Disclaimer: I should have said at the beginning of Chapter 1 - I don't own Ashes to Ashes, which belongs to BBC, Kudos and Monastic, nor do I own Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol!

Thank you so much to all the kind people who have read and reviewed Stave 1. I never thought this little story would receive so much attention! I hope you all enjoy Stave II - please keep the reviews and feedback coming in.

Especial thanks to Igiveup for the idea about the press cutting and to my mother for the information about Christmas in wartime.

In spite of himself, Gene felt tears prickling behind his eyes.

"Hello, Guv." Sam held out his hand, and Gene stepped forward, hesitantly, to take it.

"Sammy-boy. Been too long." His voice was choked with emotion. "Everything's gone wrong since you went."

"Sorry, Guv," said Sam sadly. He was looking past Gene at the press cutting, with his photograph, pinned to the notice board. "May I? I haven't seen this."

"Well, of course you' aven't, you daft twallop, it's the report of your death an' your obituary!"

Sam walked over to the board and stood there for a couple of minutes, reading the cutting. When he turned back to Gene, he was obviously deeply moved.

"The most loved man," he said softly. "You all thought that of me?"

"Of course we did," said Gene gruffly. "Do. Jackie Queen wrote that, but it's what we all thought an' still think."

"Nice of her. Of all of you." Sam was plainly skirting around the question he longed but dreaded to ask. "Guv, how's Annie?"

"Okay. She took it bad, of course. But she's a strong lass an' she's pulling through. I offered to bring 'er down 'ere with Ray an' Chris, but she didn't want to leave Manchester. You're still there, for 'er. I couldn't wait to get out of the place, once you an' the wife 'ad gone." Gene rubbed his eyes defiantly. "Bloody 'ell, Tyler, you daft bastard, what did you 'ave to go an' get yourself killed for?"

To his surprise, Sam took the question completely seriously. "I'm so sorry about that, Guv. Believe me, I didn't want to go, but I wasn't allowed to stay any longer. I left somewhere else rather abruptly to come to you, and I shouldn't have."

"Hyde?"

"You could say that."

"But all your transfer papers were in order."

"Sorry, we haven't time to go into that now. Maybe some other time. We mustn't stay here any longer, we've got a lot to do tonight."

"So you're the first of Mac's "three spirits"?" Gene waggled his fingers in a conscious imitation of Alex.

"That's right."

"Blimey, when 'e said they'd be known to me, I didn't expect you. 'Ope you're the one from Heaven?"

"Oh, yes. Don't worry about that."

"Bloody well 'ope so, too. Best bloke I've ever known."

Sam smiled, that old, winning smile. "Thanks, Guv. So, are you coming with me?"

Gene hesitated. He hadn't wanted to accept anything from Mac, hadn't wanted anything to do with his "spirits". He had intended to send the first spirit away. But he could not reject Sam. Whatever else the night entailed, it would be worth it to spend a few precious hours with his lost friend.

"Okay, I'm game. Where are we goin'?"

"It's Christmas. My assignment tonight is to take you back to the past."

"Our past?" Suddenly Gene felt a wave of nostalgia for the Christmas booze-ups in the Railway Arms.

"Your past."

Their surroundings melted away, and they were standing in a shabby but clean living room in a two-up, two-down house in one of the poorer quarters of Manchester. It was festooned with paper chains, and a medium-sized branch, decorated with old glass baubles and paper streamers, took pride of place in the centre of the room. Two fair-haired, blue-eyed boys, aged seven and five, were playing with a set of toy soldiers which were laid out in battle formation on the hearthrug.

"Stu..."

"Wartime," said Sam quietly. "1943. Times were hard."

"But Mam always made sure Stu an' me 'ad a good Christmas," said Gene warmly. "God knows 'ow she managed. There was next to no money, wi' Dad away."

"But you didn't need money to make a good Christmas, did you?" Sam said gently.

