RATING: PG-13 for language

This is just a little harmless wish fulfilment.
 

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A CANDLE FOR KATHERINE
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With the best will in the world, I aint the sharpest
knife in the drawer -- but even I can tell there's
something wrong when I turn the corner into Villiers
Terrace at 11pm and see yellow light boiling out my
front door, a police car sitting in front of the house
and hear Mama?s sobs echoing down the street.

That nosy old cow Mrs Carmody is on her front step,
trying to peer over the snow-laden privet hedge to see
what's going on. "Joe, where you been?" she wails,
delighted to do her bit for the great street drama.
"Your mother?s been crying for you for an hour."

I ignore her and barrel into the house, fear eating at
me like acid. I hear scuffling and crashes from
upstairs but I follow the sound of Mama's voice into
the front parlour. She is sitting on the best sofa,
looking tiny and broken like she did after Papa died.
My niece's arm is draped across her heaving shoulders.

"Joseph, what have you done?" Natalie asks, looking
furious with me.

But that's just it, see? I?ve been in trouble with the
law before. I?ve got a bit of a temper, I?m a big man
and I used to drink a lot. I went a bit wild when I
had to leave the navy and I got into a fight with some
geezer who hurt a girl I knew. Well, long story short
? I didn't know my own strength and I hurt him right
back. Got banged up for a three-stretch for GBH, but I
swear to God he was asking for it.

Only since I got out I been straight as a die, not
even a parking ticket. For the first time in years,
I?ve done nothing wrong. Even so, I have a horrible
feeling I know who this is about.

I touch Mama's cheek and tell her not to worry, I'll
sort this out, just as a hefty man walks into the
room. He is fat but smartly dressed, and looks as if
he'd be pretty handy in a fight. Before he even opens
his mouth I know he's Old Bill. Sure enough, two
little uniformed piggies come trotting in after him.
He shoots them a look and the youngest one squeals:
"All searched but no result, sir."

"I'm Detective Sergeant John Chisholm," the tub of
lard says to me. "Are you Joseph Lipinski?"

"No I'm Daffy fucking Duck. Of course I am, this is my
house aint it?" The swearing sets off fresh sobs from
Mama and I curse myself for getting mouthy. "What do
you want?"

"What can you tell me about Dana Scully, Mr Lipinski?"
Chisholm asks.

"Nothing, since I don't know who that is."

"Your niece has already told us that you do." I give
Natalie the death stare. She's almost 18 now, she
should know not to admit *anything* to polizei.

"You do know that aiding an escaped felon is a serious
matter for someone with your record?" He's bluffing
but Mama stifles a wail and my anger boils over.

"You're upsetting my mother," I shout, not caring if
Mrs Carmody gets an earful to gossip about. "I've told
you, I know fuck all, I never helped no one."

"Perhaps this will help."

He holds up a photograph of her and suddenly it all
makes sense. I don't know her by that name and she
looks younger and happier in the picture but it's
definitely her. I try to keep my face straight but my
brain never was quicker than my muscles.

Fat boy's on a roll now. "Ah, I see it does, Mr
Lipinski. Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you
know..."

Perhaps I'd like to tell him what I know, he says.
Jesus Christ on a bike.

Tell him how I met her? Tell him what it feels like to
fall for someone you hardly know? Someone you can?t
have? Someone you know you're never going to see
again... unless you tell some gutbucket of a copper
what she told you?

------------------------------------------------------

The day I first noticed her was January 25, just
another dull day like the thousand others before it.

"For the fiftieth time, Natalie, switch that shit
*off*," I roared as she turned the radio to Kiss 100
again. I hate dance music, especially that drum ?n?
bass she listens to; sounds like two drunks pissing on
a dustbin lid. She scowled at me -- we have this
battle all the time -- and I switched over to the
shipping forecast, like I do every night.

"Malin... Hebrides... Bailey... Viking... North
Utsire... South Utsire..."

Sea areas and gale warnings... they are my litany and
my prayer and my poetry. Times like this I miss the
navy so much I can almost taste sea salt and engine
oil on the air. Only that?s not my life any more so I
go back to clumsily chopping tomatoes in time for the
dinner rush.

Rush. That's a laugh. I promised I'd keep the cafe
running when Papa had his first heart attack four
years ago -- it was the least I could do after all the
trouble I'd caused -- but the only place it's running
is downhill.

