Doctor Who: Christmas Every Day? (2007)

In 2007, I wrote a Doctor Who story about what the UK might look like in the future. 

I was asked if I'd like to contribute to a collection of short stories and I decided to write a story for the 7th Doctor. I had fond memories of watching Sylvester McCoy episodes in the late 1980s. They tried making some experimental, high concept stories between 1987 and 1989 and I'd loved them. I fell in love with Doctor Who all over again because of stories like The Happiness Patrol and  The Greatest Show in the Galaxy. I thought I'd write my own little tribute to that kind of Doctor Who adventure. 

It was published in a collection of Christmas themed Doctor Who stories but it's been out of print for over ten years.  

So here it is:

 

            "Christmas Every Day?"

 

“But I have to have one!”

It’s like this all the time.

“I’ve been everywhere and everywhere’s sold out!”

There’s always something.

“Can you just check the stock-room for me?”

Oh great – an awkward customer.

“If it’s not on the shelves, I’m afraid we don’t have it.” That’s my script and I’m sticking to it.

“But could you just check?”

Every Christmas is the same. There’s always some new toy, some new bauble, some new accessory that everybody has to have. This time it’s the Visago Changer ™ - a home cosmetic surgery kit for kids.

“I’m very sorry,” I say, “but it’s the most popular item at this time. We should have new stock arriving before 4am – if you’d care to leave your name and codes…“ My face aches with all the smiling. During our training programmes we’re all taught how to talk and smile at the same time.

“Tomorrow?” The Shopper is horrified. “That’s almost half-way to next Christmas!”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Grinning for 20 hours a day doesn’t half take it out of you. Especially with the awkward ones. The Shopper scowls and moves away. They don’t even say good-bye to the likes of me. “Have a nice day – and Merry Christmas,” is what I’m supposed to say, but I only manage the first half before the Shopper is out of ear-shot.

 

The snow falls all around us. We’re guaranteed a white Christmas at The Centre. It’s the very latest photo-realistic three dimensional holo-snow – you can’t slip on it and it doesn’t turn to slush – it falls indoors 24 hours a day and always looks pretty. And as for the decorations! We have over 600 miles of tinsel in our quadrant alone. There are hundreds of jingling bells spinning on a thousand twinkling trees - Mr. Sachrin reckons our decorations are the only man-made objects visible from space. Not that the Shoppers appreciate them. They just see what we don’t have. They come down here, tut and cluck at not being able to find what they want and then clear off. At least they get to see the outside of this place.

 “Why can’t I be a personal shopper?” I’m thinking aloud and Loubie grins at me. She works at the next sales-point and most of the time we’re too busy to talk – especially on Christmas Eve – but we do get to smile, shrug our shoulders and communicate in whatever way we can.

“Nobody trusts humans to do it!” Loubie and I have been working the same shifts for the last couple of months. “If you get yourself a robo-shopper they can’t cheat you – they’re not programmed for it.”

“I reckon the sort of people who can afford robo-shoppers wouldn’t notice if somebody lined their own pockets once in a while.”

“Don’t bet on it – the reason the rich are so rich is because they count every penny. Nobody trusts humans – Sachrin only employs us because we’re cheaper than off-worlders.” Loubie nods up towards the cameras above us. ”Why do you think we’ve got so many of them?”

“What about those mecha-cyborg things?” I counter. “Plenty of them get Shopper jobs.”

“Risky – didn’t one of them go mad in the Cine-Quadrant?”

“Oh yeah…” We don’t discuss it. Nobody ever discusses it.

 

I suppose Management will change the rotas pretty soon – they don’t like anyone getting to know each other too well. I’ll miss Loubie. I like to imagine that my daughter has grown up to be just like her – funny and chatty but hard-working. My little girl will be nearly twenty now – but our shifts clash so I haven’t seen her for nearly five years. She works in the Refresh-Quadrant and they have big targets to hit; five hundred burgers an hour, so I’ve heard.

“We don’t seem so busy,” Loubie snorts, wanting to talk about something else. “I’ve actually had time to scratch my backside.” Loubie might have a point - but I hope not. If sales are down they’ll start having Christmas twice a week – maybe even daily!