"Nah. See those soldiers? They'd belonged to Dad an' me uncle when they were kids. She found 'em in the attic an' gave 'em to us for Christmas. Stu an' me didn't care that they were old. We loved 'em. Played with 'em for years. Couldn't afford a Christmas tree, of course. Used to get a branch from the local park an' decorate it. Those tree decorations 'ad belonged to 'er Mam. Victorian, some of 'em. Made those paper chains ourselves," he added proudly. "Stu an' me used to spend weeks cutting old papers an' magazines into strips and glueing 'em together." He sighed. "Not the same now."

"I know what you mean, Guv," said Sam. Gene looked at him very hard. "Nobody uses paper chains any more," Sam continued innocently. "It's all tinsel and foil nowadays."

"Gotcha!" the seven-year-old boy crowed. "You'll 'ave to retreat now or you'll be surrounded!"

"Aw, Geeene..." the five-year-old wailed, but he obediently gathered up his soldiers and moved them to a different place on the hearthrug. "Why do I always 'ave to lose?"

"'Cos you're the Germans, an' the Germans always lose," young Gene retorted with unshakeable logic.

"But why must I always be the Germans?" young Stu pleaded.

''Cos I say so!"

Sam grinned. "You always had to win, even then."

"Yeah." Gene was gazing at the younger brother he had failed to save. A sweet-faced, delicate young woman came into the room.

"Mam! It's Mam, young again!" Gene held his arms out to her, as though to sweep her into a bear hug, then checked himself as she realised that she could not see him. Sam watched him without speaking. Gene rubbed his eyes. "Bit of grit," he muttered. "Hadn't remembered she used to be such a pretty lass."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. My mother was pretty, when she was young."

"Come on, you two!" Mrs Hunt called to her boys. "You can finish winning the war later. Your dinner's ready."

The two men followed the mother and her two excited children into the kitchen. Gene surveyed the festive table, where his mother was carving a very small chicken.

"Mam used to save 'er ration points to give us a good Christmas dinner. We were too young to realise she was goin' without for us. It was so 'ard to get the grub in wartime. Chicken was a luxury food, bloody expensive. That's why she could only afford such a little 'un. Look, you can see 'ow little she's puttin' on 'er plate, so we could eat our fill." He sniffed the air appreciatively. "Take a smell of that pud. Couldn't always get the fruit, but our greengrocer was a good bloke. Saved it for mums with young kids at this time of year, so's they'd 'ave their Christmas pudding."

"Hard times, but good times," said Sam softly.

"Yeah." Gene swiped fiercely at his eyes. "Poor kids. Poor bloody kids. Didn't know what was going to 'appen to 'em."

Their surroundings changed, and they were in the living room again. The two boys, now three years older, were playing cowboys and indians, prancing gleefully around the Christmas tree, or rather branch, when the door flew open and a big, heavy-set man stumbled into the room, reeling drunk. The boys were instantly silent and cowered away.

"Bastard," Gene snarled. "Pissed as usual."

"He hadn't always been like that, though, had he?" said Sam.

"No. 'E'd been a POW. In Singapore. Changi. Christ knows what 'e'd been through. Never talked about it. No counselling bollocks then. Bottle it up or take to the bottle. You know which 'e did."

"Told y' before 'bout makin' a noise when I'm tryin' to sleep!" Gene's father roared, staggering forward. His flailing arm caught the Christmas tree and knocked it to the ground, and he crushed the delicate glass decorations beneath his boots. Stu took one look at their ruined beauty and began to cry.

"CRYIN"?" their father roared. "No Hunt cries. You're not mine. Li'l bashtard. Come 'ere." Stu shrank away in terror, and young Gene quickly pushed his brother behind him.

"Leave 'im alone!" After all those years, the adult Gene could not fathom how his younger self could have found the desperate courage to confront his father.

"Y'WHAT?" His father lurched and steadied himself. "Y'dare defy me?" Slowly and deliberately, he took off his belt and looped in his hand with the buckle dangling. "My room. Now."

