Chapter 1

Sorry Mr Crosby, it's no use dreaming of a white Christmas where Michael Stewart lived. The North West of England is mild. You're lucky to get snow at all during the winter, and certainly it's rare at the festive time. So that early Christmas Eve afternoon was grey, slightly damp and warm for the time of year.

Michael owned a small company, 'Stewart Research and Development', researching and providing specialist electronic devices of various kinds, dedicated computers really, the sort that go into washing machines, cars, mobile phones and all sorts of industrial machines. Michael Stewart was his name but everyone except his mother called him Mike.

He was leaving the office where he'd been checking on the progress of a long debugging programme they were going to leave running over the holiday period.

The rest of the staff had gone to the pub at lunchtime and he had told them he did not expect them back. It was no hardship to stay in the office when everyone else was enjoying the afternoon. He would be going back to an empty house, as he had every night since his wife left him over six months earlier after four years together. Somehow to be alone on Christmas Eve seemed worse than other days.

His older sister Catherine was not returning from the USA until the next day, Christmas Day, on the overnight flight arriving early morning at six thirty. They would have Christmas Day and Boxing Day together though he suspected she would want to sleep off her jet-lag before they had Christmas dinner together. On the twenty seventh she would be off to their parents' house in Troon on the west coast of Lowland Scotland.

Christmas Day is a day for family celebrations and he had everything ready for Catherine. He had made mince pies the day before and a cake a month earlier. Catherine liked his mince pies. The wine cellar was full to bursting and he had bought some very expensive port, a drink she loved, as well as a variety of soft drinks.

He had also stocked the freezer and the fridge so he would not need to shop until the New Year, when he would be journeying north to Troon to join the family for the Hogmanay celebrations.

The whole family: Catherine, Mike's brother and his wife with their two teenage boys, and his younger sister and her partner would be there, joining his mother and father who always hosted the celebrations. Mike's parents were retired and his father had sold up his business to leave him, shall we say, well placed for the rest of his life. The house was large, large enough for the whole family and with room to spare.

Mike had bought a Christmas tree and decorated it the day before Christmas Eve. His family had never put up decorations until the eve of the feast, but this time he had suspected he would not have time any nearer the day.

He had visited Duncan House earlier in the day and given out Christmas presents to the folk there. Since his ex-wife's departure, he had been visiting The House twice a week giving a hand with the more disabled residents and having a laugh with the more aware.

The place was a home for adults who were disabled mentally or physically, where they helped each other, and though there were members of staff on the premises, the residents had as much a measure of independence as they could manage.

He always thought going there was more a privilege than a duty; it put his own comfortable though lonely life into some sort of perspective. Indeed he would have gone there on Christmas Day if Catherine had not been coming.

He had to visit the supermarket that lunchtime for some last minute supplies he had forgotten. He took the car so he could leave the stuff in it, and left it in the supermarket car park while he walked back and closed up shop, set the alarm and locked up the office car park.

Dusk was falling as he began the quarter mile walk back to the supermarket. It began to rain and the rain became heavier the further he progressed. He avoided the crowded main street, preferring to walk along the parallel back street which was deserted.

He was quickening his walk to get out of the rain he saw a young girl walking towards him. She was dressed in jeans and a white crop-top that left a gap at her midriff. The top was nearly transparent from the rain. The girl was clearly distressed and was crying, and as Mike got nearer he stopped in horror. Her cheek showed a livid bruise and her lip was swollen on one side.

She could only have been about fourteen years old.

She stopped in front of him.

"Please, can you... ?" was all she said.

"Good God," he gasped. "What's happened to you? An accident? Why are you out here in the pouring rain? Where are your parents?"

"Please?" she repeated. "My Mum ... Sister ... Brother..." She turned away.

"Wait!' he said. "What's your name?"

The girl turned back to him. "Shania Sonter," came the reply. The girl stood waiting, sniffing and sobbing.

"Tell, me, Shania, What's happened and how can I help?"

The girl smiled a lop-sided smile with some hope dawning in her tired, wet eyes.

"It's my dad," she said. "He beat Mum up last night, and I tried to stop him. We've run away."