The rent is killing us and as the area slowly shifts
upmarket, fewer and fewer people seem interested in
good, cheap food. Once our entire family worked here.
Now my brother has a real job, Mama won't set foot in
the place since Papa died, and I am waiter, cook and
bottlewasher 12 hours a day, six days a week.

So... Joe Lipinski, 37, living at the arsehole end of
the twentieth century, no wife, no kids, lives with
his mother and runs a caff near Victoria that's going
down the pan.

What a catch.

The bell on the door rang. "Oh God, she's back,"
Natalie said with that bored to the bones weariness
only teenagers can pull off. "Endless coffee and a
bowl of Napolitano, I bet you, and she never tips."

Well a customer like that wasn?t going to make our
fortunes but I peered out through the serving hatch
anyway. No one else was in but Kipper, who always eats
here when he finishes his shift down the station.

It was dark outside and the wind-driven sleet was
beating the windows as she walked in, small and soaked
in a battered dark brown leather jacket that was about
three sizes too big for her.

Her short, dark hair was plastered to her head and she
looked so tired and cold that I wanted to sit her by
the radiator and pour hot sweet tea down her neck.
Instead she sat shivering under the buzzing pink neon
sign that reads Joe?s Place and polished a hole in the
condensation with her fist so she could see out
towards the station.

Something about her got to me. Can?t explain it. I
went out to the back, pulled out a freshly laundered
kitchen towel from the cupboard, and took it through.
Kipper and Natalie, who were trading their usual
insults in the corner, gave me a "get him" look.

"Here," I said gruffly, embarrassed I suppose. "You
look wet."

Well done Joe. State the bleeding obvious, why don?t
you?

But she looked up at me with surprised, wide eyes and
murmured her thanks; rubbing her hair with the thin
towelling. I felt my ears go their usual shade of
scarlet, gave her a quick smile and then retreated to
the kitchen.

Natalie wasn?t that far behind me. She slapped the
order book down on the counter and poured out a mug of
coffee, all the while giving me that
cat-that-ate-the-frigging-canary grin. "Got much of a
crush, Joe?' If she weren?t family I?d sack her, swear
to God.

"Just trying to be nice," I replied. She smirked again
and pinned up the order. Sure enough it was for a bowl
of Napolitano and a coffee.

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I usually leave it to Natalie to take the money;
whatever her faults, she?s better at maths than me.
Only this time, when the woman comes to pay, it?s
almost 10pm, and it?s me sitting by the till. We were
empty again -- no change there -- and she brought her
bowl back to the serving hatch and laid the folded
towel next to it. "Thanks," she said.

Half the pasta was congealing in the bottom of the
bowl. I felt oddly disappointed. "You didn?t like it?"

She shook her head. "No, it was good. I just wasn?t
hungry today." Nice low voice and an odd accent.
American, maybe, but clipped like she was trying to
hide it. She was one of those women who don't look
particularly spectacular when you first see them. You
know you think, yeah, nice figure, pretty fit,
wouldn?t kick her out of bed for eating crisps, then
your mind moves on.

"I'll have to try and impress you more tomorrow then,"
I said with as much of a smile as I dared.

Then suddenly she smiled back and I felt the breath
whoosh out of me. She had gorgeous eyes, blue-green
like coastal waters on a sunny day, and when she
smiled... I don?t know, it sort of altered the way I
saw her...

...anyway, stop dribbling Joe, you're a bleeding
embarrassment.

So I told her the damage -- and she counted out the
cash slowly from a pile of coins she had drawn out of
the pocket of her jeans. Then it struck me. She had
ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. And I looked
at her, taking in her scuffed boots, the battered
jacket, the shrapnel in her palm and most of all, how
very thin and tired she looked  and I realised that
she'd not got much money.

She softly bade me goodnight and I sat for a good
minute staring stupidly at the pile of coppers and
silver in my hand.

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She came in every day the next week and a half, always
at the same time, always sat at the same table under
the sign, staring out at the station plaza as the rush
hour traffic poured past in a smear of double-decker
red and taxi black. Ate the Napolitano and then
wandered out again. We even talked four or five times,
about the weather, the traffic, nothing that mattered.

