Christmas Delights 3 (2 page)

And who the hell was Brian?

Probably one of those scholars Phin was working on the new
literature with, or maybe a brother. If Phin had any siblings, he’d bet they’d
be just as passionate about learning as Phin was. He mustn’t be a jealous fool
before he knew the facts, though the mere existence of this other fellow
brought a bitter taste to his mouth. What if Brian wasn’t Phin’s relative? Was
Brian wittier than James? Taller? Less obsessed with steel ships? Less English?

Oh help, I’ve got to get over this.

He decided to blame Machin-Smith for stealing the last of
Phin’s time. He’d give Machin-Smith a lousy review the next time one of the
professor’s tedious journal papers was thrown on his desk.

Still smarting, James sipped his frigid coffee and drifted
down into the metro. He threw away the cup while he read the digital board.
He’d just missed a train to Franconia-Springfield and he had twelve minutes to
wait. On the platform opposite, the snogging couple he’d noticed earlier
giggled and whispered to each other. The girl perched on the redheaded boy’s
knee while pulling on a Santa hat, and James barely contained a
bah-humbug-infused snarl. He reached into his backpack, retrieving a bag
containing a festive gingerbread person he’d purchased in the coffee shop. That
might have cheered him up, but the cookie had got squashed beneath a book on
the Battle of Jutland. Both the little man’s legs had been ground into crumbs.

As he nibbled the remnants, the truth slammed into him. All
he had to look forward to this night was a quieter than usual commute to his
house in rural Virginia, and the prospect made him miserable. The joke was
that, before he and Phin had got close, James had relished the idea of spending
Christmas alone. When his parents had announced they were going on a cruise
rather than flying over to visit, he’d conjured images of a roaring fire, a
bucket load of chocolate, and a wheelbarrow’s worth of books on
early-twentieth-century naval warfare that he’d been dying to read for ages. It
had been impossible to keep the smile from his face at the prospect.

Now he changed his mind. He wanted to be with his family, or
damn it, he yearned to be with Phin. Ridiculous.

Phin had buggered off to be with Brian. Oh, that hurt, he
couldn’t deny it. Whether Brian turned out to be Phin’s brother or otherwise,
he knew Phin much less well than he thought he did, and Phin blatantly didn’t
need to be with him.

* * * * *

At the other end of the line, James’ bus arrived a quarter
of an hour late. When it finally reached him, he had to share it with a group
of retirees, who were as noisy and excitable as any bunch of students. The party
alighted near the gargantuan Baptist church, from which the strains of a pipe
organ blended with voices rising in song. James, who remained onboard and was
getting a headache, wasn’t sorry to see the back of his fellow passengers.
Staring after them, he fixed on the church’s enormous tree, adorned with an
abundance of shimmering bulbs—and a lofty figure who lurked in the shadows
beside.

He couldn’t see the man’s face, just a dark silhouette,
devoid of color. Then the figure vanished. He blinked hard and wondered if he’d
seen anything there at all. His skin prickled strangely, burning beneath his
winter clothes, and then the bus carried him off into the darkness. Beyond the
chug of the engine, the only other noise was the distant drone of a motorcycle,
which stoked his burgeoning sense of melancholy. Phin rode a vintage Honda, and
they’d spent an enjoyable Sunday afternoon taking it apart and getting covered
in oil together.

And Phin wasn’t with him tonight.

Stop dwelling on it. Just stop.

At least he’d have the time to read all his lovely books.

Wishing the bus driver Christmas cheer, James jumped down at
his stop, at the end of a forested drive. As a rule, he didn’t regret renting a
cottage an hour’s journey from the city. He’d always been a country boy, and
while he loved DC, he adored the green fields of Virginia and the nearby vistas
across the Potomac River more. He was happy living here and got on well with
his landlords, Jim and Bessy Miles. The couple lived in the large colonial era
mansion at the heart of the estate, and had even invited him over for
Christmas. Naturally, he’d turned them down, though he couldn’t prevent himself
from glancing toward their house a hundred yards up the track. Light blazed
from the Miles’ many windows, affording him a scant sense of comfort, before he
turned to trudge up the mulch-covered path to his door. The naked poplars
creaked above him—then a dark shape moved at the corner of his vision. James
pivoted on his toes.
“Hello?”