"No, Rob." All three turned to see Gene's mother standing in the doorway, trembling but resolute. "It's Christmas Day. Let them have their Christmas."

"You?" Gene's father swung round, almost falling as he did so. "I'll give y' Chrishtmas!" He pushed her sideways, hard, and she crashed headfirst into the doorframe and fell with a moan. He staggered out of the room and the two boys ran to her. Young Gene turned her over. She was unconscious and bleeding at the forehead.

Stu sobbed hysterically. "Mam! Mam! Oh, Gene, she isn't gonna die, is she?"

Young Gene had already pulled a none-too-clean handkerchief from his sleeve and wadded it against the wound, but almost at once it was drenched in blood.

"No, of course she isn't gonna die." He was struggling to keep the shrillness of terror from his voice. "I'm gonna get Ma. She'll 'elp 'er. You stay 'ere. I won't be long. Cover 'er over wi' that rug, she needs to keep warm." He leapt to his feet and raced out of the house and down the road, his small legs shaking with fear. Only adrenaline kept him going.

Outside a house in the next street, a fair-haired boy, around ten years old, was kicking a football around. He looked up as young Gene ran up. "Gene? What's up, cowboy?"

Young Gene had totally forgotten the cowboy hat, belt and holster, that day's gifts from his mother, which he was still wearing. "Ray, is your Mam at 'ome?"

"'Course. Where else would she be on Christmas Day?"

"Mam's 'ad an accident. Can she come an' elp?"

Ray banged on the door. "Mam! It's Gene. Mrs Hunt's 'ad an accident!"

After a short wait, the door was opened by a stout, motherly lady. "Wass' all this?"

"Sorry to disturb you, Ma. It's me Mam, she slipped an' fell while she was getting dinner, an' she's 'urt 'er 'ead," young Gene panted. "She's bleeding. Please can you come an' elp?"

"'Course I will. Wait there." She went back inside and returned wearing her coat and hat, and carrying a small medical case. "You stay 'ere, young Ray. Dinner won't be ready for an hour, an' I'll be back by then."

"Yes, Mam."

Gene and Sam watched as his younger self fairly dragged her back to his house. "Good old Ma Carling," said Gene warmly. "Always there to 'elp us when times were bad. She'd been a nurse during the war. I lost count of the number of time she patched Mam an' us up after Dad 'ad been free with 'is fists. She was one of the few people who'd stand up to 'im."

Ma took in the wrecked tree, smashed decorations and discarded toys with a brief glance which said volumes, before kneeling beside Gene's mother. "Gene, get a bowl of water an' a towel. Now, then, Jennie lass, what 'ave you been doing to yourself?"

Gene's mother had recovered consciousness and was moaning softly. "Slipped…"

"Fell over the Christmas tree, did ya?" said Ma sceptically as she sponged the younger woman's forehead.

"No… dropped some fat…doorframe…"

"There, there, love, you stay quiet an' I'll see to you."

Gene's mother tried to rise. "The dinner! It's nearly ready - it'll burn - he'll kill me - "

Ma gently pushed her down. "No, 'e won't. 'E's gone out. Best place for 'im. Gene, go an' check." Young Gene nodded and slipped out of the room. A couple of minutes later he returned.

"Dad's gone out. Chicken an' potatoes are done. I've turned the heat out an' left 'em in the oven."

"Thass' good boy," said Ma absently. "Jennie, this needs a stitch or two. I should take you to 'ospital."

"No!" Gene's mother whimpered. "They'll ask how it 'appened - "

"You should tell 'em," said Ma firmly.

"No - can't - "

Ma looked very serious. "I can do it, but it'll 'urt."

Gene's mother flinched for a moment. "Go ahead."

Ma looked up. "Gene, take Stu out to the kitchen an' be laying the table. I'll be with you soon." Young Gene nodded, took the sobbing, hiccoughing Stu by the hand, and led him out. They concentrated grimly on laying the table, trying to ignore the whimpers of pain from next door. At last Ma appeared in the doorway.

