Daft little festive idea that sprang into my head while I've been laid up with a lousy cold and wouldn't leave me alone till I started writing it. Hope you enjoy.
Sadly, I don't own anything to do with Ashes, although I wish I did. Gene Hunt in my stocking this year would be a particularly pleasant surprise …
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A Fenchurch Christmas Carol
Chapter 1
Gene Hunt hated Christmas Eve almost as much as he hated the big day itself. The happy smiling faces, the sense of anticipation, Chris getting over-excited and everyone wanting to bunk off early. It was the same every bloody year. He crossed his arms, feet up on the desk, trademark pout firmly in place and brooded, watching Alex and Shaz sharing a joke. Alex looked relaxed and happy, eyes bright, face glowing and his frown deepened. What was wrong with them all? It was only another day, after all.
He couldn't wait to get out of there, pick up a curry and head home to watch some crap TV and get paralytic on the sofa. With a bit of luck he'd sleep through the whole thing and not wake up till Boxing Day, when he could get pissed all over again. Result. He sighed, watching Alex approach the office. It was almost beer o'clock, and he knew what was coming.
She stood by the desk, arms crossed, smiling down at him and he hardened his heart yet again.
"Something I can do for yer, Drake?"
"We're all off to Luigi's for a couple of drinks, just wondered if you'd be joining us? There'll be mulled wine and carols, apparently. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?"
His gaze roamed over her perfect features and something twisted inside him.
"No, actually. Sounds like my idea of hell. Now if yer'll excuse me, I've got some work to finish off before I head 'ome."
He looked down at the papers spread out in front of him, but not before he saw her face fall.
"Oh. Well, that's a shame, Guv. You'd probably enjoy it if you gave it a chance."
She headed for the door, and then paused and turned back to him.
"The offer's still open for tomorrow if you change your mind. Chris and Shaz are both coming, and Ray's decided to join us too. There'll be plenty of food and drink, and you wouldn't have to lift a finger. Well, maybe just to pull the odd cracker or two."
Their eyes met and he saw something in her expression he just couldn't put his finger on. A flicker of hope, maybe?
"And what makes yer think I want ter spend my Christmas Day with two daft birds, a prat with a bad perm and that complete twat out there?"
Chris had sprig of mistletoe pinned to his fly and was gyrating his hips with a hopeful expression while a blushing Shaz tried to shove him out of the door.
Gene saw the flash of hurt in her eyes and could have bitten his tongue off, but it was too late. She shrugged her shoulders.
"Suit yourself, Gene. Enjoy the day anyway."
He watched her behind as she sashayed out in those tight jeans, and cursed himself for behaving like a complete idiot yet again. He could have just said no politely, he didn't have to upset her. He sighed heavily, looking out at the now deserted CID. Might as well get that takeaway and head home.
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He parked the Quattro up outside the house, collected the food from the passenger seat and headed inside. It was bitterly cold, and a few stray flakes of snow were falling from a leaden sky as he approached the front door, thinking how dark and unwelcoming his house looked. It could use a lick of paint, but he could never be bothered. What was the point? It wasn't as if he ever had visitors. A little voice at the back of his head reminded him that he never invited anybody, but he shrugged it off.
He scrabbled around in his pocket for the key, but as he went to put it in the lock he got the shock of his life. The doorknocker seemed to have suddenly developed a perm. He blinked a couple of times.
"Raymondo?"
He closed his eyes tightly for a second and then reopened one very slowly. Just a humble knocker again. Either it had been a trick of the light, or he'd been working too hard recently. All he needed was a chicken madras, a couple of bottles of vino and two days catching up on sleep and he'd be as good as new.
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Later found him snoozing on the sofa, full of curry and most of the way down a bottle of red. There were easily enough leftovers in the fridge to feed him again the following day, plus he'd stocked up on plenty of booze, so he could finally relax. The wood burning stove was throwing out some heat now and the living room looked almost homely with the glow from the flames. The TV was flickering away in the corner, but he wasn't really watching it.
His mind turned to Alex and the others drinking mulled wine and singing carols, and he felt a slight pang before he pushed the mental picture away and poured another large glass. Bah humbug, he thought, and pouted. He was happy in his own company, always had been, always would be. He could rely on himself. Other people just let you down and hurt you, if you let them in. Keep 'em at a distance, that was his motto. He was the Manc Lion and he didn't need anybody else. Lonely? Gene Hunt? Never.
He must have nodded off because when he woke the stove had died right down and the room felt a lot colder. It was darker too, as the TV signal had clearly cut out and there was just the hiss of a snowstorm flickering on the screen. He shivered, wondering what had woken him, then almost jumped out of his skin as an eerie moaning issued from the television and the picture leapt back into life. Suddenly he was staring at the ghostly face of Ray Carling and his jaw dropped, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Raymondo? What the hell are yer doin' on the telly? Jesus, the BBC cutbacks 'ave got completely out 'o hand …"
The face of his DI peered back at him unseeing.
"Guv. Guv? Can yer hear me?"
He turned to someone out of vision.
"Yer sure he can hear me? Only I can't hear him."
There was a pause, as though he was listening to the reply, and then he shrugged and turned back to stare out at Gene.
"Well, if yer sure."
He cleared his throat.
"Guuuvvv … Guuvvvv … listen to me …"
His shoulders slumped and he sighed, lighting a ciggie.
"Look, I can't do all this spooky-dooky bollocks, OK? I've been sent ter tell yer ter get yer act together or yer gonna end up old 'n lonely. And full of regrets …"
He turned back to whoever was prompting him.
"Let me do this me own way, will yer, and stop mumbling in me ear."
He faced Gene again.
"Look at me, Guv. A different bird every week. Footloose and fancy free. And am I happy? Am I hell. You've got a chance at something better, and yer know it. Just look into yer heart and yer'll find the answer."
He glanced over his shoulder again.
"I resent that. I do not sound like a bad Eighties pop song."
Clearing his throat again, he stared hard at Gene.
"Yer goin' ter be visited by three spirits, Guv. And I'm not talking whiskey, brandy and vodka. They'll show yer the way forwards. Expect the first one on the stroke of midnight, OK? Good luck."
He took a long drag from his ciggie and the screen suddenly switched to a schmaltzy Christmas sing-along special.
Gene shook himself and poured another large glass of wine with shaking hands. Either that curry was having a very strange effect or he ought to give up the booze for a while. If he was going to start hallucinating, why Ray? Why not Britt Ekland in the nude? A sudden memory of Alex in that red bra flashed back into his mind, and he pushed it away. That way lay madness.
He checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Time to hit the sack before he started seeing Santa and bloody Rudolph trotting down the street. He opened the curtains, surprised to see a couple of inches of snow lying on the ground and more still falling. His heart lifted, despite himself. He couldn't remember the last time there'd been a white Christmas, must be years back. A vision of himself as a lad playing in the snow on Christmas morning sprang into his head, and he knocked back half a glass of wine before grabbing the bottle and heading upstairs. Not the time to reopen old wounds, way too painful at this time of year. Better to drown 'em out in a haze of alcohol ...
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