Lost Christmas

by David Logan

  ‘I wasn’t here, but now I am.’ Anthony was talking as much to himself as to Millsy and Darryl. The two boys exchanged a look.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, pal,’ said Darryl. ‘It’s Christmas. It’s okay to get a little merry at Christmas.’

  Anthony frowned as he thought about it. He held his hand to his mouth and breathed into his palm. His breath wasn’t great, smelled a bit medicinal and there was something else. Peanuts. Dry-roasted. But no odour of alcohol.

  ‘No, I haven’t been drinking,’ said Anthony. ‘But I have been eating dry-roasted peanuts, which are an ingredient in dynamite.’ Why did he say that? Where had it come from? It just came out. He thought about it. Couldn’t remember how he knew it, but he was pretty sure it was true.

  Millsy and Darryl looked at one another, both thinking the same thing: Is this guy a nutter or can we have some fun with him?

  ‘That’s interesting, isn’t it, Millsy?’ said Darryl.

  ‘Millsy,’ said Anthony. He could feel his brain starting to function independently of the rest of him. It was if an exterior force was controlling him. He knew he was about to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. ‘Mills. Windmills. Always turn anticlockwise.’ The two boys were staring at him. He understood. He would have been staring too if he was where they were. ‘Except in Ireland.’ He felt like he was finished for now.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Millsy.

  Anthony shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Live round here, do you?’ Darryl asked.

  ‘No.’ Anthony blinked. ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘You saying you don’t know where you live?’ asked Millsy. But before Anthony could answer a sly thought sprang into his head and he added, ‘Check your wallet.’ Darryl and Millsy glanced at each other. In that instant the plan was set: drunk bloke gets out his wallet, we grab it and scarper.

  ‘Wallet!’ exclaimed Anthony. What a brilliant idea. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Everything in his head was very mixed up. He started patting his pockets. He had many. Eight in his baggy cargo pants alone. He looked glum and shook his head. ‘No wallet.’

  Darryl and Millsy were disappointed. ‘Mobile?’ asked Darryl. It was better than nothing.

  Anthony checked his pockets again, this time pulling out the contents. It was mostly worthless junk.

  ‘Biro, blue. Box of matches. Another box of matches. A sock.’ Anthony paused to give the sock a quick sniff. It reeked so he shoved it back in his pocket, but he could still smell it. The smell was lodged in his nose. He knew it would creep slowly into the back of his throat and then he’d be able to taste it too. Yeah, there it was. He stuck out his tongue, breathing out to try to expel the bitter sting of old sock. He continued to itemize his possessions. ‘Another box of matches. God! I must smoke a lot. A poker chip. Hmm, interesting.’ Anthony couldn’t remember being in a casino, though he ran through the rules of blackjack in his head and was surprised to discover that he did know how to play. He carried on searching. He pulled out a Pez dispenser in the shape of Scooby-Doo. ‘Ooh! Pez.’ He took one, popped it in his mouth to combat the taste of the sock and held it out to Millsy and Darryl. ‘Pez?’ he offered.

  They shook their heads, both becoming a little impatient. This guy was clearly just an old tramp and they wouldn’t get anything worthwhile from him.

  ‘Ooh, hello. What’s this?’ said Anthony, ferreting deep down into a pocket somewhere around his knee. He drew out his hand and opened it to reveal a gold cigarette lighter. Millsy and Darryl perked up: at last something worthwhile. They knew a bloke in the open market who would buy anything gold. No questions asked. Probably wouldn’t give them what it was worth, but it’d be better than nothing.

  ‘That real gold?’ asked Millsy.

  ‘I think so,’ replied Anthony.

  All three of them looked down at the lighter sitting in the palm of Anthony’s hand for a few moments and then suddenly Darryl’s hand shot out, like a rattlesnake in one of those BBC documentaries launching itself at an unsuspecting rodent. Darryl’s hand was a blur of movement, but by the time it reached Anthony’s palm the lighter wasn’t there any more. It had vanished before their very eyes.

  Anthony opened his other hand to reveal the cigarette lighter. He looked like a bemused magician.

  ‘How’d I do that?’ he asked aloud.

  ‘Give us it ’ere!’ snapped Darryl, anger rising in him as he suspected Anthony was making fun of him. He threw himself at Anthony’s other hand, grabbed his wrist and prised open his fingers. The lighter had vanished once more.

