Come Home For Christmas
Posted By: Jette <bosslady@scotlandmail.com>
Date: Friday, 22 December 2000, at 6:08 p.m.
Come Home for Christmas (or at least New Year’s
Night)
“Good King Wenceslas looked out,
On the feast of Steven...” sang the choir
“When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even...”
There was no snow, not deep, not crisp and
definitely not even. Instead a sleety rain swirled around in the growing gloom,
the sidewalks were wet and black. Crowds of seasonal shoppers dodged in and out
of the stores, heads down and collars up against the chill.
What was he doing here, Nick Wolfe wondered? Why
here, why now? Why this cold northern European city, far from his home - and
far from the romantic “City of Lights” which was her home.
The answer was simple. He had no home. He didn’t
belong anywhere anymore.
Twenty-four frenzied hours – or a single moment -
in Paris had seen to that. Or to be more precise, that moment in Paris had
defined it for him. She had defined it for him. Defined it with a single shot
from his own gun.
She had come into his life slightly less than a
year ago – and everything had changed. His partner’s death, - and the discovery
that a man he’d called ‘friend’ was tainted, dirty, a cop gone wrong. The
Department would have liked him to forget that, to pin the death of a good
woman and a bad man on the same criminal. A criminal who – whatever crimes she
had committed – was innocent of that particular one.
Amanda. Beautiful, dangerous, wonderful, thieving,
conniving, larcenous, mercenary Amanda. He’d been drawn – attracted – to her
from the start. Even before she had flirted with him from a bathtub full of
stolen jewels. From the moment he had read her file- even before he’d seen her
photograph - he’d found her compelling, fascinating. From the moment they’d met
he’d been lost.
He loved her/hated her. Desired her/feared her.
She was everything he hated, everything he loved. Beautiful – and amoral. He
was a cop, she was a thief – but from her he had learned that just because
someone was a criminal did not mean they were necessarily a bad person.
Amanda was thoughtless. She was selfish and
greedy. She was self-centred. She saw very little of the pain her actions
sometimes caused. She was also joyous, generous, fun-loving, full of life and
kind-hearted. When the wrongs her actions sometimes caused were brought to her
attention she was as deeply contrite as it was possible for a person to be. Her
very name meant “beloved” or “loveable”- and she was.
When he’d first learned what she was – about
Immortals – he’d known she was not for him. A thousand years old, he was just a
child to her – and she’d treated him as one from time to time. He’d rebelled
against that treatment, like a child demanding to be treated as a grown-up.
When she explained about “The Game”, he’d known
that one day she would have to die – but by that time he was hooked on her,
like a drug, and he was determined that it would not happen while he lived.
There was no place for him in her life, he knew, no chance that she could be
attracted to him as he was to her – but he could do this for her.
Then there came Khorda, and in one beautiful,
wonderful moment he knew that she was attracted to him as he was to her – and
the next moment he had to let her walk out of his life to fight for her life. A
fight she let him believe she had lost.
And his life changed again.
Paris, where he had come to avenge her, where he
had almost died doing so - and where he had learned that she still lived.
Khorda died, she lived - and he’d known then that no matter that he loved her,
that she might love him, it could not be. He could not fight for her, nor
prevent her from fighting if she had to, and he could not bear to lose her; yet
he could not bear to be apart from her. So it would be as ‘friends’, not
lovers, that they’d face any future together.
And slowly, haltingly, their friendship had grown.
Grown past attraction to comfort. He’d wept on her shoulder, she’d wept on his.
He would still try to protect her from her own failings, while she tried to
encourage him to find his.
And then everything changed again. He was dying –
he knew it and was not afraid. No, not true – he was afraid, but he was
resigned to it.
And then she killed him. And he returned,
Immortal. As she had always known he could be. Known from the first moment
she’d met him. Known but had never told him.
And now he knew that they could never be together.
How could he live, knowing that to do so he must kill? How could love exist
between two people who knew that one day they might have to kill each other? It
wasn’t love she felt for him. She hadn’t loved him as a man, a mortal, she’d
cared for him like an unborn child.
He’d fled from her company. Fled from Paris, from
her tears, her entreaties. Fled from any chance that they might meet
accidentally.