I found myself watching her whenever she was in,
wondering what she was thinking and why she kept
looking out towards the toytown clocktower by the
station plaza. Little Ben was a gift from the French
government and it's been a meeting place for decades.
Who was she waiting to meet?

And why did she look more and more beaten down every
day that went by?

I told Natalie to keep her coffee mug filled up -- and
not to bloody argue about it -- if the woman was going
to stay in here for three hours she might as well have
something to drink. Gave her some bread and butter
with the meals too, told her it was a special offer
that month.

We get fresh bread every morning and we always throw
undrunk filter coffee out at the end of the evening
anyway.

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Sundays we're shut. It used to be because Papa
insisted we rest on God's day, now it's just because I
need the rest.

I still head into the city every now and then to go to
mass at Westminster Cathedral. I know my mind isn't
supposed to be on worldly things, and a house of God
is a house of God whether it's made of mortar or
marble, but being under that great vaulted ceiling
helps me feel as though there is a larger power at
work somewhere.

It was a foul night again -- our weather has gone mad
this year, it's so snowy and cold. The bookies lost a
fortune because we had a white Christmas. The Thames
even froze over for the first time in decades.

I tumbled blinking out of the tube station entrance
into a fierce northerly that was making the shop signs
sway and whipping a mixture of snowflakes and litter
through the bus station. No one ever tells you that
when you go bald on top, you feel the cold more, so I
stopped for a second to pull my jacket hood up, and
that's when I saw her.

She was sitting on one of the benches looking as if
she was about to pass out. Nearby, even old Harry was
shivering on his usual bench as he swigged from his
cider bottle -- and his blood is nearly 100% proof.
Hardly thinking about what I was doing I walked up
behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

Mistake.

In a millisecond, her left hand was around my fingers,
twisting them backwards until it felt like she was
wrenching them off. A moment later something very bony
and hard -- her elbow at a guess -- slammed back into
my stomach and I doubled over, falling to my knees in
the snow, which pulled my arm into an even more
contorted position. I looked up and she was standing
on the bench seat, one foot on the upright like she
was about to spring, her right hand poised at shoulder
height, ready to smack me into the middle of next
week.

"It?s me," I hissed  -- stupid, since she didn't know
me from Adam, not really. I tried to get to my feet
but collapsed again. I couldn't catch my breath.

Instantly she dropped my tortured right arm and her
hands flew to her mouth. "Oh God I?m sorry. Are you
okay? No, of course you're not. Shit." She reached out
a hand to help me up.

I sucked in a painful lungful of air and waved my
uninjured arm, in an attempt to signal that it was
okay.

And of course, on the next bench Harry was pissing
himself with laughter at seeing a 6ft 4in ex-Royal
Navy hard case getting lamped by woman who looked like
a stiff breeze might blow her away. "Met your match
there, Joe," he yelled, showing off his three
remaining teeth.

I gave him the single-fingered salute and hauled
myself to my feet. "Aint you got a homeless shelter to
get to, Harry?" I wheezed, bending at the waist to get
my breath back.  "I'd shut your bloody face, if you
want me to feed you tomorrow." He carried on cackling.
 

"I"m *so* sorry I overreacted," she repeated, "you
startled me."

"Never. And there was me thinking that was your usual
greeting," I said but I wasn't angry, not really. I
should know better than to sneak up on a woman like
that. I sat heavily on the bench, massaging my mangled
hand and she moved next to me.

"Do you want me to look at it? I'm a... I have some
medical training," she finished, her voice trailing
away.

I looked up at her, surprised, and nodded. She brought
the hand close to her face so she could look at it.
Then, expertly, her fingers ran along the bones in the
back of my hand, and she flexed my fingers so gently.

'Some medical training' my arse; she knew what she was
doing. And that little manoeuvre on the bench -- I
learned something similar in basic training years ago.
Questions hopped round in my head, breeding like
bunnies.

"No bones broken," she said finally, adding carefully:
"Do you want me to look at your stomach?"

"We aint even been introduced," I said in mock horror
and she smiled a little. "Nah, I had worse beatings
when I was..." I halted. Introducing prison into the
conversation is not the best way to impress a girl.
"It's fine. Where did *you* learn to fight?"

She didn't reply.

