Christmas Fuzz

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of Hot Fuzz and the film's epilogue. I realize that Jadwin has already written a story about the same Christmas, which I have not read so as not to be influenced by it. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of Hot Fuzz.

Part One: Three Releases

"I think it's probably one of the most fun jobs you could ever have. You get to do everything… Where else do you get to deliver babies, save somebody, arrest somebody, fight somebody, do all these different things?"

David Martin, Arlington Police Department, Arlington, MA
The Arlington Advocate, December 6, 2007

I. Mended Cop

Flint House

Goring-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, England

20th December 2006, 0840 hrs

"Well, this is it," the discharge clerk said.

The police officer stood in the discharge office of Flint House, the physical rehab facility where he had spent the last three months after being seriously wounded in the line of duty and spending four months in hospital. He was not the slightest bit unhappy to be going home. For one thing, although his room had Freeview TV, the sergeant from Leeds in the next room had borrowed his portable DVD player and never returned it. It had been weeks since he had seen a really good action movie.

The clerk behind the desk had paperwork for him to sign, as well as some of the belongings that had been on him when he was brought here from the hospital.

"One Casio analogue watch, broken," the clerk said. "Looks like it was caught in an explosion."

"Yeah, it was," the police officer said cheerfully.

The clerk gave him a dirty look.

"One unused packet of hospital ketchup… one empty packet."

"Hey, I always like to have some ketchup on me."

"One packet of Hog Lumps –"

"That's not mine. It must be someone's who looks like me."

0850 hrs

Papers signed, ketchup packets safely back in his pocket, the police officer slowly walked out through the arched doorway of Flint House. He deeply inhaled the bracing December air, and then looked up the curved drive.

Punctual to the minute, a gleaming new panda car was approaching the pick-up area. It was small, but its paintwork displayed striking blue-and-yellow Battenburg markings. The newly released police officer judged the car to be less cool than the one Gene Hackman commandeered in The French Connection, but cooler than Dan Aykroyd's in Dragnet. The roof of the car was emblazoned with the code letters "HF".

The car stopped. A man in the uniform of a Chief Inspector got out of the driver's side. He was two and a half inches taller than the officer awaiting him, and also much thinner and more physically fit. His short blond hair was hidden by his uniform cap. For a moment he stood looking at the younger, chubbier policeman, and then held out his arms towards him.

Constable Danny Butterman hugged Chief Inspector Nicholas Angel of the Sandford Police Service, his mentor, his hero, his best friend.

0852 hrs

Inside the car, Paul McCartney was singing on the radio about how the moon was right, the spirit was up, how they were there tonight and that was enough. Nine months earlier, Nicholas Angel would not have been likely to be listening to anything while driving other than police radio chatter. But he had loosened up a lot this past year. Besides, he was off-duty.

"Good thing the money I have to pay in to Flint House was finally put to some use."

"I'm sorry, Danny?" Nicholas said, distracted by a cyclist running the red light where they had stopped. This isn't your jurisdiction, he reminded himself, fighting the urge to give the woman a citation.

"Yeah. I mean, it cut into my DVD budget a bit. And I had to replace my copy of Return of the King when I dropped a Cornetto on it."

Nicholas felt himself smile inside as he drove forward again.

"So, everyone getting ready for Christmas, then?"

"Yes, pretty much. I believe the new vicar at the church is bringing in about twenty charity collectors to request donations in the village centre for the less fortunate."

"The midnight service is always nice," Danny said. "You should go. It's just a shame Sandford doesn't have a cathedral anymore."

"Sandford once had a cathedral?"

"Yeah, centuries back. But it blew up accidentally."

Nicholas was sceptical about the accuracy of this, but said nothing. They were now passing through countryside dotted with small farmhouses. Sad-eyed cows stared at the car as it sped past. Danny began to hum a tune, at first softly, then louder and louder. Soon he was singing aloud, but with nonsense syllables rather than words.

"Constable Butterman, might I ask what it is that you're singing?"

"The Ode to Joy, by that deaf German."

