Lost Christmas

by David Logan

  ‘Awright, keep your hair on,’ said Goose with a smirk. Anger flashed across Noel’s eyes once more and he literally had to bite his tongue to keep his cool. ‘Now we both know not everything in this place is a hundred per cent legal.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ spat Noel, doing his very best to appear insulted by the implied smudge on his character. ‘I have receipts for everything.’

  ‘Not everything,’ said Goose. ‘Not that clock over there, you don’t.’ He jabbed his chin in the direction of a large domed carriage clock. Below the clock face two gold-plated bears, dressed in lederhosen, danced round a fish that seemed to be leaping out of the sea. It was both ugly and ridiculous. ‘I nicked that out of a house on Ashford Road for yer.’

  ‘Get out!’ barked Noel. ‘Get out now!’

  ‘Or that music box.’ Goose turned his head, looking around the shop. ‘Or that pocket watch. You want me to go on or shall I just make a whatchamacallit call to the police?’

  ‘Anonymous,’ said Anthony helpfully.

  ‘Yeah, one of them,’ said Goose.

  ‘All right! All right!’ said Noel, admitting defeat. There were just too many things in the shop that weren’t entirely kosher for him to be able to clear them out in time if Goose did call the cops. ‘I sold it.’

  ‘You what?’ Goose felt like crying. He had thought he was close to the end, close to getting Mutt back, but now he was moving further away. ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘Believe me or not,’ said Noel, shrugging, ‘it’s the truth. Of course …’ Noel paused for maximum effect, the corners of his mouth flicking up in a reptilian smile, ‘I might be able to recall who I sold it to …’ One more pause. ‘For the right price.’

  Goose sighed. He was not surprised by this turn of events. Noel was only interested in money. It was always the bottom line with him. Goose took out the roll of cash, pulled off the rubber band holding it in place and peeled off two ten-pound notes and held them out. Noel shook his head.

  ‘I don’t remember for that much,’ he said. Goose peeled off two more tenners and then two more. He held them out to Noel, who still shook his head. ‘I remember for that much,’ he said, indicating all of the money from the roll.

  ‘That’s a hundred and fifty quid!’ said Goose. ‘That’s taking the—’

  Noel cut him off. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Goose knew he had no choice. He rolled the money up, reapplied the rubber band and handed the entire roll to Noel. ‘There!’ said Goose, barely able to rein in his anger. ‘Now, who’d you sell it to?’

  Noel tucked the money into a small pocket at the front of his waistcoat. He smiled, but only with his mouth. ‘I sold it to … a woman carrying a bunch of red flowers.’

  ‘That’s it?’ snapped Goose. ‘For a hundred and fifty quid, that’s all I get?’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got. She paid cash. You only just missed her. About ten minutes ago maybe.’

  Goose looked as if he was about to hurl himself on to Noel and beat him senseless. Anthony intervened.

  ‘It’s all right. I know who she is,’ he said.

  Goose frowned at him. ‘You know who she is? How do you know who she is?’ he asked.

  Noel didn’t look happy. It wasn’t so much of a victory if they knew who she was. As he was dealing with his disappointment, Anthony held out a gloved hand. His right.

  ‘Mr Noble, thank you very much.’ Instinctively Noel went to take Anthony’s offered hand. At the last second Anthony switched hands, offering his left instead. Without thinking, Noel switched hands too, but then Anthony switched back. Noel switched back. This odd little dance went on for several seconds longer. Goose looked on with curiosity. He thought of two people meeting in a doorway and both continuously trying to move out of the other’s path but both repeatedly stepping in the same direction. Finally it came to an end and they shook awkwardly. ‘Come on, Goose,’ said Anthony. ‘We’d better hurry.’

  Goose and Anthony dashed out of the shop, leaving Noel all alone. He reached into the small pocket at the front of his waistcoat, but instead of the roll of cash he pulled out Anthony’s smelly rolled-up sock. He dropped it quickly in disgust. He patted his other pockets, looking for the money. It took him several moments to realize it was gone.

