Secret Santa

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Coiled rope

 Prompt: You're at the Office Christmas party. You unwrap your secret Santa present. It is a bloodied glove, with a note that says: 'You're next.' (Nikesh Shukla) First draft and unedited.


The Secret Santa

Mandy was already getting sloshed on the cheap rosé. It was the same every year – desks were moved to create space, one table was laid with a paper tablecloth and then a buffet, consisting of cheap party food (3 for 2) laid out on paper plates. Sausage rolls, mini sausages, dips and mini vol-au-vents. The food was on one side and the drink on the other side of the table. Mandy wasn’t the only one tucking in. Astrid, the new girl in accounts was gulping down her fourth glass of prosecco, holding a cocktail-stick olive in her hand in the shape of a Christmas tree with a cube of cheese and an.

Tinny versions of ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’ sounded from a set of small speakers attached to a computer. Mark came back in, his normally handsome face set in a frown. I looked in the direction he was looking in and saw that he was observing Little Alan.

Now there was a piece of nasty work. Little Alan (so-called little because we had another Allen in technology, who was quite big) was always after chatting up women.  He had done it with me as well until I made it perfectly and forcefully clear that I was not interested in his wandering hands or his toady smile. I saw him making him his moves towards the newest member of the team, Ella, and Mark went in the direction to save her. Not for the first time I wondered whether to slip away unnoticed. Every year this Christmas do was horrible. I would miss it like I would miss the plague.  The Boss however liked us to attend.  Not that he himself did; he would drop in halfway when the tongues were looser, and the legs were wobblier but before Arnold would try and copy his not inconsiderable behind on the photocopier.

We’d toast the company, preceded by a little slimy speech by the Boss, and then open the Secret Santa presents after being given a gift token from the company.  This year the gift token was for 30 quid; £5 less than the last year.  The slimy speech was about teamwork and trust and the hope that we would do better in the next year. Then the boss left. One by one the names were called for the Secret Santa. When it was my turn, I took off the Christmas paper and the bow and was left with a plastic bag and a piece of paper.

The note read:  ‘You are next’.  When I opened the plastic bag, I saw a glove. It was one of those beautiful Fair-Isle, colourful, knitted woollen gloves. I had seen a similar one somewhere. In the back of my mind I recognised those gloves but it didn't pop into my mind who the owner actually was. The glove had blood seeped into it. The hubbub in the office went on but more and more people saw the glove in my hands, saw the blood and stopped talking. In a minute there was a deadly hush. Then Astrid, who had always professed to be a hardy soul started screaming. ‘Call the police! someone has been murdered.’

Ella looking fragile an elfin took charge.  ‘We have to preserve the evidence. Sit still Eva.’ She quickly made a series of photographs of the note, the gloves and of the wrapping before scooping it all up in a clear plastic bag. ‘Stop dithering, Mark,’ she said. ‘Phone the police.’

 


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