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In the quiet village of Canaan, Tobago, where goats had a sense of direction sometimes better than some people, and news travelled faster than a blue band maxi, three of the most miserable boys ever to walk barefoot had made a decision: this year, Santa Claus was not getting away.
Their names alone were enough to make them sound like retired Anglican elders.
There was Agnes boy, Hezekiah, thin like broomstick, always squinting as though life owed him money.
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