Page 72 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
Or, again, to call it what it was: psychopathic murder rituals.
With square glasses framing eyes crinkling at the edges and silver curls tucked neatly behind his ears, the man’s smile arrived first. As if smiling was histhing.
“Welcome, welcome!” He clapped his hands with theatrical warmth before extending one towards Blackwell. “Chaplain Wynter. An absolute pleasure.”
“The pleasure’s all ours,” Blackwell said with a tight grin, shaking quickly before pulling back and smoothing his tie, as if he’d dipped his fingers in something unpleasant. “You know Jonathon.”
Wynter nodded and Jonathon desperately tried to hold onto the Lab’s lead.
“And this is Aaron.” Blackwell gestured to him. “Looking to be our new outreach coordinator. Current dog handler.”
The chaplain turned to Aaron with a beam so polished itpractically glowed. “Oh, how wonderful!” He then smiled down at the dogs.
The Labrador pup spun in a frenzy of affection, tail a metronome of joy with Jonathon trying his best to tame her. But Chaos stood sentinel at Aaron’s side, unmoved, ever-watchful. As if he knew Aaron was struggling here. Kenny had suggested the pet as a therapy dog. Aaron hadn’t realised how therapeutic Chaos could be.
“Aren’t they magnificent?” Wynter crouched beside the Labrador, tickling under her jaw. “So kind. So loving.” He laughed as she pressed in closer, tail wagging furiously, nose straining towards his face. When she tried to lick him, he stood, brushing down his cassock. “I run the shelter here.” He adjusted his glasses. “Offer a little spiritual guidance when it’s wanted. You know how it is.”
He looked between Aaron and the dogs.
“Our missions aren’t so different, really. Your dogs. My sermons. We’re all tending to lost souls in our own way, aren’t we?”
Aaron said nothing.
Wynter clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and sudden.
“Right then! We’ll get a few photos, show how the dogs love even those the world forgot. A bit of human interest for the press. Helps with donations, you understand.” He turned towards the annex with a sweep of his arm. “Come through! We’ve got eggnog, mince pies, and reindeer biscuits for the good boys. Should warm the spirit nicely.”
Aaron glanced to Blackwell. He nodded. So Aaron and Jonathon followed, the dogs trotting ahead, Chaos ever steady, the pup a blur of enthusiasm. The warm air hit as they stepped inside. Thick with spice and disinfectant, a layer of cinnamon trying to cover the decay. Laughter rang from thefar end of the annex. Folding tables groaned under trays of mince pies and cartons of eggnog, someone had strung tinsel between the ceiling beams like garland in a children’s nativity. A battery-powered speaker crackled out a too-cheerful rendition ofLet It Snow.
Aaron paused inside the threshold, tightening his grip on Chaos’s lead. The retriever leaned into his leg without prompting. Eyes were already on him. Maybe it was the stupid jumper? But some were curious. Some hollow with exhaustion. A few sparked faintly at the sight of the dogs. Quick flickers of joy before retreating behind the usual armour. These were the people life had sanded down. Men and women who’d slipped through too many cracks and landed here, trying to stitch themselves back together with donated biscuits and battery lights.
Everyone was only a few bad months from the edge. Aaron had always known that. But he’d been born closer to it than most. A childhood without a safety net, with no one to call his own, meant he’d learned early what falling looked like.
Now Kenny was all he had.
And standing here, beneath fluorescent lights and the weight of strangers’ eyes, he felt that truth in his bones. If Kenny ever let go, if that hand ever slipped, he didn’t know what would remain.
“So you know this place?” Aaron asked Jonathon beside him.
“Yeah. I volunteer here, too.”
“Course you do.” Aaron was pretty sure Jonathon volunteered at every charity on the island. He didn’t know why the bloke didn’t just get paid for what he did. Then again, who was he to talk?
Behind him, Blackwell gave instructions to the photographer.Angle towards the lights, keep the dogs close to the tree. Human interest, all very festive. Aaron exhaled through his nose. The dogs weren’t props. These people weren’t props. But he knew how it would look when the piece ran: hope in a time of hardship. Compassion wrapped in faux fur and pine scent.
A volunteer appeared beside him, tray in hand, cookies shaped like stars stacked neatly on paper napkins. “Happy Christmas.”
Was it?
Aaron took one anyway. “Thanks.”
She startled as he straightened, fluttering her hand briefly to her chest. “Oh, my! You look a lot like someone who used to come through here.” She turned around him to Jonathon. “Don’t you think, Jonny?”
Jonathon looked at her. Then Aaron. He shrugged, then was yanked away by the puppy to go explore. Aaron stilled, biscuit hanging in the air for a beat before he bit into it.
“Poor thing,” the woman added vaguely, then drifted off before he could ask what she meant.
Moments later, he was roped into helping with the photo setup, despite making it clear he didn’t want his face or name in anything. He helped anyway. Eased Chaos and the puppy into laps. Watched guarded faces crack open into shy grins as warm tongues met cold fingers. There was something in those reactions, the unfiltered and unscripted, that relaxed him, if only a little.
