The Price of Love and Other Stories

Blue Christmas An Inspector Banks Story

A three-day holiday. Banks sat down at the breakfast table and made some notes on a lined pad. If he was doomed to spend Christmas alone this year, he was going to do it in style. For Christmas Eve, Alastair Sim’s Scrooge, the black-and-white version, of course. For Christmas Day, Love, Actually. Mostly it was a load of crap, no doubt about that, but it was worth the silliness for Bill Nighy’s Billy Mack, and Keira Knightley was always worth watching. For Boxing Day, David Copperfield, the one with the Harry Potter actor in it, because it had helped him through a nasty hangover one Boxing Day a few years ago, and thus are traditions born.

Music was more problematic. Bach’s Christmas Oratorio and Handel’s Messiah, naturally. Both were on his iPod and could be played through his main sound system. But some years ago, he had made a Christmas compilation tape of all his favorite songs, from Bing’s “White Christmas” to Elvis’s “Santa Claus Is Back in Town” and “Blue Christmas,” The Pretenders’ “2000 Miles” and Roland Kirk’s “We Free Kings.” Unfortunately, that had gone up in flames along with the rest of his music collection. Which meant a quick trip to HMV in Eastvale that afternoon to pick up a few seasonal CDs so he could make a play-list. He had to go to Marks and Spencer’s, anyway, for his turkey dinner, so he might as well drop in at HMV while he was in the Swainsdale Center. As for wine, he still had a more than decent selection from his brother’s cellar — including some fine amarone, chianti classico, clarets and burgundies — which would certainly get him through the next three days without any pain. Luckily, he had bought and given out all his Christmas presents earlier — what few there were: money for Tracy, a Fairport Convention box-set for Brian, chocolates and magazine subscriptions for his parents, and a silver and jet bracelet for Annie Cabbot.

Banks put his writing pad aside and reached for his coffee mug. Beside it sat a pristine copy of Kate Atkinson’s Behind the Scenes at the Museum, which he fully intended to read over the holidays. There should be plenty of peace and quiet. Brian was with his band in Europe and wouldn’t be able to get up to Gratly until late on Boxing Day. Tracy was spending Christmas with her mother, Sandra; stepdad, Sean; and baby Sinead, and Annie was heading home to the artists’ colony in St. Ives, where they would all no doubt be having a good weep over The Junky’s Christmas, which, Annie had told him, was a Christmas staple among her father’s crowd. He had seen it once himself, and he had to admit that it wasn’t bad, but it hadn’t become a tradition with him.

All in all, then, this Christmas was beginning to feel like something to be got through with liberal doses of wine and music. Even the weather was refusing to cooperate. The white Christmas that everyone had been hoping for since a tentative sprinkle of snow in late November had not materialized, though the optimists at the meteorological center were keeping their options open. At the moment, though, it was uniformly gray and wet in Yorkshire. The only good thing that could be said for it was that it wasn’t cold. Far from it. Down south people were sitting outside at Soho cafés and playing golf in the suburbs. Banks wondered if he should have gone away, taken a holiday. Paris. Rome. Madrid. A stranger in a strange city. Even London would have been better than this. Maybe he could still catch a last-minute flight.

But he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He sipped some strong coffee and told himself not to be so maudlin. Christmas was a notoriously dangerous time of year. It was when people got depressed and gave in to their deepest fears, when all their failures, regrets and disappointments came back to haunt them. Was he going to let himself give in to that, become a statistic?

He decided to go into town now and get his last-minute shopping over with before it got really busy. Just before he left, though, his phone rang. Banks picked up the receiver.

“Sir? It’s DC Jackman.”

“Yes, Winsome. What’s the problem?”

“I’m really sorry to disturb you at home, sir, but we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“What is it?” Banks asked. Despite having to spend Christmas alone, he had been looking forward to a few days away from the Western Area Headquarters, if only to relax and unwind after a particularly difficult year. But perhaps that wasn’t to be.

“Missing person, sir.”

“Can’t someone else handle it?”

“It needs someone senior, sir, and DI Cabbot’s already on her way to Cornwall.”

“Who’s missing?”

“A woman by the name of Brenda Mercer. Forty-two years old.”

“How long?”

“Overnight.”

“Any reason to think there’s been foul play?”

“Not really.”

“Who reported her missing?”

“The husband.”

“Why did he leave it until this morning?”

“He didn’t. He reported it at 6:00 P.M. yesterday evening. We’ve been looking into it. But you know how it is with missing persons, sir, unless it’s a kid. It was very early days. Usually they turn up, or you find a simple explanation quickly enough.”

