1 comments/ 12869 views/ 4 favorites A Modern Christmas Carol By: TheWitcher Christmas Eve nightshift. The Graveyard Shift. The natural preserve of the childless, the lonely, the permanently single and the desperate. How many had he worked in a row now? Four? Five? The fact that he was losing count was almost certainly not a sign of success. God, I hate Christmas, he thought. Fucking pantomime. The locker room smelt musty. Hidden in the bowels below the building - somewhere between Hell and the gents' toilets - the accumulated scent of dozens of pairs of boots and part-worn clothing seemed to have saturated the fabric of the place. But at least it was warm, he thought. He dressed quickly, mechanically - his hands following the well-worn pattern without the need for conscious thought: Tee-shirt, body armour, epaulettes, radio, ear-piece, gas, Taser, reflective jacket, hat. Hat. Who the fuck ever wore their fucking hat anyway? He chuckled to himself mirthlessly. Reflexively he checked his appearance in the mirror by the door, barely recognizing the hard-eyed, lean face staring back. If he was an animal, he thought, he'd be a wolf. Next to the mirror a yellowing sign was blu-tacked on the wall: 'Officer Safety Starts Here.' Right. He grinned a lupine grin, running his hand over the stubble of his cropped hair. Mike was waiting for him in briefing. Marvellous. Tonight was shaping up to be a real humdinger. "Hi Chris, you pulling nights on Christmas Eve again?" Mike asked. "No, I came in for the fucking cabaret," he said, instinctive sarcasm. Mike smiled. Guess he was used to it. "If you fancy staying on, be my guest," Chris said, smiling to soften his words a little. "Nah, I'll pass. Me and Jo got plans...you know?" That'd be my Jo, the one you ran off with seven years ago? "Sure," Chris said. Plans. He used to have plans. Once upon a time. "How many years you pulled this shift now? Six, seven?" "Three," he lied. "Right," Mike said, disbelief evident. "Anyway...there's naff all to hand over. We had a couple of assaults earlier, but nothing to write home about. The sleet is making it slippery and there've been a shitload of RTC's. All damage only so far. Nothing serious." RTC's. Car crashes to anybody else. Thrilling. Laugh a minute this Christmas. "Okay." "It's all yours buddy. You are 'Lima X-ray Three.'" Lima X-ray Three. Covering sergeant, Lambeth Borough. On this night of skeleton staff he was the main man for Clapham, Kennington and part of Brixton. Another guy in Streatham would pick up the rest. Who could want more? "Thanks, Mike," he said, taking the car keys from him. "You working tomorrow?" "No...off now 'til New Year, you?" "Nights." Mike laughed, turning to go. He'd reached the top of the stairs before he stopped. "Listen, Chris," he said. "We've known each other a long time. Uh, we...Jo and I, that is, we...well we both hate to see you like this...you've not had anyone since...you know. When are you going to settle down, commit yourself to a relationship? You can't keep everyone at bay forever." "Yeah thanks, Mike," he said, dismissive. "What is this? Amateur psychology, now?" "Hey...I'm just trying to help," Mike said. "Look, all I'm saying is...you have to give people a chance. It's okay to need someone, Chris." "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind." Mike paused, staring at him for a long time. Eventually he shrugged, turned and trotted down the stairs. Watching him go, Chris felt strangely deflated. ****** The wipers of the car whirred hypnotically; intermittently sweeping the city into clear focus before the melting sleet once again blurred it into a smeared light show. It was a Sisyphean task: endless, perpetually incomplete. Pretty much like his life, he reflected bitterly. Outside, the gravid sky was filled with snow, flakes twisting mindlessly in the lights of the car. As yet the road remained clear, but an occasional flake settling on the slick blacktop perhaps presaged more. On some elemental level it was beautiful, he supposed. How many homeless people would pay for that beauty with their lives tonight? So far this Christmas Eve he had rousted three drunks, arrested a fourteen-year old boy for assaulting his mother and lost his wallet. He had had no Christmas kisses, though an old drunk had called him a 'bastard'. Which almost counted as affection, he thought. Not the best night, then. And it wasn't even midnight. He laughed unhappily to himself. At least the radio was quiet. As if on cue his radio brooch hummed to life. "Lima X-ray Three, Lima X-ray." Control room, calling him. "X-ray Three, go on," he said. "Sarge, units are committed with that domestic. Can you take a noise nuisance for us?" "Yeah. Pass details." "Thanks Sarge. Old woman on Cavendish Road says the house next door is having a party. It's keeping her awake, can you take a look?" "Yeah. Will do." He heard the house before he saw it, music from the tuneless end of the bland spectrum announcing the occupant to be a 'Bad Influence'. Deaf was probably more likely. Crossing the street showed the night to have taken on a colder feel. The flakes a little less watery now, harder, settling. He winced against the blowing flakes and strolled across: terraced house, Christmas decorations, lights on, no sound of screaming or shouting above the music. Not a domestic in disguise, then. There was no answer to the