During the holiday season even the Big Smoke, coldhearted London, feels a little jollier than usual. In the Laundry it seems to bring out a curdled sense of playfulness in the staff, particularly in the administrative section: you can't set foot in HR without having your retinas assaulted by twinkling fairy lights or (shudder) dodging mistletoe. We do draw the line somewhere: when the singing motion-triggered holiday figurines made an appearance they were disabled by person or persons unknown within 48 hours. The Senior Auditor, bless his little cotton socks, sent out a sternly worded memo discouraging their reactivation and thereby brought about peace on earth (or at least in Administration).
Some other celebratory soul sent a memo round to encourage people to sign up for a gift exchange. At first I declined, but after a raised eyebrow from Andy Newstrom I got the message, threw my name in the hat and got lucky; I drew Lucy from Facilities. All things Goth suit her just fine. A quick websearch of "goth Christmas" and I hit the mother lode of ideas. She seems delighted with the resulting deluge of black snowflake ornaments and skeletal Santas.
Whoever picked me is probably female, judging by the doe-eyed reindeer figurines and pink Santa hat that appear on my desk. Ugh. The afternoon I was staring at a bundle of candy canes tied up in lacy glittery ribbon was the time Angleton picked to walk in.
"What on earth is that?" His dry voice slicing through the holiday treacle actually came as a relief.
"It's a gift exchange, boss. Holiday tradition. I got roped in by Andy. You aren't, ah, participating?" I jab. Angleton in a gift exchange? He doesn't even bother attending the holiday party.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I wasn't invited, Bob." He moves on before I can react. I look after him, feeling a brief stab of guilt. For a moment I wonder if he ever participated in Laundry Christmas celebrations over the years, but I'm pretty sure the answer is no. I know he has no real interest, but suddenly I see him standing eternally on the outside of the office social circle. He must peer in from time to time, but he'd never volunteer to join in and no one would ever dare to ask.
The man deserves a generous gesture – and he's my boss, I suddenly realize. If no one else is going to do it, I certainly should. It's a slow afternoon; the office is running on holiday time. I kick back and start brainstorming ideas. At first it's difficult, but if I know one thing it's that Angleton does not appreciate empty gestures. I've got to get him something he can use.
After that it's clear sailing. Angleton runs on tea and digestive biscuits. I'll get him some really good tea, not that supermarket stuff. And then I have a brainwave and surf back to one of the gift sites I checked out for Lucy. Yes, there it is – a tea cozy in battleship grey. He'll love this! I blink in surprise as I realize I'm actually having fun shopping for Angleton. I'm getting close, but I need something else. I stare into the middle distance, visualizing Angleton in his office. On his desk is a penholder…
Pens. Angleton is particular about his pens. He uses one brand, an upscale ballpoint, with a nib that isn't too narrow. I've heard him complain once or twice that they're getting hard to find. It looks as if I've given myself a Christmas quest. I check Yelp for stationery store recommendations, make a few phone calls and the next thing I know I'm on the Tube headed across London.
I wonder briefly why I'm doing this, but I know the answer. People who mean something to you are worth taking trouble for, and as odd as our relationship may be I know he falls into that category. As the train rattles along I begin to think about the challenge of getting the gift into his office anonymously. He'll surely realize it came from me, but there's a countermeasure invocation I've been working on which should make it less obvious and I've been dying to try it out.
I make it into the store just before closing. I walked past it twice before realizing it was there; it's a small, unassuming shop. The reviews on Yelp said they've been in business for decades. An older man in a suit eyeing me curiously is the only employee here.
"You called earlier?"
"Yes. Sorry it took me so long. You're a little hard to find."
"That's quite all right, sir. You asked about the pens?"
"Yes. I'd like, oh, half a dozen or so."
He gives me another sharp look. "These wouldn't be for Dr. Angleton, would they?"
I gape at him in disbelief. "Yes, yes they would. He buys them here? Is he the only one who does?"
He chuckles. "Not quite. We have a few customers who prefer them. But you remind me of him, somehow. Are you a relative of his?"
Now I'm almost too stunned to answer, but after a moment's thought I reply "Yes, you could say that."
He gives a small nod. "I thought so."
As he's counting out the pens I ask "Have you known him long?"
"Oh yes, he's been coming here for many years. Not sure how many now..." he looks confused for a moment and I can feel the pull of an amnestic geas, a subtle one. "I'm sorry. I lost track of what we were talking about."
"I was saying that Uncle James" - yes, let's go with that – "always uses your pens. He's one for practical gifts and I thought he'd appreciate these."
He looks satisfied. "Yes, indeed." As he places the pens into a bag I glance around. There's a collection of wrapping paper and I choose a suave dark burgundy, then my eyes fall on a stack of box files in the corner. They're the exact kind that Angleton uses in his office and I grab one. "I'll take these, too."
"Thank you, sir. A merry Christmas to you."
"And to you as well," I reply, meaning it. The shop really is appealing in its way. "Now that I know you're here I'll be sure to stop in again."
Two days later the tea cozy arrives; I pack everything into the box file and wrap it as carefully as I can, enclosing a card signed "Anonymous."
Now for the fun part. There are very few people in the Laundry who have access to Angleton's office, but that doesn't mean I can't make it a little more challenging for him to figure out who left him a present. I pick a time when I know he'll be in a meeting, sneak in and leave the box on his desk, then attend to the wards on his door. I don't see him for the rest of the day, but I grin all afternoon and on and off all through the holidays.
Just before the New Year I find a small package on my desk, neatly wrapped in black and silver paper. Did I see that paper in the stationery shop? It looks familiar somehow...
The envelope attached says simply "Bob." The card inside is excellent quality paper with no design or printed message. But there is a handwritten note, and I know that handwriting well.
Your countermeasure skills are coming along nicely. It took me almost two minutes to decipher that it was you in my office and not Ms. Hazard.
Your gift is much appreciated. I hope that you will find the enclosed items useful. Keep up the fine work.
I open the box.
The first thing I see is three pigeons' foot HOGs, remarkable in that they are slightly larger than average. Larger HOGS are in very high demand; they'll buy you an extra sixty seconds of invisibility and that's no small thing when someone's trying to shoot you. Next I find two conductive silver pens; I'm always running out of these. A knitted scarf – but not just a scarf; the pattern seems to warp before my eyes and there's a thread of silver running through it. On a hunch I wrap it around my hands and sense a protective feeling to it. A ward, knitted into a scarf? Who'd have thought? The scarf's colors are a combination of dark green and khaki, almost camo. Wait, it is camo. He must have got this from the Artists' Rifles.
Everything the field agent needs, in other words. I didn't meet Angleton until well after his days on active duty, but clearly he remembers them well. This is one of the best presents I've ever received. I look up from the box just in time to see a tall, angular shadow move past.
"Thank you, boss!" I shout after him, and see him lift a hand in response. "And Happy New Year!"