“But not in this case?”

“No, sir. Not a sign. The husband’s getting frantic. Difficult. Demanding to see someone higher up. And he’s got the daughter and her husband in tow now. They’re not making life any easier. I’ve only just managed to get rid of them by promising I’d get someone in authority to come and talk to them.”

“All right,” Banks said with a sigh. “Hang on. I’ll be right in.”

Major Crimes and CID personnel were thin on the ground at Western Area Headquarters that Christmas Eve, and DC Winsome Jackman was the one who had drawn the short straw. She didn’t mind, though. She couldn’t afford to visit her parents in Jamaica, and she had politely passed up a Christmas dinner invitation from a fellow member of the potholing club, who had been pursuing her for some time now, so she had no real plans for the holidays. She hadn’t expected it to be particularly busy in Major Crimes. Most Christmas incidents were domestic and, as such, they were dealt with by the officers on patrol. Even criminals, it seemed, took a bit of time off for turkey and Christmas pud. But a missing person case could turn nasty very quickly, especially if it was a woman.

While she was waiting for Banks, Winsome went through the paperwork again. There wasn’t much other than the husband’s report and statement, but that gave her the basics.

When David Mercer got home from work on December 23 at around 6:00 P.M., he was surprised to find his wife not home. Surprised because she was always home and always had his dinner waiting for him. He worked in the administration offices of the Swainsdale Shopping Centre, and his hours were regular. A neighbor had seen Mrs. Mercer walking down the street where she lived on the Leaview Estate at about a quarter past four that afternoon. She was alone and was wearing a beige overcoat and carrying a scuffed brown leather bag, the kind with a shoulder strap. She was heading in the direction of the main road, and the neighbor assumed she was going to catch a bus. She knew that Mrs. Mercer didn’t drive. She said hello, but said that Mrs. Mercer hadn’t seemed to hear her, had seemed a bit “lost in her own world.”

Police had questioned the bus drivers on the route, but none of them recalled seeing anyone matching the description. Uniformed officers also questioned taxi drivers and got the same response. All Mrs. Mercer’s relatives had been contacted, and none had any idea where she was. Winsome was beginning to think it was possible, then, that someone had picked Mrs. Mercer up on the main road, possibly by arrangement, and that she didn’t want to be found. The alternative, that she had been somehow abducted, didn’t bear thinking about, at least not until all other possible avenues had been exhausted.

Winsome had not been especially impressed by David Mercer — he was the sort of pushy, aggressive alpha white male she had seen far too much of over the past few years, puffed up with self-importance, acting as if everyone else were a mere lackey to meet his demands, especially if she happened to be black and female. But she tried not to let personal impressions interfere with her reasoning. Even so, there was something about Mercer’s tone, something that didn’t quite ring true. She made a note to mention it to Banks.

The house was a modern Georgian-style semi with a bay window, stone cladding and neatly kept garden, and when Banks rang the doorbell, Winsome beside him, David Mercer opened it so quickly he might have been standing right behind it. He led Banks and Winsome into a cluttered but clean front room, where a young woman sat on the sofa wringing her hands, and a whippet-thin man in an expensive, out-of-date suit paced the floor. A tall Christmas tree stood in one corner, covered with ornaments and lights. On the floor were a number of brightly wrapped presents and one ornament, a tiny pair of ice skates, which seemed to have fallen off the tree. The radio was playing Christmas music faintly in the background. Fa-la-la-la-lah.

“Have you heard anything?” David Mercer asked.

“Nothing yet,” Banks answered. “But, if I may, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

“We’ve already told everything to her,” he said, gesturing in Winsome’s direction.

“I know,” said Banks. “And DC Jackman has discussed it with me. But I still have a few questions.”

“Don’t you think you should be out there on the streets searching for her?” said the whippet-thin man, who was also turning prematurely bald.

Banks turned to face him slowly. “And you are?”

He puffed out what little chest he had. “Claude Mainwaring, solicitor.” He pronounced it “Mannering,” like the Arthur Lowe character on Dad’s Army. “I’m David’s son-in-law.”

“Well, Mr. Mainwaring,” said Banks, “it’s not normally my job, as a detective chief inspector, to get out on the streets looking for people. In fact, it’s not even my job to pay house calls asking questions, but as it’s nearly Christmas, and as Mr. Mercer here is worried about his wife, I thought I might bend the rules just a little. And believe me, there are already more than enough people out there trying to find Mrs. Mercer.”

