Doyle had driven home for Christmas eight out of the last ten years. 

In the car boot would be the carrier bag stuffed with lumpy presents and cheap chocolates bought in Woolworths the day before, a box of booze, and the ratty hold-all he’d had since his cadet days.

An unchanging ritual -- the M1 in all its grim and misty glory at lunch time on a Christmas Eve, the journey a good three hours, give or take two more for jams, with a lightning stop for petrol, coffee, and the Gents at Newport Pagnell. 

This year he didn’t stop for anything, just jammed the car into fifth and drove like a maniac who foolishly wasn’t worried how pissed off Mr. Cowley would be if he got a speeding ticket.  As if, truthfully, he couldn’t possibly get there soon enough.

He arrived at tea-time, which surely had to be a record.

It had been snowing when he left. Dry as a chilled bone here.

Doyle hoiked the ratty hold-all further over his shoulder, clasped the box of booze with the carrier bag on top closer to his chest as he leaned on the doorbell. 

And waited, impatient as usual, for it to be answered so he didn’t have to stand out here on the flipping doorstep until New Year.  He could hear the telly in the front room.

“Hope you’ve got the kettle on,” he said as the door finally sprang open and he could barge his way inside. Before he could take a whiff of the smell of cooking sherry and firelighters, before the door was even closed behind him, Doyle had let the hold-all slide off his shoulder, the box had been removed from his chest, and he was enveloped in a hug that almost snapped his ribcage.

“Welcome home, Ray,” he vaguely heard, but he couldn’t be sure of that because Bodie was already fastened to his lips.