by Anna Blix
The unaccompanied young woman finished up in haste and left. Niklas sat for a while longer, treating himself to a second double espresso after he had finished his panini. When he left the coffee shop, it had started to lightly rain. He wandered in and out of a few more shops but soon decided to call it a day and make his way back on the Underground.
When Niklas eventually got off the train and left the station, dusk was already falling. He headed down the road. Was this the right way? Even though he had stayed with Mrs Dollimore for several weeks, every place he had visited — the sandwich shop, the job centre — had been within walking distance, and he had never had a reason to travel on the Underground. The station and its surrounding streets were uncharted territory to him. Could he even find the way back? He kept on walking. The road seemed vaguely familiar — surely he had passed that house with the dirty car parked outside before? Which way should he go at the next junction? He wasn’t sure, but decided to follow the road to the left. Buildings and other landmarks blended into each other in the dim light. He randomly turned left at the next junction and then right, but he had no clue where to go. It was drizzling, and he could feel the damp through his parka. Annoyed with himself, he kicked a stone out into the road. It bounced a few times and rolled underneath a parked Mercedes.
The streetlights had not yet come on, but further down the road, Niklas noticed an orange neon sign. As he came closer, he could see it was the sign of a supermarket — Sainsbury’s, it read. A low bridge took him across a shallow canal up to the busy car park. He proceeded to the entrance, where shoppers passed in and out of the automatic doors. There was a cashpoint just outside the doorway. He was due to pay Mrs Dollimore his rent, and could just as well get the money out now.
He withdrew the money and headed out to resume his search for Mrs Dollimore’s B&B when, as he walked back over the bridge across the canal, he spotted something — a shopping trolley, half-covered under brown water. It looked as if it had been lying there for a good while, but Niklas noticed the trolley’s undercarriage was made out of metal. Thick, sturdy metal — metal that could be used to build sturdy things. This was the material he needed to complete the scooter. This was his handlebar. This was his steering rod. If only he could get that trolley out of the water. He checked up and down the street. Cars were passing him continuously, but at least there were no pedestrians nearby. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to what he was doing.
Should he take it? Surely, nobody would mind if he did. It was not like the trolley would be useful to anybody else. If anything, he would be doing them a favour, clearing the canal of litter. And Mrs Dollimore would be happy if he came back with all the materials. It was a win-win situation. He hurried onto the bank on the other side of the railing, making sure nobody was looking. He put his skateboard and gift-wrapped PVA glue in the damp grass and then stepped down the slope, as close as possible to the waterline.
Niklas bent over and reached out one hand. The trolley was too far away. He leaned over further but was still a good decimetre from getting hold of it. He looked around. There was a thick fallen branch lying in the grass. It was bent at one end, like a hook. He picked it up and stretched it out towards the trolley. He could just about reach it with the branch. He hooked it onto the trolley’s handlebar and pulled gently. Slowly, the trolley began to shift. He pulled a little harder, but with a snap, the end of the branch broke off. He leaned over and tried to get a new hold with what was left of the branch, but it kept slipping off. He leaned over even further… and lost his balance. Tipping over, he fell into the canal with a dirty splash and cold filthy water started soaking through his clothes.
He jumped to his feet and brushed off his parka with his palms, but it was already drenched. At least now he could easily reach the trolley. He grabbed hold of it and pulled. It was heavier than he had thought, and he had to pull hard to get it loose from the muddy canal bed. Grunting, he finally managed to drag it up onto the bank. Shivering and soaked, he sat for a minute and regained his breath before, with a final effort, he hauled the trolley up onto the pavement. He picked up the skateboard and PVA glue and threw them in the trolley.
Niklas pushed it back up onto the bridge — where it came to an instant halt. He strained harder. The trolley grated over the pavement, but something was jamming the wheels.
A passing car pulled up next to him and the passenger side window rolled down. A man looked out. “You can’t take the trolley out of the car park, mate.”
