I hope it helps get my LinkedIn readers in the mood for Christmas Day … now just three days away!
Merry Christmas one and all!
The shape was too tall to be a goblin and too thin to be Santa Claus. For the past few minutes, it had been skulking in the void on the far side of her wardrobe, jolting back and forth, its gangly arms flailing around like a sailboat caught in a storm. But now, as the bedroom was illuminated by the headlights of a passing car, the shape arched upwards. Its vast head quivered in the light, a grotesque silhouette that blocked out half the far wall. Natalie’s mirror, her message board, her Ariana Grande poster – all consumed in the darkness. Then the car turned away at the T-junction, and the shape retreated into the corner of the room.
Natalie yanked her blanket tight against her face. She wanted to clasp her eyes firmly shut, but curiosity got the better of her. Squinting over the edge of the bedding, she peered into the blackness. Her mind was awash with feelings of terror, excitement, powerlessness, guilt.
“M – mummy,” she stuttered. She’d wanted to scream, but her fear of the shape meant her voice was more mouse’s squeak than lion’s roar. She pulled her knees into her chest, making herself as small as possible lest the shape pounce. As she shifted around, she felt the clamminess of sweat breaking out beneath her shoulder blades. She looked back beyond the wardrobe. An oppressive gloom had descended on her room, and however hard she stared, she could no longer make out the contours of the shape. Just the sharp red numbers displayed on the face of her digital clock. 02:14. Four hours spent struggling to drift off. Four hours of trying to empty her head. Yet, the harder she’d concentrated on sleep, the more her mind had been bombarded with an army of random ideas, worries, memories, scenes – as if someone deep within her brain was fiddling compulsively with the remote control unit for her thoughts.
What had happened to the shape? Was it resting? Had it slithered away through the cracks in the floorboards? Or was it waiting for the perfect moment to launch its attack?
“Are you still there?” she mumbled. She realised this was a dumb question to pose, but couldn’t prevent her mouth from forming the words.
Inevitably, there was no response. Perhaps the shape could only function in short bursts, and then, exhausted from its efforts, needed to recharge. She’d read somewhere that’s how squirrels operate. Hyper intensive explosions of energy, and then it’s time to crash out, drained from so much activity. Apparently they spend fifteen hours a day burnt out.
Natalie looked at her bedroom door. Three feet away, but it’d demand all her reserves of strength to make the crossing. Would she be fast enough, or might the shape intercept her, hauling her to the floor with crushing force? Like when Jessica – a month younger but at least two stone heavier – had “accidentally” barged into her on the netball courts (she’d spent the rest of the afternoon being bandaged up in the school’s cupboard-sized first aid room). She was suddenly conscious of the pounding of her heart, amped up like the furnace on a runaway train – surely that would raise the shape from its slumber. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a slight but clear movement. The shape was reviving. That was all the catalyst she needed. Terrified, she slung aside her blanket, launched herself from the bed, and thrust open the bedroom door with such vigour the handle smashed loudly against the wall. A chunk of plaster wobbled uncertainly before falling onto the rug.
“Mummy,” yelled Natalie, her lungs now fully functional. “I really need you! Please!”
Despite the lateness of the hour, Patricia – Natalie’s mother – was still busy in the living room when she heard her daughter’s call, and instinctively jumped off the step ladder. She’d been rearranging the decorations for the hundredth time – after the shocks and traumas of last Christmas, she was determined to do everything in her power so that every detail was perfect this time around. And adjusting the angles of the crepe streamers and ensuring the baubles were securely fastened – those sorts of tasks were definitely within her capability. She might not be able to guarantee whether there’d be a late night visitation via the chimney breast, but it’d be a sorry state of affairs if she couldn’t sort out streamers and baubles.
As she headed upstairs to check on Natalie, Patricia reached out to steady the photograph album that was balancing on the arm of the sofa. Ever since her separation from Craig, it had been a Christmas Day habit of hers to reminisce about happier times. This year had been no exception. Two and a half hours ago, as the chimes of her hall clock heralded the arrival of December the twenty fifth, she’d poured herself a chilled Chablis, kicked off her slippers, and let time pass wistfully as she contemplated her five wonderful Christmases in an actual, complete family. A purple ribbon marked the page where her favourite photo could be found. Craig, herself, and a two-year-old Natalie, all wearing Father Christmas hats, huddled together in front of a vast tree whose every branch – every inch of every branch – was festooned with tinsel and stars and glitter and wooden elves.
Patricia found Natalie sitting halfway up the staircase, shivering, clutching a bannister post as if it was the only support preventing the ceiling from caving in.