"Look, this is brass monkey weather," I said. "Why
don't I open up the caff, get us both a brew? I'm Joe,
by the way. Joe Lipinski. Don't be offended if I don't
shake your hand, I know how strong your grip is."

"My name is... Katherine," she said after a pause.
"Katherine."

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The heating warmed the place up in less than 10
minutes, which was just as well since she was
shivering uncontrollably.

"How long you been out there?" I asked.

"Three, four hours."

"What are you doing it for? I see you every evening;
in here, out by the station. Are you begging?"

She looked offended and actually pushed her chair back
as if to walk out but I held a hand up in a gesture of
surrender. "Sorry, but you don't look like a pro or a
pusher and no one hangs around out there for fun.".

She shook her head, her teeth still chattering as I
awkwardly poured out the coffee with my left hand.
"No," she said. "No they don't."

"So you're waiting for someone. Let me guess, it's a
bloke." She looked up at me, her face blank, her eyes
warning me not to push my luck. "Well if he's stood
you up, he's a bloody fool."

She let out a little snort of laughter, which I took
as an acknowledgment that I'd guessed right. "Thank
you," she said.

"Not at all. I'm going to make myself a bacon butty;
want one?"

"A what?"

I waggled my eyebrows, which is weird because  I
*never* flirt, and said in a bad French accent:
"Finest breakfast meat placed between two slices of
bread avec..." I waved a ketchup bottle under her
nose, "le sauce rouge."

"I can't pay."

"Did I mention money?"

"Then thank you," she replied and the corners of her
mouth twitched. "Garcon."

I switched on the cooker and started frying, then
turned on the radio in time for the shipping forecast.
The BBC announcer's sober tones made it sound even
more like a poem than usual:

"Finisterre: north or north-east, four or five;
thundery showers, moderate or good... Rockall, Malin,
Hebrides, Bailey: south-westerly, six to gale eight,
decreasing four or five, moderate with fog patches..."
 
I closed my eyes and imagined slate grey waves on a
choppy sea.

Her voice broke into my daydream. "What's that?" she
asked gesturing at the radio.

"It's the weather forecast for shipping around the
coast. Storm warnings and all that. I was in the navy
for ten of the best years of my life and it reminds
me."

For the first time she smiled. "My father and both my
brothers were in the navy."

"US navy I imagine."

Her eyes glinted. "Very good, Sherlock."

"Your secrets are safe with me. It's a code of honour.
Cafe owners, barmen and priests. We all have to keep
schtum."

"I've never heard of that one before."

"What, you've never heard about priests? That's a
shocking lack of education, that is."

At last I got a laugh as I piled the bacon between the
bread, and clamped one big hand on top to squeeze out
the juices. "Scuse fingers," I said, handing it over.
She wolfed it down like she hadn't eaten anything all
day. She probably hadn't.

------------------------------------------------------

Later I stood at the kitchen door, watching her as an
impulse hardened into a plan in my brain. We had
talked for a while and then I had gone out back to
clean up.

When I finished she was sitting in the chair by the
neon sign, her arms folded across the checked table
cloth, her right cheek laid against her forearm. She
faced the hole she'd polished in the condensation on
the window; out towards the empty station plaza.

Only she was fast asleep.

I walked up the back stairs to the floor above the
cafe. The main bedroom was converted into a storeroom
years ago but back when I was drinking a lot, I used
to use the box room to crash out after a night in the
pub. That way Mama wouldn't get all upset over the
state I was in and I wouldn't be late for work.

I moved the cartons of serviettes and drinking straws
onto the small chest of drawers and rolled back the
sheets on the narrow single bed. They were clean on,
but a good three or four months ago now. There was
still a faint smell of washing powder though.

I wandered back downstairs. Sleep had smoothed out the
lines of worry on her face. Charcoal circles still
surrounded her eyes but she was younger than I had
thought.

I sat opposite and looked at her, noticing this and
that.

She had good skin, a dusting of freckles on the bridge
of her nose. I noticed that her eyebrows and eyelashes
were auburn and that made me look at the crown of her
head. Sure enough the roots were a dark auburn, the
rest of the hair a dull brown. Why would anyone with
hair that colour dye it?

I noticed that she was very beautiful in sleep.

She had a small white scar just on the nape of her
neck and before I realised what I was doing I was
reaching down to touch it. Her eyes sprang open,
wickedly blue and angry until she recognised me.

