| I saw an angel today. Well, it is Christmas Eve after all; it's the time for it. The boss, a man I loathe and despise, told me I could leave early. Thanks, Scrooge! It was already past five o'clock but, pathetic weasel that I am, I thanked him. I hate my job. I hate myself for staying at it. I felt miserable, no Christmas spirit at all as I walked along Hanway Street to the Tottenham Court Road tube station when it started to snow, turning a dull evening into something magical. I was heading home from a job I regret to my empty flat and tiny Christmas tree to spend Christmas Day alone with a turkey-for-one, the Queen's speech and a James Bond movie but the fact that it was snowing made me smile. And that was when I saw my angel. Outside Nick Voleur's place. Nick's this dodgy accountant who'd done a couple of favours for a couple of dodgy people along the way. I only knew about him through Gus. I'd thrown a couple of names his way. As I drew level with the house, close to the tube station, a couple of police cars came screaming up and pulled up on the pavement on the other side of the road. Outside Nick's place. Six coppers got out and went running into one of the terrace houses. I stopped to watch, like everyone else who was passing by. Maybe their jobs are all as dull as mine. I knew what was happening, they'd finally rumbled him. He'd had it coming to him for long enough. But nothing happened for a while and I was about to go on home - I get enough boredom at work - when this man stepped out of the front door looking utterly lost. An angel. Not your usual typical angel with wings and a harp, but an angel nonetheless. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his long, black coat that he was hunkered down inside. A red scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. As he stood there, the snowflakes landed in his jet-black hair and on to the end of his nose. I watched him wipe away the drips of water with his fingers then wipe his nose on the back of his hand. He was staring back inside the house and started as a couple of the coppers came back out carrying boxes, a computer and other electronic gadgets. Obviously he hadn't known or even suspected Nick was crooked. It was difficult to believe but the expression on his face said it all. He looked bewildered, completely out of his depth, out of his natural habitat. And I wondered who he was, what he was, why he was desperate enough to use the services of someone like Nick Voleur. And I thought, maybe he needed an accountant. My angel eventually left the scene, glancing back as he crossed the road, as if any of the coppers were remotely interested in him. He walked straight past me into the station. And as I was already going that way, I followed. The tube was packed. I decided he didn't use it much because he looked just as self-conscious on the train as he had done standing outside Nick's house as the police ransacked it. I couldn't help but wonder where he would be at home. He needed an accountant so that must mean he had a business of some sort, but probably one that wasn't doing very well or he'd be able to afford a professional service. Like me. I was a professional accountant. This was the first moment in my whole career when I wasn't regretted the fact. Only one stop up - Holborn - he got off and so did I. Not because I was stalking him but because I needed to change to the Piccadilly Line. So did he as it turned out. The next train was oddly empty and I sat a couple of seats down and across from him, watching him as he slumped with one hand in his pocket, mussing his hair up with the other, rubbing his eyes with the heal of his hand. He looked tired and irritated, something I only understood when we both alighted at Russell Square and the moment he was on the pavement he had a lit cigarette between his lips. Presumably the arrest of his accountant had left him with a slight problem. This time I admit I followed him. He started walking in the direction of my flat, swaying slightly from time to time, taking long drags on his cigarette, messing with his hair. When he turned right into Leigh Street I thought he was heading for the infamous Norfolk Arms but instead he carried on until he stepped into a bookshop - Black Books. It was a chaotic place, with as much rubbish in front of it as there were books. The windows were filthy but I managed to find a patch of glass to peer through. And I saw him throw his coat and scarf onto the floor, taking his obviously right place behind the desk when a slim woman who had been sat there gave it up. He was at home there, in control, surveying his empire. It made me smile just to know there was somewhere he was comfortable. So this was his business. He was incredibly late doing his taxes. Or not doing them as the case seemed to be. I wanted to go in but I had no idea what I'd say. What was there to say? I could offer to do his tax return. But how suspicious would a stranger walking into his shop and providing a miracle solution to his tax problem actually be? So I went home. Study of the contents of my fridge turned up some mince so I opened a bottle of red wine and rustled up spaghetti bolognaise. Only when I sat down on the sofa and reached for the television remote, and the Christmas tree in the corner caught my eye did I realise the shop hadn't had any decorations in it whatsoever. After three-quarters of a bottle I made my mind up. It was still Christmas Eve. I carefully chose two bottles of red wine from the modest collection in the wooden rack under the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and living area. Wrapping up warm I went out onto the snow-laden pavements and made my way back to the bookshop. I had no idea if he'd still be there. If the woman would still be there. If they would still be there together. Light was streaking out from the dirty windows and I stepped cautiously inside the small porch, seeing the 'Closed' sign but still knocking on the door. After the