  Anthony shook his head. ‘I really don’t know how I’m doing that,’ he said.

  Millsy jumped into the fray to help his friend. What happened next was confusing for all involved. Anthony twisted his body and whirled around Millsy, who stumbled forward. He ended up in the arms of his friend. They looked as if they were about to kiss. The two boys jerked back from one another only to discover that Anthony had somehow managed to loop their watchstraps together.

  ‘Hey!’ cried Darryl.

  ‘How’d you do that?’ Millsy asked Anthony.

  Anthony shrugged. ‘Honestly, no idea.’

  ‘Don’t pull, you idiot. You’ll break it!’ Darryl snapped at his friend. They took a moment to unhook themselves.

  Anthony started to wander away, not remotely concerned by these two young thugs, even though they were clearly riled up now. Darryl and Millsy swaggered after him.

  ‘You looking for a slap, pal?’ asked Darryl through gritted teeth.

  ‘No,’ replied Anthony. ‘I remember the sea.’

  This threw Millsy and Darryl a little. What did the sea have to do with anything?

  ‘Get him!’ barked Darryl, and he and Millsy pounced on Anthony. Anthony shifted his weight and, almost like a dancer, spun out of their path. In one swift movement, he grabbed the hem at the back of Millsy’s thick woollen coat and pulled it up and over the boy’s head. The coat twisted inside out and stretched across Millsy’s chest, incapacitating him as if he was entwined in a strange sort of straitjacket.

  Darryl threw a punch, but Anthony caught his fist easily and twisted his arm, spinning Darryl around. The teenager cried out in pain.

  ‘You’re a nutter!’ he shouted.

  ‘Very possibly,’ said Anthony calmly. He let go of Darryl’s wrist and the boy started running. Millsy watched his friend deserting him.

  ‘Darryl!’ he cried, but Darryl didn’t stop or look back. Millsy struggled to escape from his own coat and the moment he was free he ran too, leaving the coat lying in the snow behind him. Anthony picked it up.

  ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘You left your coat.’ But Darryl was long gone and he saw Millsy vanish through some bushes. Anthony waited for a few moments, but it didn’t look like the boys were coming back. He shrugged and threw the coat on over his maroon and yellow jacket. Waste not, want not, he thought. It fitted perfectly, and he walked away.

  6

  FRANK THE FENCE

  Frank lay entwined in his duvet, wearing only a mangy pair of Y-fronts and his prized David Bowie Aladdin Sane T-shirt. His head was tilted backwards, his mouth hung open and a deep, sonorous roar drifted up from the depths of his throat. Somewhere he could hear banging: bang bang bangbangbang bangbangbangbang bang bang! It replayed over and over again. Bang bang bangbangbang bangbangbangbang bang bang!

  ‘Sharrup!’ Frank managed to croak.

  Bang bang bangbangbang bangbangbangbang bang bang!

  This time it got through to the meat of Frank’s brain and he lifted his head off the pillow and managed to open one eye almost all the way.

  *

  Frank flung open the bedroom door and stomped out, trying to wrap a brown towelling dressing gown around himself as he headed along the narrow hallway to his front door.

  Bang bang bangbangbang bangbangbangbang bang bang!

  ‘All right! All right! Knock it off, will ya? I’m coming,’ Frank shouted. The banging stopped. ‘Who is it
?’ he asked.

  He heard Goose’s voice on the other side of the door. ‘Hurry up, will ya, Frank? It’s bloody freezin’ out ’ere.’ Frank gave his face a rub in some half-arsed attempt to get the blood flowing and unlocked the door. Goose and Mutt were standing on his doorstep.

  ‘It snowed,’ said Goose, jabbing a finger over his shoulder at the frozen view from the walkway outside Frank’s eighth-floor council flat.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Frank, as the events of the previous night started to come back to him. He remembered the strange man in the maroon-and-yellow jacket lying in the road. He wondered for a moment if that had been a dream. He didn’t think so but wasn’t a hundred per cent.

  Goose stepped inside and Mutt started to follow. Frank quickly put his bare foot in the path of the dog, barring his entry.

  ‘I’ve told you before, Goose: I don’t wan’ him in ’ere.’