She turned away and gestured to a spot about fifty yards behind her at the entrance to a yard behind one of the shops.

"Show me." he said, and she immediately took his hand and led him to a dark corner of a yard under a small wooden roofed area where the shop's waste bins were housed. There, huddled in a shivering group was a woman, a younger girl and a little boy.

The woman was sitting on a large suitcase and the girl on a smaller one. The boy was on his mother's knee, fast asleep.

As Mike came to a stop in front of the little tableau, he was struck by the silence of the group. The woman looked up and he couldn't help his angry intake of breath.

The woman's right eye was nearly closed and a nasty blue, black, yellow bruise was spreading round the socket. Her lip was swollen like her daughter's and had been bleeding, her nose also. She looked up into his eyes blankly, vacantly.

"He did it last night," Shania said matter-of-factly. "Came home drunk again. He was shouting at Mum and I heard the fight start, so I went downstairs. He was punching and kicking Mum, so I jumped on him, but elbowed me off and knocked me down. Then he hit me and I got a kicking as well.

"We got out when he fell asleep, before he woke up. Been walking ever since. We've nowhere to go." Her comments were delivered staccato in a hopeless tone.

"You have now," he growled. "Wait here. Don't move."

The woman was suddenly animated.

"Please not the police! They didn't help last time. They'll take my children away!"

"Not the police," he snapped. "I live alone. I've plenty of room. You'll stay with me."

It was true. He'd had the house built when a very lucrative contract was signed off. Cheryl, his ex-wife had badgered him for it.

The woman shook her head. "I couldn't. I don't know you."

"Listen," he said with rather more patience, after all he was not angry with her.

"One, from what I can see, things can't get worse than they are now; two, I have a spare mobile phone so you can call for help if I'm an axe murderer; three, your man will never find you where I live so you'll be safe. You can stay as long as you need to get back on your feet."

"We've no money; we can't pay you. You'd be better leaving us alone."

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

Silence.

"That's settled then. Wait here. I'll get the car."

To his surprise, they were still there when he drove back to them. He put their cases in the boot and watched as the oldest girl helped her mother put the two young ones in the car before getting in themselves. The children were in the back, and woman in the front.

They belted themselves into the seats, Shania doing it for the younger ones, and he drove off. The journey would take about thirty minutes along the busy roads.

"I'm Mike Stewart."

"Claire Sonter. My oldest is Shania, and then Ginny who's eight and the youngest is Ryan, five. I don't understand why you're doing this. You don't know us."

"Time for explanations later. I'm well off; I live alone; I have a big house. There's plenty of room. It will be good to have some company at this time of year. Reason enough, Christmas is not a comfortable time for us loners."

They arrived at the house and the passengers gasped as the drive lights came on and the gates opened as they approached. He had been telling them the truth; it was a very large house. The house was automated, so as they left the car the hall lights came on and the front door opened.

"You said you lived alone?" The woman, Claire, began to look worried. Who had opened the door?

"It's automated. See?" he showed her the control on his key ring and she relaxed.

He led them to the warm living room and they sat down on the first of two large sofas. They were still in their outdoor clothes.

"Take your coats off," he said. "I'll make some tea. Will the children have juice? I've not much in for children at the moment. I'll need to do a bit of shopping tomorrow." He'd forgotten there would be no shops open on Christmas Day. He'd also forgotten the array of soft drinks he had bought in case Catherine preferred them.

Claire nodded, and began to take the coats from the younger children. Shania who had no coat and was still wet through, followed him into the kitchen.

"Mr Stewart?" she whispered.

He looked at her. "Call me Mike," he said, "OK?"

She nodded, smiling at him.

"Thank you for taking us in. I didn't know what to do. Can I help?"

He directed her to the appropriate cupboards and together they made a pot of tea and she filled two glasses with orange juice.

"Two?" he asked.

"May I have tea?" she asked shyly.

"Of course you may."

He smiled at the polite use of the word 'may' instead of 'can' and reached down another mug into which she poured a splash of milk.