“What’s the matter, Nat?” asked Patricia, squatting on one of the lower stairs so she could look her daughter face on. “I miss him,” said Natalie. She buried her face in her hands to avoid eye contact. “Why’s he ignoring us?”
Patricia rested her palms on Natalie’s shoulders, rocking her gently from side to side. This seemed to calm her daughter, who let go of the bannister and tucked herself into her mother’s embrace.
“Don’t worry about that,” Patricia said. “It’s Christmas; think about Christmassy things. I’ll never let anything bad happen.” As her daughter melted into her arms, Patricia found herself humming the tune of
“Momma’s gonna buy you…”. Half way through the first verse, the traces of a smile were playing on the corners of Natalie’s lips; by the second verse, she was barely able to contain her chuckles.
“Mommy, you shouldn’t be singing me a lullaby. I’m not a baby any more.”
“But it’s working, isn’t it?” teased Patricia.
“I know it sounds silly, but I thought there was something in my bedroom. I kept hoping it would go away. I don’t know why, but that made me remember daddy. Do you think he’ll ever come home?”
“I don’t know. I doubt even he knows.”
“That’s what started all the bullying. When he was in the newspapers. The girls said somebody had died and it was my dad’s fault. They said that’s why he fled. And they said I was lucky he ran away, because otherwise he might’ve come after me. Craig The Killer – that was their nickname for him. And they wouldn’t stop. When they found out I’d complained to Mrs Bradley, that made them even nastier. That’s when they did this.” She raised the edge of her nightie to reveal a two-inch scar on her thigh.
“It was awful, I remember, but that was a long time ago,” whispered Patricia. “It doesn’t hurt any more, does it? That shows pain doesn’t last forever.”
Patricia wasn’t being entirely truthful. She was also remembering the events surrounding Craig’s disappearance, but her mind’s eye wasn’t conjuring up memories of Natalie’s injury. Far more vivid was the flashback of the house being ransacked by Scotland Yard detectives investigating the Xanotek scandal. Patricia’s laptop and mobile had both been seized in case either contained evidence of communication with her former husband, and she’d endured twenty four hours of ferocious questioning by senior officers who kept throwing into the conversation unfamiliar names – Hugo Cunningham, Nobuyuki Hino, Adrienne Dodier, Thomas Pohl, Marcelle Williams – in case they provoked a reaction. Having already been estranged from Craig for two years, she’d been unable to shed any light on their enquiries, which had only sharpened their suspicions.
Eventually, when Patricia insisted on the presence of a solicitor, she’d been grudgingly permitted to leave the interrogation room, and for an impressive four weeks the media blackout had held. Only when a Cabinet briefing paper appeared on Wikileaks did the mainstream press finally pile in. A banner front page headline ‘Death in the Churchill War Rooms’ on the Daily Mail was quickly followed by ‘Top official at the Ministry of Defence resigns in corruption scandal’ and then ‘Xanotek in the frame over illegal arms cover up scandal’. Four days later, Craig switched from being a “person of interest”, on account of his involvement with Xanotek, to a “murder suspect” when facial recognition software had been applied to Whitehall CCTV footage – providing irrefutable proof that he’d fled the area shortly after the killing of an as-yet-unnamed man in the War Rooms’ Museum section.
Shortly afterwards, Patricia had been horrified – almost mesmerised – by the image that dominated the newspaper rack at the corner store. From high brow broadsheet to muck raking tabloid, every front page was set aside for a close-up photo of Craig’s goatee-sporting face, cropped from a wedding day photo the police had taken “as potential evidence” during their search.
“I hope he doesn’t go to prison,” said Natalie. “Jessica said that’s where he deserves to be. Like Lennox.”
“Who?”
“That man in Breaking Better on Netflix, before he started doing good.”
“If I know your father,” said Patricia, “I can’t see that happening. He’ll always be a step ahead.”
Craig had dropped off the grid hours before Scotland Yard elevated him to pole position on its ‘Most Wanted’ list. There had been a potential sighting at a ferry port in Sweden (Patricia vaguely recalled Tyreso, Sweden, being namechecked when her interrogator had been pressing her about Thomas Pohl). Otherwise, like a shimmering mirage in the dessert, it was as if Craig had evaporated into nothingness. Patricia had spent hours scouring obscure social media sites for anything that might shed light on his fate. The most credible speculation she stumbled across was that Craig had been tipped off by one of his rumoured associates – a notorious computer hacker named Dimala Naidu – who’d bypassed the Scotland Yard servers and had been invisibly monitoring the progress of the investigation from inside the network. Whatever the explanation, the reality was Craig wasn’t behind bars. He’d eluded the reach of Interpol, and its associated agencies throughout Europe and the world.
“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?” wondered Natalie.