  Anthony and Goose strode quickly away from Noel’s shop. Anthony opened his hand to Goose, revealing the roll of money. Goose couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Wicked!’ he said. ‘Is that what all that hand-shaking was about? Where’d you learn to do that?’

  Anthony shrugged. He didn’t have an answer. ‘Don’t know. Must’ve picked it up somewhere.’

  ‘Like all the fascinating facts?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ Anthony stopped at the kerb and looked back along the road. The traffic was heavy.

  ‘So who’s the woman with the flowers?’ asked Goose.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘What?’ Goose couldn’t believe it. ‘But you said—’

  ‘Well, I don’t know her name, but we saw her. She was the one who bumped into me. Red coat. Big bunch of flowers.’

  Goose thought back to earlier and remembered the incident, but he hadn’t paid the woman much attention at the time so couldn’t recall very much about her. ‘How does that help? She could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘She got on a bus. Number forty-seven.’

  ‘Right.’ Goose still didn’t see how they were going to find her.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ said Anthony. Goose followed his gaze and saw another number forty-seven bus approaching. ‘I say we get on and see where the route takes us.’

  Goose wasn’t sure, but as he looked behind him he saw Noel coming out of his shop with a face the same shade as an aubergine. It seemed like a good time to leave.

  Goose and Anthony sat on the top deck of the bus, at the front, each with their own seat, one either side of the aisle. They watched the world outside go by as the sun was beginning to set.

  ‘It’s Christmas; she could have been going anywhere,’ said Goose, feeling very much like his glass was not so much half empty as someone had come along and thrown his glass on to the floor, smashed it and danced about in its remains singing, ‘Na-na-na-na-na!’

  ‘People don’t go just anywhere with flowers,’ said Anthony, pushing the positivity in his voice in an attempt to combat Goose’s negativity. It didn’t work.

  ‘At Christmas they do,’ said Goose sullenly.

  ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky,’ said Anthony.

  ‘And maybe we won’t,’ said Goose. ‘This goes everywhere.’ He meant the bus.

  ‘Then we’ll go everywhere with it,’ said Anthony.

  Goose slumped back in his seat and huffed. Then he leaned forward, wiped the condensation from the window in front of him with his sleeve and slumped back into position once more, also huffing again for good measure.

  They travelled like that in silence for several minutes. Gradually Goose’s icy mood started to thaw and soon he forgot he had the hump. A question had been flitting about his head for a while now. He looked at Anthony out of the corner of his eye, wondering whether or not he should ask it. In the end, he decided he should.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ said Goose.

  ‘Well, you just did, so clearly the answer is yes, you can.’

  ‘Right.’ Goose wasn’t sure if Anthony was making fun of him or if he was now cross.

  ‘Is there another one?’ said Anthony. ‘Question, I mean.’ He smiled and didn’t look cross.

  Goose felt it was okay to carry on. ‘Yeah, well … it’s just … What’s it like when you have a … you know … vision thingy?’ he asked. ‘I mean, it doesn’t last very long, but you seem to see a whole bunch of stuff.’

  ‘How long does it last?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘A couple of seconds maybe,’ said Goose. ‘You go …’ And he mimicked the sharp intake of breath he had heard Anthony do three times now. ‘Then your eyes sort of roll back and you fall over. And that’s it.’
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  ‘Hmm,’ said Anthony. ‘Seems a lot longer to me.’

  ‘So what’s it like?’

  ‘Well, it starts with this feeling that I’m suddenly moving really quickly. Kind of like I’m on a roller coaster and it’s just gone ssssccccchhhhhhooooo.’ Anthony made a hand gesture to complement the sound effect, like the car of a roller coaster cresting over a hill and letting gravity do its thing. ‘I feel all sort of weightless. Then there’s the pain. It feels like something growing inside me or burrowing through me.’ Goose scowled as he imagined what that was like. ‘And then I get to where I’m going, the pain stops and it’s sort of like a dream. I’m there but no one can see me. I can be standing right in front of them and they look right through me. But it’s not my dream. It’s theirs. It’s like I’ve snuck in and I’m watching their memories.’

  ‘That sounds freaky,’ said Goose.

  ‘It is.’