“What?” Niklas said.
“They’ve got a system installed. It locks the wheels if somebody tries to steal a trolley. You need to leave it here.”
“But I’m not stealing it. Look how bad it is!” Niklas gestured towards the algae-covered basket. “It has been in the canal.”
“Doesn’t matter, dude. You need to leave it here. Careful they don’t send out security, or you’ll get in trouble.” The car drove off.
Niklas scoffed. To accuse him of stealing. Some people had a nerve. He gave the trolley a closer inspection. It was only one front wheel that was jammed — the other three wheels were still spinning freely. If he lifted the front of the trolley, maybe he could drag it along behind him. Then, at least, he would not have to carry the whole thing.
And in this manner, dragging the trolley behind him, Niklas methodically walked street up and street down. He finally found his way back to Mrs Dollimore’s B&B, only a couple of hundred metres from the Underground station, in the other direction.
Mrs Dollimore greeted him at the front door with a horrified look on her face. “Niklas! What on Earth…?”
Niklas beamed. “I’ve found what we need! I can build the scooter now.”
“But… You’re soaked through!”
He looked down at his drenched clothes. “Oh, this? Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.” He ran his hands over his parka, pressing out brown canal water which dripped over Mrs Dollimore’s doormat.
Mrs Dollimore pointed to the slug-infested trolley. “Are you going to build a scooter out of that?”
“And this.” Niklas pulled the skateboard out of the basket.
Mrs Dollimore’s eyes widened. “Oh… a skull?”
Niklas sighed. “That’s irrelevant. Look! It’s red! That’s the main thing. Sophie specifically asked for a red scooter. And that’s what she’s going to get.”
Mrs Dollimore shook her head. “Well, if you say so, dear.”
Niklas threw the skateboard back into the trolley and dragged it towards the door.
“Oh, I don’t know…you weren’t planning on bringing it inside were you?” Mrs Dollimore pulled at her sleeves.
“Yes?…Or maybe not?”
“Tell you what. Take it around the back, and leave it in the garden. You can decide what to do with it in the morning. It’s always good to sleep on things.”
Cold and wet, Niklas was not planning on starting tonight anyway.
“Maybe it won’t look so bad when it’s dried up a little. I’ll open the side gate for you,” Mrs Dollimore grabbed a key from a bowl on the little table in the hallway.
Niklas followed her into the garden and left the trolley on Mrs Dollimore’s patio.
“I’m going to let you use my husband’s workshop if you promise not to break anything,” Mrs Dollimore said. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“Mind? Didn’t you say he’s dead?” He certainly had not been around the last few weeks, and Niklas was quite certain Mrs Dollimore had said something about her husband dying in an accident many years ago.
Mrs Dollimore flinched. “Oh, he passed away ten years ago. But don’t worry, I’ve got a feeling he’s still watching over us.” She locked the side gate and walked ahead of Niklas back to the front door. “I’ll take you out there in the morning. If you decide to go ahead with the project.”
18
The side window was blurred by rain. Clare watched a fat rat scurry between the rubbish bins in search of food, fur streaky and wet, getting up on it
s hind legs, sniffing. Then it turned and scampered off. She looked away.
Her four-by-four was parked away in the corner of an empty retail park. The heavy rain battered the roof. A McDonald’s bag with the remnants of her dinner, left in the passenger footwell, was still emitting its distinct odour — but by now, Clare had grown numb to the smell. She had put her seat back, rolled up her spare jumper and was using it as a makeshift pillow. Her coat was spread over her upper body as a blanket, but she still shivered with cold.
Another half hour passed and she was still awake. She decided to abandon the attempt to sleep and brought her phone back up. She keyed in the same search phrase. The one she had searched several times already: “Russ Gibson”. It was one of two names her father had given her. Names he had found in her planner. Names of people who had phoned to enquire about buying a reindeer.
