A Modern Christmas Carol

He didn't miss the suspicious, slightly fearful look she gave him as she entered the bedroom.

He quickly turned the heating up and set about boiling the kettle - wasn't soup traditional for people with hypothermia? He discarded his body armour and equipment in a heap as he went, luxuriating in his sudden feeling of weightlessness.

She emerged a few minutes later and he felt his heart lurch - she was much more than pretty - she was absolutely gorgeous. Her newly dried hair stuck out spikily from her head and, in the dim lights of the flat, her eyes positively glowed, sparkling mischievously.

But more than this, his old shirt appeared to have undergone some strange, sexual metamorphosis. As if designed to do exactly this it clung to Anya's tits, highlighting her erect nipples, and her ass; but concealed the rest of her body in an utterly sexual way - offering tantalising hints of her shapeliness every time she moved.

It was also very short and her creamy thighs emerged from the scalloped edges far more sexily than they ever had from her Santa outfit.

Chris realised he'd forgotten to breathe.

Apparently innocent of the effect she was having on him, Anya drifted barefoot about his flat, looking with interest at everything. She picked up a photo of him receiving a commendation, in full dress uniform.

"Special award?" She asked.

"I got that for almost getting knifed," he said, and immediately wished he hadn't. Idiot! What a come on...look at the Neanderthal!

"Oh," she put it back. "There are no decorations, no special people photographs? No family?"

"Uh...no," he said. "I suppose not." Who would see them, anyway?

Now that she mentioned it, though, he could see how devoid of life his flat had become. Soulless, that was the word. A reflection of him, perhaps: empty of warmth, unattached, uncommitted - neutral. He hadn't realised how used to being alone he had become, until now.

Fuck, that was a bit depressing. He went back to making her soup.

Maybe Mike was right, he thought. Maybe it was time to commit to something in life beyond the Job. If he was going to change, this was certainly the night for it. It was Christmas Eve after all...no, Christmas morning now...three thirty am, in fact. Perhaps it could happen for him?

As if reading his mind, Anya turned to him.

"I'm cold, Chris," she said, her head tilting sexily to the side as she spoke.

"Uh...there's a dressing gown...hold on..."

"Chris," he stopped. She sat on the edge of the sofa, hugging herself vulnerably. "Would you hold me, please?"

For a moment he paused, if giving his name felt like crossing a boundary, what the hell was this? Eventually, breathlessly, he crossed to her side, taking her in his arms and pulling her to him - her skin still felt cold to the touch. She leaned into his arms willingly, contentedly - snuggling about until she sat across his lap, her bare legs crooked over his thighs, body partially turned towards him, her head pressed against his chest.

She sighed, peacefully.

"Thank you," she whispered, not looking at him. "You make me feel safe."

Oh, shit. Now what?

For the longest while they sat still, the warmth of their bodies mingling, contented - neither daring to move lest they shatter the moment. He felt her breathing against him, her chest rising and falling gently. Every now and then she would shift about, snuggling tighter to him on each occasion. After a while he realised that she was asleep.

Later, Chris realised what that funny feeling was...he was happy.

"Lima X-ray Three, Lima X-ray."

"Go on," he whispered.

"Uh...you okay, Sarge?"

"Yes, yes...what you got?"

Anya stirred on his lap, making sleepy noises.

"You free for a sudden death, Sarge? We need a supervisor."

"Yes, yes. Where am I going?"

He felt her stir against his chest. Silently cursed the control room.

"Clapham Park Estate."

"Noted. On my way."

Gently so as not to wake her, he carried Anya to the bedroom, tucking her into the warmth of his duvet. Before leaving he scribbled a short note, leaving it next to the bed, and turned the heating up again.

******

Snow was falling steadily by the time he reached the Clapham Park Estate, transforming the grimy streets of South London into something almost magical. The streets were entirely deserted now, his only company pilgrims from amongst his colleagues and the occasional itinerant ambulance.

Clapham Park Estate was a toilet. It had always depressed him, even by comparison with the other shitholes around Lambeth. It seemed to personalise the decay, the neglect in a way the other estates never managed. The buildings themselves suffered from some kind of concrete cancer and, in the snow, resembled nothing so much as survivors from a war nobody remembered: the walls pockmarked with forgotten shell craters, scattered with unmarked bullet holes. Every time he came, he imagined himself in Beirut.

