Chapter 63 In which Pangloss is on the lookout for Xmas decorations, and Staedtler comes unstuck ...

It was the worst of times and it was the best of times in Westphalia-on-Sea. The worst because the country was in the grip of the worst global recession ever, but the best of times because Dr Pangloss had assured everyone on the Cote de Westphalia that the recession would by-pass the area. Of course, some of the locals scratched their heads and took the straw out of their mouth for a moment and said: 'So this 'ere recession, it's a bit loike a tor-nay-do, is it? If we all gets inside and shuts the door us'll be safe, will us? And 'ow will it by-pass us? The bleddy by-pass ain't bin built yet!'
'God,' Pangloss had thought, 'these locals are as thick as pigshit. I bet most of them think the credit crunch is a kind of breakfast cereal.'

Back in his office later the same day, Dr Pangloss was relaxing with his deputy.
'I think we need a few more decorations round here,' said Pangloss, 'make it feel a bit more seasonal.' (He was careful not to use the word Christmassy, because the Daily Mail said it had been banned by the moaning minnies and the Muslims).
'Well you can't have any, because there's nowt left in the budget,' replied Hatter. 'It's all gone on consultants and Wreck Walk.'
'Oh, don't be a spoilsport. Let's look in the paper - there are always bargains in the Westphalia Express classifieds.'
After a few minutes scanning the newspaper Pangloss squealed with delight. 'Listen,' he said,
'Xmas santa and xmas fairy, outdoor exhibit, surplus to requirements, free to collector. Phone two-oh-seven-double one-three.' Phone it now for me, but disguise your voice; we don't want people to know the council has fallen on hard times.'
Ahmad Hatter sighed and took out his phone. Just after he'd finished dialling, the mayor's phone rang. As Pangloss moved to answer it Hatter signalled that he would continue his call outside
the office.
'Yes, I'm calling about the Xmas Santa, and the fairy,' said Hatter, doing his best not to sound too northern and straight-talking.
'Really?' said the voice at the other end. 'What a coincidence.'
'Is it a big fairy? Would it look good in an office?' persisted Hatter.
'Oh, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick,' said the voice. 'There are no fairies here. I'm looking for a fairy ...'
'What do tha mean there's no fairies there?' asked Hatter, unknowingly slipping into his northern accent.
'Ahmad Hatter, is that you?' came the voice.
'Wait a fookin' minute,' said Hatter, opening the office door.
The mayor and his deputy stared open-mouthed across the room at each other as the penny dropped. 'Either that's a printing error, or some bugger's taking the fookin' piss,' said Hatter, slamming his phone shut.

Over at the Westphalia Express office it was unusual to find John Staedtler still at his desk after everyone else had left, but these were particularly strange times in Westphalia-on-Sea; the mayor had confidently predicted that the town was recession-proof, but Staedtler felt he couldn't afford to be complacent. He had already earned a few brownie points with the editor for shooting Mrs Brolly down in flames in his column, and he had made a point of letting the editor know he was staying late. Yes, thought Staedtler to himself, if there was any brown-nosing or arse-kissing to be done, John Staedtler was definitely your man. He checked his watch - it was exactly eleven o'clock. Christ, his wife would be wondering where he was. As he started closing his email he noticed a new message in his inbox. When he saw it was from Paul French he decided to leave it until the following day. It was marked 'urgent', but Staedtler figured it could wait. 'Probably just another cranky warning about all that Piddlebackside bollocks,' he thought.

Walking across the car park he suddenly remembered the recent story about councillors being worried about walking back to their cars after dark. Just then a voice called out from the shadows 'Hey, Parker! Not still working for that rag, are you? the Daily Bugle?' A chill ran up Staedtler's back. He looked around. There was no-one else about; the comment was obviously directed at him.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he shouted back. 'I'm Staedtler, and this is the Westphalia Express. I think you're mixing me up with Spiderman, you know, Peter Parker.'
'Whatever', came the reply. Staedtler could see someone dressed in white, wearing a bowler hat. As the figure approached Staedtler could see strange make-up around the eyes. It reminded Staedtler of that dreadful film A Clockwork Journalist. 'It's rather late to be walking the streets of Piddlebackside, you know, especially in this part of town,' the character said. Staedtler was unsure if the person was male or female, but he was sure the voice sounded familiar. 'This isn't Piddlebackside, it's Westphalia-on-Sea,' replied Staedtler hesitantly, 'and technically we're not on the streets, we're in the car park,' he added, somewhat more defiantly.
'Oh, is that right?' said the voice. 'Well, I think you've just crossed the invisible line into Piddlebackside.'
'Don't be ridiculous. And what are you wearing that eye make-up for? You remind me of a character in a book by Anthony Burgess ...'
'And you remind me of a character in a book by Bram Stoker,' came the reply. 'Someone that lived by sucking the blood of others ...'
'Whoa! Steady on!' said Staedtler, 'I'm only a bloody journo, just doing my job.'
'Yes, but it's always take, take, take, with you isn't it? And things have a nasty habit of catching up with you in Piddlebackside.'
'I keep telling you this isn't Piddlebackside,' protested Staedtler.
'Don't fuck with me,' the voice suddenly snarled. Staedtler let out an involuntary whimper at the sudden change in tone of voice, and broke wind audibly. He turned to run towards his car but tripped over his briefcase and went sprawling on the floor. He was unable to move. He didn't know whether he was paralysed by fear or being pinned to the ground by some imaginary force field. 'Look what's all this about? Surely we can work something out?' he mumbled.
The figure looked down at Staedtler, lying on his back, and said: 'Where shall we start? The postcards? the articles? Putting words in my mouth? You were sloppy, and you know it. But it's too late now.' Now up close, Staedtler realised it was a woman who was addressing him. From behind her back she produced something long and pointed, and placed the metal tip on Staedtler's chest, hovering just above his heart.
'What's that?' A bloody stake? asked Staedtler, almost crying.
'No,' said the voice. 'Can't you see? It's just a brolly.' With that she brought a mallet down on the handle wilth all her might. She felt the metal tip of the brolly pierce Staedtler's chest, and heard it make a satisfying squelchy noise as it locked on to its target. Staedtler saw his life flash before him, which was disappointing even by his standards - it was mainly cricket and being passed over for the editor's job.

As Staedtler stopped twitching the woman took the bowler hat off and wiped her brow. Addressing the prone body leaking at her feet she asked under her breath: 'Who's fucking heartless now?'

IS STAEDTLER REALLY DEAD? WHAT WAS ON THOSE POSTCARDS? WHY DON'T YOU CALL HIM TO FIND OUT? ARE THE XMAS SANTA AND THE XMAS FAIRY STILL AVAILABLE? WHY NOT CALL TO FIND OUT? HOW DID THE ADVERT GET PRINTED? WILL HEADS ROLL? DON'T MISS NEXT WEEK'S THRILLING EPISODE ...