"Good lads. I've patched up your Mam an' given 'er something to make 'er sleep. She's lyin' on the sofa. Thass' what she needs right now. I'll dish up your dinner an' get back 'ome. Your Mam can eat hers when she wakes up. Your Dad'll be out 'til closing time if I know 'im," she added with bitter contempt.

She got the chicken and potatoes out of the oven and served the two boys. "There you go. I'd best be getting 'ome, or my Jim an' Ray'll go 'ungry. I'll be back later to check on your Mam."

"Thanks for everything, Ma," young Gene said gratefully.

"What're neighbours for, lad? Come round to ours after you've eaten if you want. Ray'll give you a game of football." She patted their heads and was gone. The two boys exchanged glances, sat at the table, and fell to. They were ravenous.

Sam had been watching Gene closely while all this had been happening. He had been trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal his emotion, clenching and unclenching his fists, and at last he had to turn away and swipe his sleeve across his eyes.

"Not much of a Christmas for any of you," Sam said quietly.

"Mam never told anyone what 'e did, y' know," Gene muttered. "Never. Didn't want to be disloyal. Remembered what Dad 'ad been like before the war an'still loved that bit of 'im. Didn't stop everyone knowing, of course, but she'd never say. Don't know what we'd 'ave done if it 'adn't been for Ma." He looked painfully at Sam. "That's why I let Ray off with a demotion over Billy Kemble. Ma was still alive then. She was so proud of 'im. It'd 'ave killed 'er to know 'er boy 'ad been responsible for a cell death." He looked, almost pleadingly, at Sam. "You - you do understand, don't you?"

"Yes," Sam replied softly. "There are a lot of things I understand now. Let's see another Christmas."

The homely kitchen vanished, and they were standing outside the side entrance to a Manchester dance hall on a cold, raw night. As they watched, a young couple tumbled, laughing, out of the side door and the man pushed the girl against the wall and proceeded to snog her face off. He was twenty-five, golden-haired and arrogantly handsome.

"Gerroff, Gene!" The girl swatted his hand away from her skirt. "No funny business wi' me, I'm a 'spectable girl. What did you bring me out 'ere for? It's freezing! Let's go back inside."

"In a minute, Liz." His blue eyes were blazing with excitement. "Got something I want to tell you. Can't do it inside. Too noisy."

"Are you drunk?" said Liz suspiciously.

"No, no, promise I'm not. Word of a copper." He raised his right hand as though making an oath in court, and Liz rolled her eyes. "Want you to be the first to know. 'Aven't even told Mam yet. I've been promoted. Detective Sergeant. Effective from yesterday."

"Oh, Gene! I'm so proud of you."

"Means more money. Means I can get a mortgage."

"What're you talking about?"

"Want you to be my Christmas present. Want to ask you to marry me, Liz."

"Oh, Gene - "

"Listen, love. Want to make sure you know what you'd be taking on. Policing isn't a nine-to-five job. It's dangerous an' the hours 're long. I'll 'ave to work shifts, an' I'll 'ave to go out at any time if I'm needed on a case. It won't be easy for you. You'd be marryin' the job as well as me. But I know it's what I've got to do with my life. Will you take me on, Liz? Will you marry me?"

"Oh, yes, I will, Gene! I will!" She fell into his arms and they kissed passionately before she dragged him back inside.

"Fair play to you, you did warn her what it would involve," said Sam gently.

"Yeah." Gene stared ahead blankly. "I did love 'er, you know. An' she loved me. All my fault. I put the bloody job first too often."

Their surroundings changed again, and they were in a living room which Gene remembered well. It was decorated with crepe paper streamers and a small, scrubby Christmas tree. Liz, eighteen years older and blowsier, sat in an an armchair, chainsmoking and staring at the TV. An open bottle of red wine and a glass stood on the coffee table. They heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock and the front door opening, and Gene saw his younger self lurch into the living room. Liz leapt to her feet.