Mainwaring grunted as if he were unsatisfied with the answer, then he sat down next to his wife. Banks turned to David Mercer, who finally bade him and Winsome to sit, too. “Mr. Mercer,” Banks asked, thinking of the doubts that Winsome had voiced on their way over, “can you think of anywhere your wife might have gone?”

“Nowhere,” said Mercer. “That’s why I called you lot.”

“Was there any reason why your wife might have gone away?”

“None at all,” said Mercer, just a beat too quickly for Banks’s liking.

“She wasn’t unhappy about anything?”

“Not that I know of, no.”

“Everything was fine between the two of you?”

“Now, look here!” Mainwaring got to his feet.

“Sit down and be quiet, Mr. Mainwaring,” Banks said as gently as he could. “You’re not in court now, and you’re not helping. I’ll get to you later.” He turned back to Mercer and ignored the slighted solicitor. “Had you noticed any difference in her behavior before she left, any changes of mood or anything?”

“No,” said Mercer. “Like I said, everything was quite normal. May I ask what you’re getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything,” Banks said. “These are all questions that have to be asked in cases such as these.”

“Cases such as these?”

“Missing persons.”

“Oh God,” cried the daughter. “I can’t believe it. Mother a missing person.”

She used the same tone as she might have used to say “homeless person,” Banks thought, as if she were somehow embarrassed by her mother’s going missing. He quickly chided himself for being so uncharitable. It was Christmas, after all, and no matter how self-important and self-obsessed these people seemed to be, they were worried about Brenda Mercer. He could only do his best to help them. He just wished they would stop getting in his way.

“Has she ever done anything like this before?” Banks asked.

“Never,” said David Mercer. “Brenda is one of the most stable and reliable people you could ever wish to meet.”

“Does she have any close friends?”

“The family means everything to her.”

“Might she have met someone? Someone she could confide in?”

Mercer seemed puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean. Met? Confide? What would Brenda have to confide? And if she did, why would she confide in someone else rather than in me? No. it doesn’t make sense.”

“People do, you know, sometimes. A girlfriend, perhaps?”

“Not Brenda.”

This was going nowhere fast, Banks thought, seeing what Winsome had meant. “Do you have any theories about where she might have gone?”

“Something’s happened to her. Someone’s abducted her, obviously. I can’t see any other explanation.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It stands to reason, doesn’t it? She’d never do anything so irresponsible and selfish as to mess up all our Christmas plans and cause us so much fuss and worry.”

“But these things, abductions and the like, are much rarer than you imagine,” said Banks. “In most cases, missing persons are found healthy and safe.”

Mainwaring snorted in the background. “And the longer you take to find her, the less likely she is to be healthy and safe,” he said.

Banks ignored him and carried on talking to David Mercer. “Did you and your wife have any arguments recently?” he asked.

“Arguments? No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“I mean nothing significant, nothing that would cause her to do something like this. We had our minor disagreements from time to time, of course, just like any married couple.”

“But nothing that might upset her, make her want to disappear?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you know if she has any male friends?” Banks knew he was treading on dangerous ground now, but he had to ask.

“If you’re insinuating that she’s run off with someone,” Mercer said, “then you’re barking up the wrong tree. Brenda would never do that to me. Or to Janet,” he added, glancing over at the daughter. “Besides, she’s...”

“She’s what?”

“I was simply going to say that Brenda’s not exactly a Playboy centerfold, if you catch my drift. Not the sort of woman men would chase after or fantasize about.”

Nice one, Banks thought. He had never expected his wife, Sandra, to run off with another man, either — and not because he didn’t think she was attractive to men — but she had done. No sense in laboring the point, though. If anything like that had happened, the Mercers would be the last people to admit it, assuming that they even knew themselves. But if Brenda had no close friends or relatives, then there was no one else he could question who might be able to tell him more about her. All in all, it was beginning to seem like a tougher job than he had imagined.

“We’ll keep you posted,” he said, then he and Winsome headed back to the station.

Unfortunately, most people were far too absorbed in their Christmas plans — meals, family visits, last-minute shopping, church events and what have you — to pay as much attention to local news stories as they did the rest of the year, and even that wasn’t much. As Banks and Winsome whiled away the afternoon at Western Area Headquarters, uniformed police officers went from house to house asking questions and searched the wintry Dales landscape in an ever-widening circle, but nothing came to light.

