Page 17 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

The cold bit back into him. Cleared his lungs. And his head.

Chaos trotted obediently beside him, ears twitching with the wind as Aaron followed the narrow footpath leading along the cliffside towards home. The view opened up around him. Grey sea, crashing waves, a spit of beach curling away beneath them.

He pulled out his phone. Scrolled to Mel.

They hadn’t properly talked in months. A few memes, the occasional rant about dodgy therapy tropes in crime dramas, and one article Mel had sent titledWhy Your Favourite Detective Would 100% Fail a Psych Eval.

He didn’t totally relate that to a certain DI Bellend. But he didn’t not either.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Aaron bloody Jones. Pocket call or did the phone fall on your face?”

“Missed your voice.”

“Uh-huh. What’s the catch?”

“What’s your address? Kenny’s bought Christmas cards. We’re apparently people who do that.”

“RIP the planet.”

“Fully. Fuck the actual planet.”

“Honestly thought you’d post one of those smug ‘we’re donating to a dog shelter instead of sending cards’ captions while everyone side-eyes you for never sending one in the first place.”

“As I nowworkfor a dog charity, they technically pay me to buy the stamps. It’s eco-petty. Full circle.”

Mel snorted. “Well, then.If it’s not a cringe matching jumpers by the fire pic, don’t waste the cost of a stamp.”

“Which is extortionate. But don’t panic, he won’t even let me that close to him to take a photo. I get a metre, max. Unless he initiates it.”

Mel cackled.“Knew he was a kinky bastard. Got you on a leash, has he?”

“Mate, don’t joke. This is serious. My balls aren’t blue. They’ve achieved full spectral collapse. I’ve got ghost bollocks. This is actual abuse.”

“You want me to file a safeguarding referral?”

“Honestly? Yes. I need intervention. Immediate. A trauma response unit. Maybe an exorcism.”

“Cool, I’ll fax the UN.”There was a beat. Then,“You okay, though?”

Aaron blinked. “Since when are youthatfriend?”

“Since I started doing behavioural triage for actual adults with actual psych flags and realised you were the training wheels.”

“Wow. I’m touched.”

“Apparently, you’re not. How long has it been since our professor touched you up?”

“Too fucking long.”

“And there’s the reason for this call. To stop you wanking and accidentally adding days to Kenny’s torture schedule, huh?”

“You don’t know me.”

“Babe. I meet six of you a day on the trauma ward. I have a postgrad diploma and zero remaining patience for bullshit.”

He laughed. “You? Gainfully employedandemotionally literate. Who even are you?”