  ‘Ah, come on, Frank. Look, he’s shivering.’ They both looked down at Mutt, who wasn’t shivering in the slightest, but, almost as if he could understand what Goose was saying, he started quaking and looking pathetic. He even let out a sad little whine.

  ‘Don’t push it, Goose. I’ve got the worst bloody hangover,’ growled Frank.

  ‘Yeah, you do look grey,’ said Goose, staring at Frank’s bloodshot eyes and lifeless complexion. He turned to Mutt. ‘Stay here, Mutt. I won’t be long.’ Mutt lay down on the doormat and curled up into a little ball to wait as Goose headed inside and Frank closed the door.

  Goose followed Frank into the darkened living room. Frank drew back the curtains and immediately wished he hadn’t. The sunlight reflected off the snow outside, blinding him. His hangover throbbed angrily behind his eyes. Frank redrew one side of the curtains and slumped down on his sofa.

  Beer cans, bottles, pizza boxes and takeaway cartons were everywhere. Packing cases were stacked along one wall. Frank had been living here for the best part of a year, but he still hadn’t really unpacked. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get around to it, but that was mostly because, even after all this time, he still hadn’t come to terms with being here and not there. There being home with his wife, Alice, and their daughter, Jemma.

  He saw Goose looking at some photo albums open on the coffee table. Inside were pictures of Frank and his estranged family. Goose didn’t need to say anything. He knew that Frank had been wallowing in his own misery the night before. Same as he did every night. Frank reddened with embarrassment, but then he noticed that Goose was only looking at one of the photos. It showed Frank in mid-flight alongside his best friend as the two of them bombed into a swimming pool on holiday in Corfu when they were in their early twenties. Frank’s best friend had been Paul, Goose’s dad. He and Frank had known one another since their school days. Goose was Frank’s godson. A thought flitted through Frank’s mind: would Paul approve of what he and Goose were doing? Frank told himself that he was doing it for the right reasons. Goose would be doing this with or without him. This way Frank could keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t get hurt. Frank quickly shut the albums and moved them aside. Goose looked away and noticed an ugly brown stain on the carpet. He didn’t want to know what had made that.

  ‘What’ve you got then?’ Frank asked.

  Goose started emptying his pockets: various pieces of jewellery, iPods, a couple of mobile phones, a glass eyeball and the cobra bangle. Goose thought for a moment and then quickly pocketed the eyeball again.

  Frank leaned forward and rooted through the pile of swag with a finger, looking at it all somewhat dismissively. Then, almost against his will, his hand was drawn towards the bangle. He held it up to the light and for a moment seemed mesmerized by its beauty.

  ‘Nice, eh?’ said Goose, looking for approval.

  Realizing he was tipping his hand, Frank chastised himself silently. He had just broken the first rule in the fence’s handbook. He tossed the bangle back on the pile and shrugged indifferently.

  ‘‘S’all right. Nothing special. You can pick that sort of thing up all over the shop.’

  Goose rankled. ‘Yeah? Not that I’ve seen.’

  Frank sifted through the loot, separating everything into two piles. The last item he allocated was the bangle and he made a pantomime of choosing where it should go. This pile? That pile? This pile? That pile? Finally he tossed it unceremoniously on to the right-hand pile.

  ‘This stuff …’ said Frank, pointing to the pile on the right, ‘it’s not bad. Not great, but not bad. This stuff …’ the left-hand pile, ‘cack!’

  ‘What’re you talkin’ about?’ said Goose indignantly. ‘What about them phones? And that iPod; nothin’ wrong wi’ that!’

  Frank sighed, forcing the paternal patience of his voice, making sure that Goose didn’t miss his point.

  ‘I’ve told you before, Goose, no one wants straight mobiles these days. I couldn’t give ’em away … ’less it was as a free gift with an iPhone!’ Goose looked deflated. Frank smiled sympathetically. ‘I’ll tell ya what, seeing as it’s Christmas, I’ll give you fifty for the lot.’

  Goose frowned. ‘Fifty! You havin’ a laugh?’

  ‘It’s a fair price,’ said Frank.

  Goose’s brow furrowed some more and he sat looking at Frank, breathing heavily, his anger rising. ‘No, it’s not!’ Seething, he started to gather everything together, jamming it all back into his pockets. ‘Don’t do me no favours, yeah, Frank. You don’t wan’ it, I’ll just go see what Kermit’ll give us for it.’

