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The Holly and the Ivy
The night was cold but the sky was clear. It was
brilliant with stars, almost as though it too was celebrating Christmas
with the people below. They were radiant lights given by God to give
enrichment to those who mingled around savoring the cheer of the holidays.
Trafalgar Square was also enriched and adorned with the paraphernalia of
the holiday season. London went all out for the twelve day period. Shops
were aglow with lights and toys and decorations. A huge tree stood between
the twin fountains. It rose majestically high into the air, a ruler of all
who surveyed it. It's bright twinkling brought to the surface of Locke's
thinking that holidays were a time for loved ones. He gazed solemnly at
the four bronze lions. Even in the darkness, they had a sheen. People
surrounded him as he stood silently in Trafalgar Square, moving back and
forth, but no one pushed, no one seemed in a hurry to reach their
destination.
His eyes moved slowly upward until they came to rest on the cold looking
statue of Lord Nelson. Locke sighed and looked elsewhere. Nelson reminded
him of Smythe, and Smythe reminded him of work that brought Graham to
mind, and Locke desperately strove to stay away from that thought.
Loneliness and mild depression started then. Everyone around him seemed to
be with someone . . . yet, he was alone . . . like always. That melancholy
emotion started every year near Christmas time. It was something he had no
control over. Like a headache, it kept coming back.
Carolers surrounded the tree. They sang "Silent Night" in loud joy.
Someone in the group sang off key, but it did not faze the others who
continued serenading anyone who wanted to pay attention to them. Locke
listened to them a moment and then left the square.
Wind blew moisture from the fountains. The drops touched his face with
cooling beads. Down one street he went and then to the left. The sound of
the singers vanished little by little until nothing was left but the hum
of traffic, the buzz of people muttering to each other. A horn blared once
. . . a man's voice raised in anger . . . but no one sang of joy and
promise and hope . . . no one sang of Christmas and love and loved ones.
For that, the slim, man was grateful.
Locke had left the party at CI5 early. Revelry and music, booze and sexual
tensions were mere aggravations to him. Watching Graham chatting up the
women who were responding to his blatant sexually was not something he
wanted to do. It wasn't something he could do. Besides, if he became
inebriated, if his tight hold on the secret desire that burned brightly
within him, were let loose . . .
The CI5 agent shuddered. (Think about something else!) he commanded
himself. He urgently sought something else to concentrate on. A toy store
caught his attention. A tiny train ran around a miniature Christmas tree.
An electric marionette of Father Christmas nodded his head wisely as he
looked down at the tiny figure seated on his knee. The fake child was
dressed in fake fur and red wool. Father Christmas wore his usual wreathe
of mistletoe on his head. His gown was a pristine white. Locke smiled
ruefully. It had been a long time since he had written a letter to Father
Christmas. Sighing he moved on to the next window where a profusion of
teddy bears, of all makes, all sizes, stood or sat, all waiting for
children to come inside, for parents to buy them.
A man came to the window, smiled at Locke. "Happy Christmas," he mouthed.
Locke nodded and walked on. It wasn't a very happy Christmas for him. He
was cold and damp when he reached his apartment. Locke found Graham
inside, waiting, a small tin settled in the middle of the tiny table in
front of the sofa.
Graham searched his partner's face. "Have a bit of the gloom, do you?"
Graham inquired gently.
"I'd thought you'd be in Miranda's bed by now," Locke said, shutting the
door behind him. He had heard the sympathy in the other man's voice, heard
it and resented it.
"Thought about it," came the truthful reply. "
She choose someone else?"
"No," Graham said quietly, "I did." Locke looked at him, a queer
expression on his face . . . he could feel it. He did his best to alter
it. "Seemed to recall you had a touch of misery last year at this time as
well." Locke shrugged. "Couldn't leave a friend of mine beneath a lorry,
now could I?"
"It'll go away, Graham." Locke jerked off his coat. "It always does." He
hung it up.
"Your place is kinda bare. No tree this year?"
"It seems a waste, it does. Chop down a tree, garnish it with tinsel and
garland and wait for it to die." Locke shook his head. "Not for me."
"That's your trouble, sunshine," the blue eyed CI5 agent remarked
casually. Locke looked at him. "No Christmas spirit. Dickens should visit
you."
"Dickens?"
"You know, those three ghosts of his . . . old king Morley, boo . .
.rattle . . .that kind of thing."
