Bert The Disbeliever

He crouched behind the dumpster at the rear of the village General Store. Muttering incoherently, he scratched at congealed blood on his forehead and in his beard. Having self-triaged his injuries at the accident site with his only hand, he’d followed the cleared land below a high-voltage power line. Staggering for hours through the remainder of The-Night-Before-Christmas, he’d limped into the rural village just prior to dawn, desperate to remain unseen by any of the 273 residents.

 A cracker of a dawn pierced the night, magpies had begun carolling, yet he was in no frame of mind to appreciate it.  He remained concealed behind the dumpster pondering his next move. How would he explain this if he was sprung? What if several of his ribs were broken as he suspected?  He guessed his head injury would require stitches and in the dark he’d been unable to assess the condition of his vehicle at the crash site. He was in a filthy mood when a concerned head peered around the side of the dumpster.

 Philbert Toy, aka Bert Toy, was a long-time resident of Dunducketty Creek. He raised a pair of prodigious eyebrows in surprise at the figure crumpled on the ground in obvious distress.

“Geez. Are you OK mate?” Bert quizzed, shuffling backwards.

“Yeah, think I’ll live,” he wheezed through gritted teeth, wincing with each breath. “Only hurts when I breathe.”

“Well don’t stop breathin’ champ. I’m Philbert Toy. Call me Bert.”

“Shhh… Bert, … speak softly. Don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

With the stump of his left arm, the injured man indicated his blood stained cap and Parka, and his torn denim jeans. Bert surmised that the loss of the stranger’s left hand had occurred a long time ago. It was well healed, probably occurred decades before, and he seemed quite adapted to its loss.  

“OK mate but d’ya want me to phone the Police. Maybe an ambulance? What happened?”

“No… no cops! No ambulance! I’ll be OK. Single vehicle accident in the dark not far from here. My fault. Just need to get back to the accident scene. Get my stuff.”

 Red flags were hoisted. Bert sensed that this old dude was too quick to dismiss the police and emergency services. Something smelled off; it wasn’t just the alcohol on his breath.

“Mate, you’re not involved in something dodgy are you? This stuff of yours wouldn’t be drugs would it?”

“Nah! Nothing like that,” he blustered, hawking up a ball of blood-stained phlegm and dispatching it to the dust at his feet. “I just need your help.”

 Bert hesitated momentarily, weighing up his options. This elderly stranger was an unknown quantity. Looked particularly sinister with his bloodied face, unkempt beard and unexplained stump at the end of his left arm.

“Ok, wait here mate. I’ll duck home and get something to bandage that head wound. Anything else ya need?”

“That’s particularly kind of you Bert. I don’t suppose you’ve got a vehicle do you? I really do need to get out to the crash site. Recover stuff,” his gravelly voice intoned as his only hand delved into a side pocket. Bert flinched then relaxed a little as the stranger withdrew and sucked on an asthma inhaler.

Considering the request for a moment, Bert grinned, “Yeah. Okay. Vehicles are what I do, mate. I’m a deliverer. Back in a tic.”

 Within minutes, Bert’s small delivery truck motored up to the dumpster.

“Perfect!” mouthed the injured stranger, who smiled briefly through a wall of rib pain.

Bert quickly swabbed and bandaged the stranger’s bloodied head, replaced his baseball cap carefully over the wound. His injured body was shoved up into the passenger seat by the ever-helpful Bert Toy. Rattling off into the dawn, the mystery man navigated in the increasing light towards where he thought his accident may have occurred.

 Bert was soon regretting his decision to convey an injured stranger of dubious character to an isolated place in the bush. His mind was galloping. What if other drug traffickers were lying in wait? What if he was armed? What if he proved to be violent? Had he lost his hand in a violent gangland retribution?

His front-of-mind concerns couldn’t be restrained any further.

“So what actually happened, mate? Why the secrecy? Who are you?”

“Hmmm. What indeed? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“Try me,” Bert replied, arching an eyebrow.

 The injured man exhaled a slow wheeze and spat more blood through the opened passenger side window before answering the anxious Bert.

“I’m the gift-giver at Christmas, Bert. Santa Claus. Father Christmas. Saint Nicholas.”

Silence.

“D’ya believe me Bert?”

Bert emitted a nervous high-pitched laugh before replying, “No. But I get it that you don’t want me to ask any further questions. I’ll back off and leave you to your own devices when we arrive at the crash site. You’ve got my word; I’ve seen nothing, heard nothing, remember bugger-all.”

 “I’m telling you the truth Bert. I don’t expect you to believe me. I’m only real to those who believe in me. Most grown-ups don’t believe. Kids believe.”

The noises of the truck bouncing over the rough dirt track were briefly the only sounds in the cabin. Bert chuckled silently before cogs began spinning in his head. Processing of the unimaginable, the meta-physical, was occurring. The long beard was real enough despite being caked in dried blood.

“I know you’re just winding me up, mate. A simple yokel from a small town in the bush. But pull my other leg. Where’s your red suit?”