Just as long as you don't make me deaf singing it, Nicholas thought. "Constable," he said aloud, "the public might consider it unprofessional if a police officer was heard singing a hymn in a disrespectful way."

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I was just enjoying the music."

Danny sounded hurt. Nicholas glanced over at him, feeling a pang of guilt. They were passing through a small village, and Danny was staring out the window at a cinema with a teaser poster outside for The Bourne Ultimatum.

"Anyway," Danny said when they were outside the village, "I was just singin' it. You know, like in that scene in Jaws."

"What scene in Jaws?"

"The scene where Robert Shaw is singing the Ode to Joy really loudly."

"I've seen Jaws, and I don't remember that scene."

"It's on the DVD. It's a deleted scene."

"Danny, deleted scenes are not a legitimate part of a movie. The director takes them out for a reason."

"Yeah, I know." Danny fell silent for a moment, a bit crestfallen. Then, as a new subject of conversation occurred to him, he perked up. "So, you got your office set up yet?"

"No, they're still plastering it. I'm out in the alleyway, like I was at first at the old station."

"Shame. So, what's been goin' on in Sandford? Any heavy stuff go down while I was away?"

"Well, let's see," Nicholas said, casting his mind back over the past few days. "James M. Carter was arrested for sexual assault and lewd and lascivious behaviour near the duck pond on Monday."

"Marcus Carter's big brother?" Danny asked, furrowing his brow. "He's an M.P. now, inn' he?"

"Yes, he is. He's checking himself into a mental hospital in London – today, I believe."

"Why's he doin' that? He should feel right at home in the House of Commons."

"Probably," Nicholas said, manoeuvring the car around a slow truck.

"Who made the collar?"

"PC Walker and Saxon," Nicholas answered. Bob Walker, the most senior member of the Sandford Police Service, and his canine partner had happened upon the scene during one of their ambling patrols around the village. "The suspect attempted to escape, but Saxon pursued and cornered him. When PC Walker caught up to them, Carter attempted to give a false name, but Bob recognized him. Carter said they were ruining his life by arresting him."

"Another politician gone to the dogs," Danny said sadly.

"And the pet shop was robbed of forty birds on Tuesday. No arrest yet."

"Any clues?"

"Only a few feathers."

Danny gave Nicholas a serious look.

"The swan hasn't escaped again, has he?" Danny asked.

"Not that I know of."

"Good. I wouldn't want to go after that honker again."

This time Nicholas permitted himself a slight smile.

"Can't wait to get home and watch Die 'ard. Hey, can I come in to work tomorrow?"

Nicholas glanced at his friend with concern.

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Don't worry. I feel strong enough to carry a pregnant woman up a flight of stairs."

II. Triple Mind

Gloucester Prison

Gloucester, England

20th December 2006, 1005 hrs

Dr. Robert Clark was a psychiatrist at Gloucester Prison. His choice of career specialisation was unfortunate, perhaps, given that he had always been a somewhat nervous person. The prisoner to whom he was speaking at the moment made him even more nervous than usual.

"Mr. Armstrong," Dr. Clark said, "the court has reviewed your psychological evaluation and determined that you are unfit to stand trial."

The extremely tall, bald man standing in front of him listened with an expression of mild interest. He made no remark expressing either relief or concern.

"You are aware that you were charged with attempted murder of a police officer, assault and battery on a police officer, and conspiracy to commit murder?"

"Yarp," the tall man said.

"These charges have now been dismissed. Ordinarily, you would be transferred to a mental facility. However…"

Dr. Clark looked embarrassed.

"Mr. Armstrong," he said, "it seems clear to me that you could benefit from further assistance with your personality issues. However, the state of governmental mental – excuse me – government mental health funding is such that it's not possible for us to help you at public expense. We have found no evidence that you continue to pose a public danger, now that you are no longer under the influence of…"

The psychiatrist checked the papers in front of him for the name.

"…Mr. Simon Skinner."

The tall man looked sadly down at the floor.