He’d gone first to London, where he’d first felt
the ‘presence’ of another Immortal – other than her, or Liam that is. A wiry
man, dressed casually in blue-jeans and a loose sweater, huddled in a long
loose coat. He’d panicked for a moment – he had a sword, one he’d stolen from
her before he left, but he had no idea how to carry it un-noticed as they did.
Fortunately the other Immortal had seemed to be as unwilling to fight as he
was, and they’d acknowledged each other and parted company.
He’d left London the next day, taking a train
north.
Now he was in a strange northern city, alone, two
days before Christmas. It was cold, wet and lonely here. Lights glittered
silver among the trees that lined one side of the street, the storefronts
glowed with seasonal decorations.
A strangled ‘yelp’ attracted his cop-instincts. He
turned to see an older woman locked in a tug-of-war with a tough looking
younger man over a purse and some packages. Suddenly the woman fell back, the
struggle lost, and the man made off with his prizes.
“Hey!” He was no longer a cop, but the instincts
still ruled. Nick glanced quickly at the woman to assure himself she was not
badly hurt, then took off after the mugger. “Stop thief!” he cried, in the time
honoured manner, as he gave chase. If this had been back home he’d have given
chase with his gun drawn, perhaps fired off a warning shot, but the British
police were not impressed by gunplay on their streets, so he kept it in his
pocket.
The thief was young but perhaps not as fit as he
might be. Within a few blocks Nick found himself closing on the other man, who
seemed to be getting winded. As Nick drew level with him the thief threw his
booty away, tossing the heavy leather purse directly into the face of the
Immortal, who immediately caught it in reflex. Unencumbered, the thug made a
sudden sprint and escaped into the crowds.
Nick held onto the purse and gathered up the
scattered packages. He’d lost his prey but had at least recovered the stolen
goods. He retraced his steps back to where the elderly woman still stood, tears
streaming down her face. The tears quickly changed to tears of joy as Nick
handed her the lost packages.
“Oh thank you, thank you!” she enthused.
One of the parcels had come loose, a spill of
colourful silk falling from its bag, getting damp from the rain. “It’s for my
daughter,” explained the woman as she bundled it back into the plastic
wrapping.
“It’s beautiful,” he assured her. “I’m sure your
daughter will love it.” Living around Amanda had taught him much about feminine
fripperies, and he could see that this was one of the more expensive items of
such.
“I’d like to think so,” she replied, sadly, tears
springing from her eyes again. “But I don’t know if she will ever see it. She
left home ten years ago and we haven’t heard from her since. Every year I wrap
her presents hoping that this will be the year she’ll come home, or call or get
in touch in some way. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive but I hope.”
“That… that must be hard for you,” he answered,
slightly embarrassed at the confidence.
She nodded. “You’re American?” she noted his
accent. “Are you here for the festivities? Not going home to your family?”
“No, yes – I mean, yes I’m here for the holidays.”
“On your own?”
He nodded.
Something in his expression caught her attention.
She shook her head. “This is no time of year to be alone – you should be with
your family, or your friends,” she scolded. “There must be someone who’s
thinking of you. At least call them. Even if you’ve fought. Even if you think
you hate them just now. Don’t let them wonder and worry.”
Her earnest plea tore at his heart. “I will,” he
promised.
“Sanctuary Club – I’m afraid there’s no one here
to take your call just now but please leave a message after the tone.” The
woman’s voice on the answering machine sounded strained, as if she had been
worried when she had recorded it. It was a new message – the old one had been
much more upbeat and cheerful and had included details of the club’s opening
and closing hours.
“Amanda? If you’re screening calls, don’t bother
to pick up. I don’t know if I want to talk to you yet – but I thought you ought
to know that I still have my head. You shouldn’t worry about me at this time of
year. Merry Christmas and, as they say here – a Happy Hogmanay when it comes.”
As he replaced the handset, Nick glanced out of
the hotel window at the street below. Soft fluffy snowflakes had begun to fall,
thick and fast, and were beginning to lie. The grey streets below were fast
becoming white with drifts. Somewhere outside the Salvation Army band and choir
still played for the shoppers and their music drifted up to his window.
“Joy to the world!”
Jette