For those of you who knew I was writing a Christmas-themed story, this is likely not what you expected. So I beg your patience and would invoke Ray Carling's famous observation that "being where the guv is, is the right place to be."

I've quoted liberally from both Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes. Thanks, as always, to grainweevil for the handy A2A transcripts.

Dedicated to my two favorite publicans and to the best pub singers I know, end of.

Since It Fell unto My Lot

"Winter is the darkest season when one is alone." – Thomas Holbrook in Cranford (script by Heidi Thomas)

Chapter 1: All the Comrades

"Same again?"

I nodded, and the landlord set about pulling another pint. This was a new place, open only a few months, and not one of those poncey wine bars; it was a proper pub with good bitter - though not a patch on Manchester's, but then nothing is - and decent grub instead of quiches and rabbit food. There was a dart board too, and a telly for the football, and a jukebox, and a bar so long the place never felt crowded, even if all of CID came in for a drink.

The landlord was a young bloke, too bloody serious for the business he was in, but he could handle the punters and keep the place shipshape to the bargain. Tonight there was greenery hung round the bar and behind some of the picture frames, though it hadn't gone as far as fairy lights and other rubbish.

Fine by me. Didn't want reminding of all that peace and good will bollocks.

~.O.~

Monday morning a few skinheads had set upon a newsagent, kicking him till someone had thought to call the coppers and get the bloke, or what was left of him, to hospital. A hate crime, Holbrooke had called it, just as Sam might've done if he'd been around to help us sort those bastards out.

Only he wasn't, never would be.

Going to be an uphill battle to find the scum who'd done it, too, though God knows Holbrooke tried. Determined as Bolly, sometimes, and as unintelligible. Started going on about liaisons and community support officers, till I decided to show him a bit of proper policing. Wasn't so full of himself after a few doors shut in our faces. Mind you, I almost felt sorry for him, considering the week, and Holbrooke being on his tod and all.

Wasn't going to be much of a holiday for that newsagent, either. I reckon he wasn't the sort of bloke who celebrated Christmas, but he didn't deserve to be in hospital on the day itself. Or any day.

But at least he was in hospital, and not somewhere else. There's many aren't so lucky.

~.O.~

The landlord came back with my pint and set it on the counter. Must've heard my stomach rumble, because just as I was lighting meself a fag he asked, "Something from the kitchen?"

Any other night I might've taken the bait, but not just then.

I shook my head. "Reckon the pint'll do me."

He nodded, then went off to see to a fresh wave of punters. Over by the jukebox a couple of yuppie wankers and their lobotomized girlfriends were singing along while that bloody song about the drunk banged up on Christmas Eve played again. Reminded me I needed to have a word about getting in a few decent records.

Not that the music was always bad - and there wasn't that soppy tune about the tart in the red dress; I'd looked to make sure - but the place could've done with a bit more Herb Alpert, bit less Rogues, or whatever they're called. All that noise and it got hard to hear meself think.

Not that I was there to think. Not most nights.

~.O.~

The call came in Tuesday evening, after almost everyone in CID had already disappeared for beer o'clock and I'd just put on my coat. Nothing for it but to fire up the Merc, with Terry riding along, and make for one of the council flats.

They let us into a place with the Christmas tree already up - tinsel, fairy lights, the lot - and a woman on the floor with her daughter in her arms.

Seemed the little girl had been whingeing about something or other, and her stepdad picked her up and knocked her against the wall, again and again. Bastard legged it right afterwards, hadn't been seen or heard from since. Left nothing behind but that bloody Christmas tree, and the wife sitting on the floor crying and holding on to her little girl. Took Terry fully half an hour of talking before she'd even let the medical examiner near - he's good with a crying bird, is Terry - but the worst bit was when they had to take the kid away.

Some days it seems all we do is tell mums they won't see their little 'uns again. Can't save 'em. Can't save any of 'em.

~.O.~

I put down my glass, lighted another fag. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted this bloke coming up to the bar, and I turned round to look - old habit; reckon it was the sight of his leather jacket, and that haircut - but at least I'd stopped meself before I'd said it this time.

