On the Lip of a Lion

By Roy Jenner

Kidnap and treachery on the streets of Auckland.  Enjoying a respite between marriages TV personality Kris Nevan is reunited with his teenage daughter at the height of the Christmas season. Nevan is rich, successful and invulnerable, so he thinks. He is almost offhand in his down-playing of an ominous threat to separate him from his daughter and his money from his bank account. He is soon to become acquainted with the force of evil lurking behind the facade of a pantomime clown who, in the guise of Santa Claus, blatantly snatches the girl in an audacious act of villainy. Mortimer Kingsley, also known as Sunbeam the Clown, is the Gaffer, an ex-patriot Brit and vaudeville star, whose broken heart is held together by scars of bitterness and retribution. He and his select band of thugs have systematically plundered banks and payrolls with huge success in Auckland who remain hidden behind pseudonymous. They take Nevan's daughter and as planned they get their ten million dollars. The Gaffer is a generous, but hard master and those who make mistakes in his organisation pay the ultimate price. But mistakes have been made and a trail of devastation is uncovered to take the reader through the length and breadth of New Zealand's North Island, out onto the Waitemata Harbour where the ranks of the Gaffer's team are depleted in a serious act of housekeeping on his part. There is death on the high seas and death in the suburbs of Auckland as the Gaffer seeks to right things that have gone wrong for him. The perfect crime is suddenly not as perfect. The violence begins as the scales of poetic justice tip one way and then the other. All hell breaks loose  at the Part-Time wrecking yard as discounted underlings break ranks and express opinions. It is suggested amid the fire and the fury that follows the curtain has come down for the last time on Sunbeam, the pantomime clown; but has it?  Mortimer Kingsley has cashed up and is ready to move offshore and it is never clear who it was  died that Christmas morning in West Auckland. One thing is sure, it wasn't Father Christmas. Maybe it was somebody pretending to be Father Christmas, but isn't that what normally happens?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Davidson
• Release date: Jun 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781877315138

Roy Jenner

Roy Jenner is the author of fourteen novels such as this one. Each reflects his experiences as he travelled the world from his homeland of London England to eventually settle in the Antipodes and make Auckland New Zealand his home.  Each page of each book is flavoured with the knowledge and understanding of life’s experiences gleaned along the way. Three years service with Her Majesty’s armed forces prepared him for life away from the docklands of London’s East End, where he was born, to taste the arid and vital atmosphere of Egypt and its controversial Suez Canal Zone where he served two years on active service. Forty years in the meat industry were superseded by twenty years of equal success in the real estate sales.   He was thrilled in later years to become involved with the magic of Nashville and Memphis Tennessee and venture into the challenges of the Australian Outback, being always pleased to return  to the security of his home in New Zealand. A strong family man he has four sons, eight grandsons, three granddaughters and now five great grand children. He continues to write for your pleasure.

Book preview

Chapter 1

WITH A LITTLE MORE than a week remaining before Christmas Kris Nevan was rejoicing. This next commercial break would be his last and ‘Nevan at Seven’ would be off the air until the beginning of February. His surrogate presenter would fill his seat over the break, but the man the country loved to watch, Kris Nevan, would be out of it, away from it all, incommunicado, on his sixty foot yacht, cruising the shores of New Zealand. He’d been hungering for this break for weeks now, and the thought of being able to walk through a shopping centre of some remote town, or breeze into a local shop to buy a paper without being recognised, held great appeal. It would be hard; his face and voice were known nationwide, but that was the price of fame and he could do nothing to change it. Without doubt it was better this way than the way it had been, how long ago? Ten years? Ten years ago and as near to forty years old as damn it,  he would have been scratching to get together a thousand dollars in his role of news reporter for an Adelaide radio station, but now, a bright decade and two wives later, the story was completely different.

With ten seconds to go on the commercial break Kris got the nod from his producer and faced the camera to introduce his final guest for the year. Across the table from him sat the man of the moment, Santa, in all his jovial splendour who looked more like the real thing than the real thing. There followed seven minutes of traditional chat and merriment during which the man in red drew his attention to the fact they possessed the same name. A somewhat puzzled Kris was enlightened.

‘Kris, Kris Kringle,’ laughed the old man, his impeccably pronounced English supporting his festive image. ‘Many people call me that still.’

