Christmas Fuzz

This story takes place during the Christmas season between the main narrative of Hot Fuzz and the film's epilogue. I do not own the characters in this story, who were created by Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the writers of Hot Fuzz.

Part Two: Garden Girl

"Police departments give their officers personality tests to make sure they are deliberately assigned a partner who is their total opposite."

"Things You Would Never Know without the Movies"
E-mail list reprinted in Ebert's Bigger Little Movie Glossary – original source unknown

I. Weary World

Sandford, Gloucestershire, England

20th December 2006, 2146 hrs

As the closing credits of Die Hard rolled up his TV screen, Danny Butterman leaned back and whistled.

"Great, wasn't it?" he said to Nicholas Angel, who was sat next to him on the sofa.

"If you like that sort of thing," Nicholas said. "Fortunately, I'm starting to."

Danny clapped his hands like a little kid.

"Brilliant, man," he said. "Wasn't it somethin' how Bruce Willis walked barefoot across all that broken glass? Of course, you'll tell me he'll have to fill out medical paperwork on all those cuts to his feet. And they don't have a National Health Service in America…"

Nicholas listened abstractedly, concentrating on the sound and not the words. Danny glanced over at him curiously.

"Hey, Chief," he said. "You're a million miles away. Was what I was saying that boring? Or do you just love the sound of my voice?"

I was afraid I'd never hear it again.

That was what Nicholas wanted to say. Instead, he said: "It's late. I should get going."

2220 hrs

As Nicholas entered the cottage on Spencer Hill to which he had finally moved a couple of months before, his police walkie-talkie, which he had left on his coffee table, began to beep. Somewhat concerned, Nicholas picked it up. Was Sergeant Turner calling to report something wrong at the station?

"Chief Inspector Angel here. Over," he said, activating the walkie-talkie.

"It's me, Nicholas," Danny's voice said.

"Yes, Danny?"

"So, you're back home?"

"Yes, Danny. I was just going to get ready for bed."

"That's good. I can't sleep. Feels a bit strange to be back home, y'know."

Nicholas simultaneously sighed with exasperation and frowned with concern.

"Just lie back, Danny. Close your eyes and think of Die Hard," he said in an attempt at a soothing tone.

"Yeah. What a great movie, huh?" Danny said enthusiastically.

"One of the best I've seen, Danny."

"You really think so?" Danny asked. Nicholas could tell he had sat up in bed in his excitement at Nicholas' approval of one of his favourite films.

"Whatever gets you to sleep, Constable. If you don't get at least six hours sleep your first night back, I won't approve your going back on duty tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know."

There was a long pause. Just as Nicholas thought Danny had fallen asleep holding the walkie-talkie, he spoke again.

"Nicholas?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think you could tell me a story? Somethin' about when you were in the Met?"

Nicholas sighed again, crinkling his forehead inwards and squeezing his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Some other time, Danny. Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"Just keep your eyes closed, even if you can't fall asleep."

"All right. 'Night, Nicholas."

"'Night, partner."

Nicholas set the walkie-talkie back down on the table. He was so tired himself that he could barely get his clothes off before tumbling into bed, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

II. Sweet Lullaby

2301 hrs

Michael Armstrong had returned to his flat on Summer Street with various groceries he had purchased at the smaller shops on the High Street. He felt shy about showing himself at Somerfield's again before tomorrow, when, Mum said, he would have to try and get his trolley-boy job back. Since the accident ten years ago his Mum and his sister Karen hadn't been able to work, so he had been supporting them by working at the supermarket. That was how he had gotten to know the Bad Man.

There was an Indian woman working now behind the counter of what had been Annette Roper's shop, its window, like those of all the other shops, cheerfully decorated for Christmas. As Michael had walked up and down the High Street, grocery bags in his arms, he had involuntarily looked for many familiar faces, and seen none of them. He had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Blower, the solicitor's wife, but she had scowled at him and hurried to her car.

Michael knew that Annette Roper and many of the other people he had known in the village were now in gaol, still in big trouble for having helped the Bad Man. Still others he would never see again, unless he brought them flowers in the churchyard.

