The Story of Rudolph by Harcourt Tendhall
13 December 2022 { Crime/Thriller }
Yeah. That’s what they call me at the shelter, behind my back. I’ve heard it a few times. It doesn’t bother me. Whenever I get a cold, my bulbous nose, already too big, turns bright red. They think my real name is Jack Morton, for what that’s worth. Once, when I was a teenager, I had a brown fur coat. We all got drunk one night when I had a cold, went back to my mate’s house and I fell asleep. They found a pair of joke antlers, stuck them on my head, and took photos of me with my bright red nose. That’s when the nickname was born. How they got to know it at the shelter, I’ve got no idea. Maybe I mentioned it to someone there after a bottle of cider one evening. I get colds all the time during winter. I suppose it’s inevitable, being outdoors so much of the time.
I’m lucky. I earn money doing casual work for an ex-Army mate. He runs a firm of security guards and doormen for clubs and pubs. Another of my ex-Army mates is a private landlord. He has some HMOs: houses of multiple occupancy. I’ve got a room in one. Cash in hand from the work pays the rent, but it doesn’t leave enough to survive. I’ve had offers for more lucrative work, but they involve greater personal risk, which I don’t find attractive. So I get by, and go to the shelter for a free meal, but also to help out. They might call me Rudolph behind my back, but the regulars don’t mess with me. And the staff are glad of me intervening if anyone gets out of hand. I get there early, help them set up and clear up. I’m usually the last to leave, unless I’m working the doors.
During the lead-up to Christmas, the charity who runs the shelter does a major drive to bring in extra cash. They use it to pay for rooms for their regulars over Christmas, doing deals with small hotels in the city that would otherwise close at Christmas. The hotels make a bit of extra money, and the regulars get a hot shower, a clean bed for a couple of nights, and fresh clothes, sorted from donations to the charity’s shop. Anything left over goes to provide a Christmas dinner at the shelter.
This year, the weekend before Christmas, they had their major campaign in the shopping centre just outside the city. All the volunteers who could make it were down there, either manning their stall, acting in the comedy nativity play they put on, or stood at the doors with collection tins. You might think they’d want me there, but they only know me as a regular who helps out, not a charity volunteer. Besides, they don’t know what I do.
I was walking towards the shelter later than usual that evening as the minibus arrived with its last load of volunteers from the shopping centre, and the all-important collection tins. A small car pulled up opposite, just after they arrived. Nobody got out. I thought I’d hang back, so took cover in a nearby doorway. I watched the volunteers get out of the minibus, carrying trestle tables from the stall and the collection tins.
The driver locked the minibus and followed them in. Two men in dark hoodies and jeans got out of the car. They pulled on balaclavas, took baseball bats and a hold-all from the boot, and ran into the shelter, leaving a man in the car.
I needed to act fast. Fortunately, the guy in the car was so busy watching them; he didn’t notice me until it was too late. I pulled the car door open, and he conveniently turned to face me. I punched him hard in the face. His nose crunched satisfyingly and began bleeding. I dragged him out of the car.
‘Piss off while you’re still breathing.’
Looking shocked, he ran off. They always leave the weak one in the car. The other two wouldn’t be so easy. I removed the car keys and returned to my doorway.
A few minutes later, they ran out with the hold-all, probably full of the collection tins. They threw that and their baseball bats into the boot and jumped into the car. Only then did they realise their driver wasn’t there.
I walked towards the passenger door, dangling the keys, and shouted, ‘Lost something, lads?’
The one in the front opened his door and started getting out. I booted the door. It slammed into his head. It also jammed his foot as he fell back into the seat, so I booted it again and he screamed out. Meanwhile, the other one had got out of the rear door on the other side and ran round, brandishing a knife.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ I asked.
He just sneered and lunged at me. I side-stepped his lunge, grabbed his wrist with both hands, and broke it. He screamed as the knife fell to the floor. I nutted him, just to make sure he was suitably disabled. He followed his knife.