Banks remembered, just before the shops closed, that he had things to buy, so he dashed over to the Swainsdale Centre. Of course, by closing time on Christmas Eve it was bedlam, and everyone was impatient and bad tempered. He queued fifteen minutes to pay for his turkey dinner because he would have had nothing else to eat otherwise, but just one glance at the crowds in HMV made him decide to forgo the Christmas music for this year, relying on what he had already, and what he could catch on the radio.

By six o’clock he was back at home, and the men and women on duty at the police station had strict instructions to ring him if anything concerning Brenda Mercer came up.

But nothing did.

Banks warmed his leftover lamb curry and washed it down with a bottle of Black Sheep. After he’d finished the dishes, he made a start on Behind the Scenes at the Museum, then he opened a bottle of decent claret and took it with him into the TV room. There, he slid the shiny DVD of Scrooge into the player, poured himself a healthy glass and settled back. He always enjoyed spotting the bit where you could see the cameraman reflected in the mirror when Scrooge examines himself on Christmas morning, and he found Alastair Sim’s over-the-top excitement at seeing the world anew as infectious and uplifting as ever. Even so, as he took himself up to bed around midnight, he still had a thought to spare for Brenda Mercer, and it kept him awake far longer than he would have liked.

The first possible lead came early on Christmas morning, when Banks was eating a soft-boiled egg for breakfast and listening to a King’s College Choir concert on the radio. Winsome rang to tell him that someone had seen a woman resembling Mrs. Mercer in a rather dazed state wandering through the village of Swainshead shortly after dawn. The description matched, down to the coat and shoulder bag, so Banks finished his breakfast and headed out.

The sky was still like iron, but the temperature had dropped overnight, and Banks thought he sniffed a hint of snow in the air. As he drove down the dale, he glanced at the hillsides, all in shades of gray, their peaks obscured by low-lying cloud. Here and there a silver stream meandered down the slope, glittering in the weak light. Whatever was wrong with Brenda Mercer, Banks thought, she must be freezing if she had been sleeping rough for two nights now.

Before he got to Swainshead, he received another call on his mobile, again from Winsome. This time she told him that a local train driver had seen a woman walking aimlessly along the tracks over the Swainshead Viaduct. When Banks arrived there, Winsome was already waiting on the western side along with a couple of uniformed officers in their patrol cars, engines running so they could stay warm. The huge viaduct stretched for about a quarter of a mile across the broad valley, carrying the main line up to Carlisle and beyond, into Scotland, and its twenty or more great arches framed picture-postcard views of the hills beyond.

“She’s up there, sir,” said Winsome, pointing as Banks got out of the car. Way above him, more than a hundred feet up, a tiny figure in brown perched on the edge of the viaduct wall.

“Jesus Christ,” said Banks. “Has anyone called to stop the trains? Anything roaring by her right now could give her the fright of her life, and it’s a long way down.”

“It’s been done,” said Winsome.

“Right,” said Banks. “At the risk of stating the obvious, I think we’d better get someone who knows about these things to go up there and talk to her.”

“It’ll be difficult to get a professional, sir, on Christmas Day.”

“Well, what do you...? No. I can read your expression, Winsome. Don’t look at me like that. The answer’s no. I’m not a trained psychologist or a counselor. We need someone like Jenny Fuller.”

“But she’s away, and you know you’re the best person for the job, sir. You’re good with people. You listen to them. They trust you.”

“But I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I don’t think there are any set rules.”

“I’m hardly the sort to convince someone that life is full of the joys of spring.”

“I don’t really think that’s what’s called for.”

“But what if she jumps?”

Winsome shrugged. “She’ll either jump or fall if someone doesn’t go up there soon and find out what’s going on.”

Banks glanced up again and swallowed. He thought he felt the soft, chill touch of a snowflake melt on his eyeball. Winsome was right. He couldn’t send up one of the uniformed lads — they were far too inexperienced for this sort of thing — and time was of the essence.

“Look,” he said, turning to Winsome, “see if you can raise some sort of counselor or negotiator, will you? In the meantime, I’ll go up and see what I can do. Just temporary, you understand?”

“Right you are, sir.” Winsome smiled. Banks got back in his car. The quickest way to reach the woman was to drive up to Swainshead station, just before the viaduct, and walk along the tracks. At least that way he wouldn’t have to climb any hills. The thought didn’t comfort him much, though, when he looked up again and saw the woman’s legs dangling over the side of the wall.

“Stop right there,” she said. “Who are you?”