While they waited for the tea to brew, he pointed her to biscuits which she placed on a plate. They poured the tea and returned to the living room. The scene that greeted them was touching. Claire was fast asleep, lying on the sofa, her arm round Ginny who slept by her side, and Ryan lying on top of her.

Shania went to wake her mother, but he touched her arm and whispered, "Let them sleep a little. Let's sit and drink our tea. Have a biscuit or two Shania."

"I'm so glad you found us." she said at length.

"I rather think you found me!" he grinned and she coloured up. "Don't be embarrassed. You were brave. You were trying to look after your mother and your sister and brother, and you've succeeded."

"I was feared to ask you. I didn't know what to do."

"Yes, you looked frightened to death! All the braver for that. Now you can forget that part. Your family are here because of your courage. That's all you need to remember."

She looked up and smiled. She was shivering and it was then that he realised that both she and he were both still very damp from standing so long in the rain without coats. He shivered in his turn though the house was warm.

"Finished your tea?" he asked and she nodded.

"Come on then. You need to get dry."

Immediately she looked uncertain.

"I'm going to show you to your room," he reassured her. "I'll give you some towels and a bathrobe, and a nightdress that will probably be too big for you. I'll show you where the bathroom is. Then I'll leave you to shower or bathe. There's a lock on the bathroom and on your room door."

She exhaled and smiled, following him upstairs.

The house had six bedrooms. The stairs came up in the centre of the house and there was a corridor to left and right at the top. The main bedrooms at each end of the corridor were in fact suites, with a small living area and a roomy bedroom with a walk-in wardrobe and an en-suite bathroom.

Mike's room was the one at the left hand end. The room at the right end had a connecting door to a single bedroom which could also be accessed from the corridor and would have made a convenient nursery. Indeed it was that for which he had designed it. Between these three rooms were three more double bedrooms, each with a queen-sized bed. Opposite these bedrooms there was a spacious bathroom, separate toilet and a large airing cupboard.

He showed her to her bedroom which had a four-poster bed, a built in wardrobe, a dressing table with stool and an easy chair. Her eyes grew wide. She sat on the bed while Mike got things together for her.

"Awesome!" was her only comment as he stood by while she swept into the bathroom, grinned at him and shut the door. She did not lock it and he smiled at her trust. He went to his room, stripped, towelled himself off and dressed in dry clothes.

He went to the airing cupboard on the landing and laid out bedding and towels in the other rooms. Then he brought the suitcases up to the right hand suite. Next came the bedding. It took half an hour to make up the beds. and Mike was starting to feel tired.

He sat on the last bed, probably Ryan's he thought, and suddenly the enormity of what he had done came home to him. Over the six months since Cheryl had left him he'd settled into a comfortable bachelor routine.

He spent more time working, he reclaimed friends that he had lost because Cheryl didn't like them. He visited his older brother George, wife Mary and their family, and his younger sister Ann, and he emailed his older sister weekly. She was married to a Yank and lived in the States. He visited his friends at the Home.

He went drinking monthly with his staff on Fridays after work; they were a team and it was a team-building event – that was his story and he was sticking to it! Other Fridays he hit the city with his friend Tom.

Tom was a university friend who had also fancied Cheryl but felt he had had a lucky escape when she married Mike. He was right, Mike thought. After the split, Tom took Mike out most weekends. Tom was a womaniser of complete enthusiasm and not a little skill.

Mike wasn't so committed, but thanks to Tom's efforts invariably found a pretty woman in his bed on many a Sunday morning. The women they picked up had no illusions about commitment: they wanted an luxury evening with a rich bloke. They paid for the flashy car, expensive dinner and clubbing in the benefactor's bed, where Mike was sure they feigned orgasms on at least some occasions.

Michael Stewart had never been an impulsive man. He was circumspect in all his business dealings. He got the best gas and electricity tariffs. He spent weeks and months over the purchase of a new car or kitchen appliance.

Yet suddenly here he was with a woman of roughly his own age, early thirties, and her three children in his house and set to stay for a while. He knew he had acted impulsively out of anger at her husband's violence and bullying. That said, he had passed many an illegal immigrant begging at the side of the street, but had felt no inclination to invite any of them home.