They laughed together as Kris Nevan unnecessarily denied physical resemblance to the portly man in red and jokingly compared waist lines.

‘I think that’s where the similarity stops,’ he joked ‘although I’m sure the tax man sometimes thinks I’m Father Christmas.’

The show closed with Santa reminding all that Christmas was for giving. It was for the children, which brought a lump of excitement to the presenter’s throat. His fourteen year old daughter from his first marriage was in the studio having arrived that day from Australia. Lysette was his only child and he was rejoicing for he’d finally been awarded custody by an Australian court. It was an action brought following several indiscretions on the part of her mother, Pamela Nevan, and one that ended abruptly with Pamela’s death.

Pamela Nevan was a renowned swimmer. She had medals for two hundred metres butterfly and fifteen hundred metres backstroke. It was completely out of character for her when her nude body was pulled from the tide on Sydney’s North Shore, having gone missing following one of her customary late night swims. Death by misadventure was the court ruling.

Lysette’s arrival in Auckland, and indeed her existence, intrigued the local media. One women’s magazine had offered a princely sum for an exclusive interview in the New Year which proved to be acceptable with Nevan knowing the news would break anyway and it was better to have controlled coverage.

Santa’s eyes sparkled as he showered gifts on all in the studio which included a personal package for his host. He then departed into the waiting lift amid the echoes of a stream of jolly, ‘ho hos’. Lysette was close by having been looked after by one of the studio staff to enjoy a conducted tour of the building. It was a warming moment for them both when her dad’s show finished and they set off through the maze of corridors towards the basement car park where his chauffeur driven car was waiting.

‘Do you really own this place daddy?’ she asked.

He gave a wry shake of the head as they relaxed in the roomy rear seats of the Mercedes.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘only sixty per cent.’ He ruffled her hair and smiled. ‘I guess it will all belong to you someday.’

It was straight home and early to bed for number two on the rich list. There were still three radio breakfast shows to front before he was totally free for the holiday. That meant three early starts and that meant  four-thirty rendezvous with Solo, his personal chauffeur, whose job it was to collect and deposit him at the studio. This had been routine for the past five years and long before the streets were aired Nevan’s raucous personality would be channelling itself across the airways and stirring the nation into wakefulness.

Solomon Kamako was proud of his Samoan heritage and he was no ordinary chauffeur. He was a special breed of man having been sought out by Nevan as his success grew, to fulfil his need for a personal minder. Solo was a person with special skills and dedication who could be relied upon to react to, and pre-empt, most situations. Solo was of quiet temperament and spoke little. Nevan felt an assurance that little could go wrong with him around. Why would it? The man was in his prime and at thirty nine years of age he handled his six feet two inches and seventeen and a half stone with grace and dignity. Being a veteran of the Gulf War and the Falkland crisis his credentials were not for publication, but would immediately become apparent to anyone who stepped out of line. He was ex-SAS and his black belt in martial arts was the least of his qualifications. He was a powerful man who was often referred to as one in a million; but he wasn’t.

There were two of him, almost. He had a brother, Saul, born twenty five minutes after him to duplicate every one of his brother’s attributes. Through life the boys had become inseparable and in their maturity it was difficult for anyone to make a distinction between them. Their mother had died when they were twelve and for her it had never presented a problem to know which was Saul and which was Solo, nor for the father Isaac, but for Nevan it wasn’t that easy. He had his moments of indecision with the charismatic duo employed as his round the clock valet, minder, public relations team. There could be no doubts about their ability. They worked silently and proved to be an impregnable barrier worthy of the substantial salary Nevan paid them.

They were indeed identical twins, but there was one less than obvious difference between the brothers; Saul could not speak. He’d lost his power of speech in the Gulf War when a shell fragment pierced his voice box. It became customary for him to wear a roll-neck sweater to cover the scar. As a result both boys wore roll-neck sweaters. It was a game with them which they enjoyed.

Isaac Kamako had brought his sons to New Zealand from the Islands of the Pacific twenty five years earlier upon the death of his wife. He was a Master Mariner whose career had taken him around the world tenfold. He and Nevan had first met in Southampton where they formed the basis of a relationship to be built on a trust and loyalty that was to become stronger than family. As Nevan became identified as a top show business celebrity his need for the right sort of people around him was comfortably filled by Isaac and his two sons.