The slimmer man remarked in a tired voice. "It was his ghosts that visited
people, not him. Look, I want to go to bed. Why are you really here?"
"To play Santa Claus. Come sit on my lap, young Locke, and tell me what
you want most for the hols."
"Don't make jokes, Graham. I'm too tired to play along.
"I'd be Father Christmas but I hate wearing mistletoe in my hair. Messy
stuff."
"Graham..."
"Smythe's lending us his cottage up near Loch Mary."
"Smythe never lends anything."
"He's lending this. We can keep it until after Twelfth night. I'd hate to
go alone. Drive up with me. Look..." He lifted the tiro from the table.
"My landlady made a Christmas pudding. All we have to do is light it.
She's even put a coin in it. Might get your wish, Locke."
"He's giving us the cottage and time off? What's wrong? You catch him with
his biscuits soaked in liquor?"
"Something like that. Well?"
"I don't think so. Like you said, I have no Christmas spirit. Hate to ruin
your days off with my long face."
"You don't like the glitter and serenading, do you?"
"Nah, seems false, kind of." He went to the window, stood peering down at
the outer world. His flesh tingled with the awareness that Graham was
near. It always did lately.
"Well then, you need time away from all that, don't you?" He stood up,
walked slowly to Locke. He did not touch him but he stood close enough to
notice the slight flush on the other mans cheeks. "Come with, young Locke.
We'll hang stockings but we won't kill a tree...I promise. We'll write
letters to Father Christmas, create the grandest bowl of wassail you've
ever tasted. And don't forget the Christmas pudding. What's a hol without
it?"
God knew how much Locke wanted to be alone with Graham, but it wouldn't
do. No, it wouldn't do. "I don't think so."
"You need it, sunshine. You need the rest, you know you do. That last case
took a lot out of the both of us." He grinned slightly. Locke's heart
jumped. "Think of the privacy! Think of the quiet! Think of the change of
scenery. Hell, think of Smythe actually giving us the use of his cottage.
How can you think of turning down that?" Without giving Locke a chance to
make a statement, Graham hurried on, "Don't make him regret his sudden
burst of generosity. Who knows when he'll break down and do it again?"
(Say no!) Locke's mind said, but his heart was louder. (Say no!) his
sanity yelled, but his yearning was deafening. It drowned out all the
lucid thoughts.
"Think logically. You've been invited to Meridian's party, to the one
Boelter is given, to Marshanti's. If you stay, you'll be expected to go to
every one of them. Otherwise, there will be much anger, and hurt feelings
and that will carry over into the work place. Smythe won't like that, now
will he? But . . . if you're out of town, then you can't go to the
parties, can you?"
"No."
"And they can't very well get angry with you for not going to their
festivities, can they?"
"No."
"Do you want to go to them?"
"No." Locke was weakening. He could feel it. He wanted to fight it but
there seemed to be no strength in him.....no strength at all.
"Well then?" Why did Locke hear triumph in his friend's tone?
"I'll go to Scotland!" His breath halted in his lungs, frozen from the
smile of delight Graham gave him. Uneasiness waited at the back of his
mind, waited to spring forth and disturb him. He shouldn't go. Graham
would find out and . . .No, he had managed to hide it this long . . he
could hide it longer. Day after day they had worked side by side, in close
contact, and Graham hadn't discovered the truth yet, had he? Well then,
what was the harm in going? Graham's smile altered slightly and then
reversed back to one of joy. Locke couldn't place that difference,
couldn't give names to each expression.
"Pack a bag, Ray. Mine's in the car."
"You were that sure of me?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know if like that," Locke said dryly.
"Course you do. We're partners and partners should know each other, don't,
you think?"
"Yeah." (Yeah!) Locke thought, (but I hope to God you never learn
everything about me.)
"Good, but first a stop at HARRODS."
"Why?"
"It's a surprise, young Locke. You shall have to wait until Christmas eve
morning to find out."
Despite his mild depression, Locke felt a stirring of interest. He watched
that pleased smile pass quickly over his partner's face, and he smiled
back. "No fair, Graham. Give us a hint." He went into the bedroom.
"Nah. Didn't your mum ever tell you patience is a virtue?" Graham inquired
from the doorway.
Locke looked around and saw the heavier man leaning nonchalantly against
the door frame. His mood lightened even more. "Yeah, but did I listen?"
"Probably not."
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