There was a general commotion in the cabinet room. Inspector Haswell stood by the fireplace and watched. Forensics were swabbing and bagging anything that looked remotely like evidence. MI5 and MI6 were rushing around and acting like the useless idiots they were. Round the cabinet table were the charred bodies of the government still surprised by the explosion that had ripped them apart. How had anyone been able to plant a bomb right in the centre of 10 Downing Street and only a few days before Christmas?
He heard the cheer go out as the still smoking body of Nick Clegg was taken outside. Then the Inspector noticed something odd. He bent down; reindeer droppings; what! reindeer droppings; how can you explain reindeer droppings? They must have fallen down the chimney. No it could not be, surely not; not Santa Claus and a Christmas present to the nation. How could he put that in a press release and not be laughed at?
* * *
Far away in a lonely retreat the archbishop had just finished his prayers. In the kitchens everything was being prepared for his nights entertainment: the slap up dinner, only the six courses, after all he was on a diet; the scantily clad dancing girls; the silver platter piled high with cocaine; the boys for his night time amusement. Just time for a few tumblers of sherry and a doze in front of the telly. When there it was on the early evening news: explosion in Downing Street and all the cabinet killed. He watched the crocodile tears of the politicians and pundits and the tears of joy from everyone else. Then a malicious thought slipped into his mind: he stood up shocked; maybe there really was a god; he'd never acted as if there was one before; maybe his prayers really had been answered.