“Ho! Ho! Hoooo!” The Centre sleigh rushes past our store-front. It’s a huge red missile, circling around and in between the different levels. Smoke and glitter spew from the engines as Father Christmas chuckles from his perch. The Shoppers look up and wave.  “Six hours ‘til Christmas!” Santa bellows. “Make sure you have enough gifts for everyone!” The message is repeated as the sleigh bobs and weaves. “Remember – the more you give, the more you care!”

 

The Centre is a completely self-contained miracle of technology. We work inside an enormous weather-proof, asteroid-proof, attack-proof bubble. It’s also been really useful since the polar caps exploded. Of course, the Scots weren’t too happy about having to give up most of their country to make way for the reactors but this place needs a lot of power to keep things running. The light and the atmosphere are kept constant so it doesn’t matter what time you visit – shopping conditions are always perfect. And there’s a constant stream of Shoppers. From our level, the customers on the lower floors look like decorations on the branches of a giant tree. They swing from store to store, the strip lights reflecting on their shining bags and parcels.

 

            I notice him because he’s moving slowly and he doesn’t wave at Santa. He’s wandering from section to section, from aisle to aisle, frowning and tutting as he taps his umbrella on the tiled floor.

“Do you need assistance, sir?” As well as sticking to my script, I’ve also managed to inject an American twang into my accent – just as Mr Sachrin suggests.

“That remains to be seen,” he doffs his battered hat.

“Is there something special you’re looking for?”

“That depends.” He speaks softly, almost in a whisper. “It’s more a case that I’m looking for something for someone special.”

“And does sir have anything in mind?” Stick to the script, I tell myself; don’t let his waffle throw you.

“Well that’s a very big question, isn’t it?” His face is grave. “I mean, whatever I have in my mind is probably a lot more unusual than most people…” Then he breaks into an enormous smile, as if he’s just said something very clever indeed. Oh great. Another awkward one. Not only does he look as if he’s just escaped from somewhere – I mean, that jumper - but he’s talking in riddles. I look to Loubie for help. She’s staring at him, too. “I do know that she likes Charlton Athletic…” He flashes me another smile. “But I really don’t know what to buy for the teenager who destroys everything…”

 I look at this little guy – with his check trousers and golf shoes. He’s too out of place. He could be a Mystery Shopper – designed to catch me out. I glance sideways at Loubie and she nods.

“Badges!” He grins. “Lots and lots of badges!” He skulks off towards a display, running his fingers excitedly through rows of Designer Punk patches and buttons.

“His results came through!” Loubie hisses in my ear. “He’s organic – 100% organic! And he’s not carrying any money!”  We don’t get many organics in the Sales-Quadrant. Most customers send their androids to do their queuing for them.

“Check it,” I say, “do the scan again.”

“I already have.” Loubie shows me the results. “The guy’s completely broke. He’s only carrying a few scraps of old coins, all worthless - no legal tender.”

“He’s either staff, mad, or an insurgent from the North.” I don’t know what’s worse. The Northerners are said to be holed up in the wreck of some cathedral – but they have been known to head south – looking for alcohol. “Hit the button,” I say to Loubie, “get security down here.”

“But what if he’s a Mystery Shopper?”

“We follow procedure,” I remind her, “he’s an organic behaving suspiciously – we’ll kick it upstairs, let them sort it out.” Loubie hurries back to her sales-point. I see her reach for the hidden alarm switch.

“I do have one question.” He’s right beside me! He’s moved so quickly and so quietly that he must’ve heard everything I’ve just said. “How long have you worked here?” It’s a strange question – but it’s just the sort of thing a Mystery Shopper might ask. We’ve been warned about this – we could be asked about ourselves, The Centre, policies, special offers, anything.

“Ever since we first opened.” They use Mystery Shoppers to make sure the induction programmes work.

“And how long has that been?” Surely everybody knows about this place? He must’ve seen the web-sites or the proj-casts. Unless he has been living in the dark under Durham.

“It’s been exactly twenty-one years and eight months since our Grand Opening – it was a star-studded event, featuring - -“

“Why?” He cuts me off. He suddenly seems taller – almost as if he’s towering over me as he speaks.