I stepped back. "I'm sorry, you were well out of it."

She shook her head wearily and yawned. "I should be
going."

"Then I'll walk you home."

"Thank you but you don't have to, I can look after
myself."

"Bollocks. Least I can do after you nearly broke my
arm," I said with a grin.

"It's really not necessary."

And that was my cue. "Because you're sleeping in that
station, aint you?"

She looked very pissed off. "Thank you and goodbye,"
she said curtly, walking towards the door.

"Let me guess," I called after her. "You got your
stuff in a left luggage locker and you crash out on
one of the benches near the chemists. How much longer
do you think you can pretend you're waiting for the
last Eurostar to Paris before the station staff start
recognising you and chucking you out with the rest of
the dossers?"

Her hand clenched and unclenched around the door
handle but she stayed silent and so I went on: "Look I
know you aint got much money and this is a terrible
city to be broke in. You're knackered and if you go
out in this you'll freeze to death. We got a small
room upstairs..."

"No. Absolutely not." Her eyes were flint hard and I
could see her muscles tense.

"Let me finish. We got a box room upstairs, no one
sleeps there any more. Why don't you take it tonight
just until this storm is over. You've proved you need
the sleep."

"What about you?" The unspoken question was clear and
I was almost offended. As if I'd take advantage like
that...

"What about me? I'm going home to my nice warm bed in
Dulwich. And I'll never sleep if I think you're stuck
out in this weather. You wouldn't want to do that to
me would you?"

I saw her eyelids droop as her brain contemplated the
possibility of a bed. The pause seemed endless.

"Okay," she whispered, but like it was a surrender.
"Just one night. Thank you."

She stayed three weeks.

----------------------------
 

Often I made up excuses to stay late at the cafe, told
Mama I was doing the books. I'd send Natalie home
early, spread the accounts ledgers across the checked
tablecloths, leave the pot of coffee steaming on the
hot plate, and hope I might hear her footfalls on the
stairs.

I just loved talking to her. Couldn't say why. I'm not
the world's greatest conversationalist -- don't really
get the practice.

Mostly we talked about ships and the sea. She'd talk
about her father, who had been one of those strict
officer types -- a captain, no less -- and I'd tell
her the less obscene anecdotes about my time in the
navy.

I also told her all the silly stories Papa told me
about his time as cook on a cargo ship sailing from
Gdansk via London to New York; and about how he used
to bring me back baseball caps and the Hershey Bars
that made me a playground millionaire.

Once I even told her about the war, I don't know why.
I was only a teenager when I went to the Falklands,
but I remember when the missile hit the HMS Sheffield
as if it was a minute ago. I told her about jumping
for the life rafts as we were being strafed by the
Argie planes. About the heat melting our clothes and
the foul smell that we knew was burning flesh.
Terrible things that I've never told anyone. But I was
more alive then, when I was serving with those lads,
than I ever have been since.

She listened in silence and she seemed to understand
it all. And I mean really understood, which made me
wonder... Katherine, just who the bloody hell are you?

I never found out too much more about her than I had
learned that Sunday night in the cafe. She was too
cagey for that. She'd admitted she was waiting for a
guy to turn up.

All the time we talked, no matter what we were
speaking about, his name would slip in -- Mulder --
usually accompanied by a little smile and the
beginning of an account of some wild tale, then she'd
stop herself.

"You don't have to stop saying his name to me," I
said.

She gave me a look that suggested I had gone too far.
I didn't give a toss.

"If you want to talk about him, do. I aint going to
say anything to anyone  and I aint going to ask you
questions if it makes you uncomfortable."

She wrapped her fingers tightly around the coffee mug
and nodded.

"Well except one. Surely Mulder's not his first name.
Why do you call him that?"

"Always have," she said and her smile was as dazzling
as it was brief.

------------------------------------------------------

"Sometimes, he's like a maddening boy," she told me
once. "He gets these ridiculous ideas and you can't
hold him back. You might as well tell the tide to stop
coming in."

"I take it you're Canute in this scenario," I said,
sliding the huge lasagne dish into the oven.

She laughed and her tea sloshed up the side of the
cup. "Exactly. Only a lot of the time he turns out to
be right."

"That must be bleeding annoying."