third attempt to rouse someone, I stepped out with a heavy heart. This was the strangest, most impulsive thing I'd done in years and I was at the same time disappointed and relieved that he hadn't answered the door. My angel would just have to remain in my imagination for now. After all, I told myself, I only lived two roads away, I could come by the shop anytime. I heard the locks thrown, the door opening and I turned my head to see him standing there, deep red shirt hanging over black trousers, cigarette hanging from his lips. He was wearing an expectant, almost wide-eyed expression and I realised I had no idea what to say. "I'm an accountant," I blurted out and he continued to stare at me so I held out the two bottles I'd brought. "I have wine." Suddenly he burst into life, stepping back, waving his arm, saying, "Come in, come in," in a pure Irish accent. So I stepped inside the bookshop, looking around at the higgildy-piggildy mess. Books stacked on shelves in random order and random direction. A table in the centre was piled high. Antiques and best sellers jumbled together. It was like every bookshop I'd ever known in my childhood. The modern book emporiums had no idea. There was no way a child would ever believe they could find Narnia or even L-space behind those polished mock-wood shelves. But Black Books had nooks and crannies lit by standard lamps. I could just see him then, sitting behind the desk, scowling at his customers, accepting only cash and complaining bitterly at having to give change. "What did you want?" he asked me as I stood inside the shop, holding the wine. And I thought what an incredibly odd situation this was. I could have been a burglar or worse. Not that most criminals knocked on the door or brought bottles of wine for their victims. He was already back in his chair, popping a cigarette between his lips and lighting it, somehow drinking from a wineglass at the same time. I recognised the tax return form open in front of him. "I'm an accountant," I repeated, clinging to the fact. "I thought I be of some help." He did look suspicious then. "How did you know I needed an accountant?" The lilt of his accent was beautiful, even when used with such a demanding tone. What choice did I have but to admit the truth? Or some of it at least. "I saw you earlier outside Nick Voleur's place, when the police raided it. I was walking back from work." "How do you know Nick? And how did you know where I live? And why are you here anyway?" Sensible questions all. I answered them one by one. "I know Nick by reputation only. I know where you live because I followed you home - I live just two roads up." A little lie but only a little one. "And I'm here because I thought you might need an accountant." He looked at me forlornly. "I do need an accountant. I have to do my taxes." "You're... a little late." "Am I? I found the form under a pile of letters in the downstairs loo." There wasn't one question that covered everything so I left it alone. "Why do you have wine?" "Honestly, I thought it would be less... threatening if I brought wine. Otherwise I was just turning up on your doorstep offering my services as an accountant and that seemed a little... odd." He regarded me blankly. "Yes, turning up with two bottles definitely is less odd." I nodded. I wanted to laugh. The sarcasm was gentle and his words were delivered with a smile. "Want to sit down?" He indicated a chair at the other side of the desk, where I'd seen the woman sitting down earlier. I wondered again who she was and where she was. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the shop. I sat down and handed him the bottles. "I'm... Manny, by the way." I think he meant to shake my hand but instead he offered me a corkscrew that he then took away again. "Bernard." "Bernard." It was a lovely name. It suited him. As he took the cork out of the first bottle with practised skill, I took in as much detail as I could. His hair had that end-of-the-day look about it, no longer as clean or as brushed. I wondered how he looked just after he showered and towel-dried himself. His face was almost hard until he smiled. When he smiled it lit up the room. How sappy am I?! "Bernard. Did you know it's Christmas Eve?" His head snapped up. "Is it?" "Yes. That's what I meant about you being a bit late with your taxes. They usually like to see them before the end of October." He shook his head with a shrug, dismissing the deadline as he poured two glasses of red wine and handed one to me. "Thank you." "Is it really Christmas Eve?" "Yes. Don't you have any family?" "No. Well, yes. But we're separated - me and my parents I mean." "Friends?" "One. Fran. She... owns the shop next door. She didn't tell me it was Christmas. Bollocks! She's going to expect a present or something." I couldn't believe someone could live anywhere in the world and not know it was Christmas. But then, looking around, inside the bookshop was timeless. What was Christmas these days anyway? A shopping frenzy followed by a day of non-stop gorging. Bernard was looking at me. "What about you? What's... an accountant doing in a place like this on Christmas Eve?" Thinking about unwrapping his Christmas gift? It didn't seem like a suitable response. "I don't have family either," I told him truthfully. Reaching over, I pulled the tax form across the desk and saw the mess he'd made of it. "Do you have a spare?" He considered that for a moment the got up and went out through the drawn curtain behind us. I caught sight of what looked to be a bombsite of a kitchen. When he came back he dropped a pile of around fifteen tax office envelopes in front of me. I was surprised no one had been around to arrest him for tax evasion, or at least to evict him. I opened one of them, put the rest on the floor and took the pen he was offering me. The first few questions I read out were easy - name, address, age. He was younger than me by quite a few years. Then it started to get complicated and I knew it was