"You bastard! What sort of bloody time do you call this?" she screeched, and he cowered as her shrill tones seemed to drill into his aching skull.

"Sorry, love. Sorry." He steadied himself, and through the alcohol his eyes were full of grief and pain. "Found a li'l kiddy dead s'morning off Princess Street. Been raped an' murdered. 'Ad to tell 'er mum an' dad. All 'er presents round the Christmas tree, waitin' for 'er to come home an' open 'em. 'Er stocking 'anging up by the fire. 'Er mum collapsed when we told 'er. 'Ad to get 'er dad to identify the body. At Christmas. Who'd do that to a kid at Christmas, eh? Four years old. Four bloody years old."

"You're pissed," Liz snarled.

The younger Gene waved his hand vaguely. "Sorry, Liz. Had to 'ave a drink. Couldn't take it any longer. Kept seeing that poor kid an' 'er mum's face when we told 'er."

"You bastard." Liz took a swipe at him, and he swayed out of the way, holding up his hands to defend himself. "You leave me alone all day on Christmas Day without even letting me know where you are or what you're doing, an' when you come 'ome, you're drunk an' you've brought your bloody work with you."

"Liz - "

"I've had enough of this, Gene! Your dinner was ready five hours ago. It's in the oven, burned to teak an' mahogany. You can help yourself. I'm off out. Martha's promised me a drink."

She gave him a shove as she stormed out of the room, and he lurched sideways, stumbled, and landed in an armchair. A minute later the front door slammed and he buried his face in his hands.

Gene stood looking at the bowed form of his younger self. "Martha. She was the woman Liz left me for. She's right. I was a bastard to 'er, all those years."

"She just didn't realise what she was taking on," Sam said sadly. "She was twenty-three when she married you. Too young to understand what this job does to a man. How it eats into the soul. You and she might not have drifted apart as you did, if she'd accepted that."

"It wasn't just that," said Gene savagely. "You know. You were there. I came 'ome drunk most of the time, an' it wasn't always because of the job. All those one night stands. God knows 'ow she stood it as long as she did. Christ, Sam, I was turning into my dad."

"No, you weren't!" Gene was shocked to hear Sam speak with such force. "Never let me hear you say that. Don't even think it. In all the time I knew you, you never lifted a finger in violence against a woman or a child, and I know you never will."

"No. But there are other ways to 'urt people." Gene remembered, as he did all too often, the pain in a pair of beloved hazel eyes.

The living room melted away and they were standing on the stairs leading down into Luigi's, looking down at the throng below. The restaurant was all but smothered in decorations, and a huge banner over the bar proclaimed BUON NATALE!. A Christmas party was in full swing. The tables had been pushed back to create a small dance floor and the whole of CID were jam packed into the space. The volume of the music was already above the level of pain. Gene caught sight of his younger self, dancing with Alex in the centre of the throng.

"So here it is, merry Christmas

Everybody's having fun

Look to the future now

It's only just begun…"

The song ended amid a storm of cheering and the dancers stopped while Chris fumbled for the next tape. Alex glanced up and found that she and Gene were directly beneath a large bunch of mistletoe. Their eyes met. They didn't dare kiss, with everyone looking, but the burning glance that passed between them said a thousand words.

"Happy days again," said Sam, leaning on the banister.

"Yeah." Gene was watching his younger self and Alex. That had been the first Christmas after she had joined the team. The look in her eyes at that moment had been something that he had cherished in secret for months. Until it had all gone wrong.

The party vanished, and they were standing in a hospital corridor. A few tawdry decorations did their best to relieve the grim, utilitarian nature of the place. Gene's younger self sat in a plastic chair, his coat wrapped around him, huddled in misery. His face was that of an old man.

"Last Christmas? No, Sam, no!" Gene's voice sounded close to panic. "I do not want to see this again!"

"Sorry, Guv," said Sam sadly.

A nurse emerged from a side ward and addressed the younger Gene.