“At least we know he’s still alive,” said Patricia. “No-one else can be sure, but we both know.”
In unison, mother and daughter glanced down towards a floating shelf in the hallway. In its centre stood an average sized Christmas card with a nondescript picture of holly. The inside message was a model of brevity: ‘Love to you both, C. 24/5, Harb.’ At first, Patricia had suspected the work of a prankster – after all, her status as ex-wife to a reviled fugitive was known to most of the country. But how could a trickster have known the time and place of their first date? Moreover, curiously, the card had navigated its way through the postal system despite the absence of any stamp or franking mark to reveal its point of origin. (Instead of a stamp, a bright red igloo had been sketched in the top corner of the envelope by persons unknown).
“It’s not just the card that proves he’s alive,” said Patricia. “Money is being sent to cover the mooring fees for his houseboat.” The police had secured a warrant to search The Angola, but unsurprisingly, by the time of their arrival, it had been emptied of everything that wasn’t screwed down. There had been preliminary talk of whether it could be impounded but, with the costs scrupulously covered (albeit via a Cayman Islands account), there was no legal authority for further action. “So don’t worry about daddy. I’ll make sure you have a lovely Christmas Day. Grandpa and grandma will be over in the morning. We’ll go to the park, then it’ll be time for a wonderful lunch – you know how grandma soaks all that rum into the Christmas pudding! And in the evening we’ll watch your favourite movie. Whatever you choose.”
“I promise I’ll try, Mummy,” said Natalie. “I’ll really try to make it a special Christmas.”
“I know you will. That’s what we’ll all do.”
“The teachers said they don’t know if there’ll be another Stop.”
“Your teachers are very sensible. Nobody understands The Stop. We didn’t expect it last time, so we can’t be sure if it’ll repeat.”
“On the news, the word they used was ‘unprecedented’. I checked. That means it’s never happened before.”
“Great job with the checking!”
“They also said it Stopped in Africa. Is that right?”
“Yes, in Tanzania. He passed over the Kenyan border a few minutes beforehand. And then, without warning, The Stop occurred.”
“I saw Zaramo on TV. He’d been given a painted wooden train. The interviewer was so sad she could barely speak. They had to cut the interview short.”
Zaramo Lembeli had come to international attention, the previous Christmas Day, as the last known recipient of a present before The Stop. That’s why the wooden train triggered such raw emotion. Could it be true that no child would ever again well up with innocent joy at finding a gift by the front door or beneath the tree or in their stocking? Would no child ever again look to the skies and whisper, “Thank you, Santa”? Would no child ever again experience first-hand the purity and splendour of Christmas magic?
NORAD’s satellite tracker had hinted that problems might be afoot earlier that evening, one year ago, when its famous website had suggested Santa was falling perilously behind schedule. It had taken ten minutes longer than expected to complete 730,000 deliveries to children in New Zealand and the surrounding Pacific islands. A modicum of time had been made up during the next stint (the “GMT+11” time zone contains a modest 182,000 kids with the largest population centre being the Solomon Islands). But things really started to go awry as he headed into GMT+10 (4.3 million deliveries, including Australia) and GMT+9 (4.8 million, including Indonesia).
And that was before reaching the GMT+8 time zone, which encompassed a mammoth 8.1 per cent of Santa’s total output – a mind-boggling 42 million kids across Singapore, Taiwan, Hong Kong, parts of China and Russia and the Philippines, all wide-eyed with hope that they’d been recognised on the ‘Nice List’.
According to NORAD calculations, every household in GMT+8 should’ve been visited within a tight-but-achievable one hour and 56 minutes. Yet, it wasn’t until a woeful three hours after entering its airspace that satellites finally detected the signal of reindeers-and-sleigh progressing onwards to Calcutta. Moments later, broadcasts worldwide were interrupted by emergency bulletins in which rabbit-in the-headlights experts strived to offer a plausible explanation. Had age caught up with Santa? Was it exhaustion? A stray lighting bolt? Or the burden of exponentially rising demand?
Realising the historic nature of the developing story, the BBC had hauled Jonathan Dimbleby out of retirement, imploring him to inject authority and gravitas into the startling news. Turning to the camera after failing to prise any glimmer of hope from his rapidly-assembled panel, the veteran broadcaster had removed his spectacles, loosened his tie, and shed a solitary tear. That was the magnitude of the occasion.
Even a Dimbleby was lost for words.