"We are aware that you have been struggling with multiple personality disorder, but all indications are that you have this issue largely under control. Would you agree with that assessment?"

"Yarp," the tall man said brightly, in the voice of a young girl.

Dr. Clark stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at his papers again.

"Under the circumstances, it appears that we have no choice but to release you. Do you understand this decision?"

"Yarp," the prisoner replied, in a deep voice again.

"Do you wish to appeal this decision?"

"Narp."

"Are you able to make your own way home from here?"

"Yarp."

1148 hrs

Michael Armstrong, known to acquaintances as "Lurch", stood outside Gloucester Prison, an ugly modern building. The £23.07 he had had on him when he was arrested was back in his pocket. Prisoners who had received Christmas furloughs were being picked up by family members, exchanging strained, difficult greetings with them. No one whom Michael knew was there to pick him up.

A cab approached the front entrance, summoned by the warden at the front desk. It stopped in front of Michael. He climbed in.

"Where can I take you, guv?" the cabby asked.

Michael was always nervous around people he didn't know, although he usually managed to hide it by remaining silent. He would let his Mum deal with the cabby. Sure enough, Mum reached over the seat and handed the driver a slip of paper on which she had jotted their destination while they were waiting. (Michael couldn't write.)

"Sandford," the cabby said. "You want me to drive you all the way to Sandford?"

"Yarp," Michael said.

"It'll cost you a few pounds."

"Yarp," his Mum said.

"Going home for Christmas, are we?"

"Yarp," his sister said.

The cab, with its single passenger, drove away.

III. Evil Santa

Shoreditch Psychiatric Institute for Therapeutic Services

London, England

20th December 2006, 1332 hrs

Approximately one hundred miles to the east, another psychiatrist was speaking with another patient. Dr. Helen Hardwicke, a small blonde woman, smiled pleasantly at the man sitting before her.

"Mr. Bass, the latest reports from your therapists are excellent. You have made phenomenal progress over the past year."

"Thank you," Albert Bass said modestly. He was a short, chubby man, with thick yet muscular legs and a round head. His somewhat intense and moody eyes at present had a relieved look as he heard the good news he was being given.

"Although you were initially admitted for treatment after assaulting a police officer, you have shown no violent tendencies since then. You said at the time that you 'felt the need to inflict a wound'?"

"That's right. I don't feel that need any more, not since I spoke to the doctors here about my childhood."

"And you also seem to have freed yourself from the delusion that you're really Father Christmas."

"Of course I'm not Father Christmas! I don't have a big white beard!"

Dr. Hardwicke laughed.

"I understand, though, that there's something still troubling you?" she asked.

"Yeah. I've developed a case of trichotillomania while I've been in here."

"Hair-pulling can be a difficult condition to deal with," the doctor said sympathetically. "I imagine that that's the cause of the bald spot on your head?"

Albert Bass looked up sharply at Dr. Hardwicke.

"On my head? Oh, no, ma'am. I never pull out hairs from my head."

There was a brief, awkward silence.

"Riiight," the psychiatrist said. "Well, once you're discharged, you can see someone else about that, but it's certainly not serious enough to keep you here. How about it? Do you agree with us that you're ready to go home?"

"I certainly do," Albert said. "Do you have the reindeer hitched up to my sleigh?"

Dr. Hardwicke was startled for a moment. Then she laughed again.

"Your willingness to joke about your own delusion proves that you've overcome it," she said. "You're free to go."

1401 hrs

As Albert Bass emerged from the lift into the lobby of the Shoreditch Psychiatric Institute, a short man with a scraggly grey beard came through the front entrance. He looked harried and nervous. An attractive woman in a white lab coat passed him, and he grinned at her.

"Oh, baby, you are so beautiful," he said to her. "Your body is so perfect."

The woman looked angry, but kept walking. The short man pursued her and reached out as though to grab her breast. Albert, who was a couple of inches taller than the other man, intercepted him and grabbed his hand.

"Were you thinking of molesting this young lady?" he asked sternly. "That's a naughty thing to do, isn't it?"