"You have no idea," she replied darkly, then went on:
"I never told him this, but most of the time I... I
love it when he goes off on one of his tangents. He's
nuts but he can really spin a tale."

She bit her lip and looked up into the kitchen's roof
light, a smile curving her mouth as she remembered.

"How long have you been a couple?"

She looked across at me, surprised at the directness
of the question, I suppose. "Not long. We were just
friends for a long time. Well, not *just* friends..."
She paused. "Oh, I don't know."

"How long were you "not just friends" then?"

"Eight years. Give or take a few months."

I nodded. "Long time. And when was he supposed to meet
you?"

"January 23 or 24. 7-8pm. At the clock." Her tone was
flat again.

"You don't think he might have...?" I stopped. Might
have what? Stood her up? Decided against whatever
thing they had going and stayed at home? Spun her the
biggest tale of all?

"No, he promised," she said with force. "Something's
gone wrong but he'll be here. It just might take him a
while."

Then she tipped the dregs of her tea down the sink,
gave me a tight little smile and left. The door
slammed behind her like a slap.

------------------------------------------------------

Once or twice, I thought I heard her crying. I tiptoed
to the top of the stairs and rapped on the door,
thinking maybe I could comfort her.

Perhaps I hoped she'd open the door and it might lead
to something else. I don't know. I aint exactly proud
of it.

"You all right, love?" I asked softly. "Anything I can
do?"

She always said she was okay. I never felt I had the
right to contradict her.

I couldn't imagine what it was like, sitting there day
after day, waiting for him to arrive at that silly
clock at 7pm and dying a little with every hour that
he didn't appear.

And she never said a thing, never broke down; nothing.

I hoped that when this Mulder did finally did turn up,
he had a good excuse ready or I was going to kick his
bloody arse for him.

------------------------------------------------------

The day before it all ended, we were chatting about
some crap or other as I stirred the pot of pasta, when
she suddenly asked: "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you helping me?"  I thought about it for a
second but I couldn't say why myself. Natalie thought
I was mad but it just seemed like the right thing to
do.

"Why not?" She raised an eyebrow and I smiled. "I'm a
Catholic, it's good for my immortal soul -- karma and
all that."

"I think that may be more Buddhism than catechism,"
she replied dryly.

"Whatever works; I aint particular."

A beat of silence.

"I usually find it difficult to trust people," she
said quietly. "There are so few whose kindness comes
without debt. I always look for ulterior motives. So
just in case I haven't said it already, thank you."

"A pleasure. Least I could do," I said, meaning it.
The blush crept across my cheeks again at the thought
of ulterior motives.

------------------------------------------------------

I should have known it wouldn't go on forever.

That night she was sitting by the pink neon 'Joe's
Place' sign, looking at the accounts. I'd admitted the
night before that I had trouble with them and she'd
said she was all right with numbers and she'd have a
look. Said it was the least she could do in a tone
that let me know she was mocking my favourite phrase.
It was good to see her smile.

I left her with a plate of pasta primavera and the
ledgers as I listened to the 6.30 comedy show on Radio
4.

We weren't busy -- what a surprise -- only Kipper was
in the cafe. It was Natalie's night off; she had her
mock A-levels in a week and her father was threatening
to ground her unless she managed to pass this time. I
prepared the vegetables for the next day's dinner
time, feeling content.

Then I heard a stifled gasp and a bang. I ran out to
the front to see a chair knocked over on the floor; a
pool of coffee swilling round the edge of the ledgers.
Katherine was already at the door.

I knew  it was him, as soon as I followed her line of
sight across the busy road to the station plaza.

Well he weren't much to look at. He was slouching, his
back against the clock, looking down at his trainers
scuffing up the hardened snow on the pavement like it
was something he had to concentrate on. He was dead
thin and he had this bloody awful buzzcut that made
him look worse -- he nearly had less hair than me. He
was only wearing a light coat and jeans so he must
have been freezing.

Then as if she'd shouted to him, he suddenly looked up
and straight at her. He stared for the longest time --
past the rushing river of cars and the streams of
commuters heading home -- as if he wasn't quite sure
what he was seeing. Then suddenly he was pushing his
way through the crowds, weaving through the speeding
cars to the blaring of horns, right into the path of
an oncoming taxi.