About two weeks ago, Russ Gibson had phoned Clare, wanting to buy a reindeer. Clare had ransacked her memory all night, but could still only remember the conversation vaguely. A man’s voice — deep, she wanted to think, but couldn’t be sure. Brief. The conversation had been brief. Did she have a reindeer for sale? —No, she didn’t. Did she know anybody else who did? —No, she didn’t, goodbye. Something along those lines. Now she wondered if this Russ Gibson had gone on to find a reindeer elsewhere. Could he be the one who had bought Einar from the woman at the farm — and if that was the case, how was he treating Einar?
The other name was Helen Poulsen. A farmer in Hertfordshire who had phoned Clare with a brilliant idea she had. To buy a reindeer in order to increase Christmas takings at her farm. Clare had patiently explained to her why this was not a good idea at all, and at the end of the conversation, it had seemed like Helen understood and had changed her mind.
Clare had phoned back to double-check, and Helen’s husband had answered the phone. Mr Poulsen had assured Clare that Helen had taken her advice and had not gone ahead with those plans. And Clare was inclined to believe him.
And if Einar was not with Helen Poulsen or Russ Gibson, then where could he be? It could, of course, be somebody completely different — somebody who had not been in contact with her at all. Maybe the person had tried some importer before stumbling upon Einar. When she thought about it, chances were slim that the person who bought Einar had been on her radar.
She rechecked her phone. Russ Gibson. She kept returning to Russ Gibson. For now, he was all that Clare had to go by. The first search hit was his own website. She had already read it, but she still brought it back up. He claimed to be the owner of a reindeer farm in the south of England: Festive Reindeer Bonanza. There were no address details on the website, nor was there a telephone number. The only way of contact was through a web form.
The website itself was handsome, full of stock photos of herds of reindeer, roaming snow-coated mountains. Magnificent animals with large antlers. Further photos showed reindeer calves playing and jumping around in powder snow. Then there were the pictures of Santa in a sleigh, pulled by four reindeer in harnesses adorned with bells and ribbons. All of the photos had been taken in spotless white snow, on a sunny day, somewhere in northern Scandinavia, guessed Clare, and definitely nowhere near the south of England.
She selected the tab with booking information. “Hire a reindeer for any event or party.” Children’s birthday parties, weddings, Christmas fairs — the list went on. She keyed in the date of the following Saturday. “Fully booked.” So he was going somewhere that day. If only she could find out where.
On his Facebook page, there was no information about his whereabouts, just more stock photos of reindeer. His profile picture, however, did show a grainy image of a dark-haired, somewhat bulky man. Clare saved a screenshot of the man and scrolled further down to adverts for his website and a few unrelated listings. She returned to her search and continued to the second page.
An article in a local newspaper about protests from an animal welfare group — interesting. The group was protesting a Christmas fair, where a reindeer had been kept in a tiny pen, with nowhere to hide from the crowds. Visitors had been allowed to stroke and feed the distressed animal for hours nonstop. The organiser blamed the reindeer’s owner, who allegedly had made promises to provide for the animal during the event. Promises that had not been kept. And there, in the last paragraph of the article was the name again: “The owner of the reindeer, Russ Gibson, declines to comment.” Clare shuddered.
Wait, what was this? Disqualification order under the Animal Welfare Act. She clicked the link. “Russ Gibson — The defendant has been convicted of three instances related to offences committed contrary to s.4: unnecessary suffering. The defendant has failed to provide sufficient protection from pain, suffering, injury or disease; directly or indirectly causing premature death of the animal.”
So, Mr Gibson had been convicted of animal cruelty offences, fined £4,000 and banned from keeping animals for life. He had caused the suffering and death of a reindeer. Clare was not surprised. Reindeer were no animals for beginners, and she had heard too many horror stories of reindeer dying from poor diets, disease and stress. Served him right that he had been banned from keeping animals.
But still, here he was, advertising his business as if nothing had happened. Was that the reason why he so urgently needed a new animal? Because he had events previously booked when his reindeer were taken away? Money he couldn’t afford to lose?
