Christmas Comes Unexpected
By Selyndae
Mid-December, 1952
Slumped dejectedly next to the tiny, barred window, Johnny Murphy stared out at the cold, smog-filled night and scowled at the barren yard. Surrounded by towering walls of harsh, grey cinderblock—complete with coils of ugly barbed wire—sharp metal peeked menacingly through the wispy tendrils of the swirling vapor, like an obscene decoration. The depressing reality of his situation could now be summed up by a 6-by-6 cell and a peek into a miserable countryside.
There's no way out—no way out at all, and I might as well get used to it.
Blinking rapidly and clenching his jaw, he continued to look out into the bleak surroundings.
Suddenly, through a break in the dense fog and past the prison walls, maybe 100 meters or so away, a house lit up in the distance. It stood tall among the row of houses, most of which were sagging and dilapidated in the rundown neighborhood.
He stared, transfixed, as it glowed radiantly like a warm, welcoming beacon.
Cheerful lights of red, yellow, blue and green outlined the large front window and door, and they were just bright enough to show off the enormous holly wreath which sprawled over the entryway. He could easily visualize the brilliant red berries glistening in the multi-colored reflections.
This festive brightness, alive with cheer, was a mocking contrast to his despair. But, unable to tear his eyes away, he gazed longingly at the idyllic scene as memories from his all-too brief childhood emerged.
They were poor, but it didn't really matter; everyone in the neighborhood was poor. His Da worked late at the shipyards sometimes not coming home all week. But, when he was home, Mum would laugh and sing. And when Christmas came—well, everything was magical! He and his sister would lay in bed unable to sleep with all the excitement.
Even through the War with its strict rationing, Mum always managed to save enough to make Gran's wonderful Christmas cake. One year, she even managed peppermint sweets shaped like tiny candy canes. They may have been uneven, and the red stripes more of a pink than red, but the love that went into them made them perfect. He could still remember how they tasted…
Impatiently, he pushed those thoughts away. It hurt too much to think of those times; remembering them always led up to the horrible Christmas when his Da—
Whang!
The sharp clang of a nightstick against the bars brought him back to the present.
"You got a visitor, Murphy, back up!"
Johnny backed up against the wall and the cell door was unlocked. Huge hands spun him around roughly before cuffs were impatiently snapped on his wrists. Satisfied they were snug enough, the guard shoved his prisoner down the hall and into a small room, where, a short nod from the burly visitor in a tan overcoat ordered the cuffs undone.
"Thirty minutes," growled the guard, and then he was alone on his side of the tiny visitor's room.
Looking up, he stared at the man. DetectiveSergeant…Truman?
"Why are you here?" Johnny's tone was sullen, but still with a bit of swagger.
The tall man studied the prisoner appraisingly. In the ten days since the schoolyard tragedy, all color was gone from the already pale face. He'd also lost weight—something young Murphy could not really afford; he'd always been far too thin. The boy (despite what he'd done, Jack had trouble thinking of the 15-year-old as anything other than a boy) looked more child than tough gang member with his too-long, unruly blond hair hanging down over his eyes. Now those once-bright eyes were listless; sunken, with black smudges beneath. Clad in oversized prison garb, he looked delicate…even frail.
"Who else do you expect? Cathie? Maybe one of the twins?
Johnny paled even further at that and sagged defeated, his bluster fading. "No," he muttered, "They shouldn't hafta see me in here."
Jack studied the boy as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Ignoring the boy's flash of desire and moistened lips, he lit up and smoked thoughtfully. Prison was harsh, and staying locked up for the next twenty-five to life would surely make this kid into a hardened criminal—if he even lived.
"Look, I got a proposition for you, Murphy. It'll be hard and it'll be dangerous. But, it's a way out of this mess."
"Why should you help me? What's the catch?"
The detective smiled faintly. "I'm in love with Cathie and as soon as I can swing it, we're going to marry. She deserves having someone take care of her for a change."
"Yeah…? What about the kiddies, then?"
"I'm going to take care of them as well. I know a nice boarding school where they can get a fresh start."
"Sure, that's right… Ship 'em off so you can forget all about 'em!"
"If you used that brain of yours for a change, you'd know that's not true. Why, I love Mary and Patrick almost as if they're my own. Sending them off to a decent school will give them a real chance away from those gangs. They need that new start."
"Maybe…" Johnny's nervous energy had him clasping and unclasping his hands as he paced the small room. "What about Cathie, then? Are you taking her away, too?"
Jack didn't answer as he stubbed out his cigarette. "We're talking about you, Johnny. What about your future?"
"Yeah, what about it? I did wrong, okay… Look, I know got no future, so go ahead and take the kiddies away— Just…just go an' give 'em their…chance—" He stopped abruptly and turned around, his back to the detective. This close to tears, he couldn't let anyone see.
"Turn around and listen to me." When there was no immediate response, Truman's tone got harsher, "I said," the detective smacked his hand against the wall. "Listen for a change! Or do you really want to spend the rest of your life in prison?"