Mum said that people would understand that Michael was under the influence of Mr. Skinner (she used the Bad Man's name freely – he was still afraid to) when he did those horrible things. She said that people had short memories, anyway, and that he would quickly make new friends. Sandford would seem like home again, just as it had done all his life.

Michael wasn't so sure, and he was scared. What if people thought he should still be in gaol? What if they asked why he had come back, when the others hadn't? What if they tried to lock him away again?

Mum had listened patiently to all his fears while she made a late meal – pot roast and green beans. After the three of them ate, Mum had washed the dishes and Michael and Karen dried them. Then Mum had helped Michael change into his light blue pyjamas. (Michael wished he could still wear his old Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas, but they were a little too small.)

Now Michael was lying in bed, his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling shakily as he tried to get over the strangeness of being back in his own room after all these months.

"Can't get to sleep?" his Mum asked. Like Michael and Karen, she was a bit shy around people outside the family, but spoke more easily when the three of them were alone.

"Narp," Michael answered, opening his eyes.

"Shall we sing you to sleep?" Karen asked.

"Yarp."

Mum and Karen began to sing together:

"O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie…"

While it was only five days from Christmas now, in fact Mum and Karen used this song as a lullaby all the year round. It always filled Michael with peace and contentment, no matter how worried or scared he was. Michael closed his eyes again and relaxed, a gentle smile on his face as he listened to the voices of the two people he loved most in the world. Before the first verse of the carol was over, Michael was fast asleep, snoring loudly.

III. Blessed Morn

21st December 2006, 0801 hrs

The first person Danny Butterman saw when he walked into the half-rebuilt Sandford police station the next morning was Sergeant Turner – the one who never combed his hair. His better-groomed twin brother had gone off duty at seven that morning.

"Morning, Constable," Sergeant Turner said, smiling. "Nice to have you back."

"Morning, Sergeant," Danny said, nodding. "Chief in yet?"

"Came in 'alf an hour early. Out in 'is office, if you can call it that."

Danny found Chief Inspector Angel in the alleyway beside the unfinished building, sitting on a wooden chair behind a school desk. He was frowning at piles of paperwork in front of him.

"Good job it isn't raining or snowing, innit?" Danny said.

"Good morning, Danny. I'm just going over the permits for the charity collectors Reverend Stewart is bringing into the village. And there are forms to fill in about the reconstruction funding."

"Work's still not finished, I see," Danny said, nodding at the scaffolding behind the building.

"No, it isn't. Fortunately, we had help obtaining funding from the Prime Minister. He's trying to increase his popularity in his last months in office, and due to the publicity about the NWA crisis, he thinks helping Sandford is a good way to go about it."

"Good for him," Danny said. "Better than doing something desperate, like changin' religions or something. So, I guess the station is taking longer to put back together than I did?"

Nicholas smiled, his eyes fleetingly crinkled with an emotion deeper than amusement.

"I could use some assistance with this paperwork, Constable," he said.

"Glad to help, Chief," Danny said, pulling a half-upholstered chair over to the desk from the side of the alley. "By the way, any progress on the bird robbery?"

"Not yet. We sent a bulletin to the police services in surrounding villages, asking them to keep an eagle eye out for the stolen property."

Danny glanced at Nicholas in surprise, but the Chief Inspector was successfully keeping a straight face.

"Forty birds," Danny said pensively. "Whoever stole 'em must be raven mad."

Nicholas burst out laughing, in a way which had once been highly uncharacteristic of him.

"I'm glad you're back, Danny."

"What? Did I say somethin' funny?"

Nicholas laughed even harder.

1101 hrs

After nearly three hours of forms and permits, Nicholas agreed with Danny that it was time for a coffee break. He had only another hour in which to take one, anyway. Although Nicholas had changed somewhat over his eight months in Sandford, he still rigidly adhered to his long-time "no-caffeine-after-midday" rule.

"So, who d'you fink will be the new PM?" Danny asked as they poured themselves coffee from the urn in the central area of the police station.