“Excuse me?”

“This place - all of these shops and side-shows and places to eat - why is it here?”

“The Centre,” I take a deep breath, ready to trot out the corporate info, “was designed to regenerate an area of serious economic deprivation following the collapse of the UK…”

“Hmmmm…” He hooks the red handle of his umbrella into the top pocket of his coat and clasps his hands behind his back.

 “…Since that time, The Centre has made sure that the entire population of the UK has enjoyed 100% employment!” I breathe out with relief. I think I remembered the most important bits.

“You mean to tell me that the whole country is now just one big shop?” He seems to be amused and appalled at the same time.

“Of course not!” I really hope he is a Mystery Shopper. Otherwise I’m wasting my time. “We have cinemas, bowling alleys, holo-death-decks, over four hundred different restaurants… People have far more choice!”

“But you – can you choose to work somewhere else?”

“Why would I want to?”

“Well, this place is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year – I’d imagine it’s rather difficult to take any time off…”

“We’re open when you need us!”

“But when do you take a day off?”

“I’m sorry?”

 “A day off? Don’t you ever have a Bank holiday? A short break? Annual Leave? A long weekend?” I haven’t got a clue what he’s on about. “And you don’t take any time off for Christmas?”

“It’s Christmas once a week!”

“Once a week?” He really is getting exasperated. I hope those Security gorillas show up soon.

“We’ve had Christmas once a week since The Centre opened! Even if we wanted a day off, we don’t have the time!” I’m forgetting to call him ‘Sir’.

“But everybody is supposed to have a day off at Christmas! It’s the one time of the year when everybody gets together, eats too much, drinks too much and watches repeats of the Morecambe and Wise Show!”

“What century are you from?” Damn it – I’m off the script. He’s talking so fast that my head’s spinning.

“All of them,” he murmurs, “and none of them.” He drums on his lips with his fingers and stares at me. “And everybody does this?” He waves an arm towards the neon lighting and fake snow.

“Everybody who can afford to,” I say, “shop til you drop til Christmas – then three days of sales – Wednesday is Chocolate Egg day - then it’s back to the Christmas rush!”

“But if every day is a special occasion,” he looks puzzled, “then no day can be truly…”

“Special?”

“Exactly,” he sighs.

“Following extensive market research,” I say, trying to get back to on script, “it was decided that the two activities that make most people happy are Christmas and shopping.  So we now have Christmas once a week!”

            “But you couldn’t choose to go away, to get out of this place, to see your family and friends?”

“There really would be no point – everybody works here – everybody works the same shifts.”           

“But how often do you choose to do something? Do you choose to work here? Do you choose to celebrate Christmas once a week? Do you choose to live without friends? Without family?” His face crumples. He looks lost, forlorn. “What choices do you have? Did you make a decision when you told your friend to sound the alarm? Could you choose not to turn me in? You could be the first – the first person to really make a choice in this dreadful place.” He looks up, towards the domed ceiling – just as Santa’s sleigh makes another pass. “Choose to be one single stone – just one stone thrown into this stagnant pool will cause ripples to spread across the surface – you can choose to change all of this…”

A black gloved hand appears at his elbow. Security.

“Thank you,” the little man says. He takes a watch from his pocket. “Less than three minutes – that’s very good!” He turns to the two hulking monsters behind him – Centre Security aren’t exactly known for their finesse. “I’m sure your boss will be very proud of your efficiency!”

“You can tell him – when you see him.” The two security guards grunt and lift him off his feet.

“And you,” the wider of the two looks at me, “Mr Sachrin wants to thank you – in person.”

“That’s really not necessary,” I splutter, “I should probably stay here in case we get a rush of last minute – “

“That’s not a request!”

I follow behind as the mystery shopper is dragged towards the nearest lift.

*

 

Mr Sachrin doesn’t shake our hands. He doesn’t offer us a seat, either. He’s shorter than I expected, but his suit looks just as expensive as I thought it would.

            “Now,” he says, standing with his back to a ridiculously large window. “I’m sure we can sort this misunderstanding out…” The view behind him is spectacular. We are at the highest point of The Centre. The sheer amount of steel, glass and other shiny materials is really quite amazing. I can even make out the tall flames on the generators in the far north. 