Eyes bright with unshed tears, Johnny turned back around and stared at his feet. Then, swallowing hard, he defiantly looked back up at the detective, daring him to make some remark.
"Right. Okay, then, here's that chance to make something decent of yourself. Look…I've called in some favors and here's what we can offer."
"Yeah? Who's this we?"
"Let's just say it's a rather…unusual organization. If things work out you'll meet them. Now, we don't have much time so shut your trap and listen. Sit down."
"I'm listening..." Johnny grudgingly sat down in his own chair
"Okay, this is it..." he pulled a small notebook out from a breast pocket and flipped it open. "You're fast—really fast, and you should've gone out for track. You're smart—in spite of some of the really stupid things you've done. And, you got a real knack for languages. At least, that's what Father Dominick says.
"Now, even more important, I'm told you got the right 'look' for what they have in mind." He paused and for the first time looked away, his words slow and careful. "A boy was slated to be on loan to the States in a kind of exchange program. Some other country is involved with it—I don't know which one and I don't want to know. Anyway, uh, something…happened, and they need a replacement. They want you to take his place and become this person."
Bemused by the astonishing offer, Johnny stared, motionless.
Looking back at the boy Jack sighed. "Look, I'm not going to lie to you; it's going to be really hard. This'll be the toughest thing you've ever done in your whole life. You'll be cold and you'll be hungry. You'll be watched every minute and tested constantly. To even come out of this alive you'll have to be one of the best.
"But…if you do it right, your record goes away and you get your new start. Hell, even get to see the world.
The detective studied the boy carefully. What he saw apparently satisfied him as he continued to urge him to accept the extraordinary proposal. "Look, this is your one chance to make it out of this mess and start over." Jack's eyes softened, "The only thing is…you can never come back; Johnny Murphy will have to die."
"What will you tell Cathie? W-will she know?"
"No one will know. Not even me. At least, I won't know your new identity, or where you're going, or anything. Like I said, as far as the world is concerned, Johnny Murphy will be dead."
He finally offered a cigarette. After lighting it and handing it through the bars, he looked kindly at the boy. "I know it seems overwhelming, but it's your ticket out. Take the offer, son. It's either that or prison for a long, long time—probably the rest of your life."
Johnny's bright blue eyes grew distant as he smoked, the caged clock ticking sonorously in the silence.
"Look, Johnny, the guard will be back any minute now—what's your answer?"
"Sure…" He stubbed out the cigarette. "Yeah, I'll do it…."
Present day
"Illya? Illya!"
"What?" Caught up in the oddly-disquieting surroundings, Illya felt an oppressive sense of…déjà vu. Maintaining hyper vigilance was his way of coping with uneasy situations, which, unfortunately meant temporarily ignoring what he knew to be safe…like his partner.
"Where were you just now?"
"Maintaining a careful watch for our contact—who is late, by the way."
"Only a minute or so… Come on, what was so interesting?"
"Nothing important." He sketched a brief shrug. "Merely stultified by the capitalistically profligate display of over-lavish decorations."
Napoleon shot a skeptical look at his partner. "Sure you are." He glanced around, but all he could see was a row of houses in a less-than-elegant neighborhood. While a few were decorated with old-fashioned light bulbs outlining windows and doors, there was nothing notable or excessive. Scanning the run-down neighborhood he could just make out piles of rubble from a demolished structure off in the distance.
Before he could figure out what his enigmatic partner was really thinking, their contact finally showed up.
"Jeez, it's cold out," muttered the man bundled under a threadbare jacket and tattered muffler.
"Ah, but look at all the happy faces," answered Solo cheerfully.
A bushy eyebrow, barely visible under the shabby stocking cap, raised. Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, the vagrant gave the countersign. "Sweets are warmer in June." After a moment, a gnarled hand slipped out surreptitiously holding a small, misshapen candy cane.
Taking the small object, Napoleon weighed it appraisingly for a moment before handing it over to his partner. Illya narrowed his eyes at the innocuous sweet. A quick check revealed the tiny catch which, when opened, revealed a microdot. He removed the dot before slipping the now-closed vessel into his pocket. A short nod and Solo discreetly handed over a wallet to the contact, who hastily slipped it inside the folds of his jacket.
Touching a hand to his forehead in mock salute he gave a crooked smile showing uneven yellow teeth.
"Thanks, mate. Happy Christmas."
As the man scuttled away, Napoleon glanced over at his partner and caught the faintest glimpse of something…odd, flit across his face.
"We should go." Illya's voice was bland, but to one who knew him so well, there was something…off.
Still…the neighborhood was pretty deserted. And they had to get that microdot delivered.
Parked in front of the small pub in Bristol, Napoleon grinned as his partner hopped out, and, pulling on a soft, tweed cap, slouched casually before sauntering into the small pub. As he waited for Illya to return he activated his communicator.
"Open Channel D."
"Yourreport, Mr.Solo."
"Contact made, Sir. You can turn on the tracer."