doorbell so he went with option two: banging loudly on the door with his fist. He had almost given up and gone for option three when the door sprang open, unleashing a gust of warm air. "Merry Christmas!" She said, standing on the doorstep in basque, panties and stockings, her long blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and two champagne flutes held in her hand. Music hammered in the background. She was stunning: all creamy flesh and blond curls, brown eyes -- warm, welcoming -- very white teeth. Skin slightly flushed -- and getting worse. For a long moment they stared at each other, neither seemingly able to comprehend what they were seeing. Then the door closed with a bang. For what felt like a long time, Chris stood in the swirling sleet, cold water soaking his hair and dripping down his face. Then the music disappeared and a few moments later the door re-opened. The same girl stood there in a pink dressing gown, her face a complimentary red shade. "Uhhh...sorry about that, officer, I thought you were...uh...you know, my...uh...boyfriend." If possible, she blushed even more at that. "I figured something like that," he said, smiling. "Can I come in a moment?" "Yes," she said, stepping back from the door. "Of course. Is there a problem? It's not Drew is it? He's okay, isn't he?" "No it's not about Drew, it's nothing serious," he said. Drew is a very lucky man he thought. Standing in the hallway in his body armour, his equipment vest, his boots, he felt suddenly out of scale - like he was too big to fit into her normal life. "We've had some complaints about the noise is all." In the lounge beyond he could see the glitter, the red and gold of Christmas decorations, smell the resinous scent of a Christmas tree, the blinking illumination of Christmas lights. On the floor there was a thick rug. "Sorry...it's just that I was getting ready, you know? I wanted to surprise Drew when he got in." At this she blushed again. She was really pretty when she blushed, he thought. "Yeah, I know. My girlfriend did the same for me one Christmas," he said. A lifetime ago, he thought. Jo had met him in the hallway dressed just like that, right after the late shift. They hadn't made it to the bedroom... He shook himself: That was a long time ago. He had been young then, naive, silly - romantic. He shivered. Life wasn't like that. He and life had reached an understanding -- he didn't expect much of it and it left him alone. "Just keep it down, okay?" "I will," she opened the door. "Merry Christmas, officer." "Yeah," he paused. "Drew's a lucky guy...have a nice night." After the warmth of the house the outside seemed colder still. The wind carried a real chill, teasing at the gaps in his uniform. He felt himself shivering a little as he walked back to his car, a strange ache in his chest that he couldn't place. ****** The roads were deserted - only a scattering of late running taxis and an occasional ambulance braving the cold, the wet and the season. For a while he almost felt like a ghost: drifting aimlessly, haunting the deserted city - around the common, up the Wandsworth Road, back down the High Street. Boo! "Lima X-ray Three, Lima X-ray," said the disembodied voice. Here we go, here's the 'Big One', he thought. Yeah, right. "Three, go on." "Yeah, thanks Sarge. We've got another drunk for you." Cracking, perhaps he could try for another 'bastard'. "Noted. Go with location." "Uh...it's given as Clapham Old Town, near the fire station. Routine response." "Yeah, en route. Any description?" "Uh, Sarge...it's Santa, over." Laughter on the channel. Bloody marvellous, does it get any better than this? "Noted." With the radio silent once more, the hiss of the wheels and the mechanical clunk of the wipers were his only companions. He felt melancholy close about him like an old friend, perhaps his only real friend. Once you'd seen what he'd seen. Once you'd lived it, day in, day out -- the pissheads, junkies, low-rent predators, the abusers, the lost and the damned -- was there any way to avoid it? Running on autopilot he turned into the Old Town, cruising slowly past the fire station. The pavements were still dotted with a scattering of revellers, those too determined to let the snow discourage them or too young to have families to see to in the morning. Even so, the numbers were thin. There was no sign of Santa. Or Rudolph, or Donder, or Blitzen, he thought. He was just about to give up when he spied her, a small woman dressed in a tattered red Santa dress, sitting on the kerb at the top of Victoria Rise, just near the junction with the North Side of the common. He pulled over. "Lima X-ray, X-ray Three...show me on scene." "Noted, Sarge." Once he left the warmth of the car the cold struck him with redoubled vigour, a galvanic impulse shuddering through his body. It took conscious effort to stop himself shaking with the cold. From the pavement he could hear 'Santa' snivelling miserably. She didn't even look up as he walked over to her, just sat there in the freezing cold, in a pimp's idea of a Santa costume, sobbing, the silent white flakes gently shrouding her. "Hi, is everything okay?" He said, crouching down just beyond her reach. Couldn't smell drink but, hey, officer safety starts here, right. Beneath the dirty white fringe of her sodden hood, her dark hair was plastered to her head, her hands obscuring her