Santa’s nightshift wheezed on for a few more countries, but, whilst he could delay the denouement, the endgame was inevitable. The Stop finally took effect abruptly, after the wooden train had been deposited on the porch of Zaramo’s family home. There were no media announcements, nor any promises to return to finish the job. When mathematicians calculated the final reckoning, they demonstrated that, as a consequence of The Stop, just 36 per cent of eligible kids had avoided disappointment. Huge swathes of Africa, as well as the entirety of Europe and the Americas had been left wanting. Hundreds of millions of children awoke on Christmas morning in disbelief, horror and sometimes fury. Twenty people lost their lives in Peru when rioters stormed a shopping mall which, according to Twitterati speculation, might’ve been in cahoots with the unfolding disaster.
“It’s been crazy at school all through December,” said Natalie, shaking her head in disbelief at the memories of last year. “Nobody was allowed to write a letter to Santa. Or draw a picture of him. He didn’t show up in assembly. That’s never happened before.”
Patricia was hugging her daughter more closely than ever, stroking her long auburn hair. What had Natalie’s generation done to deserve The Stop? Nothing of this scale had ever blackened her own childhood, or that of her parents. Surely, today’s young people deserved much better. They were more aware of issues such as biodiversity, animal cruelty, deforestation and climate change than had been Patricia’s contemporaries. And yet they were now stigmatised as the first generation for two centuries to be denied a full Christmas Day experience.
“I agree, it’s been horrible,” she said meekly. She thought of her own father, who recently made his annual call to volunteer as a ‘Santa’ at the local department store, and been brusquely told his services wouldn’t be required. Broadcasters had been urged to cleanse their December TV schedules of any movies centred around a Santa character – Tim Allen and Billy Bob Thornton were amongst those deprived of royalties this year. And the United Nations had mandated that no parent should leave a ‘pretend’ Santa present underneath the tree. Not only would this have defied logic (how could parents credibly act as Santa substitutes?), but the General Assembly foresaw a severe risk of social upheaval if a minority of parents broke ranks. The divisions within the world’s classrooms between kids who had, and hadn’t, been blessed with Santa’s largesse might – warned politicians and bureaucrats – leave mental scars that would take a lifetime to heal.
“Listen to me, Nat. Men let us down, that’s how the world works. It doesn’t matter if it’s daddy or Santa, you just can’t trust them with anything important. But don’t let that spoil our fun. Let’s wake up at sunrise, and fill our bellies with Christmas breakfast. I’ve got a pack of your favourite chocolate chip cookies, and they’ll be awesome if we heat them in the oven then smother them with vanilla ice cream. The taste of melting chocolate mixing with ice cream – wow, I’m in heaven just thinking about it.”
Snuggled in her mother’s arms, Natalie giggled with relief. For the time being, it was as if the entire world ended at the top and bottom of the staircase. No shape beyond the wardrobe. No Jessica. No accusations against her father. No repercussions from The Stop. This was a world in which she felt secure and protected.
“Mummy,” she chuckled, “You’re the best.”
“Right back at you!” said Patricia. “With love. All my love.”
***
Outside, the streets were calm and still except for the single white light of an approaching bicycle. Half a block from Patricia’s house, the light slowed to a halt, just alongside the entrance to the local park. The cyclist dismounted, lent his bike against the park gate, and adjusted the brim of his baseball cap so that, for any insomniacs strolling the streets early on Christmas Day, his entire face would’ve been bathed in shadow. The passing years had not been entirely kind to our visitor – even Patricia, looking closely, might not have recognised his features. An on-again, off-again cocaine dependency had taken its toll.
Except for the eyes – brilliant azure, restless, piercing. Unmistakably the eyes of her former husband, the always-reclusive, recently-elusive Craig Richards.
Craig hitched the collar of his trenchcoat against his cheekbones, and took a couple of steps backwards, further into the darkness cast by the sycamores that were clustered around the park entrance. As the shadows engulfed him, only the eyes remained, like two fireflies hovering motionless in the silence.
It was, Craig reflected, almost a year since he’d last enjoyed a moment of tranquillity. It had been the twenty sixth of December – Boxing Day – when everything had changed; when, without warning, he’d received the call that would upend his life, and submerge him in a world of manic, agitated excess.
“Hi, I’m calling for Craig Richards.”
Those had been the six words that had heralded the craziness.
Inexplicably, the timbre of the caller’s voice had managed to be both frenzied and reassuring at the same time. But, 364 days ago, that wasn’t what had most startled Craig. Far more shocking was that, notwithstanding the meticulous security safeguards he’d designed, somebody had managed to track him down at all.
Since the implosion of Xanotek, Craig had been drifting incognito, switching between a series of aliases. He’d melted every sim he’d ever possessed and purchased a new burner phone before noon every Monday. Yet somehow, despite his precautions, somebody had not only picked up his trail, but was greeting him as if nothing exceptional was taking place.
