THE CHRISTMAS PROMISE

By Bob French

The ice-cold wind that tugged at her coat, seemed to fade the minute she turned the corner and walked slowly up to the steps that led to Roy’s flat. The street lights hadn’t worked in this part of town in ages, but it didn’t matter.  She stood silently looking up at the doors to the building.  In her mind she could hear the thumping music emanating from his flat and for a brief second, she wanted to rush up the steps and burst into the party; join in with the Christmas spirit, hug and kiss her brother Roy, his girlfriend Mandy, Billy and Paul, Jilly and her lover Monica and Francois, her best friend, who always sang Christmas Carols in his native French tongue when he was drunk.  But it was different now and she wasn’t sure she was ready to face the past, so turned and sat down on the steps and buried her face in her cold hands.  But the sound of laughter of those she loved, taunted her. 

She looked up just as a shooting star streaked across the dark night sky and quickly made a wish, but knew it wouldn’t come true.  A couple passed her, hand in hand and in love, and wished her a Merry Christmas.  She looked up and returned their wishes, just as the Salvation Army band struck up a tune outside the pub and she watched as people started to gather around them. She briefly contemplated joining them, but her conscience forced her to turn and stare up at Roy’s front door.  Then, as though some invisible force had captured her mind, she climbed the steps.

Roy’s flat was on the ground floor and when she let herself in, she found it exactly the same as it had been on the night Roy had died.  She slowly wandered through the rooms, inhaling his presence as if he were still there, recalling his ruffled hair and cheeky smiling face; the good times they had spent here; Yahtzee nights with wine and pizza with all his friends, or raucous afternoons throwing popcorn and abuse at the TV as Fulham attempted to once again, win a game of football.  Now, the place was cold and empty, untouched, a shrine to her brother.  If their parents, whose idea of offering help was to throw money at the problem, had returned from the Caribbean to care for him, then who knows?

In the bedroom, his medication still stood on his bedside table, along with his watch, phone, some loose change, and a half-read novel, and wondered if he’d ever managed to finish it or whether the story ended as badly as Roy’s had.  This was where he had died.  Quietly slipping away in his sleep, all alone. 

Why hadn’t he waited?  He had promised her that they would spend Christmas together, even if it was for one last time, but it seems as though his frail body couldn’t keep going, and whilst she forgave him for getting himself into this mess, she couldn’t bring herself to forgive him for not saying goodbye.

He seemed fine when she’d left him a week ago. A little weak and tired, but not close to death.  His heart had just given up, the doctor had said.  The effort of keeping Roy’s damaged body alive proved too difficult a task.  She would have given her own heart if that’s what it would have taken to keep him alive. 

She sat on the edge of his unmade bed and stared around the room at the dull wallpaper, the faded pictures of the Boomtown Rats and his collection of running medals, memories of better days.  She felt a smile creep across her face as her eyes came to rest on the photo of them all outside Villa Park during the FA Cup semi-finals against Chelsea a few years back. Then she seemed to slump down and cuddle his pillow, slowly inhaling his odor, her mind silently screaming…why, why? but getting no answers.

She had telephoned her parents and amidst tears and long periods of sniffling, told them of Roy’s death. A plea for them to return home for his funeral was met with resentment and annoyance.  The fear of their reputation being tainted by attending a funeral of a drug abuser, even if he was their son, was just too much. They would send money for a headstone.

She lay there listening to the voices pass by the bay window as people made their way down to the local pub at the end of the street; Roy’s local, where his friends would probably be now, raising a glass to his memory.  Every now and then a car would pass by, it’s headlights lighting up the front of the room, catching the glittering reflection of the silver balls and tinsel that hung on the Christmas Tree, bringing happiness to the room, just for a few seconds, just like Roy’s life had done.

Her curiosity caused her to sit up and stare at a dull red light that had caught her eye. With a little effort, she made her way towards it and without thinking, pressed the button.

Instantly the dark, dank room was filled with screams of laughter and music of all his friends dancing and singing, making the room come alive.  She recalled that he had made the tape two Christmases ago. Her smile lasted a few seconds until her eyes started to fill, then she fumbled with the switch and turned it off.  The room suddenly fell cold, empty, and silent again.  Roy didn’t live here anymore, only his ghost.

The silence was gently broken by the faint sound of carol singers moving slowly down the street towards the pub.   

She wandered into the kitchen, usually a bomb site, but to her surprise, Roy had made an attempt to clean it up. On the table were the remains of what looked like a sandwich and next to it was an envelope addressed to her.

She sat down and with a frown on her tired face, slowly opened it, then read it.

She forced back the tears as he took her back to the days when they had looked after each other at boarding school; when they had gone on holiday together to Butlins one summer when their parents had not returned to the UK as promised, and how much he loved her for taking care of him after he had been hooked on drugs, he knew he didn’t deserve her.  She was the only one who really cared. His last sentence made her break down and sob.

‘I really did my best to hang on until Christmas Day, when I knew you would come over, but I could feel my body slowly giving up.  I tried calling you, but my phone battery was flat. I even tried to call on Max, my neighbor, but he had gone back to Austria for the holidays. I want to thank you, Sis, for being my rock and to say sorry I let you down.’

She sat there for what seemed like an hour, tenderly holding on to his letter, silently letting her mind wander back down memory lane to when they were two young kids, abandoned by their parents, cast aside as some sort of inconvenience, and how they had cared for each other.  Then with a deep sigh, she made her way back into his bedroom and slowly sat down on his bed, and stared at the wall, trying to collect her thoughts about how to arrange Roy’s funeral.  But it was Christmas, and everything was closed. Everyone had gone off to parents, or family. There was no one she could turn to for help. Suddenly she felt alone and helpless in the world.  She had lost the only person she ever cared for. No one knew she was here and no one probably cared. 

Without thinking she took out her phone and called her parents. Her father answered the phone and once he recognized her voice, he simply passed it to her mother.

“You do call at the most inconvenient moments, don’t you?” she could hear the anger in her mother’s voice.

“Mum, I need…..” and started to sob.  She wanted her help, her support, but her mother spoke over her, telling her to call back in the New Year.  Then the phone went dead.

Her mind went numb as she closed her eyes and started to lie down when her foot caught something.  It sounded like she’d kicked over a glass. Leaning forward to look under the bed, she saw a syringe up against one of his slippers.  It still had a full tube of some pink liquid in it.  She carefully picked it up and smelt it and instantly recognized the contents, then slowly lent back and with a sense of resignation she said.

“Oh, What the heck.”

 

Copyright Bob French