face, her shoulders shaking gently. He could see that she was petite, her body slender in her tight costume. Unconsciously he noted her long legs, pale against her torn black tights - no, not tights, stockings, he corrected - seeing a flash of pale thigh just below the hem of her dress. Prostitute? "Hey, you alright?" He asked, louder this time. At the sound of his voice she looked up, a touch of fear on seeing the uniform. Even streaked with mascara from her tears he could see that she was young, no more than twenty, and pretty - really pretty. Her skin was pale, almost white in the cold, with just a dusting of freckles on her cheeks and arms. She had the most beautiful eyes - big and round and blue, a blue that sparkled and danced in the light. Dazzling. You could drown in those eyes, he thought. With the heels of her hands she rubbed at them, smearing her make-up even more effectively and contributing to her 'panda-eyed' look. She had an old scar above her left eye, something like a fresh bruise under her right, small and dark. Her face was wet with tears and snot. Shivering, still sobbing softly, she nodded gently. He handed her a tissue from his pocket. "You live near here?" She shook her head, shivering constantly. "Okay. Look it's freezing out here, you need to get inside...where are you going?" "I don't know," she said, teeth chattering, her speech staccato with cold. Her accent was foreign: Eastern European, perhaps. "I was staying with friend but she needed space," she shrugged unhappily. "I have nowhere." At this she started crying again. "Hey, it's okay," an urge to put his arm around her passed over him like a spasm, died unborn. "We'll sort you out with something," he paused, thinking for a second. "Look, get in the car, at least you'll be warm, eh?" For the briefest moment she hesitated - shivering, shaking - then she nodded gratefully. When she stood up he realised just how short her dress was, barely covering the cheeks of her ass, the top of her stockings clearly visible beneath. Her figure was curvier than he'd expected - the dress clinging enticingly to the curve of her hip, her small tits - but still very slender. Once in the car it obvious that she was soaked through, freezing - her clothes sodden - and she was shivering uncontrollably. He turned the engine on, turning the heater up to full, feeling the warm air blast into the cabin. "Better?" She nodded, still shivering uncontrollably, rubbing her bare arms, trying to restore her circulation. Water from the melting snow ran from her hair, soaking her face, dripping from the end of her cold, red nose. He watched it drip and laughed gently to himself, real humour in the sound, something he hadn't heard for a long time. "You are laughing at me?" She seemed surprised, slightly affronted, her accent more pronounced. "No, no...it's just that you're dressed like Santa, but you look more like Rudolph...you know. Your nose..." "Oh," she touched her nose gently. "You don't like my nose?" "No, no...not at all, it's very nice," he was babbling, stopped himself. "It's just red, from the cold...like Rudolph, yes?" "Okay." She looked uncertain. "Where are you from, anyway?" "Russia, from Saint Petersburg." Well that was a problem, he'd have to check immigration now. "What's your name?" He asked. "Anna. Anna Sergeyovna," she said, smiling shyly. She had a sexy smile, he thought. "My friends call me Anya." "What would you prefer?" "You can call me Anya." He thought he saw her blush a little at that. "Okay, Anya," he grabbed his spare fleece, handing it to her. "Here, put this on, then why don't you tell me how you came to be sitting on the pavement in the snow and I'll see if I can help." She nodded, pulling the fleece on. Men's clothing suited her, he thought, adding to her vulnerability. Sexy. She zipped it up to the neck, hugging herself in the outsized jacket, control slowly returning to her body as the warmth seeped in. "Today has not been good day for me, you know," she said, at last. "First, friend say she need space in her flat for boyfriend for Christmas, so I have to leave, you understand?" "Yes, go on..." "So I get dressed in costume, you know, sexy," she gestured at herself, intimating its sexiness. Unconsciously, Chris found himself nodding in agreement before he realised what he was doing. He saw her smile coyly in response. "And I go to boyfriend's flat to stay...he is in bed with other woman. He shouts angry, shouts at me, hits me - tells me to go away from him. He is bastard. I hate him." Pimp? Maybe. She started crying again, pawing at her face with hands hidden inside the sleeves of his jacket, drying her snot and tears in his cuffs. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to mind. Her eyes were beguiling, depthless - like the waters of a mountain lake. "So I get taxi, to go somewhere for night...hotel, you know?" "Sure." "But some men, they get in taxi with me. They take my bag, my money...then they push me out here, you understand?" "Yes, I understand, Anya," he said. Could have been punters, he supposed. Then a thought occurred to him. "How old are you?" She paused for a moment. "Twenty one." He looked at her skeptically and she couldn't meet his eye. "Nineteen." "Is that true?" "Yes. I swear it's truth..." Looked about right, he thought. "What are you doing in London?" A telltale pause. "Student...I study English." She smiled again and he found himself smiling with her. Student. Yeah, sure. "Okay. So let's see about getting you somewhere to stay." "Alright," she was still shivering. "Please, I don't know your name?" For a second he paused. Giving his name seemed like crossing a hidden boundary but, somehow, her vulnerability made keeping her at bay seem like an act of cruelty. And he wasn't a cruel man. Not yet. "Chris, Thomas." This time it was her turn to laugh gently. "Christmas?" "What? No. Chris. Chris Thomas." Somehow her laugh was infectious and he found himself chuckling with her. It felt good. "Can you afford a hotel?" He asked. "My money...the men took it. I have nothing." For a moment her eyes filled with tears again, two lines of water trickling gently along her pale cheeks. "Hey...it's okay." Without thinking, without knowing why, he felt himself reach out to her, brushing her tears away with his thumb. She smiled shyly at him. My God, what the fuck was he doing? She was pretty enough, but this was fucking dangerous. He could lose his job over this. Christ. "Is everything okay, Chris?" "Yes, yes...no problem." Okay. Her options were limited: she was too old for social services, she couldn't afford a hotel and she had no friends. That left a police cell - courtesy of Immigration- the hospital or hanging around the front of the police station all night. Of course there was another option, but he wasn't going there. Not with anyone - not even on Christmas. He surprised himself. "You can stay at my place if you like...until you get your stuff back, you know," he said, waving his hands vaguely, suddenly shy. "It's Christmas, after all." What the hell made him say that? Was he totally fucking insane? Had he had enough of his career - his life? Even more bizarrely, having said it, he found he didn't want to retract it. She tilted her head to the side slightly and looked at him thoughtfully, an obvious fear poorly hidden in her eyes. She stared at him for a long while. Finally she seemed to reach a resolution. "Thank you, Chris. I would like that very much." He was mad, that was it. Loneliness had finally driven him over the fucking edge. "Uh...good. Okay then." He pressed the radio. "Lima X-ray, Lima X-ray Three." "Three, go ahead," said the disembodied voice. "Uh...can you tell the boss I'm going off patch for a while: I'm taking 'Santa' home, then I'll be having some food." "Yeah, noted. Boss says to take your time, it's like a morgue out there." "Received. Thanks." ******* His place was a small one bedroom flat just over the border with Wandsworth, in Earlsfield. Anya sat quietly throughout the journey, staring out of the window at the now settling snow. It was going to be a white Christmas, he thought. "Well, this is it," he said, switching on the hall light to show the desert of magnolia and coordinating neutral tones that passed for style amongst the unattached. Like all London properties below a certain price bracket, it majored on small and had a supplementary in bijou. Anyone swinging a cat would have hit all four walls - and probably skinned their knuckles, too. "It's very nice," she said, smiling warmly, if a little guardedly. "Thank you, Chris." "Look you're soaked. Go in there," he said, pointing to the bedroom. "Take off that wet outfit, dry yourself and...um...here, put this on." He handed her a fluffy towel and a thick pale blue shirt still warm from the radiator, which she took gratefully. A Modern Christmas Carol He didn't miss the suspicious, slightly fearful look she gave him as she entered the bedroom. He quickly turned the heating up and set about boiling the kettle - wasn't soup traditional for people with hypothermia? He discarded his body armour and equipment in a heap as he went, luxuriating in his sudden feeling of weightlessness. She emerged a few minutes later and he felt his heart lurch - she was much more than pretty - she was absolutely gorgeous. Her newly dried hair stuck out spikily from her head and, in the dim lights of the flat, her eyes positively glowed, sparkling mischievously. But more than this, his old shirt appeared to have undergone some strange, sexual metamorphosis. As if designed to do exactly this it clung to Anya's tits, highlighting her erect nipples, and her ass; but concealed the rest of her body in an utterly sexual way - offering tantalising hints of her shapeliness every time she moved. It was also very short and her creamy thighs emerged from the scalloped edges far more sexily than they ever had from her Santa outfit. Chris realised he'd forgotten to breathe. Apparently innocent of the effect she was having on him, Anya drifted barefoot about his flat, looking with interest at everything. She picked up a photo of him receiving a commendation, in full dress uniform. "Special award?" She asked. "I got that for almost getting knifed," he said, and immediately wished he hadn't. Idiot! What a come on...look at the Neanderthal! "Oh," she put it back. "There are no decorations, no special people photographs? No family?" "Uh...no," he said. "I suppose not." Who would see them, anyway? Now that she mentioned it, though, he could see how devoid of life his flat had become. Soulless, that was the word. A reflection of him, perhaps: empty of warmth, unattached, uncommitted - neutral. He hadn't realised how used to being alone he had become, until now. Fuck, that