Skip.

Of course it wasn't Viv. Wasn't our new desk sergeant, Ken Tarbell, either, but then I never had seen Tarbell in the pub. Kept to himself, mostly - not like Viv at all, or that lot in CID, who joined me for a pint most nights. Even the little redheaded plonk, Ferguson, had started coming along - though she was teetotal, and that wasn't even the worst of her problems - but Tarbell could never be bothered.

Didn't blame him, though. Things had changed round Fenchurch East, and kept changing; I could see it every day.

Saw other things, too. Especially whenever I closed my eyes.

~.O.~

"Way of the world, Alex. She'll be fine."

I'd hoped that would sort her out, and for a moment it looked like it had. Then Bolly got to thinking. I could almost see the wheels turning in her pretty little head.

"Listen. Listen - listen to me. I could stay here, with you. You can't do this - you can't do this on your own. You need me, Gene. I can't - I can't go in there!"

That posh voice of hers started breaking, and Bolls wasn't done with the tears, either. Almost enough to make me -

~.O.~

"You got a light there, mate?"

"What?" I turned round and saw that bloke in the leather jacket.

"A light," he said, holding up a ciggy.

"Course I do." Got him sorted, then put the lighter back in my pocket while the man leaned back and took a long pull.

"Thanks. Say, you all right?" he said, giving me a look.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason." He shrugged. "Only you look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Might have done."

"What?"

"Nothing, " I told him, and picked up my glass. "Nothing."

~.O.~

Ghosts.

I reckon I've seen my share of those.

That morning we got another call. A shop this time. Owner went to open up, found the place a tip. Thought kids had got in.

Then she stumbled on the bodies.

Found the first lad lying on the floor. He'd been knocked about but at least he was still alive and she could send him off to hospital straightaway, before we'd even got there.

Blaggers had saved the worst of it for her assistant, a bloke called Squires, who was meant to lock up the night before. Left him outside in the alleyway, once they'd done with him, and it wasn't clear if it was the beating or the cold killed him.

By the time we arrived his boss was in a right old state, and WPC Ferguson almost as bad, soon as she saw that poor bastard lying out in the cold.

I'd had to bring Red along when for once I could have done with Holbrooke's over-educated brain, and a bloke wouldn't have let me catch him blubbing over a victim, either. Can't rightly say what got into Ferguson, but I knew how to sort her out. Set her to work making the shopkeeper a good strong cuppa, to sort her out, and carrying on taking the statement while I had a quick word with the medical examiner.

He showed me the cuts and bruises on the victim's hands. Squires must've fought back, but it hadn't done any good. They'd got in, fairly turned the place upside down, and left him looking like he had only half a face. Wouldn't know more till later.

Right. I always did fancy spending Christmas Eve down the morgue.

As they took Squires away I went back into the shop see how Ferguson was getting on and came just in time to catch a bit of what that bird was telling her.

"...was going to do a management course. He had plans, such plans. His mentor, he used to call me - "

Didn't hear anything more, not just then. Stepped back out in the cold again, took out the hip flask, sorted meself out.

Then I went back inside the shop to have another look round, another word with the boss. Told her we were going to find the bastards. Said we weren't going to leave her on her own.

~.O.~

The wankers and their birds were gone, and someone put on another record, "Don't Give Up," and the pub quieted down a bit. Halle-bloody-lujah.

A few minutes on this group of blokes walked in. Not yuppies this time, and I reckoned they were regulars too, because the landlord had their pints in front of them soon as they got round the table, with everyone talking and laughing and taking the piss. Any road, better than that other lot.

Till they started in with the singing.

"Masters in this hall,
Hear ye news today..."

Right. Best to drink up pronto. I turned back to my pint just in time to see something hit the bar next to it.

"What's this?" I said to the landlord.

He nodded at the plate he'd put down. "Bit of experimentation. See what you think."

"Oi, Paddy! Didn't order this!" I called after him, but he'd already gone off to pull a few more pints.

I had another look at what he'd left me. Plate of meat and veg. Looked a bit like hotpot, in fact. Didn't smell bad, either.