He met Alex, the constable on scene, in the hallway outside the flat - surrounded by the acrid smell of urine and the arcane glyphs of youth graffiti, a confetti of glass scattered along the concrete walkway.

"Hey Alex, what we got?"

"Hi Sarge," he said, scribbling his name in his pocket book. "Male, early forties. Suicide. Hung himself in the lounge."

"Any family?"

"None that we can find. Lived alone. Guess it's the season for it...more suicides at Christmas than any other time of year."

"That's a myth." he said. He tried not to sound too earnest.

Finally he went inside. The flat was fairly typical. No carpet, stone tiles through the hall, peeling plaster walls. No doors. That always baffled him; the flats of his clientele seldom had internal doors, where did all the doors go? What did they do with them?

He moved into the lounge. A gangrenous sofa lay slumped against the near wall, a big TV in the far corner, a potted plant scattered with cigarette ash, mismatched table and chairs accessorized with a plastic cloth. In the centre of the room a chair lay overturned - probably where chummy had stood to fix the ligature. It stank, but probably no worse than it had when he was alive.

The man lay on the floor where he had fallen after the belt had been cut, his skin the waxy perfection of a too good manikin. As with all dead bodies, this one seemed to continue to exert a presence in the room long after everything he was had departed.

Chris always found it strange being around dead bodies. His mind seemed to have difficulty reconciling the idea that this was a human being with such utter stillness, he always ended up looking back to make sure it hadn't moved.

Reluctantly he knelt over him: a quick look at the exposed hands, face. There didn't seem to be any defensive marks on him, no sign of a struggle, nothing suspicious. Suicide.

There were no family pictures, no Christmas decorations, no sign that the man had any attachment to anyone or anything else. Had he just failed to commit, Chris wondered. Had he succeeded in keeping everyone at bay? He felt himself shiver and his thoughts turned to Anya with a sudden anxious desperation. Was it too late for him? Would he return to find her gone?

"Good evening, sergeant. Merry Christmas," he looked up, Doctor Hale, the on-call examiner strolled in, his dark overcoat buttoned high about his flabby neck, a few wet slivers of sandy hair plastered to his balding pate.

"Uh...yeah, I mean, Merry Christmas to you too, Doc."

"Anything suspicious?"

"Not that I can see. Straightforward hanging."

"Hmmm, he fits the profile." The doctor crouched near the body, examining the neck.

"What?" Chris asked.

"Hanging," Hale said. "If you happen to be a man in your forties who decides to kill yourself, you're more likely to do it by hanging than any other method."

"Right," he said. "Happen a lot, does it?"

The doctor looked at him from under his brows. "What do you think?"

But he knew the answer to that already. He looked around the flat noting its utter blandness, its neutrality. Dear God, was he so different to this poor devil? He would be forty in only three years. Christ. His blood was ice, he suddenly felt sick.

No, things could change! It was six o'clock on Christmas morning, wasn't this the time for redemption? He would change: it wasn't too late.

Anya. Anya needed him, he could help her, he could commit to something. He wasn't going to end up like this, no fucking way. For the first time in years he felt his eyes fill with tears -- he hadn't even cried when Jo had left - and he had to retreat to the flat's kitchen while he got a grip on himself.

******

At the end of his shift, infected with a fragile, febrile euphoria, a sense of momentum, a feeling that time was important somehow, he went home via Tooting High Street. There, near the junction with Garrat Lane he found his turkey emporium: pre-packaged, vacuum packed with no more than ten per-cent added water. And available at seven-thirty on Christmas Day. Who said that tinned potatoes and carrots wouldn't make a great Christmas dinner?

As he approached his flat his heart was hammering in his chest, a strange anxiety clutching at him. What if she'd gone? What if he was too late?

Somewhere he could hear his cynical voice whispering, eroding his confidence, playing on his insecurity - telling him that he had left a Russian prostitute alone in his flat. Telling him she wasn't going to be there...she was long gone. With his money, his clothes -- probably sell them for drugs.

He choked it off.

The snow had coated the area about the flats in a thick, white layer - untouched by the passing of either people or vehicles. Although a number of adjacent flats had lights on, those with children he guessed, there was no light on in his flat as he approached.