“Red suit? Ha! That’s only my performance outfit, Bert. When I’m at home or in flight, I wear my civvies. These jeans, sneakers and Parka are way more comfortable for extended flights.”

Bert’s response was a derisory snort.

“So what happened, then mate? How’d ya crash?” It was Bert’s turn to have a lend of the stranger. Bert had been assessing him quietly. It was possible he wasn’t a violent type, probably just drunk, maybe even deranged. Bert could probably overpower him if he wasn’t armed.

 “I won’t lie to you Bert. Christmas Eve is big for me. Huge. I carry several hip flasks of single-malt whisky under my parka. Laphroaig’s my go-to tipple. A little gift to myself. I’d just commenced my descent into Dunducketty Creek. Bells were jingling. Last job to complete in Australia. I’d had quite a few swigs on the whisky flask by that stage and completely lost my bearings. It was eerily dark, Bert. Black as tar. I was piloting by the stars. Was just about to put away my device, return my seat to the upright position, fasten my seatbelt. Then wham!”

“Wham what?” Bert coaxed.

“Slammed into a fucking wind-turbine, didn’t I? .... Took the gloss right off my support for net-zero emissions and a carbon-neutral future it did. Sucked the joy right out of my Christmas too.”

Silence again.

“Bloody hell! You’re lucky to have survived a crash like that, Santa.” Bert was relishing taking the piss out of the stranger now.

“Maybe,” he mused, “… but the reindeer weren’t so fortunate. They bore the brunt of those blades.”

 Arriving at the crash scene near the wind-farm twelve kilometres outside Dunducketty Creek, Bert’s jaw slackened visibly. Eyes bugging out, he gagged. Macabre… A pile of shattered yet highly decorated timber was partially embedded in the soil below a turbine. The remains of small deer and harnesses with bells were strewn randomly around the impact site. Wrapped toys and gifts were near the remains of the sleigh and mostly undamaged. The stranger explained that they’d been stowed near the high-tech airbag which he’d unfortunately missed when he’d been ejected through the night sky, screaming loudly, arms and legs air-swimming crazily in a failed attempt to arrest a rapid and raucous descent.

 Unable to make sense of what confronted him, Bert was rendered mute. In the warmth and glow of a golden December dawn, he wandered, open-mouthed, amongst the carnage, overwhelmed with inner turmoil. This isn’t real, this can’t be real. He wanted to take photographs but the stranger’s voice instantly assumed an aggressive tone and he insisted that Bert hand over his phone. No photos, no phone calls.

 At the stranger’s insistence, Bert helped him drag twisted harnesses, the debris of a sleigh, and small furry carcasses to a nearby rocky outcrop where they were concealed from public view. The whole scenario defied conventional logic and was a surreal experience for Bert. Perhaps he was stuck inside a garish nightmare from which he was struggling to awaken. No other explanation made sense. The would-be Santa seemed outwardly unaffected.

“You don’t seem to be welling up about the loss of your team, mate. Must be hard surveying the carnage though. I mean, that wind-turbine certainly did a number on Rudolph’s nose.”

“Aaah Bert, I sense you’re mocking me. It’s truly a tragedy,” he rasped, “…but you must understand that reindeer is a staple part of our diet in the Arctic Circle… and tanned reindeer hides are used for traditional costumes and furniture coverings. You can’t afford to become too attached to your working animals.”

“Oh… right. Do you feel the same way about your elves? There are social media posts suggesting your helpers work under sweat-shop conditions,” Bert pointedly added.

 The stranger seemingly ignored Bert’s prickly query. He’d retrieved an undamaged communication device from a tiny black-box compartment in the stricken sleigh, then talking out of earshot of Bert, contacted somebody. The stranger relayed to Bert that he’d organised a standby sleigh which would arrive soon enough to collect and take him home. Meanwhile, all gifts that were bag-tagged DCK for Dunducketty Creek were loaded into Bert’s delivery truck. The stranger removed the SIM card from Bert’s smartphone before handing it back to him.

 Assuming his gruff, aggressive tone again, he turned to Bert.

“I know that you still don’t believe Bert, but you have to keep your mouth shut about this. Nobody’s going to believe you anyway. Probably have you classed as a lunatic. You’re a good person Bert. But get into that truck and get yourself back to Dunducketty Creek. Don’t ever come back here. Don’t breathe a word… I know where you live. Oh, and… Merry Christmas. Ho, ho, ho.”

 Accelerating away from the macabre scene and the certifiable stranger, Bert was hyperventilating. He hadn’t woken from a nightmare as he’d been wishing. He roared into the village and skidded to a halt on the main street, sending up a spray of gravel. Leaning heavily on the truck’s horn, confused residents milled around his vehicle to hear the explanation the stranger had concocted for Bert - that Santa’s sleigh had broken down during the night and he’d contracted Bert to complete the Christmas run to Dunducketty Creek. Kids squealed their approval. Adults sniggered. Yeah, good one Bert. Wink, wink… Then Bert Toy, treading water in a pool of disbelief, commenced the task of distributing gifts and goodwill from his truck… Bert the disbeliever had unintentionally saved Christmas.