Oh, sod it. I'd been living on bacon butties and biscuits for days, and hadn't had anything at all since I'd got back from the morgue.

I tucked in and found it tasted even better than it smelled. Didn't take long to scoff the lot.

~.O.~

Once I'd got some food down me the singing didn't seem as annoying as it had done. And it wasn't as though the lads and I hadn't done enough of that back in Manchester. Or even in CID, long as there was someone about who could carry a tune.

While I was having another fag I got a good look at that lot round the table. There was a white-haired fella with a 'stache to match, and beside him an Irishman with a long beard - could've made Father Christmas between the two of them - and next to him another geezer with glasses, and this dark-haired bloke with a pointy nose just like Holbrooke's.

Made a lot of noise, between their pints and a few more songs. Still, not a bad change from the jukebox, and it was clear the other punters weren't bothered, either. In fact they'd cheered and pounded on the tables after that first tune.

And just before the landlord called time, the Irishman started in with the last one.

"Of all the money that e'er I spent,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm that e'er I've done,
Alas, it was to none but me.

"And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall.
So fill to me the parting glass.
Good night, and joy be with you all."

He had a bloody good voice, too. Whole place had gone quiet, listening.

"Of all the comrades that e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away.
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay."

All his mates joined in on the chorus.

"But since it fell unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I'll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be with you all."

As that Irishman took the last verse, you couldn't hear so much as a glass clink. Or a match strike.

"If I had money enough to spend
And leisure time to sit a while,
There is a fair maid in this town
That sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own, she has my heart in thrall.
Then fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with you all."

Whole place seemed to come to life as the rest of those blokes and nearly everyone in the pub joined in.

"But since it fell unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I'll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be with you all."

And everyone was still clapping and cheering and pounding on the tables as the landlord called time.

~.O.~

Place cleared out in a jiffy, but I stayed to finish a last fag before going to settle up with the landlord. Didn't know if I had money enough in my pockets for the grub.

And I didn't expect to hear what he had to say to me.

"No charge for the coddle."

"Come again?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, bit of experimentation. Wanted to know what one of me regulars thought.

"So how was it?"

"Reckon you'd do all right in Manchester." I hoped he knew that was me apologizing.

"Grand. And it's Declan."

"What?"

"Declan," he said, looking me in the eye. "Not Paddy."

"Gene. Gene Hunt." I put out a hand. "Erm, I'm a copper."

He grinned then. "Knew that," he said, shaking my hand. "Seen you here with your men, haven't I. And the woman officer. The redhead."

"Yeah. Buggered off before I got here, the lot of 'em."

"They would, wouldn't they, tonight," he said. "Most people would."

"Reckon you did all right, though."

He shrugged again. "Not bad for a Christmas Eve. Hope the fellas didn't put you off the place," he added.

"The fellas?"

"With their singing," he said, nodding towards the table where those blokes had been sitting. "Like it myself – reminds me of me uncles – still, it's not to everyone's taste."

"Hm. Better than that tune about the bloke in the drunk tank."

He grinned again. "I'll be getting some new records in come the new year."

As I was going he didn't wish me happy Christmas. It was as much for that as anything else that I reckoned I'd keep coming back. That and the bitter.

~.O.~

Not many people about on the streets, it being Christmas Eve and bloody cold to the bargain, but as I stood there turning up the collar on my coat I felt someone bump into me, and looked down and saw a little girl. Must've come racing round the corner just as I'd walked out the door of the pub.

"Whoa, little lady," I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. Then I heard someone calling out, and froze.

"Molly!"

A tall woman in a long dark coat and a pair of those bloody high heels came tripping up to us.

"Molly, you mustn't run on ahead!"

"Sorry," she added, looking up at me. Said it with a little laugh, but she pulled her daughter along quickly enough, and away from me. Couldn't really blame her.

As they went off I heard that bird tell her little girl, "I thought I'd lost you!" And saw her stop for a moment to muck about with the scarf round the kid's shoulders.