“I’m not aware of a Craig Richards,” he had blustered, aware his denial sounded lame, a pathetic going-through-the-motions effort to deny the obvious.
“Craig, I’m calling from an organisation that needs your help.”
“I … I mean, Craig … doesn’t do that sort of stuff any more. You’re hopelessly out of date.”
Craig’s finger had veered towards the ‘end call’ button, every instinct warning him this discussion would take him in a direction he didn’t want to travel. But he couldn’t summon the willpower to terminate the conversation.
The frenzied-but-reassuring voice was paying no heed to his protests.
“I represent an organisation called ‘Yes to Unique Logistics for Exceptional Toys International Distribution Enterprises’.”
“I can honestly say I’ve never heard of you,” Craig had replied. “Plus, you need to fire your branding guys. That’s the least catchy company name I’ve ever come across.”
“We call ourselves YULETIDE for short. And while you’ve never heard of us, you’ve probably heard of me. Do I sound familiar?”
“Nope. Look, if this is a crank call, I’m busy. And, if you’re from the British government, I’m even busier.”
“Perhaps it might help if we try Facetime.”
While on the run, with the exception of two bar fights, Craig had been largely successful in keeping his demons under control, but this rambling conversation was provoking the first stirrings of fury. No way would he start Facetiming – it was time to kill the discussion stone cold de…
Except that Facetime was firing up of its own volition. Now, filling his screen, was a countenance that he did recognise – exactly as the caller had promised. One of the world’s most iconic faces. Mountainous crimson cheeks, a pure white beard whose hairs sprung haphazardly as if charged with electricity, a vast mouth that seemed fixed into a permanent chortle, and a red hat shaped as a cone that flopped across the forehead where its white wool pompom bounced from side to side.
It was the face that’s lit up a million billboards and a billion dreams. The face of …
“Santa?” Craig had gasped.
His mind was screaming out ‘This is just an old guy in a costume’, but his heart and soul knew otherwise. The caller conveyed an aura, an easy charisma – stronger than any Craig had previously encountered. That, more than anything, had persuaded Craig he was speaking with the real deal. Kris Kringle … St. Nicholas ... Father Christmas. In the flesh.
“I’ve been told that, in turbulent times, you’re the man with a plan,” the caller had continued, “Somebody mentioned you call it TurboCharged Strategy. I like that turn of phrase – a couple of years ago, it was one of the most popular books being mentioned in all the Dear Santa letters logged by Papa Elf. Just behind Harry Potter, as I recall – but way ahead of The Hunger Games.”
“I’m aware of it,” Craig had said. “The superficial ramblings of a hack scribbler. But, funnily enough, that’s not what I’m focused on right now. What I really need to know is: Is this actually happening?” Ignoring Craig’s plea, Santa had continued, “Can I set you a challenge?”
“What sort of challenge?”
“I’d like to hear you complete a back-of-the-candy-cane strategic commentary...”
“Why not? This day couldn’t get any more absurd.”
“… Of my organisation?”
“Right. Your organisation. The ‘‘Yes to Unique Logistics for Exceptional Toys …”
“That’s the one.”
“Fine – give me a moment’s quiet.”
“Take your time, I’ll be waiting.”
“Streuth,” Craig had thought. “What part of ‘quiet’ was too erudite for you?”
His brain whirring, Craig had closed his eyes and visualised the ecosystem facing Santa’s globe-spanning operations. He conjured a three dimensional image of an organisation being buffeted by forces through-out the supply chain, whilst persevering with a nostalgic business model shaped for an entirely different era. His imagination blended estimates of hard data with assumptions about demand and supply trends to create a perfect storm of threats that would challenge the viability of the most nimble and tech-savvy organisation. And “nimble” and “tech-savvy” were not, in Craig’s visualisation, the most obvious characteristics of business processes at the North Pole.
Within sixty seconds, Craig had defined his hypotheses. However, before he could present these to his client (“Am I really using the term client, already?” he had pondered), they needed to be battle tested to ensure they were robust. His mind had raced through a dozen scenarios, before he’d concluded that, under any reasonable out-turn, for Santa the status quo was no longer a plausible strategic option.
Craig had been pithy in his feedback. “Strategic assets – unparalleled brand recognition; consumer loyalty; employee satisfaction; lack of competition. Strategic vulnerabilities – demand explosion, extreme seasonality, complex logistics, poor technology adoption, key person dependency, outmoded distribution.”
“Impressive,” Santa had commented, “Your reputation isn’t exaggerated. And the consequence of these – what did you call them? – strategic vulnerabilities?”