was a bit depressing. He went back to making her soup. Maybe Mike was right, he thought. Maybe it was time to commit to something in life beyond the Job. If he was going to change, this was certainly the night for it. It was Christmas Eve after all...no, Christmas morning now...three thirty am, in fact. Perhaps it could happen for him? As if reading his mind, Anya turned to him. "I'm cold, Chris," she said, her head tilting sexily to the side as she spoke. "Uh...there's a dressing gown...hold on..." "Chris," he stopped. She sat on the edge of the sofa, hugging herself vulnerably. "Would you hold me, please?" For a moment he paused, if giving his name felt like crossing a boundary, what the hell was this? Eventually, breathlessly, he crossed to her side, taking her in his arms and pulling her to him - her skin still felt cold to the touch. She leaned into his arms willingly, contentedly - snuggling about until she sat across his lap, her bare legs crooked over his thighs, body partially turned towards him, her head pressed against his chest. She sighed, peacefully. "Thank you," she whispered, not looking at him. "You make me feel safe." Oh, shit. Now what? For the longest while they sat still, the warmth of their bodies mingling, contented - neither daring to move lest they shatter the moment. He felt her breathing against him, her chest rising and falling gently. Every now and then she would shift about, snuggling tighter to him on each occasion. After a while he realised that she was asleep. Later, Chris realised what that funny feeling was...he was happy. "Lima X-ray Three, Lima X-ray." "Go on," he whispered. "Uh...you okay, Sarge?" "Yes, yes...what you got?" Anya stirred on his lap, making sleepy noises. "You free for a sudden death, Sarge? We need a supervisor." "Yes, yes. Where am I going?" He felt her stir against his chest. Silently cursed the control room. "Clapham Park Estate." "Noted. On my way." Gently so as not to wake her, he carried Anya to the bedroom, tucking her into the warmth of his duvet. Before leaving he scribbled a short note, leaving it next to the bed, and turned the heating up again. ****** Snow was falling steadily by the time he reached the Clapham Park Estate, transforming the grimy streets of South London into something almost magical. The streets were entirely deserted now, his only company pilgrims from amongst his colleagues and the occasional itinerant ambulance. Clapham Park Estate was a toilet. It had always depressed him, even by comparison with the other shitholes around Lambeth. It seemed to personalise the decay, the neglect in a way the other estates never managed. The buildings themselves suffered from some kind of concrete cancer and, in the snow, resembled nothing so much as survivors from a war nobody remembered: the walls pockmarked with forgotten shell craters, scattered with unmarked bullet holes. Every time he came, he imagined himself in Beirut. He met Alex, the constable on scene, in the hallway outside the flat - surrounded by the acrid smell of urine and the arcane glyphs of youth graffiti, a confetti of glass scattered along the concrete walkway. "Hey Alex, what we got?" "Hi Sarge," he said, scribbling his name in his pocket book. "Male, early forties. Suicide. Hung himself in the lounge." "Any family?" "None that we can find. Lived alone. Guess it's the season for it...more suicides at Christmas than any other time of year." "That's a myth." he said. He tried not to sound too earnest. Finally he went inside. The flat was fairly typical. No carpet, stone tiles through the hall, peeling plaster walls. No doors. That always baffled him; the flats of his clientele seldom had internal doors, where did all the doors go? What did they do with them? He moved into the lounge. A gangrenous sofa lay slumped against the near wall, a big TV in the far corner, a potted plant scattered with cigarette ash, mismatched table and chairs accessorized with a plastic cloth. In the centre of the room a chair lay overturned - probably where chummy had stood to fix the ligature. It stank, but probably no worse than it had when he was alive. The man lay on the floor where he had fallen after the belt had been cut, his skin the waxy perfection of a too good manikin. As with all dead bodies, this one seemed to continue to exert a presence in the room long after everything he was had departed. Chris always found it strange being around dead bodies. His mind seemed to have difficulty reconciling the idea that this was a human being with such utter stillness, he always ended up looking back to make sure it hadn't moved. Reluctantly he knelt over him: a quick look at the exposed hands, face. There didn't seem to be any defensive marks on him, no sign of a struggle, nothing suspicious. Suicide. There were no family pictures, no Christmas decorations, no sign that the man had any attachment to anyone or anything else. Had he just failed to commit, Chris wondered. Had he succeeded in keeping everyone at bay? He felt himself shiver and his thoughts turned to Anya with a sudden anxious desperation. Was it too late for him? Would he return to find her gone? "Good evening, sergeant. Merry Christmas," he looked up, Doctor Hale, the on-call examiner strolled in, his dark overcoat buttoned high about his flabby neck, a few wet slivers of sandy hair plastered to his balding pate. "Uh...yeah, I