Banks stopped. He was about four or five yards away from her. The wind was howling more than he had expected, whistling around his ears, making it difficult to hear properly, and it seemed much colder up there, too. He wished he were wearing something warmer than his leather jacket. The hills stretched away to the west, some still streaked with November’s snow. In the distance, Banks thought he could make out the huge rounded mountains of the Lake District.

“My name’s Banks,” he said. “I’m a policeman.”

“I thought you’d find me eventually,” she said. “It’s too late, though.”

From where Banks was standing, he could only see her in profile. The ground was a long way below. Banks had no particular fear of heights, but even so, her precarious position on the wall unnerved him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come back from the edge and talk?” he said.

“I’m sure. Do you think it was easy getting here in the first place?”

“It’s a long walk from Eastvale.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Sorry. It just looks a bit dangerous there. You could slip and fall off.”

“What makes you think that wouldn’t be a blessing?”

“Whatever it is,” said Banks, “it can’t be worth this. Come on, Brenda, you’ve got a husband who loves you, a daughter who needs—”

“My husband doesn’t love me, and my daughter doesn’t need me. Do you think I don’t know? David’s been shagging his secretary for two years. Can you imagine such a cliché? He thinks I don’t know. And as for my daughter, I’m just an embarrassment to her and that awful husband of hers. I’m the shopgirl who married up, and now I’m just a skivvy for the lot of them. That’s all I’ve been for years.”

“But things can change.”

She stared at him with pity and shook her head. “No, they can’t,” she said, and gazed off into the distance. “Do you know why I’m here? I mean, do you know what set me off? I’ve put up with it all for years, the coldness, the infidelity, just for the sake of order, not rocking the boat, not causing a scene. But do you know what it was, the straw that finally broke the camel’s back?”

“No,” said Banks, anxious to keep her talking. “I don’t know. Tell me.” He edged a little closer so he could hear her voice above the wind. She didn’t tell him to stop. Snowflakes started to swirl around them.

“People say it’s smell that sparks memory the most, but it wasn’t, not this time. It was a Christmas ornament. I was putting a few last-minute decorations on the tree before Janet and Claude arrived, and I found myself holding these tiny, perfect ice skates I hadn’t seen for years. They sent me right back to a particular day, when I was a child. It’s funny because it didn’t seem like just a memory. I felt as if I was really there. My father took me skating on a pond somewhere in the country. I don’t remember where. But it was just getting dark and there were red and green and white Christmas lights and music playing — carols like “Silent Night” and “Away in a Manger” — and someone was roasting chestnuts on a brazier. The air was full of the smell. I’ll never forget that smell. I was... My father died last year.” She paused and brushed tears and melted snowflakes from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I kept falling down. It must have been my first time on ice. But my father would just pick me up, tell me I was doing fine, and set me going again. I don’t know what it was about that day, but I was so happy, the happiest I can ever remember. Everything seemed perfect and I felt I could do anything. I wished it would never end. I didn’t even feel the cold. I was just all warm inside and full of love. Did you ever feel like that?”

Banks couldn’t remember, but he was sure he must have. Best to agree, anyway. Stay on her wavelength. “Yes,” he said. “I know just what you mean.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“And it made me feel worthless,” she said. “The memory made me feel that my whole life was a sham, a complete waste of time, of any potential I once might have had. And it just seemed that there was no point in carrying on.” She shifted on the wall.

“Don’t!” Banks cried, moving forward.

She looked at him. He thought he could make out a faint smile. She appeared tired and drawn, but her face was a pretty one, he noticed. A slightly pointed chin and small mouth, but beautiful hazel eyes. Obviously this was something her husband didn’t notice. “It’s all right,” she said. “I was just changing position. My bum’s gone numb. The wall’s hard and cold. I just wanted to get more comfortable.”

She was concerned about comfort. Banks took that as a good sign. He was within two yards of her now, but he still wasn’t close enough to make a grab. At least she didn’t tell him to move back. “Just be careful,” he said. “It’s dangerous. You might slip.”

“You seem to be forgetting that’s what I’m here for.”

“The memory,” said Banks. “That day at the pond. It’s something to cherish, surely, to live for?”

“No. It just suddenly made me feel that my life’s all wrong. Worthless. Has been for years. I don’t feel like me anymore. I don’t feel anything. Do you know what I mean?”

“I know,” said Banks. “But this isn’t the answer.”

“I don’t know,” Brenda said, shaking her head then looking down into the swirling white of the chasm below. “I just feel so sad and so lost.”

“So do I sometimes,” said Banks, edging a little closer. “Every Christmas since my wife left me for someone else and the kids grew up and moved away from home. But it doesn’t mean that you don’t feel anything. You said before that you felt nothing, but you do, even if it is only sadness.”