He stood before the door, water dripping onto the oatmeal carpet of the communal landing. Feeling tense, he slotted the key into the door and entered his darkened flat. It was warm from the heating and there was an unidentifiable scent in the air.

Of Anya there was no sign.

Slowly, nervous now, he opened the door to his bedroom. The bed was empty, freshly made, no evidence that anybody had recently slept in it. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to call out, felt despair settling onto him like a shroud -- sapping him.

His cynical voice returned: stronger now -- mocking, defensive - protecting. He could hide behind those barriers, that cynicism -- nothing could reach him there. He had learnt that after Jo left him. Nothing.

As if in a dream he found himself before the lounge door. For a long while he stood still, listening to his breath, feeling the weight of the bags in his hands, examining the brush strokes in the paint on the thick door ahead of him. Time stopped.

Schrodinger's cat. That's what this was. If he opened the door and she was there he would live, would change, would take down the barriers. If he opened it and she was gone he knew that he wouldn't have the strength. Thing was, until he opened the door, he didn't know -- he existed in a kind of limbo, delicately balanced between life and death.

He stared at the door.

Was he more likely to hang himself when the time came? Didn't seem like a good way to go.

He stared at the door.

What would Mike say if he called him for help -- this morning, now? Would he come?

He stared at the door.

Oh, shit.

He pushed it open.

The lounge glowed with lights of crimson and green, a string of Christmas lights stretched across his TV and over his easy chair. On the windowsill a vase held a small branch of someone's Christmas tree, a pair of multi-coloured baubles dangling brightly from it. Several short lengths of tinsel hung from the odd pictures he had scattered about the room. In the middle of it all stood Anya, her dark hair freshly washed, her blue eyes sparkling, wearing his dressing gown.

"Hey, Christmas," she said, a little shyly. "I was waiting for you."

His heart lurched shockingly in his chest, tears stinging his eyes.

"Hey, Rudolph," he said, a massive smile lighting his face, water on his cheeks. His heart was hammering in his chest. "How did you? Where did?" He gestured happily at the decorated room.

"I see your neighbours, ask for help...it's okay, yes?"

"It's fabulous," he said, tension slipping from him, remembering to breathe. "I got lunch."

He held up the striped plastic bags from the Spar.

She laughed then, a warm musical sound and he joined in, a little hysterical at the edges.

Then, suddenly serious, a little shy now. "I want you to know...I was hoping you'd be here...I was looking forward to seeing you..."

"Good," she whispered, a sexy smile lighting her face, her voice a little hoarse. She stepped towards him.

With every step he felt the tension between them rise, felt the warmth of desire stir his cock. In three small steps she stood almost toe to toe with him, looking up at him with those big, blue eyes.

"I look forward to seeing you, too," she said, blushing then, dropping her eyes "Perhaps you like to unwrap present?"

Slowly she untied the gown, letting it slip from her to puddle at her feet. She stood naked before him. Chris forgot to breathe. His mind was racing, unable to focus, his heart hammering, beating madly against his chest. But, where his mind failed, his body took over and, unbidden, he felt his cock pressing against his trousers with iron urgency.

My God, she was beautiful: her skin alabaster; her tits small, firm, nipples pink, hard. His eyes dropped lower, sliding over her flat belly, her neat pubic hair, dark against her pale skin, her long legs - slender, shapely.

She smiled at him sexily, shyly. "You like?"

"Yes...yes I like, very much."

"Good. My turn now."

She stood on tiptoe, sliding her arms around his neck, pulling him down. Her pink lips opened and she kissed him. Softly, almost tentatively at first, then with growing hunger, her tongue flicking into his mouth like a frightened bird. He felt her hands gripping his hair, pulling him and the last barriers of his past fell away, his fears melting in the heat of her need, his need.

Unnoticed he dropped the shopping to the floor, the bags spilling open, tins rolling across the floor. His hands slipped around her body, caressing her warm, soft skin - crushing her to him with a hunger born of desperation.

Her hands tugged the zip at the neck of his tee shirt and he quickly pulled it over his head, discarding it on the floor. Her lips slipped to his exposed torso, her tongue flicking hotly over his skin.

"Mmm, that feels nice," he whispered, his hand stroking her hair.

He felt her hands slide to his trousers, rubbing against his bulging cock and he groaned - pleasure spiking through him with a sudden intensity. She smiled coyly up at him, her delicate hands on his belt.