mean, Merry Christmas to you too, Doc." "Anything suspicious?" "Not that I can see. Straightforward hanging." "Hmmm, he fits the profile." The doctor crouched near the body, examining the neck. "What?" Chris asked. "Hanging," Hale said. "If you happen to be a man in your forties who decides to kill yourself, you're more likely to do it by hanging than any other method." "Right," he said. "Happen a lot, does it?" The doctor looked at him from under his brows. "What do you think?" But he knew the answer to that already. He looked around the flat noting its utter blandness, its neutrality. Dear God, was he so different to this poor devil? He would be forty in only three years. Christ. His blood was ice, he suddenly felt sick. No, things could change! It was six o'clock on Christmas morning, wasn't this the time for redemption? He would change: it wasn't too late. Anya. Anya needed him, he could help her, he could commit to something. He wasn't going to end up like this, no fucking way. For the first time in years he felt his eyes fill with tears -- he hadn't even cried when Jo had left - and he had to retreat to the flat's kitchen while he got a grip on himself. ****** At the end of his shift, infected with a fragile, febrile euphoria, a sense of momentum, a feeling that time was important somehow, he went home via Tooting High Street. There, near the junction with Garrat Lane he found his turkey emporium: pre-packaged, vacuum packed with no more than ten per-cent added water. And available at seven-thirty on Christmas Day. Who said that tinned potatoes and carrots wouldn't make a great Christmas dinner? As he approached his flat his heart was hammering in his chest, a strange anxiety clutching at him. What if she'd gone? What if he was too late? Somewhere he could hear his cynical voice whispering, eroding his confidence, playing on his insecurity - telling him that he had left a Russian prostitute alone in his flat. Telling him she wasn't going to be there...she was long gone. With his money, his clothes -- probably sell them for drugs. He choked it off. The snow had coated the area about the flats in a thick, white layer - untouched by the passing of either people or vehicles. Although a number of adjacent flats had lights on, those with children he guessed, there was no light on in his flat as he approached. He stood before the door, water dripping onto the oatmeal carpet of the communal landing. Feeling tense, he slotted the key into the door and entered his darkened flat. It was warm from the heating and there was an unidentifiable scent in the air. Of Anya there was no sign. Slowly, nervous now, he opened the door to his bedroom. The bed was empty, freshly made, no evidence that anybody had recently slept in it. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to call out, felt despair settling onto him like a shroud -- sapping him. His cynical voice returned: stronger now -- mocking, defensive - protecting. He could hide behind those barriers, that cynicism -- nothing could reach him there. He had learnt that after Jo left him. Nothing. As if in a dream he found himself before the lounge door. For a long while he stood still, listening to his breath, feeling the weight of the bags in his hands, examining the brush strokes in the paint on the thick door ahead of him. Time stopped. Schrodinger's cat. That's what this was. If he opened the door and she was there he would live, would change, would take down the barriers. If he opened it and she was gone he knew that he wouldn't have the strength. Thing was, until he opened the door, he didn't know -- he existed in a kind of limbo, delicately balanced between life and death. He stared at the door. Was he more likely to hang himself when the time came? Didn't seem like a good way to go. He stared at the door. What would Mike say if he called him for help -- this morning, now? Would he come? He stared at the door. Oh, shit. He pushed it open. The lounge glowed with lights of crimson and green, a string of Christmas lights stretched across his TV and over his easy chair. On the windowsill a vase held a small branch of someone's Christmas tree, a pair of multi-coloured baubles dangling brightly from it. Several short lengths of tinsel hung from the odd pictures he had scattered about the room. In the middle of it all stood Anya, her dark hair freshly washed, her blue eyes sparkling, wearing his dressing gown. "Hey, Christmas," she said, a little shyly. "I was waiting for you." His heart lurched shockingly in his chest, tears stinging his eyes. "Hey, Rudolph," he said, a massive smile lighting his face, water on his cheeks. His heart was hammering in his chest. "How did you? Where did?" He gestured happily at the decorated room. "I see your neighbours, ask for help...it's okay, yes?" "It's fabulous," he said, tension slipping from him, remembering to breathe. "I got lunch." He held up the striped plastic bags from the Spar. She laughed then, a warm musical sound and he joined in, a little hysterical at the edges. Then, suddenly serious, a little shy now. "I want you to know...I was hoping you'd be here...I was looking forward to seeing you..." "Good," she whispered, a sexy smile lighting her face, her voice a little hoarse. She stepped towards him. With every step he felt the tension between them rise, felt the warmth of desire stir his cock. In three