Isaac became his general and as such he ran the whole show. He was now entering his twilight years, but at sixty, was fully fit and still able to control the Nevan Empire from his obscurity. He was also commander of the TV man’s sixty foot luxury launch, Air Waves, berthed at a downtown marina, and was ever primed, ready for service at a moment’s notice.

Nevan was thinking of Isaac as he poked his head around the door of his daughter’s bedroom to say goodnight.  She was to travel to the radio station with him in the morning and he was as excited as she at the thought that after the show they were going aboard. He wanted to show the boat off to her and ensure it was ready for their Christmas cruise.

Nevan couldn’t help thinking how good Santa had been to him this year. Kissing Lysette’s brow he was filled with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Life was good and he laughed at the memory of the man in red from earlier that day. He’d been a particularly good Santa and much larger than life.

In his room Nevan prepared for bed. He had no live-in female companion, a situation he’d grown to relish since the failure of his second marriage and as was usual, Solo had laid out a selected outfit of clothes for the morning. On the table by the bed stood a measure of French brandy, his customary night-cap. Next to that lay the package given to Nevan by Santa at the studio. Ready for bed he sipped the brandy wondering what delight Santa had laid in store for him, the man who had everything.

He thought it would be a book. It was the right size. He slipped the ribbon and stripped the package of its glitter. It wasn’t a book. He couldn’t have been more surprised, and almost dropped it at the sight. He’d never seen a better photograph of Lysette. Her infectious smile claimed him from the confines of a polished wooden frame edged with brass. Expensive! It was obvious the picture had been taken that day; a head and shoulders shot at Sydney Airport with the departure board of the airline flights cleverly captured in the background. The clothes she wore were those she’d worn as she’d stepped from her flight in the afternoon; the same scarf, same headband and the same smile. She looked happy, but a sinister feeling chilled Nevan’s blood and slowed his heartbeat as he read the attached card.

‘Nice looking lass. Check your Email in the morning. Merry Christmas. Kris Kringle.’

Suddenly sleep was out of the question for Nevan and he hit the panic button by the bed to summon Solo who appeared within seconds. They discussed the implications of a weird situation not liking what they deduced, which sent Solo scurrying into town in search of Santa Claus. It was a disturbed employee who returned two hours later to report to his superior. Under different circumstances it could have proved to be quite humorous.

‘I’m sorry boss. That man you interviewed tonight wasn’t Santa Claus.’

A confused silence was broken by Kris who said, ‘are you telling me Santa Claus doesn’t exist?’

Solo thought carefully before replying. ‘What I’m saying is the man you spoke to wasn’t the Santa you were supposed to interview. The real Santa Claus was picked up by the police on the other side of town at nine o'clock tonight, stoned out of his mind, in a bus shelter.’

‘The real Santa Claus! So he does exist after all. Then who was the man in the studio?’

‘It was someone pretending to be Father Christmas.’

‘But tell me, isn’t that what usually happens?’ asked Nevan even more perplexed.

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Saul Kamako entered. He’d been sitting by Lysette’s bedroom door since this strange situation had begun. He placed both hands together against his cheek to indicate the girl was sleeping, then he and his brother became involved in a discussion which was part sign language and part verbal. When they finished talking Saul left and returned to his post. Nevan eyed his henchman with trepidation.

‘What’s the verdict? What do you think is behind all this?’ he asked.

What he was told supported earlier fears.

‘The man the police found was the man you were supposed to interview tonight,’ said Solo. ‘He is a reputable actor from the agency especially chosen for your seven o clock show.  He has no recollection of what happened to him after he got into the taxi that was to take him to the studio. It’s quite plain that the man you interviewed wanted to get close to you for reasons of his own and waylaid him, or had him waylaid. The police doctor reports he was shot up with morphine.’

‘Morphine! Shit. That’s big time. And you’re thinking what I’m thinking?’ prompted Nevan. He gestured to the photograph. ‘To me it looks like the beginning of a threat. Extortion, blackmail?’

Solo was on familiar ground and the signs were there for him also.

‘At the best it’s just a practical joke, but I think not,’ he said. ‘What about the e-mail? Have you checked?’

