Chapter 1: The Tax on Santa

Chapter 1: The Tax on Santa

The scent of pine from the small, slightly lopsided Christmas tree in the corner battled bravely against the lingering aroma of Aoife’s Sunday roast. In the O’Connell living room, festive cheer was a carefully curated, low-budget affair. Paper chains, lovingly crafted by their nine-year-old son, Finn, drooped from the ceiling, and fairy lights blinked around the window frame, casting a warm, intermittent glow on Liam’s face.

From his worn armchair, Liam watched Finn. The boy was a whirlwind of perpetual motion, kitted out in a faded Ireland jersey, commentating on an imaginary World Cup final being played out between the sofa and the telly. Every kick of his scuffed-up foam ball was a roar of the crowd, every save a dramatic dive onto the rug.

“And O’Connell scores! The crowd goes wild!” Finn yelled, launching the ball into the soft embrace of the cushions.

Aoife emerged from the kitchen, a steaming mug in each hand, and passed one to Liam. She followed his gaze, a soft smile touching her lips. “He’s got one thing on his list for Santa this year,” she said quietly, settling on the arm of Liam’s chair. “Just one.”

Liam knew. He’d heard about it every day for the last month. Not just any football kit. It had to be the new, limited edition ‘Nova’ training kit from Astral FC, the one their star striker wore in all the social media clips. It was sleek, black, with iridescent stripes that shimmered like an oil slick under the light. And, to a nine-year-old boy, it was the most magical garment ever created.

“I know,” Liam sighed, taking a sip of tea. “And it’s sold out everywhere in Ireland. I’ve checked.”

Their budget was a tightrope they walked every week. Both he and Aoife were on disability, his from a back injury that had prematurely ended his career as a logistics manager, hers from a chronic condition she’d managed for years. Their income was fixed, a predictable, unforgiving number that left no room for error, especially at Christmas. They had a small fund, meticulously saved since August, set aside for Santa’s delivery. The Nova kit would consume almost all of it, but for Finn, it was worth it.

Later that evening, with Finn finally asleep upstairs, dreaming of championship goals, Liam sat at the cluttered desk in the corner of the living room. This was his battle station. The laptop’s glow illuminated his face, revealing the tired lines around his eyes, but also the sharp, intelligent focus within them. He’d spent years in the belly of the corporate beast, managing a call centre, learning the scripts, the systems, the thousand tiny ways a large company could deflect, deny, and delay. He hated that world, but he had learned its language.

He typed "Astral FC Nova Training Kit" into the search bar for the dozenth time, his heart sinking with each "Out of Stock" notification. It was a long shot, a final, desperate search before they had to break the news to Finn that Santa’s elves might have had supply chain issues this year.

And then, he saw it.

A link, shimmering with promise. Olympus Sports. The logo was a stylised, arrogant mountain peak. A UK retail giant. Liam’s mouse hovered. He was wary of ordering from the UK since Brexit had turned every package into a potential customs headache. But the domain was olympussports.ie. An Irish portal. That should mean the price he saw was the price he paid. The company was legally operating in Ireland, after all.

There it was. The kit. In Finn’s size. His heart gave a little jump.

“Aoife,” he called softly. “I think I’ve found it.”

She came over, peering at the screen. “Olympus Sports? Are you sure? They’re based in Manchester, aren’t they?”

“They’ve got an Irish site,” Liam said, his confidence growing. “See? Price is in Euro. €85. Delivery, €5. Total, €90.” He looked at her. It was the top end of their budget, but it was doable. “It’s the only place that has it.”

Aoife chewed her lip for a moment, the familiar worry-crease appearing between her brows. The numbers were always there, a constant shadow in their lives. €90 was their entire 'big gift' fund. But then she looked towards the stairs, towards their sleeping son, and nodded. “Go on, then. Let’s make the magic happen.”

Liam’s fingers flew across the keyboard. He entered his card details, the numbers he knew by heart, and clicked ‘Confirm Purchase’. A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over him. He’d done it. He’d slain the dragon of limited stock and secured his son’s Christmas joy. He leaned back, a genuine smile on his face. Mission accomplished.

For two days, a quiet sense of triumph settled over the house. The shipping confirmation arrived. The package was on its way. Liam felt a lightness he hadn’t felt in weeks. He could already picture Finn’s face on Christmas morning, the sheer, unbridled ecstasy. It was these moments that made the daily struggle worthwhile.

The blow came on Tuesday morning, not with a bang, but with the quiet ping of a new email. It wasn’t from Olympus Sports. It was from the courier company.

Subject: Action Required - Your Olympus Sports Delivery

Liam’s brow furrowed. He opened it. The corporate, impersonal language leaped off the screen.

Dear Customer,

Your parcel… is currently being held pending payment of customs charges.

Import VAT: €19.55 Customs Duty: €22.45 Courier Handling Fee: €5.00

Total Amount Due: €47.00

Liam stared at the number. Forty-seven Euro.

The air in the room seemed to grow cold and thin. Forty-seven Euro. It was a phantom, a ghost that had just materialized and stolen the food from their Christmas table. It was the cost of the turkey. It was the extra bits and bobs, the chocolates, the tin of biscuits, the small stocking fillers that made the day feel abundant. It was a tax, not on a product, but on his son's happiness.

“What is it?” Aoife asked, seeing the colour drain from his face.

He turned the laptop screen towards her, his finger trembling slightly as he pointed at the total. Her hand flew to her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “They can’t. The website… it said ninety Euro.”

“It’s a Brexit tax,” Liam said, his voice dangerously low. He frantically clicked back to the Olympus Sports website, his heart pounding with a rising, sickening anger. He scoured the product page, the checkout, the terms and conditions. Nothing. Not a single word about potential customs charges. They were using an Irish domain, pricing in Euro, and deliberately, deceitfully, hiding the fact that they were shipping from the UK and passing the subsequent import costs onto the unsuspecting customer.

They were counting on people like him. People on a budget, who couldn't afford to lose the €90 they’d already spent, who would feel trapped into paying the extra fee just to get the gift they’d promised their child. It was a shakedown. A perfectly legal, morally bankrupt corporate mugging.

“We’ll just… we’ll have to pay it, Liam,” Aoife said, her voice laced with weary resignation. “We can’t lose the kit now. Finn would be devastated.”

Liam looked from her worried face to the glowing screen. He thought of the smug executives in their glass-and-steel headquarters, viewing him as nothing more than a line on a spreadsheet, an acceptable loss margin. He thought of the calculated decision they’d made to deceive their Irish customers.

And then he thought of his son, upstairs, sleeping soundly, his belief in a magical, benevolent world still perfectly intact.

A cold, hard resolve solidified in Liam’s chest, extinguishing the panic and replacing it with pure, unbending steel. The fatigue in his eyes vanished, replaced by the glint of a coming storm. He had been a cog in a machine like this once. He knew how it worked. He knew its weaknesses.

He turned to Aoife, his voice no longer angry, but calm, measured, and absolute.

“No,” he said. “We’re not paying it.”

He looked at the impassive mountain peak of the Olympus Sports logo on the screen.

“They’ve just declared war,” he whispered. “They have no idea who they’re messing with.”