First, I picked up the knife, then removed his balaclava. Didn’t know him. I picked him up and stuffed him back into the rear of the car. Then I opened the passenger door wide. The guy just looked terrified. I pulled off his balaclava. Didn’t know him either.
I said, ‘You’d better put your leg back in the car.’
Using both his hands to lift his leg, he did. I slammed the door shut and locked the car. As I went to the boot and opened it, Janice, the manager of the shelter, and some volunteers ran over. I lifted out the hold-all and opened it. Sure enough, all the collection tins were inside.
‘Rud, er, Jack, are you okay?’ she asked.
I gave her a quizzical look. She blushed.
‘Careful, or you’ll be as red as my nose.’ I said and grinned. ‘I’m fine. You’d better phone the Police. Tell them what’s happened and ask them to give these two a bed for the night. I’m off.’
‘Jack, you can’t go. Look what you just did. You’ve saved Christmas for everyone.’
‘Not quite everyone.’
‘But the Police. They’ll want to talk to you.’
‘That’s why I’m off. Once they get my name, there’ll be publicity. I don’t want any publicity. Just tell them an unknown stranger intervened. Keep me out of it.’
You see, I’m in an unusual situation, living ‘off-grid’. It all started when I came home after my last tour. She must have been having an affair, so as I walked in the house, she slapped divorce papers on me and let this rottweiler of a solicitor off his lead. He made it his personal responsibility to take me for everything I had. I didn’t stand a chance. A career soldier who’d just left the Army, suffering from PTSD, and with no career; I guess I was an easy hit. Upshot of it was she got everything, but I had to continue paying for it. That’s when I did the disappearing act. At least from her life and my previous one. With no job, no bank account and no address, she can’t find me. Now I live in a different city, using a different name, but Rudolph keeps following me.
Once I had disappeared and the mortgage wasn’t being paid, she had to move out of the family home and find somewhere smaller. Because it’s in joint names and she can’t find me, she can’t sell it. I think of it as my pension plan. So now, as well as working full time, she rents it out, to pay the mortgage and help pay for her new place. That’s why she’s still mad at me and still looking for me, so she says whenever I call her. God knows what she tells the kids about me. That was the biggest sacrifice; knowing I’d not see them grow up and if they ever meet me, they probably won’t want to know me.
* * *
I left it a few days before I went back to the shelter to let the dust settle. When I arrived at my usual time, I waited in that doorway again. I only saw regulars or volunteers go in. I walked up to the entrance, feeling nervous, checking for any unusual cars around. Police wouldn’t be so bad, but not reporters; last thing I needed. I walked in and scanned the room. Everything looked normal. Then someone stood up and clapped, others stood and joined in. Before I knew it, everyone in the room was applauding me. My nervousness became embarrassment, and I turned to leave, but Janice grabbed my arm.
‘No, Jack, or should I say Rudolph? Everyone here owes you a massive debt. What you did that night was nothing short of heroic. I didn’t see everything, but I saw how you handled that thug with the knife. None of us would have tackled them, or known how to. We’ve all been waiting for you to come in, so we can thank you properly, so you’re just going to have to sit here and listen.’
She guided me to a table. I noticed two of the volunteers were handing out sheets of paper, which the regulars were reading and laughing. When they all had a sheet, Janice held up her arms, like a conductor, and counted them in as they started singing:
Rudolph, the red-nosed stranger
Had a very shiny nose
Everyone at the shelter
Never told him how it glows
Rudolph, the red-nosed stranger
Felt so much like one of them
What nobody knew about him
Was he is such a hidden gem
Then one murky winter’s night
Thieves stole all our cash
Rudolph, with your nose so bright
Got it back that self-same night
All at the shelter love you
And we all do agree
Rudolph, the red-nosed stranger
Saved Christmas for his family
There were gales of laughter, and another round of applause, but this time from me. Janice offered me a tissue. I took the whole pack. The volunteers and the regulars walked over and thanked me, shook my hand, slapped my back, and some ladies even kissed my cheek.
For the first time since I walked out of my house three years ago, I got the feeling I might belong somewhere.
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