Nevan had checked the internet several times and found nothing. It was a confidential line and received little traffic; just from friends and those close.

‘He may be referring to the studio address,’ ventured Solo, but Kris shook his head.

‘No, there’s nothing untoward there. I’ve been on to the studio. There’s nothing there to raise the eyebrows. They’ll call me if anything comes in I should know about.’

‘What do you want to do, boss? You're still gonna do the show in the morning?’

Nevan thought for a while then said, ‘we’ve got to make a decision and the decision is we’ll do the show. Maybe I’m panicking over nothing and it’s a Christmas prank.’

Solo was reassuring. ‘You don’t have to worry, nobody’s gonna get near, not with me and Saul. You know that.’

Nevan was comforted, but still uneasy. ‘I’m sure of that, Solo,’ he said. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’

They went to bed, but it seemed his eyes had barely closed before he became aware of Solo standing at his bedside.

‘Time to rock and roll, boss,’ he said. ‘Four on the clock.’

The reality of the previous night gripped Nevan and he jumped out of bed.

‘The net! I‘d better check,’ he said, but Solo steadied him.

‘I’ve done it boss and nothing. Take your time. Breakfast is ready.’

Breakfast was toast and coffee and no more and Nevan was delighted to find Lysette up and dressed and ready to go, playing with the coffee pot in the kitchen. It was their first breakfast together since she was a baby and sitting across from her he suddenly realised she was more precious to him than any of his millions. He fielded her innocent questions in the new light of fatherhood with simplistic and discreet answers.

‘Daddy, if you go to bed so early, when do you get to watch TV?’

‘Daddy, why can’t Saul talk?’

At five minutes to the hour of five the all night talkback host surrendered his chair to the star presenter and the voice of the nation readied himself for a four hour stint of comment, music and talkback. That first hour before six was always a little more laid back than the standard format of commercial radio, as he chatted with early risers and shift workers. As the big hand moved towards twelve he conducted an on-line interview with a cabinet minister en-route to Wellington, and with Lysette seated next to him as studio guest the episode of the previous night drifted from his memory.

‘We’ll take one more call before the news.’ He brightened and nodded for Lysette to press line one.

The voice was instantly recognisable. It was hearty.

‘Good morning to you Kris and to your lovely daughter. This is Santa with a reminder for you to check your email. Have a lovely day. I expect to hear from you.’

The intermittent bleeping on the line meant the caller was gone and Nevan ripped his head set from his ears in desperation and handed the show over to his producer. He signalled for Solo to follow him and Lysette to his dressing room where she busied her with the cartoon network while Solo activated the electronic mail on the lap-top. The big man gave a grunt and a nod at what he saw then made a print-out of the screening, drawing his boss to the corridor as he claimed the page.

It doesn't look good boss. Have a look at that,’ he said.

Nevan’s stomach tightened a notch at what he read. The message was headed, ‘The Season for Giving.’

Good morning Kris. Tomorrow morning on your programme at 5.55 precisely you will broadcast the following statement: ‘Santa’s on his way and his sack runneth over.’ When we hear those words we will know you have agreed unconditionally to our terms, which are :- In five days time you will deposit ten million dollars in used New Zealand currency at a place that will be specified later.  Five days is a reasonable time for a man who has a major shareholding in the nation’s largest casino to gather that amount. By making this statement you will ensure the return of your beautiful daughter in one piece. Please treat this demand with a degree of seriousness for though she is with you now you will understand we could have taken her at any time and still can and will, if need be. We could have taken her in the Blue Mountains on the weekend or in Sydney yesterday, as she stepped from the plane, or we can take her in Auckland now, but it shouldn’t be necessary to do that. It’s better this way. Just have the money ready, no tricks, no bugs, no marked bills and she will be fine. That way she’ll keep her good looks and her kneecaps and she may even retain her virginity. (That’s if Santa can keep his little helpers away from her.)  It is indeed a fact, ‘children sweeten labours, but they make misfortunes more bitter.’ I’ll be listening at 5.55 tomorrow.

Merry Christmas

Your old friend

Kris Kringle.

PS. It might save time if you tell the police now rather than later, but it will alter nothing. We can take her any time we want and they won’t bother us. Make it easy on yourself. Ten million dollars.