"Whoever the Labour Party elects as their new leader, I suppose," Nicholas said, frowning at an order form for Christmas party decorations lying next to the fax machine.

"Vawt Sax'n!" suggested PC Bob Walker, the most senior member of the Sandford Police Service. He was sitting in a chair in a sunny window; his partner, the police dog Saxon, was squatting next to him.

"He says 'Vote Saxon'," Danny translated for Nicholas' benefit.

"Yes, I know," Nicholas said. "I've gotten rather better at understanding the local dialect while you were away."

Danny looked slightly disappointed, as though concerned that he would now be useful to Nicholas in one less way. Before Nicholas could say something else, Detective Sergeant Wainwright and Detective Constable Cartwright, who together constituted the Sandford Police's CID, entered the room.

"Hark! Inspector Angel sings," Cartwright, the younger of the two men, said cheerfully.

"Angel we have heard on high," Wainwright added. "What's up, Chief?"

"The usual," Nicholas said. "Paperwork and more paperwork."

"And Angel's bending near the earth, to fill in forms untold," Cartwright intoned.

Nicholas winced. If his experiences upon first arriving in Sandford were to be looked upon as an "action movie" (as he knew Danny regarded them), then part of his own "character development" had been his increased acceptance of the perpetual teasing that went on between the members of the Sandford Police Service. Even so, these continual seasonal jokes about his name had grown hard to take over the last few weeks. Still, he was fairly certain it was all kindly meant nowadays, and Danny seemed to agree.

"What's up, Andys?" Danny said to Wainwright and Cartwright (who were both named Andrew). "Long time no see."

"Daniel! How can we miss you if you won't go away?" Cartwright asked.

"Seriously, good to see you," Wainwright said. "I never thought I'd say this, but things were a bit dull without you."

"So, are you two working the pet shop case?" Danny asked.

"We're hot on the trail," Cartwright said.

"And do you have any leads to follow up?" Nicholas asked.

"One or two," Wainwright said slowly. "Well – one, really. Well – not a lead, as such, but we thought we would drop in to Flapper's and ask the girls there if they know anything about the case."

"Contrary to popular belief, Detectives, every police investigation does not necessarily require a visit to a strip club," Nicholas said sternly. "I suggest that the two of you figure out at least one useful thing to do every day for the next seven days and write them on your wall planner."

"That'll be easy," Cartwright said. "There's loads of Christmas shopping we haven't done yet."

"I think the Chief means something that'll advance the investigation," Danny said.

"Oh, don't piss us off, Danny," Wainwright groaned.

"Thank you for reminding me, Detective," Nicholas said. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

He crossed to the large wooden receptacle that bore the sign, "Swear Box – All Proceeds to the Church Roof."

"As you know, Andys, I reinstituted the swear box, despite its status as a reminder of the ancien régime –"

"Oh, he speaks French, too," Cartwright said, rolling his eyes.

"And Chinese," Danny chimed in.

"– because the roof of the church genuinely is in urgent need of repair," Nicholas finished, ignoring the interruption. "But the box is still half-empty. I have been pleasantly surprised by our officers' decreased use of profanity recently, but at the same time I think we need to give the church a little more help with their structural work. Therefore, I've added another word to the list on the box."

Nicholas indicated the word "P*SS", which now appeared in his own neat printing at the top of the list.

"Every use of the offensive four-letter term for liquid human waste will cost 1p, which I think is an appropriate amount," Nicholas said.

The two Andys sniggered.

"That'll really piss off Sergeant Fisher," Danny mused. "He uses that word all the time."

Nicholas instantly pulled a penny out of his pocket and dropped it into the slot of the swear box.

"Thanks, Chief," Danny said.

"No problem," Nicholas replied.

"That's hardly fair, is it?" Wainwright objected.

"You're payin' for him just 'cause he's your pet officer," Cartwright added.

"He's not a dog," Nicholas retorted, glancing over at Danny. He had strolled over to the window where PC Walker was sitting with Saxon and squatted down so his eyes were almost level with those of the police dog.