"Ah, yes, the signal's comingin… And what of the microdot?"
"Illya's making the delivery now." He glanced up to see his partner exiting the pub, thumb touching forefinger in the 'okay' sign. "You should receive confirmation any moment now."
"Excellent." A short pause. "We've received that confirmation…the microdot hasindeedarrived." There was another pause and a rustle. "Now, then… seeing that things are rather quiet at themoment, you and Mr. Kuryakin maydelay your return until after the holidays."
A delighted smile. "Thank you, Sir."
There was a standing invitation over the holidays whenever Napoleon's Aunt Amy was in town. This year, however, she was somewhere in the Caribbean with a close friend who was convalescent. Because both agents were naturally cautious about making intimate plans over Christmas—and opportunities to relax and just be themselves were rare—this seemed the perfect way to celebrate the holiday.
Rather than stay in Bristol, they opted for one of the smaller towns where they could relax, away from the mainstream commercial bustle of the holiday, before returning to New York. The quaint bed and breakfast they'd chosen had come highly recommended and was comfortable and surprising luxurious.
After a delicious dinner (the proprietress was an unusually imaginative and talented cook), the two agents relaxed in their large comfortable bedroom sipping on their after-dinner drinks.
In the companionable silence, Napoleon watched as his partner emptied the contents of his pockets onto the tray conveniently located on the triple dresser.
Suddenly remembering the peculiar expression from earlier, he made a face and sighed.
"What?"
Napoleon took a sip of the fine old Scotch. "Just wondering what was bothering you earlier—at the hand-off."
Illya glanced up, his face blank before shaking his head slowly in puzzlement. "Nothing specific comes to mind." He knocked back his own drink and stretched. "There's an ice rink near the town square where we can rent skates if you wish. The desk also mentioned some pleasant trails for cross-country skiing."
Allowing the change of subject, Napoleon laughed. "Why don't we wait until tomorrow to see what we feel like doing?" After lifting his glass in salute, he drained it. "Merry Christmas, Tovarisch."
"Happy Christmas, my friend."
As he settled himself in the comfortable bed, Illya glanced over at the contents from his pocket piled neatly on the dresser. A faint smile played about his lips as his eye rested upon the misshapen candy cane. Distant memories of things he'd long ago believed buried and forgotten had emerged.
Perhaps that was why, when the assignment had been completed, and Napoleon was getting tickets for the train, he'd been…primed.
Cathie…? No… this must be Mary.
The shock of recognition from seeing the ticket clerk, who was the very image of Cathie when he'd last seen her, was startling. As Napoleon chatted with the girl, he subtly moved away from the immediate area, out of line of sight, and shamelessly stood eavesdropping in the shadows as she cheerfully prattled about how she was going to see her brother again.
He's coming home on his first leave since enlisting in the air force—gave him the needed time to recover from the unexpected meeting. We've missed him so much—he's my twin, you see. She continued to chat artlessly to Napoleon's silver-tongued flirtation and genuine interest.
Once aboard the train and settled in their compartment, Illya took a long, considering look out the window until he spotted the girl again. This time she was out on the platform standing alongside her older sister who was carrying a toddler. Her brother-in-law had an arm protectively around an older child's shoulders as they stood together waiting on the platform… There—a young man in uniform finally came off the train and into their waiting arms as fervent hugs and delighted smiles from the entire group welcomed him warmly…
Napoleon hated seeing his friend distressed, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. Odd we've never ran across this before. Sighing inwardly, he turned over preparing for sleep…
Brett had been a kind of hero to Napoleon as a young man. Despite the age difference (his cousin was six years older) they'd always been close.
When he'd gotten together with Brett and his wife last year he'd been stunned to see a young, eerily-familiar boy in a black and white snapshot of a family group. Something about the expression...
"Who's this?"
"Who— oh, that's a family picture I fixed up for a pal of mine,"
"Oh…?"
"Yeah. Jack wanted to get something special for his wife's birthday. This is the only picture she has of her family before her father died. Here…" Brett pulled out the large portrait he'd finished. In this picture the resemblance was unmistakable, the scowl pure Illya.
Brett had been enthusiastic about the process he'd used to brighten the poor lighting, etc., as Napoleon found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the rare glimpse of his partner's past.
"Who are they…?"
"This is Cathie, Jack's wife, and the little ones are Mary and Patrick—the twins Jack helped raise."
"And the boy…?"
Brett's expression dimmed slightly. "That was her brother, Johnny." He shook his head sadly. "He was killed in a Bristol prison riot when he was fifteen. Such a waste."
Thinking of his partner with all his skills, talents, and most of all, friendship, he smiled. No, not a waste at all.
Napoleon wondered idly whether Waverly knew—of course he did.
Glancing over at his partner, Illya sighed with contentment as he contemplated the way things had played out—for everyone—and smiled as he drifted off to sleep.
Tomorrow he must see if the proprietress could make candy canes…
Author's note: This is my 'epilogue' to the movie, The Violent Playground. Johnny Murphy was played by a young DMc.
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