Clare scribbled down the details from the article. This Russ Gibson was a shady character worth investigating. If only she could figure out how to find him. She sighed. That was her one big problem. Where was Russ Gibson, and was Einar with him?
Where else could Einar have ended up? She looked up “reindeer to hire”, and found a few more places that offered reindeer up for hire. It could well be one of them. She flicked through the photos of animals. Was one of them Einar? Clare sighed. She didn’t even know what he looked like.
Outside, the rat was nowhere to be seen. She watched the raindrops roll down the windscreen, not in straight lines, but in intricate, seemingly random patterns.
She came to think of her job offer, waiting in her sock drawer. What was she going to do about that? Could she really leave her dad alone with the farm? Or worse, shut the whole operation down and sell the animals to people like this? No, that was unthinkable. But what then? This was not the life she had pictured for herself. Living in a remote place, with nobody but her dad and some seasonal tourists for company. A reindeer herder with close to zero prospect of finding herself a bloke. What man would want to come and live on the farm with her? Steve down at the corner shop in the village? Maybe he wanted to move in with her at the steading. Start a family? Clare shuddered at the thought.
Imagine living in Edinburgh and working for a startup company with her uni friends. They had said she could run her own R&D project, go to conferences and present her work. Maybe she would even make a name for herself in the world of mechanical engineering. In the evenings, she would be going out, meeting people, making friends. Imagine going shopping without having to drive for two hours to get to town… There were loads of good shops in Edinburgh… shopping centres… Clare drifted off to sleep.
She snapped awake an hour later. Shopping centres! Of course — why had she not thought of it before? The lady had said that Einar was to be taken to a shopping centre for an event. She brought her phone up again and typed: “Live reindeer event shopping centre London”.
19
When Niklas opened his eyes, the sun was already up and filtering through Mrs Dollimore’s floral curtains. Black the cat was asleep on the duvet at the foot end of the bed, and draped over the radiator were Niklas’s jeans, T-shirt and knitted jumper. Next to him, on the bedside table, lay Sophie’s letter. He picked it up and said to it, “I’m going to build your scooter today, Sophie.”
His clothes were still damp from his bath in the canal, but Niklas didn’t mind. He put them on anyway and shuffled downstairs. Mrs Dollimore had prepared a cooked breakfas
t for him, which he ate with a healthy appetite. After he had finished the last sip of his black coffee, he got up and took his plate out to the kitchen, where Mrs Dollimore was loading the dishwasher.
Niklas looked at the note on the fridge. The Christmas Hypothesis. He ran his finger down the list of bullet points. “Brings presents to children at Christmas,” he mumbled. That was the most important point on the list. The whole purpose of Santa Claus’s existence. Yesterday, he had taken a giant leap towards it, and today, he was going to take another one. One giant leap for Santakind.
“Did you enjoy your breakfast?” Mrs Dollimore asked.
Niklas handed her his empty plate. “It was good.”
The little lady furrowed her brow in annoyance. “Well, if you liked it, I’d say a thank you might be in order.” Her expression softened. “Anyway, you’re very welcome, dear.” She stooped down and stuck the plate in the bottom rack. Then she said, “Do you think one will be enough, then?”
Niklas patted his stomach. “Yes. I’m full… Thank you.”
“That’s lovely to hear…” She cleared her throat. “But I meant, do you think it will be enough with just the one present? To verify the hypothesis?” She tapped the list. “Brings presents to children at Christmas. Children — plural.”
Niklas looked at her and nodded. She had actually raised a good point. The lady deserved some respect.
Mrs Dollimore continued, “And, it’s kind of a big thing that Father Christmas brings presents to all the children in the world. If you just give one…”
“But, there’s no way I’m going to bring presents to all the children in the world.” This required some serious consideration.
“I know. Still, though, it’s something people like to discuss. How does he do it in just one night, they say to their children…”