Secret Satan - Episode 1

A murder is presented

Secret Satan is a seasonal murder mystery in 24 episodes. When one of his work colleagues is murdered with a Secret Santa present the office Christmas party, Linus Sweet decides to try and find out whodunnit. At first it seems like the answer lies in their office's version of Secret Santa, which they call Secret Satan. But as Linus investigates, he begins to unwrap more mysteries. All may not be as it seems. In fact, this might not even be just a murder mystery, either.

Only a truly antisocial person actually looks forward to an office Christmas party, only a truly sociopathic person, on the other hand, books the party for the 1st of December, before Christmas has even properly begun. But only a true psychopath uses the party as an opportunity to murder someone.

There is a shorthand for preparing work presentations that goes something like this: tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them it, tell them what you’ve just told them. Psychological research has shown that repetition helps people remember information, particularly repeating things three times. People like things to come in threes. Three little pigs, the rule of three in comedy, the three act story structure.

Which is what that presentation structure is, after all. Act One is setting everything up, letting the audience know what kind of story they’re in for, although not too much, of course. You’ve got to tease a bit too, because why else would they stick around for Act Two, when things actually happen? Act Two is where you pay off on the promise of Act One, but not quite. Mostly the same with a little bit different, as the saying goes. Give the audience what they want but also what they need: just enough novelty to be interesting but not so much as you’re going to upset them. This is why they’re going to need Act Three, something to tie it all up and settle it all down.

In other words: tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them it, then tell them what you’ve told them.

Which is what I’m doing, of course.

Right there in the first paragraph. The first thing I said. The opening slide of this presentation, if you like. I told you what I’m going to tell you. There’s an office, there’s a Christmas party, there’s a murder. I’m letting you know what kind of story you’re in for - a seasonal murder mystery - I’m showing you the setting - an office - I’m even starting to hint at some of the characters - that sociopath who’s booked a Christmas party for the 1st of December. Maybe they’re going to be the person who’s murdered - they deserve it, believe me. Maybe they’re the sort of person who’d do some murdering - again, not unlikely, in my opinion.

Both those are red herrings, by the way. The sociopath is a different person to the psychopath and the antisocial weirdo, all three completely different people. That’s the beginnings of a clue. To whodunnit. You can have that one for free.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let’s do this properly.

“Secret Satan!”

It was the evening of the first of December, and in the back room of a pub in central London, a small group of people had gathered for an office Christmas party.

It was the standard sort of sloppily renovated Victorian London pub, all wood and brass and red velvet, and so suited Christmas well. Slather some tinsel over it, sprinkle some lights, slap on some Dean Martin and it all worked rather splendidly.

“Christmas! The cheeriest, the chilliest time of the year! Flickering fires and darkest nights, glee and ghosts, the horror and the ivy!”

The group stood round a small table, on top of which sat a bag full of presents. One of them, a middle aged man with a beard, had his hand on it, stopping anyone else from getting anything out.

“Beware! For among these delightful presents is also a terrible curse! The curse of… Secret Satan!”

“Oh, shut up and just give out the presents” said a large man in an untucked check shirt, “Let’s get this over with.”

“The Ghost of Christmas Presents, right on cue,” said the man with the beard, taking his hand away, “Here you are then, don’t get too carried away with the seasonal cheer, will you.”

The large man grabbed a present from the top of the bag and, double checking the label, tore the paper away with a vicious glee.

“Ha!” He threw the paper on the floor.

“What is it?” said the thin man next to him.

“That’s Turkish Delight,” said a small woman, an edge of disappointment in her voice.

“Yes!” The large man pulled the lid off the green box of Turkish Delight, crumpling it up in his swollen fist.

“Is that mint flavour?” said the man with the beard, darting out a hand, “Where did someone get this?” and he grabbed a piece out of the box.

“Get out, that’s mine!” The large man hugged the box to him protectively.

“I can never find it. We used to get this all the time when I was a kid,” said the man with the now sugar frosted beard, “The taste of Christmas. Although, as it turned out,” he continued, making a face, “Not actually a happy Christmas.”

“Who’s next?” said a woman in a Christmas jumper.

“Where’s mine?” said the thin man.

“One at a time, you know the rules,” said the Christmas jumper.

“Radu,” said the snowy beard, as he fished another present out and handed it to a man whose bald head was so closely shaved that it gleamed with the multicoloured Christmas lighting.

The man unwrapped the box carefully, managing to keep the paper undamaged, folding it up and sliding it into his pocket.

“Wait,” he said, pulling something out of a cardboard box, “What is this?”

“Uh oh,” said the beard.

What it was, was a small pewter model of a demon wearing a Santa hat and carrying a big sack full of skulls. The demon had red fake gemstone eyes that glittered in the flashing fairy lights and was quite, quite hideous.

“Ah,” said the jumper, “You’re not supposed to get that. Did you give him the wrong present, Linus?”

The man with the beard held up a name tag by way of explanation.

“Why is this?” said the bald man, plaintively.

“Ha ha ha ha!” the large man roared with laughter, his flushed face now thick with powdered sugar from the Turkish Delight he had been shovelling into his mouth, “Perfect, just perfect. Happy bloody Christmas, cue ball.”

“Tony,” said the Christmas jumper.

“Serves you right, a useless lump of a present for a useless lump of a person,” said the large man.

“Tony!” said the Christmas jumper, somewhat more forcefully.

“Don’t ‘Tony’ me, you’re not my mother. You’re not anyone’s mother and you should stop trying to be,” said Tony, “Although god knows they all need someone to wipe their arses, bunch of bloody children with your stupid bloody presents.”

“Tony,” Christmas jumper tried to make it more of a warning this time.

“You’ve said my name three times which means I can climb out of a mirror and kill you all now,” said Tony, “Speaking of which, I need a slash.”

And he turned and stumped off towards the main body of the pub and the lavatories.

“Who’s got foul mouthed tirade on their party bingo card?” said the man with the beard, “That’s the earliest appearance yet.”

“I’m sorry Radu,” said Christmas jumper to the bald man, who was staring at the ghastly statuette with disgusted fury, “ We’ll sort it out. Who’s next?”

The thin man was next, and he got a pen. A woman in glasses got a pomodoro timer, the man with the beard a book of infographics about films. The small woman got a book too, this one on how to dress stylishly, which confused her immensely. A man with an extravagant moustache got a selection box of different teas.

“What twerp got me this? I only drink P G Tips, everyone knows I only drink P G Tips.”

“I’ll take it,” said the woman with the Christmas jumper, “It’ll go with this.” She had got a mug with a C. S. Lewis quote on: ‘You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.’

“Um,” there was something about the sound of the voice in the doorway that made them all stop and look round. It was the man with the beard. He looked pale.

“I think… I think I might need some help.”

Where he needed help was the gents, because there on the floor, spread-eagled on the tiles, lay the great bulk of Tony, very seasonally coloured with a deep red face, and a white sugary frosting around his mouth and not very seasonally dead.