The taxi skidded to a halt in a hail of icy water but
he just carried on walking, oblivious, a smile on his
face. "Use the crossing, you fucking moron," the taxi
driver shouted before roaring off.

Katherine had a hand over her mouth, then she laughed,
like the pealing of bells. "Welcome to London,
Mulder." She took his hand and drew him inside the
cafe. I tried to look busy, clearing away plates and
wiping tables.

So this was him.

They slipped into seats opposite each other. He cast a
glance at me, but she waved away his worried look.
"It's safe. Where were you..."

"I'm sorry. The traffic was terrible, Scully."

"Be *serious* Are you all right?" She was so calm now
he was here that it was eerie.

"I'm fine. Fine."

She gave him this quirky little smile and then frowned
at him. "What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it yet..." She was looking
him up and down, her hands sliding down his face, her
eyes on the way he was moving. He stopped talking as
she ran a hand tenderly across his head. He didn't so
much have a haircut as an all-over five o'clock
shadow.

"How did you get away?" she asked finally.

He gave a peculiar laugh and said some weird name.
Began with a K. Sounded Czech or Russian or something.
"He's on our side."

She shook her head. "He's on no one's side but his
own."

"Which, for now, is ours."

"Well that's something. I'm sorry. I would have come
to find you, you know."

"Why didn't you?"

"You made me promise. Well that and the fact that
they've found the London bank account."

His hand slapped down on the table. "Fuck," he said
softly. "What about the others?"

"Decided not to touch them until you got here. Didn't
want to blow all the accounts. Some may still be
secure "

"What if I hadn't got here?"

"I'd have managed," she said sounding slightly
annoyed.

"I'm not disputing it," he said gently. "But what did
you do for money?"

"You know I took some with me."

"But not enough for six fucking weeks."

"Sold my watch, some other stuff," she said. He
reached forward and pulled down the cloth of her
T-shirt at the neck, then let go and sat back on his
seat.

"Oh Scully, tell me you didn't sell it."

"It was gold Mulder," she said flatly.

"Even so, it wouldn't have brought much. What have you
been doing?" he asked, sounding agitated.

"Relying on the kindness of strangers," she stood up,
took her eyes off him for the first time since he had
appeared by the clock and turned to me. "Joe, this is
Mulder." Then she turned back to him. "Mulder this is
Joe Lipinski, he's been letting me stay upstairs
here."

He cast a glance at her and I got the feeling that the
most was being said in the times when they said
nothing at all. I held out a  hand to him and he took
it and shook it firmly. My hand dwarfed his. I felt
clumsy and awkward.

He met my eyes coolly. "Thank you."

"S'all right," I replied. I sounded gruff.

There was a long pause, tense and uncomfortable.

"Thought you was never going to turn up," I said
finally.

A second later there was a strange sound from behind
him and he whirled round.

Her hands were clamped across her mouth tightly and
you could hear the air whistling in through her nose
as her lungs spasmed and struggled to draw in breath.
Her eyes were panicky, so very blue and absolutely
dry.

He was useless, just fluttering around her, his
fingers spindly with shock, eyes wide; he obviously
wasn't used to this kind of reaction.

Bloody hell, I wasn't either .

"God, what is it? Tell me what it is..." he asked.

Give her a hug you stupid sod, I muttered to myself
angrily.

Maybe he heard me or maybe he just understood. He
stopped hovering in front of her, and touched her
under the line of her jaw until she looked at him. He
smiled gently. "It's okay, it's me," he said. "I'm
here. We're here."

Then he pulled her towards him and put his arms around
her. Her hands flew from her mouth and wrapped around
his back. She buried her face in his chest and
suddenly I could hear these terrible, tearing sobs.

"Please don't cry, I can't stand it when you cry," he
was whispering over and over again into her ear.

She stepped away a little and their eyes locked. He
moved in and kissed her, slow, long and gentle. Then
he pulled her to him in a hug and she started crying
again.

I've read about couples where they say you can see the
sparks flying between the man and the woman but I
always thought that was a load of old crap... until I
saw them. I suppose the writers mean it's a love
that's worth any amount of pain. Something you find
once in a lifetime and then only if you're lucky.

It's not for the likes of me.

I turned away and knew there was one thing I could do.

"Come on Kipper old son, time to leave," I said
briskly.