            “Misunderstanding?” The mystery man smiles. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you!”

            “I’ve seen the report,” Sachrin says smoothly, “you entered our premises without sufficient funds…”

            “Oh I see – you don’t want customers who don’t have any money! Well, why didn’t you say so?”

            “You must understand, Mr ?”

            “Doctor.”

            “It’s not all about money, Doctor,” Sachrin smiles, “I pride myself on being a people person.”

            “Well, your Centre certainly uses a lot of people…”

“Exactly! Human beings are a vitally important part of our success story… We guarantee full employment and opportunity for all! Even you, Doctor!”

            “Do you call working 24 hours a day in a glorified supermarket an opportunity?”

            “Every individual has to play a part in society, and they receive their rewards. Food, clothing, warmth. We even provide free prescriptions – to make sure that people stay healthy, alert – and able to work.” Nobody seems to have remembered that I’m here.

            “But that’s not really fair,” the Doctor says quietly, “since when did slavery and exploitation become Government policy?”

            “Government?” Sachrin replies, with a chuckle. “What a quaint idea! Governments were a remarkably inefficient way of doing things. All those scandals, wars, elections… You wouldn’t believe how much holding a vote slows things down…”

            “And this is where it leads… ” The Doctor waves his arm towards the window. “Millions of years of human evolution – thousands of years of culture, society, democracy – and you turn it into one big shop!”

            “Please,” Mr Sachrin smiles. “This Centre is a Commercial Enterprise Network for Trade, Regeneration and Excellence.”

            “You must be so very proud!” The Doctor snorts.

            “Action had to be taken!  The Centre is a pro-active response to global economic uncertainty.”

            “Yes,” The Doctor fixes Sachrin with dark eyes, “but I’ve seen the other side of your retail paradise. I’ve seen what happens to the people who don’t want to stand behind tills or serve food – they’re having to make their own way – make their own choices…” The Doctor looks at me.

            “Ah! So you’ve met our little band of outcasts. You really mustn’t listen to what people like that have to say…” Sachrin’s jaw tightens. “Criminals.”

“Those people may be your last hope.”

“As if they have anything to offer,” Sachrin sneers.

“Oh they have plenty to offer. Survival instincts, determination, a wonderful sense of humour. Typical humans, in fact. They’ve managed to survive in the ruins of a two thousand year old cathedral. I can’t imagine many of your well trained, go-getting, pro-active, team-building, forward thinking sales enablers managing to do that!”

            Behind Sachrin, I notice that the flames have died on the power complex. One of the security guards seems to notice it, too.

            “Chief!”

Sachrin realises that we are all looking over his shoulder and turns to peer through the window.

The lights of The Centre are going out. Darkness creeps from the horizon across the silver arches and towering glass malls. I’ve never seen anything like it. There have been glitches and power outs in the past – but nothing on this scale. I can see the refresh-quadrant as the lights slowly wink out. It’s only about twenty minutes walk from here - twenty minutes and I haven’t seen my daughter for nearly five years.

The phone on Sachrin’s desk lights up as every single one of his two-hundred lines receives a call at the same time.

            “It seems my friends have done their job,” muses the Doctor.

            “What?” Sachrin’s face is a bright red mixture of rage and confusion.

            “My friends,” the Doctor smiles, “in the North. It seems that you might need some help after all…” He turns to me, taking my hands in his.

            “What are you doing?” I try to break his grip, but he fixes me with an intense stare.

            “Your daughter,” he murmurs, “loved – will love this Christmas.” He takes a small, exquisitely wrapped gift from his jacket pocket and puts it in my hands. I don’t remember telling him about… “Go to her…”  

The lights in the office go out. Even the ones on Sachrin’s phone. The Centre has been plunged into darkness and silence. Even the snow has stopped falling.

            “You can’t shut us down!” Sachrin’s eyes are bulging as he spits his words at the Doctor.

            “I believe I just did.”

            “But it’s Christmas!”

            “So take the day off.” The Doctor grins at me, turns on his heel and walks out.