  They carried on for a little longer. Then it was Anthony’s turn to ask a question.

  ‘Tell me about Frank,’ said Anthony. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s my uncle,’ said Goose. ‘Well, not really. He’s just always been Uncle Frank. He was my dad’s best friend. They grew up together down south. Don’t usually tell people my dad was a Southie. Or that he supported Chelsea.

  ‘Parents can be embarrassing.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Goose almost gave into a smile, but thought better of it and pushed it away. He went back to talking about Frank. ‘Dad and Uncle Frank knew each other their whole lives. Dad was the sensible one. That’s what everyone said. Frank was a bit wild when he was younger. Always getting into bother. Dad was always sorting him out. Looking out for him.’ Goose stopped and thought about how Frank was doing the same for him now. Uncle Frank had been one of the most important people in his dad’s life. He had loved him like a brother. No, more than a brother. ‘You can’t choose family,’ his dad had often said. Goose was starting to understand what he meant by that now. ‘Dad got him a job. They were both firemen till …’ Goose gnawed at the skin to the left of his fingernails. ‘Till the accident.’

  ‘Why’d Frank give up?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘Something happened. Something that shouldn’t.’ He stopped speaking and Anthony wondered if that was all he was going to say. Then Goose said something else. ‘Something bad.’ He turned away and looked out of the window beside him. Anthony knew that conversation was over.

  Suddenly Goose sat up straight and rubbed at the window to clear it. He looked out at a massive cemetery that stretched to the horizon on both sides of the road.

  ‘Flowers,’ said Goose.

  17

  WALT DISNEY WAS AFRAID OF MICE

  The cemetery gates were made from wrought iron bent into the shape of a choir of angels; some were playing horns, one even had a harp. The gates were large enough to allow a hearse and other funeral cars to pass through. There was a smaller pedestrian doorway within the main gates, but to go through that you had to open and step through an angel and in doing so separate its body from its head, which was a little disconcerting.

  Anthony stepped through and gazed around. The cemetery was huge. There was a small chapel a little way off to his left. It was surrounded with scaffolding and two burly builders were at the top, working on the roof.

  A third builder was on the ground, stoking a bonfire where he seemed to be burning old roof joists. The tinny sounds of Radio One blared from a radio tied on to the scaffolding, disturbing what was otherwise an oasis of whiteness and silence. An undisturbed blanket of snow spread out before him. Bare trees stood out, crooked and grey.

  ‘So which way?’ said Anthony. When he didn’t get a response he turned to see what had become of Goose. He saw he was still outside the gates. He looked younger than Anthony had ever seen him look. He looked like a little boy, pale and scared. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My mum and dad are here,’ said Goose in a whisper.

  Anthony strolled back. He stood alongside Goose for several moments without saying anything. Then: ‘Did you know Walt Disney was afraid of mice?’

  Goose’s brow wrinkled as he considered that statement. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.

  ‘And Thomas Edison was afraid of the dark.’

  Goose put his hands out and shrugged, unable to find another way of saying, ‘What are you going on about?’

  ‘He was afraid of the dark so he invented the light bulb. Walt Disney was afraid of mice and he created the most famous mouse in the world.’

  ‘So?’ asked Goose, wondering if this was leading somewhere.

  ‘So,’ said Anthony, ‘sometimes you have to run towards the things that make you want to run away.’

  Finally Goose understood what Anthony was trying to say. He took a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said, and strode through the open angel gate. Anthony followed.

  They left the chapel behind and walked on. The hustle and bustle of the busy city soon became a distant memory. A cocoon of muffled sounds surrounded them. The only noise came from clumps of snow toppling from the thin branches of the naked trees and the occasional bird chirruping as it sought out hard-to-come-by food.

  As they reached the apex of a small hill and looked down into a wide, shallow valley below they saw hundreds of graves stretching out before them. The ground here was uneven and the gravestones were spaced randomly. They looked like raggedy black teeth in a vast white mouth. Dozens of skeletal trees stood hauntingly, waiting for spring to dress them again.