The woman, startled, nodded her thanks to Albert and continued toward the lifts. The shorter man winced as Albert failed to release his hand.

"You don't understand," he whimpered. "I'm a Member of Parliament. I'm checking myself in here because I can't control myself around women."

"Oh, really?" Albert asked mockingly. "Are you suffering from clinical depression? Sex addiction? Obsessive-compulsive disorder?"

"My mother just died," the other man whined.

Albert smiled and let go of his hand.

"That explains everything, then," Albert said. "But you'd better watch out. You've been a naughty little boy, and you know what happens to naughty little boys, don't you? They get coal down their chimneys."

He gave the shorter man his most threatening look, and then turned to walk away.

"Hey, wait a minute!" the M.P. shouted angrily after him. "What were you in here for, anyway?"

Albert turned back for a moment and smiled again.

"You might call it… polar disorder," he said.

He walked quickly out the door, leaving a no-doubt puzzled pervert behind him. Once outside, he breathed deeply of the crisp London air.

It was nearly Christmas. He had work to do.

1603 hrs

Two hours later, Albert Bass was sat in front of a computer terminal at his local public library, having discovered that the Internet service to his flat had been cut off during his long absence. The news at home wasn't all bad, though. He had found a spare red suit in his closet, still freshly laundered and ready to go. He could buy another wig and false beard at any costume shop.

Around him now sat students and eccentrics playing solitaire, bidding on eBay for useless junk, or posting online their fevered imaginings about the characters in their favourite movies and television programmes.

Nitwits and numbskulls, all of them, Albert thought. They all deserve a lump of coal this Christmas. But I have a bigger fish to fry.

He paused for a moment with his fingers over the keyboard, recalling the name of the sanctimonious police constable he had stabbed in the hand a year earlier. The one who, blood still gushing from his palm, had slapped the handcuffs on him. The one who had sent him to the funny farm for twelve months.

"I hope you feel better, Mr. Bass," the copper had said as he was loaded into the police van. "Perhaps you will be able to receive help now with whatever's troubling you."

The name came back to him. He Googled "Nick Angel".

At first he was disappointed. The search engine found several references on IMDb and elsewhere to a "Nick Angel" who worked in the movie industry, the Music Supervisor on Zombies Party and the forthcoming Blue Fury. Unless he had made a major career transition in the last year, this was not the "Nick Angel" he was looking for.

Then it occurred to him to search for the name "Nicholas Angel" instead. He immediately hit pay dirt.

The newspaper headline from May read, "Hero Cop Single-Handedly Saves Village – Partner Gravely Wounded". The story told of a crisis in the Gloucestershire village of Sandford, where the local Neighbourhood Watch Alliance had proved to be a criminal conspiracy aimed at the elimination of "undesirable elements" from the town by any means necessary. Sergeant Nicholas Angel, formerly of London's Metropolitan Police – it seemed he had been promoted when he was transferred – had exposed the group and apprehended its members, including the then-Chief Inspector of the Sandford Police, Frank Butterman, and the manager of the local supermarket, Simon Skinner. However, events had culminated in the destruction of the Sandford police station in a massive explosion. Angel's partner, Daniel Butterman (the corrupt chief's son, apparently), had been seriously wounded by a shotgun blast. Glancing quickly through multiple news reports, Albert could find no indication of whether the younger Butterman had survived his injuries. It scarcely mattered, of course.

Further down the list of search results Albert found a more recent article from the Sandford Citizen, reporting Sergeant Angel's promotion to Chief Inspector as a replacement for Butterman, who was in a maximum-security prison awaiting trial on multiple charges.

Albert Bass leaned forward toward the computer screen and whispered to the image of Chief Inspector Angel surrounded by his colleagues.

"Two promotions in one year – not the presents a naughty boy like you deserves. You put Santa Claus in the loony bin – that's a big no-no. And do you know what happens to little boys as bad as you are?"

He leaned even further forward, murmuring his last words with his lips nearly touching the screen.

"I feel the need," he said, "to inflict a wound."

END OF PART ONE