"Hey, Saxon. What trouble've you been getting into while I was away, man?" Danny asked.

"Bitches," Bob Walker mumbled, smiling fondly at his two junior officers.

"Yeah, boy," Danny said, chuckling.

"Besides," Nicholas said, turning hastily back to the Andys, "I'm not the only one who does it. You two pay each other's fines all the time."

"That's different," Wainwright said, cocking an eyebrow at Cartwright. "We've known each other longer."

And did he ever get shot saving your life?

Nicholas did not say that. Instead, he asked, "By the way, where is Sergeant Fisher? I can't follow what everyone's doing from my present office."

"Doris said he was investigating the pagodas behind the new Vietnamese restaurant in town," Wainwright said.

"Investigating them?" Nicholas asked. "Was there any report of trouble there?"

"No," Cartwright said. "He just hadn't looked at them yet."

Danny straightened up from his conversation with Saxon and rejoined Nicholas and the Andys.

"Slow morning, huh?" he said. "Is the Christmas party all planned for Sunday, then?"

"Actually, we were hoping you'd help us with that, Danny," Wainwright said. "We can't decide which flavour of Ben & Jerry's to get."

"Or which girl from Flapper's to invite to join us," Cartwright said, winking at Wainwright, who scowled slightly. "Just kidding, just kidding!" Cartwright added quickly, seeing the look on Nicholas' face. "We know the party has to be a family event."

"Women and children will be there," Wainwright said, glancing at Danny.

"I know! Great fun, innit?" Danny replied. "Come on, Andys, let's discuss dessert."

As Danny and the Andys proceeded toward the two detectives' office, Nicholas heard Cartwright saying to Danny, "There's one question I've been meaning to ask you when you came back."

"Shoot," Danny said.

"That's just it, actually," Cartwright said, sounding slightly embarrassed. "What was it like being shot?"

"It was the single most painful experience of my life," Danny said cheerfully. "Now, how about Chunky Monkey or Half Baked?"

"How did I know you would suggest those two?" Wainwright asked as the door marked "C.I.D." swung shut behind them.

Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment, not sure which emotion, or mixture of emotions, to feel. One clear thought did occur to him, though.

Maybe a friend was someone you liked well enough to put a coin in the swear box for him.

IV. Godly Men

1410 hrs

Sergeant Turner looked up from his copy of The Algebraist to see a young clergyman entering the police station. The man had features that were handsome but slightly puffy, albeit not in an effeminate way. His serious eyes looked out at Sergeant Turner politely but somewhat timidly from behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. When he spoke, it was with Irish vowels and a slight stammer.

"Good afternoon, Officer," he said. "I have an appointment to see Chief Inspector Angel at 2:15."

"Just a minute, Reverend." Sergeant Turner got up and went to find Angel, leaving the priest to admire the domestic violence posters and images of wanted criminals that adorned the walls of the police station's vestibule.

After a few moments Sergeant Turner returned. "The Chief'll see you in the main room," he said. "It's raining in 'is office."

The clergyman blinked a couple of times.

"Thank you, Officer," he said. "Merry Christmas."

1412 hrs

As Reverend Raphael Stewart entered the central area of the police station, Nicholas Angel rose to greet him. Nicholas had spoken to the new vicar on the phone a few times, but had not previously met him in person. Social niceties completed, the two of them sat down near a small Christmas tree that PC Thatcher had brought in a few days earlier.

"I want to thank you again for the contributions of your officers to our roof repair fund," Rev. Stewart said. "It's good to know that Sandford's guardians have the good of the church in mind, as well as the just application of the law."

"You're more than welcome, Reverend," Nicholas said. When Sergeant Turner had told him of the vicar's arrival, he had hastily lugged the swear box into another room. There was no need for the priest to know the precise process that produced the donations.

"I came today, however, both to thank you and for another reason," Rev. Stewart continued. "As you no doubt realise, Chief Inspector, after your somewhat unorthodox but heroic actions earlier this year, your status as a leader of this community is unquestioned. I myself, as the replacement for the former long-time vicar –"

Who's in prison for trying to kill me, Nicholas remembered with slightly amused detachment.