  Goose nudged Anthony and pointed with his chin. Helen was easy to pick out in her red coat. She stood out against the white and black. She was crouching by a grave, arranging the flowers she had bought. Even from this distance Goose and Anthony could tell she was sobbing. She stood up and wrapped her arms around herself. She glanced back towards Anthony and Goose but paid them no attention. Clearly they were not who she was looking for and appeared to Helen like just another couple of mourners coming to visit their lost ones on Christmas Eve.

  Helen ran a hand through her hair and wiped her eyes. She blew a kiss towards the gravestone and then turned and walked off.

  Anthony and Goose waited for several moments and then followed. As they passed the grave where Helen had been Goose stopped and read the inscription:

  A shiver ran down Goose’s spine and a cloud of cold breath burst from his mouth like a milky bubble. Anthony wasn’t blind to Goose’s reaction. He read the stone.

  ‘She died the same day as your parents,’ he said. Goose nodded weakly, but that wasn’t what had startled him. He knew who Milly Taylor was, but he didn’t say anything to Anthony.

  Goose looked up and saw the tip of Helen’s head disappearing over the hill.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Anthony, and they hurried after her.

  Anthony and Goose watched as Helen entered the chapel. One of the builders gestured to his friend, nodding towards the radio. He switched it off respectfully.

  The chapel was small. Just one room, about seven metres by five, but the ceiling was high. There were tall, narrow stained-glass windows, four on either side. The late sun shone through them from the west, casting exquisite patterns across the dozen or so pews.

  Helen walked slowly up the aisle, turning at the head of the pews to a banked side altar where dozens of votive candles were displayed around a large statue of the Blessed Virgin. She took a taper from a thin fluted glass, lit it on an already burning candle and ignited the dormant wick of another. She extinguished and then discarded the taper in a bucket of sand beneath the altar. She bowed her head and prayed silently.

  As she was praying, she was not aware of Anthony and Goose entering the chapel. They closed the door behind them, standing quietly in the entrance, watching her. Goose looked uncomfortably at Anthony.

  ‘What now?’ he whispered. ‘We can’t just go and ask her for the bangle. She’ll think we’re nutters.’

  Anthony stared at Helen, turning an
idea over and over again in his mind. He knew what he had to do, but it was like someone suggesting he thrust his hand into a nest of angry snakes. It wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to Goose. He was scared and the words came out riding on the tip of his breath. Goose watched as Anthony started to remove the glove from his right hand. Goose grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back, shaking his head.

  ‘You can’t,’ he said, genuinely concerned for Anthony’s well-being. ‘You didn’t see yourself at Dr Clarence’s. They’re getting worse. I’m not sure you’ll wake up from another one.’

  Anthony smiled, touched by Goose’s concern. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I think I’m getting the hang of it now.’

  Goose let go of Anthony’s sleeve and watched with worry etched deep into his face as his strange friend moved quietly up the outer aisle, to the left of the pews, making his way softly to the side altar.

  A tear slid down Helen’s cheek and dripped from the curve of her top lip, falling to the stone floor. It flattened, dark against the masonry, as she finished her prayers for her daughter. She wiped her eyes as she raised her head and turned away. She gasped as she saw Anthony close behind her. She stumbled, her hand reached out instinctively to steady herself and Anthony caught it. He drew in a sharp breath and his eyes grew wide. It felt as if molten metal was flooding into him through his fingers, filling him up, expanding as it solidified, pushing out his bones, muscles and flesh until he felt his skin was about to tear open. In his mind, he screamed.

  18

  ON THIN ICE

  Anthony opened his eyes and he was lying face down on a lawn. The grass was sharp with frost and his teeth chattered as the cold threaded through him. As he changed his focus and his field of vision expanded, he saw a pair of strange pink creatures mottled with purple spots. Their eyes followed him. He lifted his head from the frozen ground and now saw that they were a pair of monster slippers. He tilted his head up and saw that they belonged to a pretty little girl about six years old, with a head of curls and bright blue eyes. She was wearing a voluptuous, fluffy dressing gown, also pink, and the chill didn’t seem to affect her. She didn’t look down at Anthony. She couldn’t see him. He was a ghost to her. He knew somehow that this was Milly Taylor and this was the day she died.