Cold horror froze Nevan’s reflexes as he handed the paper to Solo and staggered to where Lysette sat fully engrossed in the cartoons. He cradled her small body in his arms and it was minutes before he spoke

‘Solo. Go get Saul and your dad over here right away. We need to have a meeting.’

He sidestepped the remainder of his breakfast show finding a willing replacement in his producer and withdrew to his dressing room. The possibility of a hoax was immediately ruled out and it took a full hour of debate and indecision, during which they returned to the house, before the call was made to the police. The police arrived in two plain vehicles and went through the whole episode of events with Nevan, requisitioning the studio video tape of the Santa interview and voice transcripts of the phone call. It was soon discovered that the email had been sent from a twenty four hour internet café on Sydney’s Kings Cross which in itself retained the anonymity of the message.

The only physical evidence that could be connected to the one making the threat was the framed photograph. This was handed to the forensic division together with its wrapping with the hope that some connection could be made to the perpetrator of what was agreed was a serious and despicable threat. The picture also brought to mind the matter of the other presents that were given to the studio crew and an officer was delegated to follow that form of inquiry. Countless questions from the police resulted only in a nil result. Nevan had no idea who could be behind such a scheme.

Enemies? Who doesn’t make enemies on the way to accruing fifty million dollars, a well publicised fact made known to the world by the media just this week? Lysette had no immediate recollection of anyone with a camera at the airport. No. There were no familiar faces from the Blue Mountains at the airport; except for the limousine driver who’d driven her there. He was a friend of her mother’s. They knew each other well.

‘Daddy, why are these men asking all these questions?’

She was able to be fobbed off with a story which in its simplicity was really true.

‘It’s because of who you are, my sweet. You’re my daughter. That’s why so many people are interested in you. You’re a celebrity.’ He reminded her of the magazine shoot booked for late January and she seemed satisfied with his explanation.

The house was soon crawling with police who never left until late morning having placed the house under armed surveillance. It was something to which Nevan objected, but he was given no choice.

‘My boys can take care of anything that comes our way,’ he told the inspector. ‘I might be scared, but he doesn’t scare me.’

Inspector Evans of the crime squad ran his professional eye over Solo and his brother and saw the wisdom in the statement, but left two men and a car just the same. He and his team departed leaving Nevan with the problem and eighteen hours in which to come up with a solution.

What to do? Ten million dollars to be paid because of the threat of a threat! If he paid he would be the laughing stock. He thought that. They hadn’t got the girl and never would have, not with the Kamakos around, but then, when would they be able to relax? When would the threat end?

It was the advice of the police that he should not even think about paying. After much deliberation during those remaining hours it was decided it was best to wait and see what Santa’s next move would be. It was a terrifying ordeal during which the house was secured, the phones tapped and all electronic systems monitored.

They left for the studio the next day one hour earlier than was usual. Lysette rode in the rear between her father and Solo while Saul drove. An armed plain clothes police officer filled the passenger seat. They reached the studio without incident and became safely installed in Kris’s dressing room/apartment with more than one hour to go before the show. Saul adopted a position outside the one door with his brother inside at the girl’s side. Two plain clothes policemen patrolled the corridors and Nevan felt fireproof as he took his position on the microphone at 5 a.m.

Being aware that his adversary was out there on the airwaves listening, created nervousness within him which was difficult to control. He’d been advised by all to skip the show for the rest of the year and get away, but it would be no holiday with this situation hanging over him. At 5.55 exactly he played his ace and broke into the commercial slot with his prepared announcement.

‘Santa, if you’re listening and I’m reasonably sure you are, I just want to say that my Christmas stocking remains empty.’

He switched off his mike and signalled to his producer to take over and returned to his dressing room. Lysette was asleep on the bed and Solo was seated in a chair by her side.

‘How’d it go, boss?’ he asked.

An extremely stressed Nevan wiped a sweat peppered brow.

‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.’

They didn’t have to wait too long. At 6.10 with Kris back on air the call came.

‘You’re a foolish man, Kris Nevan,’ chortled Santa. ‘You’d do well to remember, fame is rot; daughters are the thing. We’ll just have to do it the hard way. Check your Email. Ho, ho, ho,’ and he was gone.