  Suddenly Frank became deadly serious and grabbed Goose’s wrist. He held him a little too hard. ‘I’ve told you before about that Kermit. Stay away from him. He’s a right headcase.’

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Frank; you’re not me dad!’

  Frank’s jaw tensed. He tightened his grip on Goose’s arm and his mind raced as he debated how to deal with this. It was more than he could handle: Christmas Eve morning, and with a marching band playing vuvuzelas passing through his head. He let go of Goose’s arm and nodded.

  ‘Fair enough, Goose. I’ll give you seventy.’

  ‘Hundred,’ said Goose without missing a beat.

  ‘Okay, eighty. Final offer.’

  ‘Hundred,’ said Goose again. He was now angry enough to actually take this stuff to Kermit. He wasn’t going to back down. Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

  Frank shook his head. ‘‘Aven’t quite got hagglin’ yet, have ya? All right, hundred it is. But you promise me you won’t have nothin’ to do with that Kermit and his lot. Promise me, Goose.’

  Goose couldn’t remember Frank being so passionate about anything before, but he still wasn’t quite ready to back down. He stalled for time by running the back of his hand under his nose. The move from the cold air outside to the warmer air had made his nose run.

  ‘You promise me on your dad’s memory.’ Frank stared Goose in the eye. He’d never used that before, and evoking his dad’s name made the fight bleed out of Goose. Goose nodded.

  ‘Yeah, okay, Frank. I promise.’

  Frank followed Goose along the hallway towards the front door. Goose was counting through the money Frank had just given him.

  ‘God’s sake, Goose, it’s all there,’ said Frank, clearly put out.

  ‘You’re the one always said count it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean from me though, did I?’

  Goose stopped counting and shoved the wad of tenners into a pocket. They reached the front door and Goose went to pull back the lock but he stopped. He turned back to Frank, but couldn’t quite look at him. ‘What you doin’ tomorrow?’ he asked.

  Frank looked uncomfortable. He shuffled his feet. ‘I’m not sure yet. I might have to see a man about some stuff.’

  Goose nodded, awkwardly. ‘If you want, you could come over to our place. Can’t guarantee turkey’ll be cooked, but it’ll probably be clean.’ Goose smiled to himself, but Frank didn’t get it.

  Frank nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe. I’ll see.’

  Goose unlocked t
he door. He was about to step outside when Frank said: ‘But thanks.’ And Goose knew he meant it. Goose left, closing the door behind him.

  The shock of the cold made Goose’s skin feel as if it was being stretched tight across his face. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked down, expecting to see Mutt. He wasn’t there. Goose looked along the straight walkway. First one way and then the other.

  ‘Mutt!’ he called. ‘Where are you, you dumb dog?’ He whistled and waited. Mutt didn’t come running. That was odd. Mutt always came running. ‘Come on, Mutt!’ He waited some more, and as he did panic was just starting to rise inside him. Mutt never wandered away. Not very far at least. The logical part of Goose’s brain was telling him that there was a very simple explanation for where Mutt had got to, but that part of his brain was being shouted down by the other part. The part that was all passion and no logic. He and Mutt had not been apart for a single full day in the year since he’d got him. Goose always knew where he was. Even when Goose went to school he would run home and Mutt would be waiting for him. Goose couldn’t count on his nan. Her Alzheimer’s made her unpredictable. Mutt wasn’t unpredictable. He was the only constant left in Goose’s life. His reaction wasn’t logical, but it was inevitable. ‘MUTT!’ he called, louder this time.

  Goose started towards the stairs, thinking maybe Mutt had ducked in there to get out of the wind and he couldn’t hear him calling. But when he reached the steps there was no sign of him.

  Goose stepped back to the walkway and looked over. He had a bird’s eye view, but there was no sign of Mutt anywhere.

  ‘MUTT!’

  He looked straight down and caught sight of footprints in the snow, or at least what he thought were footprints, or paw prints rather. He turned and ran. He hit the stairs and bounded down the eight flights as quickly as he could, jumping the last three or four steps each time.

  Soon he reached the ground floor and raced out into the snow. The paw prints he had seen from up above were a mishmash of a hundred sets of footprints, paw prints and bike tracks.

  Goose started running, but he had no idea in which direction to go. He headed off the estate into the road. As he came out he could see for a good half-mile east and west. No sign of Mutt.