Kipper's ratty face screwed up; the nosy little
chuffer was enjoying the show. "But I aint finished my
tea," he whined. "And what's up with Katherine?"

"She's won the fucking National Lottery," I snapped.
"Everything's on the house but only if you piss off
right now. Your choice, Kipper."

"Well, if you put it like that," he said and legged it
before I could change my mind.

I twisted the lock, turned the sign on the door to
closed and put two cups of coffee on the table next to
them but I don't think they even noticed.

Then I went out to the back and turned up the shipping
forecast, trying not to hear her sobbing like that.

------------------------------------------------------

After ten minutes or so, I wandered back through.
Their hands were still clasped together across the red
and white tablecloth and they were just... looking at
each other with such intensity and focus that it was
almost uncomfortable to be in the same room; you'd
start to doubt your own existence.

"Look why don't you two..." I waved my hand, trying to
think of a way of phrasing it, "catch up here. I've
got some errands to run and it will take me a couple
of hours."

"Joe, you don't have to..." Katherine began as she
looked up.

"I know," I said, staring into her eyes to make it
clear that I knew where I stood and that it was okay.
"I know. Will you be here when I get back?"

He shook his head. She looked at him and you could see
the conversation flashing in their eyes: her wanting
to stay a little longer, him telling her that they had
to leave.

She walked over to me and took my hand in hers, the
one she nearly broke just three weeks ago. "I can
never thank you enough, you know," she said softly.

I brushed away the comment. "It was fine. It was the
least I could..."

"No, Joe," she interrupted. "You did the most you
could do." She took my face in her hands and planted a
small, sweet kiss on my lips. "Thank you." I felt
stirrings in areas that had no right to stir and the
blush pooled hotly in my cheeks and ears.

There's no fool like an old fool.

As I pulled away I caught the man's eyes as I looked
over her shoulder; his expression was peculiar. There
was gratitude but threaded through it I thought I saw
jealousy too. Oh, if only you knew, you lucky
bastard...

"Get your family away from the city, Joe," she said,
unaware of our wordless exchange. "Trust me. Bad
things are going to happen. You need to get your
family as far away from the cities as you can."

And I don?t know why, but I believed her.

I gave them both a nod and locked the cafe door behind
me. She waved and then turned to him.

I watched through the glowing neon frame of my name as
she led him by the hand through the door to the back
stairs, and tried not to imagine what it would have
been like if she had looked at me in that way.

------------------------------------------------------

It only took me two minutes to walk through the
grubby, scuffed snow to the cathedral. I arrived just
as the monks were filing in for mass; vespers I think.
The chants and the shuffling feet and coughs of
visitors echoed round and round the chapels until they
blended into one seamless hum. It was dark outside and
they had turned down the electric lights so that the
candles shone that bit more brightly.

I felt calm again. Happy almost. Maybe I'd done
something right, for once.

I decided to give them two hours before I walked back
to the cafe, glad that it was Natalie's night off so I
could do as I pleased.

But before I left the cathedral to get a pint in the
Duke, I lit some candles: one for Papa and Mama,
as always, and one for Katherine.

As an afterthought I lit one for him too, but my only
prayer was that he would keep her safe.

I suppose it was my way of saying goodbye.

------------------------------------------------------

So... do I tell Detective Sergeant Chisholm how I met
Katherine -- or whatever the hell she's called?

Tell him what she told me? Tell him what it feels like
to fall for someone you hardly know? Someone you can?t
have? Someone you know you're never going to see
again...?

I don't think so.

No.

------------------------------------------------------
 
 
 
 

These places exist and are geographically correct:
Little Ben is near Victoria Station in central London
as is the magnificent Roman Catholic cathedral. (a
five-minute walk from Buckingham Palace, 10 minutes
from Westminster Abbey and better looking than both
IMHO)

GBH is "grievous bodily harm" -- in other words, a
serious assault charge

With thanks to one Carrie from another for judicious
wielding of said pointy stick (and a million cred
points if she can spot the Bunnymen ref <g>) and also
Lisa for being very nice about this

I have been marasmus_k@yahoo.com. Thank you and
goodnight

------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, property of 1013,
 thank you v. much for inventing them Mr Carter.
Endless gratitude etc. etc.
------------------------------------------------------