"She'll see you now, Mr Hunt, but I can't allow you to stay for long. I have to warn you that she is still very weak, and it is imperative that you don't upset her in any way."

"D'you think my seeing 'er will upset 'er?" the younger Gene said anxiously.

"I have to tell you that she has been very confused and distressed, ever since she came round from her coma. She calmed herself enough to speak to the investigating officers who came here, but she has spent a lot of the time crying and talking about someone called Molly. I asked her if we could fetch Molly for her, and she said, "No, you can't. Molly's not here." Do you know where she is?"

"No, I don't."

"That's a pity. It might have helped her. You can see her for five minutes. No longer."

The younger Gene nodded, rose, squared his shoulders resolutely and walked into the room. Alex lay, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. He sat in the chair beside the bed.

"Bolly?"

No answer.

"Well, Bols, I know you won't want to speak to me after what I said, an' after I've proved what a bloody awful shot I am, but I've asked the nurses to let me see you, so's I can give you back your warrant card." He took it from his breast pocket, where it had rested, next to his heart, ever since he had left his office that fateful morning, and slipped it into her limp hand where it lay on the coverlet. "Never should 'ave taken it from you in the first place, but of course you know that. An' I want to thank you for telling the investigating officers it was an accident. More than I bloody deserve. They've dropped all charges an' I'm back at Fenchurch East, thanks to you. We'll 'ave a Discipline an' Complaints Officer on our backs from now on, but the team'll stay together. We're all grateful for that. Ray's Acting DI, an' e's not doin' badly, keeps saying 'ow much 'e's learned from you. He an' the rest of the team send their love, an' they'll be round to see you when you're allowed more visitors. We're all waiting 'til you can be back at your desk again, confusing the lot of us with more psychowattery. Won't be long, the doctors say you're doin' well."

His voice was growing higher with nervousness. Alex had not moved or responded in any way to his presence. He cleared his throat and continued, "An' I want to say 'ow sorry I am for everything. Not just for shooting you. For not trusting you, an' thinking you were corrupt, an' suspending you, an' all the things I said. I'm sorry, Bols, so sorry. Want to take it all back. You didn't 'it me 'ard enough." He hesitated, and went on, "Don't think I'd 'ave got so mad, wouldn't 'ave said those things, if - if I 'adn't thought you cared. That we 'ad a connection. I know now, I was the one that broke it, not you. Don't know if you'll ever be able to forgive me, but I'm asking you to try an' think about it, when you can." His voice dropped lower; he was almost talking to himself now. "I'd give anything, anything on this bloody planet to 'ave things back the way they were, wi' you an' me sitting in Luigi's, setting the world to rights over a bottle of 'ouse rubbish. Some of the best times of my life. I've hoped for so long that it could be more than that. That - that we could be more to each other. Sometimes I've even thought you might feel that way, too. That I might mean something to you. Don't know if I still do, of course. Or ever did. But when you're out of 'ere, I'll let you walk all over me in your pointiest, perviest 'igh 'eels if only you'll give me another chance."

Silence.

"Well, er, the nurses are only letting me see you for a few minutes, so I'll be off now. Thanks for 'earing me out. Get better soon, an' I'll see you back at CID. Unless you let me come back an' see you again first. 'Bye, Bols."

He rose from the chair and turned to leave.

"Gene."

"Bols?" He sat down again. She was still staring at the ceiling, and her voice was a wail of pain. But at least she was speaking to him.

"Gene, why am I here?"

"You're 'ere because I'm a bum shot," he said briskly. "If I'd fired two inches to the right I'd 'ave missed, an' the Doc says if I'd 'it you two inches to the left you'd 'ave been giving the angels lessons in psychiatry."

It was the one and only time that she did not correct his deliberate mistake. "No. Why am I here? In this place? This world?"

She was frightening him, but he remembered what the nurse had said about her being distressed. More bollocks about being from the future. "Because this is where you're meant to be. Where we all need you an' lo - "

"No, Gene, no, you don't understand. I'm not meant to be here. I'd got back home. She was there. Molly was there. I even held her in my arms once, just once. Then I saw you, and I collapsed, and I was back here. I know now, it wasn't real. Just another hallucination. A coma within a coma. Why can't I go home, Gene, why?"

