G their first child in The Stables B&B. By Anna Burnside

ARTWORK KEVIN CONNOR in her son’s hobbies, said: “I do think Friday Nite is DJ Bad Boy’s ultimate banger.”

Balthasar’s face reddened with adolescent agony.

Gaz looked anxiously over his shoulder at the Audi as he pushed at the open door of the B&B.

Balthasar was reading directions from his phone. “They are on the first floor,” he said, hurrying his parents past the door where DJ Bad Boy’s whiny vocals were escaping along with pungent smoke.

As they climbed the stairs, another sound appeared on top of the thumpy beat. A baby was crying. They followed the wail along the dingy corridor.

Maya was sitting up on the rumpled bed. In her arms was a pink, furious infant wrapped in strips of polycotton. A half-torn sheet lay on the floor.

Joram sighed as he squeezed a pillow into a Pret a Manger box to line a makeshift crib.

Then the three Kings popped their heads around the door.

Mel was, unusually, lost for words. She had given birth to Balthasar in a warm paddling pool. His first outfit was made of organic cotton.

Gaz, alarmed by the sticky fluids and a meaty looking afterbirth lying on the bare mattress, kept his eyes on the floor.

Balthasar pushed open the well-scuffed door. “Hi. We are from Refugee Response. We’ve brought you a few things to help you settle in.”

Mel unpacked cans of soup, teabags and cornflakes, wondering where the tin opener, kettle and cereal bowls might be. She put some aromatherapy products – frankincense soap and myrrh bath oil – on the edge of the chipped basin.

Balthasar reached into his backpack and produced a packet of Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers. The gold on the wrappers glinted in the room’s watery light.

“Refugee Response give everyone who comes here some traditional foods to let you know what you’ve let yourselves in for,” he said.

“And they asked me to write you a note. I wasn’t sure what to say.”

He blushed and handed Joram a card. It had a picture of a goblin in a tinsel sweater and said Elfie Selfie.

Balthasar had struggled to compose a welcome message to a couple who had been forced out of their home in another part of the world and washed up at the mercy of the social services in Scotland. Should he give them a festive card? He had googled “Syria Christmas” and seen pictures of decorated trees in bombed out buildings, so he thought it was probably OK.

But they were probably Muslims, so would they be offended by a Christian message? After a lot of thought, he decided that an elf with a tinsel-covered selfie stick was far enough removed from the gospels to be a safe choice.

What should he say? He halfremembered something his RE teacher had told the class during one of their many long and earnest discussions. Something about following the principles laid out in the Bible without going to church or signing up for the religion?

Balthasar crossed out Merry Christmas and wrote: “I don’t know if you believe in Jesus. I don’t. Lots of people here don’t. But we do believe in looking after anyone who needs our help. Just ask.

“We are a friendly lot, even if you have trouble with our accent.

“Welcome to Scotland.”