pointless when he couldn't produce any of the documents I needed to get the figures from - out-goings, profits, capital, investments, pension, expenses, interest. Nothing. A couple of hours later I gave up. He was a fair way into the second bottle of red. "You're quitting?" "I can't do your accounts if you can show me any figures. I'm sorry." He shook his head, dismissing my apology and refilling my glass. "Don't be. It's ludicrous anyway. What do they care how much money the shop brings in?" "You have to pay tax on it." "Why? It's my money! I earned it. If they need it so badly they should go out and get proper jobs instead of sitting around all day on their arses on those benches in parliament debating the shape of bananas." It was a difficult opinion to rally against and I happened to agree with him. My whole career was based around working out how much money people owed to other people they didn't really owe it to in the first place. "Why are you an accountant?" he asked unexpectedly. "I... don't know. It's just something I can do." "But there must be other things you can do? Do you enjoy it?" I snorted. "Of course not. No one enjoys working in an office nine to five. I hate it." "Then why do it?" "Because I need to earn money." "Why?" "Well, to pay the rent for one thing." "Come and work for me. I've got a spare room, you can have that for free." Job offers, in my experience, usually aren't that random. "What?" "I need an assistant, according to Fran. Someone to watch the shop when I'm not here. Someone to help out with the customers because, between you and me," he leaned towards me, "I hate them." "Who? Your customers?" "Yes. Time wasters! Parasites! They just come in and browse." He was close to me, leaning across the desk, his glass held between us, eyes scanning the shop in case one of these creatures had got inside. Then he looked at me, wide chocolate brown eyes searching mine and in a moment of clarity said to me, "Why are you here?" "To do...." "Don't say my accounts. Who leaves their home on Christmas Eve with two bottles of wine to go to a stranger's house and offer to do their taxes?" "Me?" "Why me?" "Because I saw you...." "If I'd been anyone would you still be here?" He moved his glass. "If I was an old man, would you be here?" I couldn't help it. I kissed him. I leaned in and touched my mouth to his. Even in that slight contact I could taste him, rich with smoke and wine. He could have reacted in a myriad different ways. He could have kicked me, punched me, sworn all sorts at me. Thrown me out, called the police, anything. But he did none of those things. He didn't move from where he was leaning over the desk, inches from me. And he asked, "Is this why you're here?" "Yes." "You saw me outside Nick's house and wanted to have sex with me?" "I saw you outside Nick's house and I thought... you looked like an angel. I just wanted to see you." Putting down his glass he put one hand on my arm. "Can I have you for Christmas?" "You can have me for any commercial or religious holiday." But most of the words were swallowed in his kiss. Tonight I had sex with an angel. It wasn't like I have expected sex with an angel to be. His mouth was obscene, his dick thick and hard. And our bed was a battered leather sofa rather than a heavenly fluffy cloud. But afterwards as he sprawled over me and wrapped himself around me, and I stroked his hair and felt his breath on my chest, he felt better than any winged godly messenger ever could have. As dawn broke on Christmas Day I went back to my flat and took the tiny Christmas tree, the bags of groceries and more wine back with me to the bookshop. I'd even brought a box of cheap crackers, the sentimental fool that I am. Who I'd imagined I was going to pull them with I had no idea. But I had someone now. I was preparing lunch and Bernard was upstairs when someone knocked on the door. I heard his voice call down, "get that, would you?" and I met Fran for the first time. To say that she was surprised to see me wouldn't have been a galactic understatement. When I opened the door she stared at me for a long time before she side-stepped me to get inside. I stuck out my hand. "I'm Manny," I said. And still she stared at me. Then she stared instead at the Christmas tree stuck on top of the pile of books on the table in the centre of the shop. "Who are you?" "I'm Manny." "What are you doing here?" "Making lunch." I thought about it and tried something out that had worked last night. "I have wine in the kitchen." Her grin was infectious. After a glass of Merlot and some sitting watching me chop vegetables, she seemed to warm to me. "Where's Bernard?" "Upstairs. I don't know... what he's doing. I haven't really known him that long." "How long?" I glanced at my watch. "Twelve hours?" "Twelve hours?" There were footsteps on the stairs. "What were you doing to meet him at... eleven last night?" "He was doing my accounts." I saw the expression on her face before I saw Bernard. When I did, my whole body was appreciative of what I saw. He'd showered and shaved. His hair was as dark and soft as it had looked when I'd watched snowflakes falling into it. His blue shirt hanging over smooth black trousers, the collar cradling the back of his neck looked great. He looked great. He shot Fran a warning glance and poured himself a glass of wine. It was a couple of minutes before she finally spluttered, "What happened to you?" "I got changed, that's all. Have you met my new accountant? He's actually accepted my offer of a job here, haven't you Manny?" I nodded because it was easier than to argue. Amazing how quickly and painlessly my life changed. I mused on it as I sat in the kitchen that afternoon, pigging chocolates that Fran had brought and drinking the seemingly never-ending supply of wine Bernard kept in the shop. Later, when she'd gone, Bernard and I made love on the sofa again before he showed me my room and we slept together in my bed. And the rest, as they say, is history. |