“So how do you cope?”

“Me? With what?”

“Being alone. Being abandoned and betrayed.”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. He was desperate for a cigarette, but remembered that he had stopped smoking ages ago. He put his hands in his pockets. The snow was really falling now, obscuring the view. He couldn’t even see the ground.

“Did you love her?” Brenda asked.

The question surprised Banks. He had been quizzing her, but all of a sudden she was asking about him. He took that as another good sign. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I suppose I neglected her,” said Banks. “My job... the hours... I don’t know. She’s a pretty independent person. I thought things were OK, but they weren’t. It took me by surprise.”

“I’m sure David thinks everything is fine as long as no one ruffles the surface of his comfortable little world. And I know he doesn’t think I’m attractive. Were you unfaithful?”

“Once. Along time ago. I always felt guilty about it. And many years later, my wife left me for another man. Had a baby with him.”

“She had a baby with another man?”

“Yes. I mean, we were divorced and they got married and everything. My daughter’s spending Christmas with them.”

“And you?”

Was she starting to feel sorry for him? If she did, then perhaps it would help to make her see that she wasn’t the only one suffering, that suffering was a part of life and you just had to put up with it and get on with things. “By myself,” he said. “My son’s abroad. He’s in a rock group. The Blue Lamps. They’re doing really well. You might even have heard of them.”

“David doesn’t like pop music.”

“Well... they’re really good.”

“The proud father. My daughter’s a stuck-up, social-climbing bitch who’s ashamed of her mother.”

Banks remembered Janet Mainwaring’s reaction to the description of her mother as missing: an embarrassment. “People can be cruel,” he said. “They don’t always mean what they say.”

“But how do you cope?”

Banks found that he had edged closer to her now, within a yard or so. It was almost grabbing range. That was a last resort, though. If he wasn’t quick enough, she might flinch and fall off as he reached for her. Or she might simply slip out of his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “Christmas is a difficult time for all sorts of people. On the surface, it’s all peace and happiness and giving and family and love, but underneath... You see it a lot in my job. People reach a breaking point. There’s so much stress.”

“But how do you cope with it alone? Surely it must all come back and make you feel terrible?”

“It does, sometimes. I suppose I seek distractions. Music. Scrooge. Love, Actually — for Bill Nighy and Keira Knightley — and David Copperfield, the one with the Harry Potter actor. I probably drink too much as well.”

“Daniel Radcliffe. That’s his name. The Harry Potter actor.”

“Yes.”

“And I’d watch Love, Actually for Colin Firth.” She shook her head. “But I don’t know if it would work for me.”

“I suppose it’s all just a pointless sort of ritual,” said Banks, “but I’d still recommend it. The perfect antidote to spending Christmas alone and miserable.”

“But I wouldn’t be alone and miserable, would I? That’s the problem. I’d be with my family and I’d still be bloody miserable.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I told you. Things can change. You can change things.” Banks leaned his hip against the wall. He was so close to her now that he could have put his arms around her and pulled her back, but he didn’t think he was going to need to. “Do it for yourself,” he said. “Not for them. If you think your husband doesn’t love you, leave him and live for yourself.”

“Leave David? But where would I go? How would I manage? David has been my life. David and Janet.”

“There’s always a choice,” Banks went on. “There are people who can help you. People who know about these things. Counselors, social services. Other people have been where you are now. You can get a job, a flat. A new life. I did.”

“But where would I go?”

“You’d find somewhere. There are plenty of flats available in Eastvale, for a start.”

“I don’t know if I can do that. I’m not as strong as you.” Banks noticed that she managed a tight smile. “And I think if I did, I would have to go far away.”

“That’s possible, too.” Banks reached out his hand. “For crying out loud, you can come and have Christmas dinner with me if you want. Just let me help you.” The snow was coming down heavily now, and the area had become very slippery. She looked at his hand, shaking her head and biting her lip.

“Scrooge?” she said.

“Yes. Alastair Sim.”

“I always preferred James Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Banks laughed. “That’ll do nicely, too. I’ve got the DVD.”

“I couldn’t... you know... If I... well, I’d have to go home and face the music.”

“I know that. But after, there’s help. There are choices.”

She hesitated for a moment, then she took hold of his hand, and he felt her grip tightening as she climbed off the wall and stood up. “Be careful now,” he said. “The ground’s quite treacherous.”

“Isn’t it just,” she said, and moved toward him.