"There. Now let's go home." She took hold of her daughter's hand, tightly, and the both of them went down the pavement, with the little girl skipping along and singing.

"Ding dong, merrily on high,
In heav'n the bells are ringing!"

I watched 'em go. Watched till they walked under a street lamp and I couldn't see anything more.

~.O.~

Right. Back to Fenchurch East.

Wasn't far, and though I was quick about it it seemed to take longer that night than it had ever done. Perhaps it was the night. Or being on my tod.

All alone, Gene.

On the way I passed another pub. It was nearer Fenchurch East but everyone in CID had always kept well clear of it, aside from that lot in D&C, who kept turning up like a particularly stubborn case of piles on our collective arses.

As I crossed the street I could hear noise from the punters who'd just been set loose on the city. Usual rubbish, till this one bloke started singing.

"We'll meet again.
Don't know where,
Don't know when..."

Voice reminded me of someone but I didn't turn round to look. Just kept walking. Reckon it must've still been cold out but I couldn't feel it meself. Couldn't feel anything.

~.O.~

Station was barely warmer than it was out of doors, but I was well pleased to get inside, even if it meant spending my valuable time in the company of a half dozen of London's finest drunks and deviants.

And Ken Tarbell, our skipper. Quiet bloke. Sometimes I reckoned we ought to check for a pulse.

Just my luck to find out he wasn't always so quiet.

"To save us all from Satan's power

When we were gone astray -"

He stopped singing soon as he saw me.

"Evening, Guv. Didn't think you'd be here tonight."

"Well, I am."

"Only it's Christmas Eve, see - "

"Yes, thank you, Tarbell, I've read the bloody calendar!"

Went right past him, straight to my office. Had a lot to sort out, and wasn't going be needing any musical accompaniment to do it.

~.O.~

Only it wasn't just the work brought me back to my kingdom. Didn't plan to go home, end of. I knew well enough what would happen soon as I tried to get a bit of kip.

Dreams. Same bloody dreams.

Sometimes it was explosions, only it wasn't the IRA; it was someone I'd never even heard of. And it wasn't always our lads dying, either. Still, they were coppers. Brothers.

Other times it was gunfire. Or a knife. Or the end of a rope. Or a rooftop. That one was the worst, I reckoned.

So that's what you couldn't tell me, Sammy Boy.

I couldn't save any of them, either. Couldn't stop Chris Skelton going round that corner, or Shazzer trying to nick some toerag, or Ray topping himself, or Sam doing the same.

And Bolly...

Night after night I'd watched that bastard march her off to do God knew what, and Alex crying and talking at the same time - bloody woman could be counted on to do that, couldn't she, but it hadn't saved her.

And neither would I, end of.

~.O.~

Poured myself a measure, knocked it back, then had a look at the desk. Covered with files. Covered with rubbish.

I picked up Holbrooke's file on the assault, tossed it aside. That newsagent was spending Christmas Eve in hospital, and we'd probably never find the bastards who'd put him there.

Or that bloke who'd killed his stepdaughter. Or the toerags who beat Squires to death.

What was it all for? What was it all bloody for?

Poured meself some more scotch, and the next thing I remembered I was waking up from a kip on the desk. It was the footsteps did it.

Knew that walk right off. And the voice.

"Hello, Guv."

To be continued...

~.O.~

Author's Notes:

Musical references:

First song hated by the guv: "The Fairy Tale of New York" by Kirsty MacColl and the Pogues.

Second song hated by the guv: "Lady in Red" by Chris DeBurgh, which was of course referenced by Alex Drake in episode one of Ashes to Ashes.

"Don't Give Up" was recorded by Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush.

Lyrics to "Masters in This Hall" are by William Morris.

Lyrics to "The Parting Glass" are traditional, and I've used a composite of several versions.

Lyrics to "Ding Dong! Merrily on High" are by George Ratcliffe Woodward.

"We'll Meet Again" is by Ross Parker and Hugh Charles.

Tarbell is singing "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" the traditional song that also makes an appearance in A Christmas Carol.

~.O.~

Chapters 2 and 3 to follow shortly.