“I heard the news,” Craig had gasped. “I figured it was media sensationalism. I didn’t realise you actually…”
“Yes,” Santa had confessed, his voice barely above a murmur. “I Stopped. Less than 24 hours ago. In Tanzania. More than half my deliveries still clogging up the back of the sleigh. I was frankly exhausted. When you’ve been fulfilling the same role for as long as I have … well, these bones aren’t getting any younger.”
With those words, Santa had seemed to deflate like a bouncy castle at the end of a party. Even the pompom had lost its verve, coming to rest between his bushy white eyebrows. So still was Santa that, for a moment, Craig had wondered whether the Facetime image was frozen. Then the thought struck him that Santa’s predicament could be even worse than implied by his spontaneous strategic evaluation. An uncomfortable truth in any commercial situation is that, when an incumbent player weakens, new entrants strike. When it comes to Christmas, Craig was sceptical anyone else could be trusted to operate to the same code of ethics and impeccable standards that had characterised Santa’s practices down through the decades. The mere thought was alarming; how horrific might be the reality?
There’s not a moment to lose, Craig had resolved. It’s time to get the old gang together.
Back in the present day, standing in the sycamore shadows, Craig smiled as memories flooded back of the tumultuous events set in motion by Santa’s summons. Marcelle hadn’t hesitated to sign-up (“After winning the Rio cage fighting tournament last year, I’ve been looking for my next challenge,” she’d said, “and – who knows – I might need to save your life again.” “You and I remember the life saving part very differently,” Craig had responded). Convincing Dimala hadn’t been a slam dunk – he was a thirty percent shareholder in an early stage fintech business that was poised for a stock market flotation – but ultimately the lure of saving Christmas proved irresistible.
Adrienne had been the toughest by far to tempt. When he’d reached out, her gut response had been to protest, “After Xanotek, the two words I never wanted to hear again were Craig and Richards. Plus, I fell in love!” Then, on being briefed about the details of the assignment, she’d responded by seeking a generous remuneration structure based on the projected trough-to-peak recovery in delivery volumes (“Don’t blame me, I’m a finance gal.”). But Craig’s persuasive charms were unimpaired by his years on the run and Adrienne dropped her negotiations in light of his appeal to the public interest. As Boxing Day drew to a close, each agreed to initialise a one-paragraph NDA (“Noel Decorations at Advent”); the paperwork in place, a chauffeur service was despatched to usher Craig’s erstwhile teammates across the time zones, direct to the client premises on the top of the world. “It’s not the first time I’ve had a hairy chauffeur with a shiny nose,” quipped Marcelle. “But I’ve never had eight at the same time – let alone ones that land on the rooftop.”
As he reminisced, Craig noticed the last light being dimmed in Patricia’s house. What on earth had kept his ex-wife and daughter awake, long after midnight on Christmas Eve? He checked his watch; it had just passed three in the morning. There was probably another forty five minutes to wait. To pass the time, Craig reached into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat, rummaging around for his elf phone (regular mobiles were strictly forbidden in the North Pole). After entering the password – 2512, the number hardwired into every elf phone ever built – he opened the photo library, and scrolled through nearly a thousand pictures from the past twelve months. Each one captured a key moment during the most ambitious project he’d ever undertaken.
A number of the photographs had been snapped on the first day he, Marcelle, Dimala and Adrienne had assembled in the suite of green-and- red painted rooms, adjacent to the Toy Production Centre, which Santa had set aside as the nerve centre for their mission.
Upon noticing the side table in their makeshift boardroom, Dimala’s eyes had widened to saucer-like proportions. “On the Xanotek project, we were lucky to get stale biscuits,” he commented, surveying the array of plates piled high with gingerbread cookies, plum pudding, brandy butter and mince pies. “There’s even a button with the inscription, ‘Push here for eggnog’.”
While Dimala drooled, Adrienne had been opening the ‘supplies’ box, just inside the door. She’d expected nothing more exciting than an assortment of stereotypical consulting equipment – flip chart pads, Post-Its, two-by-two-matrix templates – so she’d let out a squeal of delight when, instead, she was confronted with four gaudy, baggy Christmas jumpers. “I want the one with the glow-in-the-dark penguin,” she had announced.
Craig had organised the project – codenamed The Yuletide Stratagem – into three phases. Four months of diagnostics, four months to finalise detailed recommendations and run a proof of concept, four months to oversee implementation. A team of elves was seconded to the programme to support their efforts, although Craig’s ‘groundrule’ that they all learn project-speak was doomed from the outset. He spent a futile thirty minutes explaining the concept of a ‘decision tree’, only for Papa Elf to bounce up from his stool and cheerfully declaim, “I think I got it! It’s all about deciding whether the tree needs more tinsel or glass balls or lights!”