His heart galloped, and he narrowed his eyes, but discerned
no further movement amid the inky blackness. A coyote would provide the most
exciting explanation, though more likely it had been a dead bush stirred by the
breeze. Pins and needles tingled in his fingertips. He let out a long, unsteady
breath. No ax murderer stalked him.

And no gorgeous Irishman has followed me home.

He raised his eyes to the gently swaying treetops.

God, Phin. What have you done to me?

James let himself into his cottage, flicked on the lights,
and sank into his favorite armchair in front of the unlit hearth. He pressed
his face to his hands. He’d always got along just fine by himself before. He’d
never even figured himself a big fan of Christmas decorations till now, when he
peeped between his fingers at the whitewashed walls and unadorned bookshelves
and wished he’d made the effort to hang a few strings of cards. Phin hadn’t
sent him any Christmas greeting. Blokes didn’t do that sort of thing, though he
had
bought Phin a gift, some silver cufflinks with a Cornish knot design,
which he’d intended to give the man this night.

But hell, were they close enough to exchange presents? He’d
hoped they were, yet the more he dwelled on Phin’s dismissal of him earlier,
the more it vexed him. Maybe James was being unfair, but it seemed like Phin
was keeping secrets, or…

He was reading way too much into things. Phin had family in
town, who he wanted to spend time with, plus no holiday would lessen Phin’s
passion for research. Damn it, wasn’t that what James was supposed to be
looking forward to?

“End of story,” mumbled James, irritated. He wandered toward
the kitchen, where he downed some painkillers with water. After putting the
electric kettle on, he flipped open the laptop that sat on his rustic wood
table. He’d just clicked on his inbox, when a Skype box flashed up in the
corner of the screen. The contours of a neatly-groomed perm rendered the caller
instantly recognizable.

“Merry Christmas, dear!” sung a tinny version of a familiar
voice.

“Merry Christmas, mum.” James maximized the square, and his
mum raised her half-empty champagne glass to him. “It’s Christmas already where
you are, isn’t it. What time, exactly?”

“It’s nearly half past ten here in the South Seas.”

“In the morning?”

She pressed her lips and widened her eyes like a naughty
schoolgirl.

He laughed warmly. “On the booze already, eh? No need to ask
if you’re having a good time, then.”

“Wonderful, James, but I miss you terribly.” She sipped her
fizz. “Your dad’s taken a stroll on deck, but I’ve been sitting here waiting
for you to get in. Christmas just isn’t quite the same without you, and I hate
to think of you all by yourself.”

“Come on, mum, you’re doing fine, and so am I.” He pulled a
face, if just to disguise a surge of unwanted emotion. It was nice to know
somebody missed him, but he
was
doing fine, bound to have a nice,
relaxing holiday. “I, uh, can’t possibly let you drink alone, though.” Ignoring
the boiling kettle, he grabbed for a bottle of claret on the dresser, and
poured himself a healthy serving. “Cheers!”

Usually, it took more than a glass or two of red for the
alcohol to have any intoxicating effect on James’ five feet eleven frame.
Tonight, however, as he ought to have predicted, the liquor dampened his spirits
further. While the chat was pleasant, and his dad joined his mum shortly, he
was almost teary when he bid them goodbye. He found himself gulping his wine
and staring at his HMS Agamemnon screensaver, one of his mum’s final lines
ringing in his ears.
“You didn’t even get yourself a tree, dear?”

He clunked down his glass. No. He hadn’t got himself a
sodding tree because he didn’t think he would miss it. For whatever crazy
reason, it seemed he did, but acquiring one at this hour would mean taking up
Bessy on her suggestion and go chop whichever he fancied from the estate, which
might be okay if it wasn’t well past eight and dark. Besides, he had dinner to
cook so getting a tree was out of the question. After he ate, maybe he’d get
out some of those decorations the previous tenant had left in a storage
cupboard and use them to brighten the place.

He poured himself another glass of liquor and turned on the
oven to warm up. It would take fifteen minutes or so before he could put the
chicken in. He glanced at his watch.

If he used frozen rather than fresh vegetables, he wouldn’t
have to prepare them. He would have time to grab some fuel for the fire in his
living room and build a cozy blaze.

Or perhaps he’d have enough time to fetch a tree.

“This is madness.” He grabbed his overcoat from the hook by
the back door then remembered to get his flashlight before stepping out into
the night.