small steps she stood almost toe to toe with him, looking up at him with those big, blue eyes. "I look forward to seeing you, too," she said, blushing then, dropping her eyes "Perhaps you like to unwrap present?" Slowly she untied the gown, letting it slip from her to puddle at her feet. She stood naked before him. Chris forgot to breathe. His mind was racing, unable to focus, his heart hammering, beating madly against his chest. But, where his mind failed, his body took over and, unbidden, he felt his cock pressing against his trousers with iron urgency. My God, she was beautiful: her skin alabaster; her tits small, firm, nipples pink, hard. His eyes dropped lower, sliding over her flat belly, her neat pubic hair, dark against her pale skin, her long legs - slender, shapely. She smiled at him sexily, shyly. "You like?" "Yes...yes I like, very much." "Good. My turn now." She stood on tiptoe, sliding her arms around his neck, pulling him down. Her pink lips opened and she kissed him. Softly, almost tentatively at first, then with growing hunger, her tongue flicking into his mouth like a frightened bird. He felt her hands gripping his hair, pulling him and the last barriers of his past fell away, his fears melting in the heat of her need, his need. Unnoticed he dropped the shopping to the floor, the bags spilling open, tins rolling across the floor. His hands slipped around her body, caressing her warm, soft skin - crushing her to him with a hunger born of desperation. Her hands tugged the zip at the neck of his tee shirt and he quickly pulled it over his head, discarding it on the floor. Her lips slipped to his exposed torso, her tongue flicking hotly over his skin. "Mmm, that feels nice," he whispered, his hand stroking her hair. He felt her hands slide to his trousers, rubbing against his bulging cock and he groaned - pleasure spiking through him with a sudden intensity. She smiled coyly up at him, her delicate hands on his belt. In moments she had his trousers undone and then pulled them and his boxer shorts to his ankles, dropping like a supplicant to her knees before him. His cock sprang free, to stand poised above her. With a sexy smile on her face, she reached up and grasped his cock in her fine-fingered hand, languidly stroking it back and forth, gradually drawing his foreskin over the head. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she slipped her mouth over the end of his cock, taking just the head into her mouth, all the while her blue, blue eyes staring straight into his. "Oh, my God...that feels so good..." he said. Her hand continued stroking his cock, massaging it, her tongue lapping around his sensitive head - drawing a soft moan of pleasure from him. Slowly, surely she took more of his cock into her mouth, her hand stroking his balls, one clutching his ass, holding him steady as she worked him with her mouth. "Oh, yes...fuck, that's good...oh, my God..." He heard her slurping, her cheeks alternately puffing out and sucking in as his cock disappeared into and reappeared from her mouth, her head bobbing cutely up and down. For a moment she withdrew, saliva stringing between his cock and her chin. "Jaw ache," she said. Then she slipped his cock back into her mouth and it was as if someone had kindled a fire in his loins, the heat of lust sweeping through his body. "Oh, God...Anya, yes...oh...that's good..." He couldn't remember the last time someone else had made him cum - not seven years, surely? But he knew he couldn't last much longer. Her mouth was hot and wet against his cock, her head so sexy - plunging up and down. The feel of her wet tongue stroking his length, slurping his head like a lollipop - all the time her hand stroking him, matching her mouth, her tempo. "Oh, God, I'm going to cum...Anya...I'm going to cum...oh, fuck..." He looked down, met her eyes staring back up, saw her smile around his cock buried in her mouth. He grabbed her head, one hand against the wall for balance. Her tongue danced over his cock, her hand squeezing, stroking. "Oh fuck...I'm cumming..." His climax erupted from his balls, jet after jet of semen shooting into her mouth, his abdomen aching with the intensity. He leaned on the wall, his legs buckling, suddenly weak. Kneeling before him, Anya struggled to swallow, her throat convulsing, swallowing reflexively - the excess semen dribbling from her mouth, to drop onto the floor, her tits - her hands milking him. All the time a sexy, secret little smile danced on her face. He had to have her, he had to feel her body, he had to make her his. Desperately he kicked his boots and trousers off, for a moment hopping madly on one leg, his trousers caught on his foot. All the while she knelt in front of him, smiling, waiting, his cum smeared across her lips. Then, naked he dropped to his knees in front of her, his lips seeking hers with the desperation of a drowning man, his tongue driving into her mouth with a passionate intensity. She responded, clinging to him, her mouth grinding against his - tasting semen, liquid coating their chins, smearing un-regarded across their faces - all the while her tongue wild on his - her breathing and moaning into his mouth. He pushed her unresisting down onto the carpet, lying next to her and above her. Urgently now his hands slid along her body, feeling the smoothness of her legs, her thighs, needing to touch her, to