Underneath the sycamores, Craig continued to scroll through the elf phone photos, and came across one – taken halfway through the diagnostic phase – that still made him shudder. His assumption that Santa faced emerging competitive threats had been spot on; Dimala’s triangulation of satellite data from the previous Christmas suggested The Stop had partly been caused by cosmic rays dampening the reindeers’ power of flight – cosmic rays that had been fired from particle accelerator cannons atop a network of remote warehouses. Adrienne’s workstream, overseeing anti-sabotage measures, had uncovered the intriguing fact that each property was owned by a shell corporation traceable to Tyreso, Sweden. But when she’d attempted to discuss this revelation with Craig, his attention had been distracted by a drunken elf (who had misinterpreted the meaning of ‘bar chart’) so he’d been unable to warn her that
his arch nemesis, the brilliantly ruthless Thomas Pohl, operated from that exact location. Taking the initiative, Adrienne had commandeered a sleigh, and hastened to Sweden to confront the perpetrator. Returning two days later, she was the colour of ash, sported a bruise the size of a cricket ball on the side of her face, and was down two fingernails.
“What were you thinking?“ Craig had demanded.
“Don’t worry about me,” Adrienne had snorted. “You should see the other guy.”
While Adrienne had focused on sabotage prevention, the five other workstreams had been allocated complementary objectives – namely, to gather data and consider the challenges of (1) Product Revitalisation, (2) Production and Logistics, (3) Use of Data, (4) Innovation and (5) Elf
Professional Development. Every week, Craig had sat before a Steering Committee (Santa was practicing his reindeer steering while they spoke) that consisted of both Mr and Mrs Claus, shared his headline rating of each workstream’s progress against plan. Santa had vetoed the commonly used method for reporting workstream status as soon as he realised that Red (in a Red / Amber / Green traffic light notation) symbolises ‘not going well’. Within moments, Craig had diplomatically crafted a replacement notation: Jingle Bells represented good news, and an Empty Sack symbolised issues to address.
Given the nature of the assignment, December was a non-negotiable deadline, and such was the time pressure that, by April, the number of Empty Sacks in the weekly report worryingly exceeded the Jingle Bells by a factor of three. To make up lost ground, Craig and Marcelle had proposed an intense three-day executive offsite in the largest igloo in the Artic Circle – a bright red construction which Fred Elf loved to sketch. This retreat had provided the opportunity for the team to sift through the data, fine tune the hypotheses, and refocus the project on the priorities that promised the greatest impact on an NPV (Net Present Volume) basis.
Even with the plan reset, the task has remained formidable – especially when Craig’s instruction to “Concentrate on the Critical Path” had prompted a breakout group of elves to spend the evening decorating the pathway that connected the igloo with the North Pole. But gradually recommendations had started to take shape. The second most joyous photo on the elf phone was of the project team proudly displaying a Steering Committee update consisting entirely of Jingle Bells alongside each workstream. Dimala knelt in the centre of the scene, surrounded by elves, staring at the heavens with arms aloft like a penalty taker who’s just smashed home the decisive kick in the World Cup final.
Of course, the most heart-warming event of all, captured on the very next photo, had taken place on the fifteen of August, the only time during the 364-day project when Craig had excused the team en masse from its duties. That was the occasion when Marcelle and Adrienne had exchanged vows in a wedding ceremony officiated by Santa himself, which had lasted from dawn to dusk, and overflown with song, gifts, laughter and an endless supply of mulled wine. The elfin cheering as the couple each responded “I do” as Santa posed the vital question had
caused a tremor that perplexed seismologists in monitoring stations around the world. The womens’ love had blossomed since their escape to Salvador, Brazil, in the immediate aftermath of the Xanotek adventure, an ordeal which had left them emotionally battered. As they’d built a life together rooted in affection and desire and friendship, they’d each found their confidence and optimism restored. When Santa declared “You may kiss the bride”, a hundred elves applauded – and also clicked their stop watches. There had been a grotto-wide sweepstake on the length of the first kiss, and Marty Elf – who had plumped for two minutes and eight seconds – was the undisputed winner. “I knew it wouldn’t be a peck,” he explained, “after all, look at how much mistletoe is hanging from the rafters!”
Two weeks later, on the last Friday in September, Craig and team had presented their recommendations to an eager Steering Committee. A total of seventeen sweeping reforms were proposed, each designed to accelerate the transformation of YULETIDE into an enterprise able to blend timeless values with modern technologies, while addressing the pitfalls described in the 2012 book ‘Why Strategies Fail’ (although, once again, Craig was casually dismissive of the author and his “plodding prose”).