Nevan was devastated and came close to losing control. Against his better judgement he finished the show and under strong security he and Lysette returned once more to their home.  The police retained a discreet guard on the place both inside and out, the grounds forming an impregnable barrier to Nevan and his private life. No one would be able to approach the premises without drawing full attention to themselves and inside that kernel of security existed an even harder nut to crack in the form of the Kamakos. From every aspect Lysette was safe from harm, but for how long? Nevan’s cliff top mansion was now a prison without bars. It was a situation that was destined to deteriorate mid morning with the arrival of the media, newspaper reporters and camera men, who besieged the main entrance to the property. Kris Nevan, the news man was news; but why? His private telephone line rang hot as the chief editor of the country’s leading daily took the initiative and demanded to be given details of the ransom demand.

Kris was bewildered. How on earth could the news have leaked out? There was no way. Sam Jenkins was a personal friend. He and Nevan had worked for the same daily twenty years before. They visited each other’s homes.

‘I don’t understand what it is you’re saying, Sam,’ said Nevan down the line, defensively and weakly. ‘You’re talking rubbish.’

The man wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Kris. This is me, Sam, your mate. Don’t bullshit. We had a tip off, a major. This guy Kringle rang the paper a half hour back. He told us all about it. Now, are we gonna help you, or what?’

From his second floor bedroom window Nevan watched as the crowd of reporters increased at his main gate with the arrival of television crews from rival channels and he put the phone down in despair. How audacious was this person, this Kringle guy? What on earth was he planning? Totally unsettled he prowled the house seeking a solution, checking on Lysette with a disturbing regularity. This is no way for a child to live, he thought. The kid needs freedom and the company of her peers. With all of his riches he was unable to provide those things.  At mid day he summoned Isaac and Solo to his study. The long term plan had been to journey to the yacht directly from the studio following the last show of the year. He changed that. He issued instructions.

`We'll leave here at four in the morning and go straight to the boat. We’ll skip the breakfast show. We’ve got to get away from all this. I’ll issue a statement to the newsroom about what’s going on and they can make what they want of it. The safest place for us is on the boat away from land until the police can sort things. Come daybreak we’ll be where no one can reach us. If he doesn’t know where we are, how the hell can he get to us? Even I don’t know where we’re going; and maybe it is just big a hoax. Maybe we’ll call his bluff.’

Yes, maybe. In reality he hadn’t a clue what was best, but the police chief agreed it was a good move. Being a true newsman at heart Nevan issued a statement for his newsroom to be released immediately as ‘Breaking News’ which was announced by a wide eyed news reader:-

‘Police are treating as serious a ransom demand sent to TV’s ‘Nevan at Seven’ host, Kris Nevan today. An unidentified party is demanding ten million dollars to be paid in cash should our television host not comply with certain conditions. Nevan made a statement this afternoon that he is unmoved by the demands and is convinced it is a holiday time hoax.’ There followed brief film footage of the swarm of reporters at Nevan’s main entrance and a fifteen second profile of the man himself on camera during a celebrity interview. ‘More news at six’ said the reader as she faded from the screen.

The rival networks went further with their sensationalism which angered Nevan. He knew realistically there had been a small chance of keeping Lysette’s involvement out of the public eye, but the opposition chose to capitalise on the situation. The sordid details of the marriage breakup, the custody battle and the many personal details his ex-wife were exposed with professional indifference. The sight of Lysette’s picture splashed across the screen made him turn the set off in disgust. The phone lines had been unusable the whole day with each connection ringing as soon as its handset was replaced. Even the personal mobiles had to be turned off leaving an impossible situation where the home was isolated. Nevan overcame his unwillingness to check his Email and this he did on a regular basis, but as the day faded there was no more contact from Santa.

It was eight o clock. Lysette was tucked into bed with promises of an exciting tomorrow on the gulf. Saul retained his position outside her door and Solo and his father spent time with their boss in running over the plan for the morning. They were all reconciled to the early departure and the relief of slipping away in the night to the freedom of the ocean. The reporters were gone from outside and police patrols were in place. It was a matter of six hours and maybe this pressure would lift. Nevan came from the shower to find Solo standing in his room with a printed sheet of paper in his hand. The man looked angry as he passed it to his employer.

‘Let me get my hands on him,’ he said.

The message was short.

‘Don’t go to the boat!  Kris Kringle.’

Nevan’s heart