possess her. Matching his need, unprompted, she opened her legs to his touch, inviting him, encouraging him. His hands slid along her smooth inner thighs to the humid flesh at the top and she moaned her encouragement to him breathlessly. Gently - all the while his tongue flashing in her mouth, tasting her, the salty flavour of his own juices lingering on her tongue - he stroked his hand across her abdomen, skirting the fringe of her pubic hair. He felt her body jump: a small laugh into his mouth. "Ticklish," she said, muffled by his kisses. Smiling in response, his fingers found her cunt, stroking gently over her labia - slick with her juices - and he heard her moan quietly, little more than a gasp. Delicately, softly he ran his fingers between her lips, wetting them in her juices, sliding them slickly back and forth. Then, slowly, he slipped his middle finger into her - tentative, no more than the first knuckle. "Oh...yes," she sighed, her hips pressing into his hand, her tongue suddenly plunging into his mouth with renewed intensity, her hands gripping him tightly. She reached down, taking hold of his cock, stroking it firmly, mirroring the sudden intensity through her body. Quickly he withdrew his finger, sliding it between her labia, up and around the hood of her clit - circling her teasingly, hearing her moan in frustration, feeling her buck against him - then gently, languidly rubbing her clit, circling just once, before penetrating her once again - each time deeper than before. A Modern Christmas Carol "Oh...oh...oh...oh, fuck...oh, please..." her accent, cute, sexy, exotic. Unconsciously her hips pressed against his hand, thrusting in time with his fingers, her hand gripping his cock hard. He had two fingers sliding in her cunt now - sopping wet, her juices rushing from her - slipping into her then between her lips, around her clit...building a rhythm... "Oh, Chris...oh, fuck me...oh...oh" her hand, gripping, rubbing awkwardly at his cock, lost in her own passion. Carefully so as not to crush her, he twisted around, moving his head between her thighs, his cock dangling above her mouth. For a long moment he breathed in her scent - musky with her arousal - her labia partly open, glistening with moisture. Then his hands slid around her soft, warm, damp thighs, his nose sliding into her wet lips, his tongue slipping into her cunt - deep, deep inside - tasting the ridged walls, the play of her muscles. "Oh...fuck...oh,fuck...yes...yes...oh...mmm..." He felt her hips buck against his face, pressing her hot cunt into him - allowed the pressure to recede - felt her slip his cock once again into her hot mouth - her tongue dancing around him, sucking him passionately - then his tongue flicked out of her cunt, descending hungrily on her clit - flicking, stroking, lapping her like a cat - heard her whimpering gently, small moans escaping around his cock in time with his licking. He could feel her climax mounting, sweeping through her body - her whimpering louder, his cock forgotten in her rising passion, resting still in her supine mouth - his tongue dancing over her clit, changing rhythm, teasing her. Gently, slowly, he again slipped his finger into her cunt, all the while his tongue licking, lapping, stroking her clit with wanton abandon. "Ah...oh my fucking God...oh, God...oh, sweet fuck...oh, Chris..." He pushed his finger into her, resting his palm against her flesh, his tongue suddenly switching, establishing a rhythm - teasing forgotten - driving her body towards climax. "Oh...oh...oh...oh...uh...ah...oh, my God, I'm cumming...oh...oh..." Her hips were bucking wildly now, driving against his tongue, his finger buried deep inside her - she was whimpering, mewling, moaning - his cock forgotten, clutched loosely in her hand. "Ah...fuck...I'm cumming...I'm cumming...oh, sweet fuck, I'm cumming...mmm...nnnn!" Her clit was on fire, his tongue pressing it, licking it - soft, hard, gentle, dominant, changing all the time - waves of pleasure sweeping through her body. Oh, God...so good - his finger inside her, filling her. "Oh, fuck...I'm nearly there...oh...nearly there." Lapping her cunt. His tongue - oh my God - the top of it: hard, pressing, almost rough. Then the end, flicking her clit. "Sweet Jesus, fuck me...oh..." Intense, rapid, dancing over her clit - then softer, slower, calming her. "Oh, fuck." Lapping again, lapping harder, harder. "Oh God...I'm going to cum..." Harder, harder...licking, licking... "Ah, oh, Chris, oh..." Her orgasm hit - smashing into her body, rolling over her, sweeping her away. Distantly, she heard herself moan, the sound torn from her in a long, shuddering breath, rolling on and on. Her thighs clamped tightly around his head - her hands clawing helplessly at the carpet, moaning, gasping - his tongue still at last, resting against her shuddering clit, her juices drenching his chin. Slowly the waves receded, the pressure from her thighs decreasing. Released him. Not trusting herself to speak, she grabbed at him - drawing him to her, pulling his lips to hers, pressing desperately against him - eyes closed, lips kissing, kissing -- both needing, both wanting - neither willing to let the moment end. Then, finally, lying back, laughing and cuddling - holding one another amongst the scattered clothing, the forgotten makings of Christmas dinner. Maybe things would change for them both.