"– am not nearly so well-known a figure in Sandford as yourself," Rev. Stewart finished.

"Reverend, I should point out that both of us have been in Sandford for less than a year," Nicholas said.

"Of course, of course," Rev. Stewart said hastily. "However, a great deal happened in the two or three months you spent here before me." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I understand that the midnight Christmas service is quite a tradition in Sandford. As such a newcomer, I feel somewhat diffident about the prospect of leading the celebration. Given all of that, I wanted to ask if you would consider delivering the sermon at the midnight service."

Nicholas felt a stab of discomfort and displeasure, but successfully masked his feelings. Rev. Stewart, after all, could not know he was repeating an offer once made by his predecessor, Rev. Shooter, who had proved to be a member of the Neighbourhood Watch Alliance conspiracy.

"Thank you for the suggestion, Reverend," Nicholas said. "However, I don't think I'm a suitable candidate, given that I'm not a churchgoer."

Danny had wandered into the room, carrying a piece of Black Forest cake on a paper plate, in time to catch this last exchange.

"The Chief's not comfortable with organdised religion," Danny said, his mouth full of cake.

Nicholas winced. Despite his affection for Danny, he felt deeply embarrassed when any of his officers (including himself) was seen eating by members of the public.

"I am open to the concept, Constable Butterman," Nicholas corrected him. "I just don't have any certainty about it."

"How much is certain in life, anyway?" Danny asked.

Nicholas looked quickly at him, wondering whether this remark meant more than it said. A lot had changed in Danny's life in the past year. But Danny appeared to be fully engrossed in the task of eating.

"Rest assured, Inspector, it doesn't matter if you're an agnostic," Rev. Stewart said. "The way the Church of England is nowadays, there are bishops with views much the same as yours."

Nicholas hesitated.

"Oh, go on," Danny said. "You can talk about Christmas from the point of view of a cop, how the season makes people go loony and do stupid things. It'll be great."

"Constable Butterman has a point," Nicholas said quickly in response to the slightly startled look on Rev. Stewart's face. "One of the reasons I haven't been comfortable with Christianity over the years is that I've seen too much crime and depravity to believe that humanity deserved the Incarnation."

Danny whistled.

"Ooh, that's controversial!" he said, in a tone that expressed neither disapproval nor agreement. "What do you say to that, Reverend?"

Rev. Stewart blinked nervously.

"With respect, Inspector, I must strongly disagree," the vicar said with a slight stammer. "I don't think there can be any question of mankind deserving the Incarnation. The whole point of such a gift is that it is undeserved and yet freely given. There is, after all, only one solution to the equation of the universe."

"Food for thought," Danny said, scoffing the last fragment of cake. "How about it, Chief? Want to tell everyone what you think about Christmas? Free country, innit?"

Nicholas sighed.

"If you genuinely think it will improve relations between the community, the church and the police service, I will speak, Reverend," he said. "I'll have to give some thought to what I should speak about."

"Excellent," Rev. Stewart said. "We shall look forward to a unique and thought-provoking perspective, then."

When the vicar had left, Danny said: "After all, it's only right you should be out on Christmas Eve. Your name is Nicholas, innit?"

"Don't you start, too," Nicholas said.

"Come on, man," Danny said. "What's wrong with sharing your name with Father Christmas?"

V. Jolly Elf

Gloucester, England

1430 hrs

The man with the red suit and white beard stepped off the London train, a cheerful smile on his face and vengeance in his heart. People arriving home for Christmas smiled at him and wished him a happy holiday. One or two children told him what they wanted for Christmas. Albert Bass responded to each greeting with a nod and a wink, placing his finger beside his nose – not that he had ever known what that gesture was supposed to mean.

Outside Gloucester railway station he hailed a cab.

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

"Ho, ho, ho! Sandford, my good man! I have a very special present to give to someone in Sandford!"

The cabby turned in his seat and looked at Albert incredulously.