He retrieved an ax from the log pile and headed down the
path between the creaking poplars. He shivered. The temperature seemed to have
dropped a few degrees since his arrival home, and he’d forgotten his gloves.
Resolved to press on, he took a sharp left then paced a short distance up the
drive toward the mansion before choosing a narrow path to his right. This led
to an old burial ground, but he wouldn’t need to trek that far. Some new growth
evergreens had been planted about a hundred yards up, and this was the area
from where his landlady had suggested he’d take his pick.

His shoes skidded in the muck, and James wished he’d put some
proper boots on. The air had grown so thick with damp he could’ve sliced his
name in it, and frost-streaked bark sparkled like crystal under the beam of
light. The breeze had dropped for now, the forest still as corpses, and no bird
or bat flitted. He brushed under a low branch, which pinged back and sent
droplets pattering to the leafy floor, mimicking tiny footfalls. A twig
cracked, and James glanced over his shoulder, ensuring no nebulous shapes
followed—and raised his eyes to the clouded skies, nigh despairing of his odd
state of mind. He should’ve volunteered to man the student support line over
the festive season. Maybe next year he would. Here he was, a twenty-nine year
old adult, so maudlin about being alone at Christmas he'd headed out to chop himself
a tree.

James swayed the flashlight sideways, illuminating a cluster
of saplings. Clearing his mind save for the matter in hand, he selected a small
pine at the end of the row and marched over. Though not reaching his chin in
height, the tree seemed suitably bushy and its ice-kissed needles glistened.
The wind whipped up again, sweeping through his hair and blasting him with
fruity scent as he sized the tree up, planning the job with care. After a glass
of wine, he didn’t want to have an accident felling this thing and end up in
ER.

He put the flashlight down and leveled the ax a few inches
from the base, then readied to swing.

“Ssssstop! Ssssss-top that.”

James whirled about. Had he imagined that hiss, was it a
gust, or…? Eyes stretched so wide the air chilled them, he grabbed his light
and swung around three-hundred-and sixty degrees. “Is anybody there?”

Nothing answered. Not a stem twitched, though the wind
murmured softly. God, he must be losing it or he’d drunk more than he reckoned.
He’d best get this over with. After laying the flashlight on the ground near
his feet, he lifted the blade and brought it biting down, carving deep into the
pale sapwood before jerking it free. He elevated the ax—and something wrapped
tight about his arm. James opened his mouth to yell, but his shout caught in
his lungs.

What? How?

In the hazy light spreading from the flashlight, he saw a
twiggy tendril looping his forearm. Somehow, he’d got himself caught up in it.
Pulse skittering, he tugged, trying to jerk away. The branch tightened like
a noose, squeezing through his thick sleeve to bruise the flesh beneath. James
cried out, more in shock than pain. He dropped the ax, which thudded to the
loam the same moment a thick stem seized his other wrist and wrenched it behind
him.

“What the fuck? Get off me!”

He was being attacked by a tree. No way. He must be drunk,
hallucinating—but he
was
entrapped. As he counted frantically down the
row, he spotted a gap where one of the more mature shrubs had stood. From
behind, brush-covered branches plunged out of the gloom, twigs grabbing for him
like opening claws and multiplying by the moment. Foliage gripped his hair, his
shoulders, scratching him with a hundred tiny prickles. Was this some kind of
sick joke? He clenched his fists and thrashed wildly but without result. His
bonds held fast, and when he kicked backward, he felt his left ankle seized. As
James’ panic rioted toward frenzy, frosty breath blasted his ear then formed
words. “I sssssaid sssstop that.”

This is a dream. I should watch less late night movies.
This isn’t hap—

His tumultuous thoughts smashed to a horrorstruck halt. This
was far too real. The branches heaved him into the shadows then flung him to
the earth. He slammed down hard, and the crunch against his hip resonated to
the marrow of his bones. He screamed, but his voice sounded faint and distant,
smothered by the vast outdoors. Mr. and Mrs. Miles would never hear. A body
bore down on him, hard, heavy, cool as a glaciated stream, scraping him with
its horde of tiny bristles as it pressed him flat on his back. Coarse manacles
pinned his arms above his head, splinters grazing his flesh raw—and then, as
his vision adjusted, he discerned his attacker’s face, shoved close to his. A
visage of hoary gray-and-white wood with a nose pointed as a barb and shriveled
spines forming a ragged beard.