In moments she had his trousers undone and then pulled them and his boxer shorts to his ankles, dropping like a supplicant to her knees before him. His cock sprang free, to stand poised above her. With a sexy smile on her face, she reached up and grasped his cock in her fine-fingered hand, languidly stroking it back and forth, gradually drawing his foreskin over the head.

Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she slipped her mouth over the end of his cock, taking just the head into her mouth, all the while her blue, blue eyes staring straight into his.

"Oh, my God...that feels so good..." he said.

Her hand continued stroking his cock, massaging it, her tongue lapping around his sensitive head - drawing a soft moan of pleasure from him. Slowly, surely she took more of his cock into her mouth, her hand stroking his balls, one clutching his ass, holding him steady as she worked him with her mouth.

"Oh, yes...fuck, that's good...oh, my God..."

He heard her slurping, her cheeks alternately puffing out and sucking in as his cock disappeared into and reappeared from her mouth, her head bobbing cutely up and down. For a moment she withdrew, saliva stringing between his cock and her chin.

"Jaw ache," she said.

Then she slipped his cock back into her mouth and it was as if someone had kindled a fire in his loins, the heat of lust sweeping through his body.

"Oh, God...Anya, yes...oh...that's good..."

He couldn't remember the last time someone else had made him cum - not seven years, surely? But he knew he couldn't last much longer. Her mouth was hot and wet against his cock, her head so sexy - plunging up and down. The feel of her wet tongue stroking his length, slurping his head like a lollipop - all the time her hand stroking him, matching her mouth, her tempo.

"Oh, God, I'm going to cum...Anya...I'm going to cum...oh, fuck..."

He looked down, met her eyes staring back up, saw her smile around his cock buried in her mouth. He grabbed her head, one hand against the wall for balance. Her tongue danced over his cock, her hand squeezing, stroking.

"Oh fuck...I'm cumming..."

His climax erupted from his balls, jet after jet of semen shooting into her mouth, his abdomen aching with the intensity. He leaned on the wall, his legs buckling, suddenly weak.

Kneeling before him, Anya struggled to swallow, her throat convulsing, swallowing reflexively - the excess semen dribbling from her mouth, to drop onto the floor, her tits - her hands milking him. All the time a sexy, secret little smile danced on her face.

He had to have her, he had to feel her body, he had to make her his.

Desperately he kicked his boots and trousers off, for a moment hopping madly on one leg, his trousers caught on his foot. All the while she knelt in front of him, smiling, waiting, his cum smeared across her lips. Then, naked he dropped to his knees in front of her, his lips seeking hers with the desperation of a drowning man, his tongue driving into her mouth with a passionate intensity.

She responded, clinging to him, her mouth grinding against his - tasting semen, liquid coating their chins, smearing un-regarded across their faces - all the while her tongue wild on his - her breathing and moaning into his mouth.

He pushed her unresisting down onto the carpet, lying next to her and above her. Urgently now his hands slid along her body, feeling the smoothness of her legs, her thighs, needing to touch her, to possess her.

Matching his need, unprompted, she opened her legs to his touch, inviting him, encouraging him. His hands slid along her smooth inner thighs to the humid flesh at the top and she moaned her encouragement to him breathlessly.

Gently - all the while his tongue flashing in her mouth, tasting her, the salty flavour of his own juices lingering on her tongue - he stroked his hand across her abdomen, skirting the fringe of her pubic hair. He felt her body jump: a small laugh into his mouth.

"Ticklish," she said, muffled by his kisses.

Smiling in response, his fingers found her cunt, stroking gently over her labia - slick with her juices - and he heard her moan quietly, little more than a gasp. Delicately, softly he ran his fingers between her lips, wetting them in her juices, sliding them slickly back and forth. Then, slowly, he slipped his middle finger into her - tentative, no more than the first knuckle.

"Oh...yes," she sighed, her hips pressing into his hand, her tongue suddenly plunging into his mouth with renewed intensity, her hands gripping him tightly. She reached down, taking hold of his cock, stroking it firmly, mirroring the sudden intensity through her body.

Quickly he withdrew his finger, sliding it between her labia, up and around the hood of her clit - circling her teasingly, hearing her moan in frustration, feeling her buck against him - then gently, languidly rubbing her clit, circling just once, before penetrating her once again - each time deeper than before.