Flicking through the recommendations in advance of the crucial meeting, Craig had felt an unaccustomed pang of nerves. Would the far-reaching nature of the proposed transformation be met with horror and dread by a leader who, until The Stop, had successfully led a multi-national enterprise for two centuries? He leafed through each section – Greater use of artificial intelligence, robotics, cloning, drones, logistics technologies, and big data algorithms to separate the naughty and nice lists. Had he strayed too far beyond his remit? Should he have embraced evolution rather than revolution? Might Santa’s reaction be that, if this is the vision of the future, he might as well hang up his boots? Oh, the humiliation, if that came to define Craig’s place in history – not as the saviour of the Christmas spirit, but as its executioner, with Thomas Pohl free to feed on the entrails. In the event, Craig’s worries were ill-founded. Santa roared with approval, bellowed Ho Ho Ho, and wrapped his arms around Craig and his colleagues in a confirmatory bear hug.
Santa’s blessing secured, the team had headed back to the project room for a deserved timeout, tucking into a celebratory candy cane casserole – topped with brussels sprouts in a nod to the healthy eating initiative which Adrienne had urged on Papa Elf.
“Did I imagine it,” said Marcelle, “Or did Santa really stretch his stumpy arms around all four of us at the same time?”
“Girl,” said Dimala. “We’ve just designed a plan for one man to deliver a billion presents across 200 countries within a single day – and you’re confused about how he stretches his arms!”
At which, the entire team had dissolved into a giggling fit. The final pictures on the elf phone, a series of close-ups snapped by Papa Elf, recorded for posterity the bizarre appearance of the human face when it’s twisted and deformed by the effect of uncontrollable hysterics.
***
Now, three months later, Craig was on the verge of discovering whether their efforts had been worthwhile. Underneath the sycamore, he checked his watch. It would be any moment now. He stepped out from the shadows to afford himself the clearest view of the cloudless night sky. Across the street, it was still ‘lights out’. Both Patricia and daughter Natalie were, he presumed, deep asleep.
And it was true. Whatever shape had been tormenting Natalie earlier in the evening was now long gone.
From afar came the faint echoing of sleigh bells. Craig craned his neck, peering upwards and eastwards. Squinting his azure eyes, he could make out a tiny red dot in the unmistakable shape of a reindeer nose, set against the black velvet backdrop of space. Moving rapidly. And now, on cue, commencing its descent.
At the dot approached, Craig detected a cacophony of other sounds, all emerging from the same source. Not just the jangle of sleigh bells. But also the neighing of reindeer. And the distinctive chortle of Ho Ho Ho.
Overcome with emotion, Craig found himself hopping from the pavement into the middle of the street to dance an Irish jig – using moves that Patricia had tried in vain to teach him before their marriage fell apart. At the time, nothing had registered; he’d floundered around the dancefloor like a hippopotamus with two left feet. Yet magically, in the early Christmas morning, buoyed with euphoria, his feet flowed with Fred Astaire precision. As he danced, he facetimed Dimala, who was camped in the North Pole’s newly established central control room, surrounded by banks of monitors.
“Great job team,” Craig proclaimed, “We figured out The Yuletide Stratagem.”
Adrienne seized the communicator. “Is that your inspirational message?” she challenged. “For once, can’t you speak like a regular person?”
“What’s not normal about The Yuletide Stratagem?”
Now Marcelle, glitter daubed all over her face, bounded into the picture. Her arms were draped around Adrienne and Dimala, hugging them close to ensure all three team mates were within range of the camera.
“Because you should say something that begins with ‘Merry’, and ends with ‘Christmas’,” she roared.
Across the street, Santa’s sleigh was floating majestically, a few feet above Patricia’s roofline. The reindeer looked around proudly, their antlers larger and their tails thicker than Craig recalled. They radiated at being able to complete their essential tasks, their flight powers unimpeded – after Adrienne’s quest to Tyrseo – from any cosmic ray bombardment.
As Craig gazed on, the sleigh’s undercarriage began to glow. A fleet of drones was humming into life and emerging starboard side. Each drone held a gift, exquisitely wrapped and ribboned, in its claws. Bang on schedule, mused Craig. There will be no Stop this Christmas Day.
He watched attentively as one of the drones glided towards Natalie’s bedroom. It paused just in front of the window, and two sensors – one red, one green – sprang up between the propellers and purred into action. Whatever data was being scanned and processed evidently matched the drone’s algorithms because, moments later, its gift still held tight within its claws, it continued forward. As it phased seamlessly through the glass, Craig sighed with relief. He had programmed each drone to complete its sortie only if it detected no sign of a wideawake child within the property.
“Yes,” Craig thought, “I think it will be a very Merry Christmas indeed!”