"Sandford?" he echoed. "You're the second gent in as many days as has asked me to drive him all the way to bleedin' Sandford."

Albert smiled secretly to himself at the inadvertent appropriateness of the cabby's adjective.

"To Sandford!" he cried in his jolliest tones. "Once I get there, this will be the best Christmas Sandford's ever had."

VI. Friendly Beasts

Sandford, Gloucestershire, England

1538 hrs

Later that afternoon there was another visitor to the Sandford police station. This visitor entered the garden surrounding the building and saw a police officer standing outside in the rain.

"Excuse me," the visitor said. "I need some help. There's a man I've been looking for for some time. Can you tell me whether he's been in this village any time recently?"

"Sure," the officer said. "Can you describe him?"

"He's about six feet tall, with white hair and a white beard," the visitor answered.

"What was he wearing when you last saw him?"

"A blue-grey wetsuit with black trim," the visitor said. "But I have the feeling that that's not what he usually wears."

The officer considered for a moment.

"Sorry," he said. "I can't recall anyone of that description in Sandford in the last couple of years. We villagers generally know when there are any outsiders in town – in fact, we had a spot of bother earlier this year, partly because some of the people here were so insular. Made national headlines, y'know."

The visitor seemed not to know, and not to care. He sagged with disappointment, the soaking rain dripping off his hair, as the officer spoke.

"Thanks," he said politely. "I hope I haven't kept you from anything important – I know you must be on duty."

"That's all right," the officer said. "I'm just waiting for my partner – we're going on patrol in a few minutes."

"Stay safe out there," the visitor said. "By the way, has anyone told you you're unusually friendly for a cop?"

"Yeah, they say that all the time," the officer said. "I almost got turned down for this job because I was too friendly. Had to show them my bite was worse than my bark."

The visitor smiled sadly.

"Thanks again," he said. "And Merry Christmas."

"And Happy New Year to you, sir!" the officer said cheerfully.

"Not until I find him," the visitor said.

When he had gone, the Sandford police officer remained puzzled by three things. Perhaps he had blinked, perhaps a raindrop had gotten in his eye, but surely the visitor had vanished into thin air as he walked away? Why did the stranger have only three legs? And why hadn't they bothered to smell each other's behinds?

VII. Hunted Look

1541 hrs

"PC Walker's taking Saxon out on patrol now," Tony Fisher announced to no one in particular, gazing absently out the window into the garden. He had returned to the station an hour earlier, still jotting details in his notebook about the cuisine at the Vietnamese restaurant and the architecture of the pagodas. "Thought I might take the wife and kids there on Monday," he said in answer to Nicholas' questioning look.

Nicholas only half heard Sergeant Fisher's comment about Bob Walker and Saxon. He was hunched over his laptop, the only computer with a modem in the station. (The promised government funding to improve Sandford's police technology hadn't come in yet.) Typing "Beckingham" into the password dialog box, he double-clicked on the Firefox icon.

"Does anyone know the web address for the church?" he called out.

"Try kingoswaldshead dot co dot uk," Tony Fisher suggested. "Think that's it. I sometimes go there of a Sunday, if Anne's out of town."

Nicholas typed in the URL and scanned the church's home page for a list of past sermons, trying to get some idea of what he might speak about. He failed to find anything very helpful. Among the sermons listed for recent weeks were "Why the Stork Stands on One Leg" and "Get a Life". Nicholas sighed.

"There's a girl in the garden," Tony Fisher said.

His tone of voice was as lackadaisical as usual, but some instinct made Nicholas look up sharply from the computer screen.

"In the garden," Tony repeated, "there is a girl."

Nicholas hurried over to the window. Standing by the garden gate, gazing nervously up at the police station, was a heavily pregnant teenager. She had a strange look in her eyes. Haunted? Nicholas wondered. Or hunted?

Nicholas had the strong feeling that the young woman was looking for help. But when she glimpsed the two men looking down at her, her face filled with terror. She quickly ran away and disappeared into the rain.

END OF PART TWO