"Easy, love. I'll call the nurse."

"I shouldn't be here! I don't want to be here!" she howled. "I've never wanted to be here! I don't want you! I don't want any of you! I want to go home!"

The nurse rushed in. "Mr Hunt, I must ask you to leave at once."

He rose and backed towards the door, unwilling to leave without a goodbye but not knowing what he could say. Alex's voice was a horrible, animal-like, keening moan which chilled his blood.

"I don't want you, Gene! I've never wanted you! You suspended me! You shot me! You took me away from my little girl! You think I'm cold. You're right, I am. I hate this place! I hate you! Get out of my sight! I DON'T WANT YOU!"

His heart broke at that moment. He was convinced that he had heard it snap in half inside his chest. If the medics were to open him up, they would find it there, in two neat pieces, like a plate which had been dropped in Luigi's kitchen, broken beyond repair.

He stumbled away down the corridor, out of the entrance, pushed roughly through the carol singers in the forecourt who were collecting for hospital charities, and did not stop until he got into the Quattro, slammed the door, hid his face in his hands and sagged over the steering wheel.

Sam laid a hand on Gene's shoulder as he watched his younger self, reliving all the agony of that moment. She didn't want him. She had never wanted him. She hated him. All the hopes and dreams he had allowed himself to treasure for the past seventeen months had withered and died then, leaving his heart the empty, dry, bitter thing it had been ever since. He had wept, hating himself for his weakness, and when he had shed all his tears, he had raised his head and looked out at the world with different eyes. He had been stupid enough to allow himself to love a mad, heartless bitch. He would have given his life for her. He had even risked telling her how he felt about her. But he was damned if he would allow her to know how deeply she had wounded him. Her rejection would not destroy him. It would make him stronger. From now on he would close and bar his heart to all the world. It was the only way.

"This is why you hate Christmas, isn't it, Guv?" Sam said softly. Gene shrugged his hand away.

"Why, Sam? Why are you doing this to me?"

Suddenly they were back in his office, at night. It seemed to him as though they had been away for an unimaginably long time. If he had looked in a mirror at that moment, he would have expected to have seen his reflection aged by many years.

"I'm sorry, Guv," said Sam gently. "It had to be done. You have to see what has made you the man you are, before you have any hope of being able to change the man you will be."

Gene was about to ask another question, but the church clock outside began to strike.

"Midnight," said Sam, looking at his watch. "Sorry, Guv, I have to go."

Gene felt gripped by panic and despair. "Don't leave me, Sam!"

Sam smiled sadly. "Sorry, Guv. No choice." He turned to go.

"Just tell me, Sam. Will I ever see you again?"

Sam turned back to him. "That depends on what you do now. Goodbye, Guv. Good luck." He turned away and walked through the closed door.

"SAM!"

Gene saw him just once more through the glass, looking back to wave his farewell. Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness as the last chime sounded.

Gene leaned against his desk and took a welcome swig from the glass of whisky which still stood there. Had it all been a dream? Had Sam and Mac really been there?

Mac said three spririts. Maybe I woke up before the other two. I've been seeing things. Too much Scotch.

But the smell which pervaded his office was certainly not Scotch. He sniffed appreciatively, and his nostrils analysed it as a delicious and particularly potent punch. Red wine, white wine, Jamaica rum, a dash of Scotch, orange juice, apple juice, pineapple juice, and enough fruit for a market stall. Tastes like a soft drink, but two glasses and you're anybody's.

He followed his nose to the kitchen, where he found someone standing with his back to the door, cheerfully slicing fruit and humming God rest you merry gentlemen. Only one person could ever match that hairdo with that taste in shirts. The punch-maker turned to face him and broke into a broad grin.

"Merry Christmas, mon brave!"

TBC