Christmas Day Part 2

I was woken by a crash and a colourful expression from the kitchen. I assumed at first it was Charlie, tripping over the pile of children's wellies by the back door. Imagine my surprise, therefore, to see a tall, slim man wearing leather drainpipe trousers, a purple shirt and mirrored sunglasses staggering through the door carrying what looked like a cross between a guitar case and a body bag.

I glanced at Minnie. She was busy headbanging with her eyes fixed on her drum kit and so hadn't noticed a thing. No clues there as to how to respond to this intruder.

I looked at the man more closely. Purple, black and white stripey hair. Diamond nose stud. Age....difficult to tell. I felt I should know who he was. There was a tantalising sense of familiarity about him.

"Hey, Great-Grandma!" he said. "Biocheck!"

He extended his left hand. I looked at it dubiously. The fingertips were a matt, metallic blue.

"How do you do?" replied my mouth on autopilot. My right hand extended by its own volition towards my unexpected visitor.

The man rolled his eyes. "Biocheck, Great-aunt Minnie!" he yelled. Minnie nodded, extended her left hand, and they performed a well-practised finger dance together. I inferred that James has already taken her to visit her family in the twenty-second century.

"You must be Virus," I said, suddenly feeling old.

James appeared from behind his grandson. "Virus helped me bring your present in," he said, nodding towards the guitar case / body bag.

"How lovely!" I said. "Would you like a cup of tea, Virus? I'll just put the kettle on." I disappeared into the kitchen, locked the door and sat down on the pile of wellies to regain my composure.

When I had recovered enough to set a tray with teapot, cups, milk and a large plate of mince pies, I found Virus, sitting in my armchair, chatting aimiably with Minnie. I noticed that he had taken his shoes and socks off, and placed them neatly by his chair. I also noticed that he had taken his sunglasses off. His eyes glowed green in the gloom of the darkening sitting room.

"Tea, Virus?" I asked, in a surprisingly calm voice. "Er. Vincent. Vincent Russell Dunwich. Mr Dunwich?" How was I supposed to address him, I wondered. He's my great-grandson, is over seventy years old, yet he looks my age, dresses like a teenager and talks like nothing I have ever heard even in my most cheese-inspired dreams.

[To be continued]