by Anna Blix
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”.
21
It was Christmas Eve in Tenerife, and they were sitting in sun-loungers out by the swimming pool. Niklas was wearing the new Bermuda shorts he had bought at the airport, and his mother had squirted a generous amount of sun cream into his palm that he had rubbed on his arms and shoulders.
As it turned out, Niklas was not the only one visiting Mum and Dad in Tenerife that first Christmas. They had also invited Terttu and Teijo, another Finnish couple, who lived in a neighbouring town. The four of them had met in a bar on the esplanade, started chatting and soon become best friends. Niklas came to understand that they were going to spend Christmas together. It had been agreed for at least a month, and there was no way they could change their plans just because he’d decided to show up at the last minute. But not to worry, there was plenty of room in the house and they could all live together, with Niklas sleeping in the basement.
The sun stood in the middle of the sky, at the peak of its arc, baking their Nordic complexion. Niklas put his hand on his stomach. He wondered if it would leave a white mark on his skin if he kept it still long enough. His father opened the cooler and picked up three beers. He threw one to Teijo and one to Niklas. Niklas caught the can between his arm and stomach and flinched at the icy cold. He opened the bottle and sipped the bitter liquid.
His mother had taken a break from cooking and was relaxing on the sun-lounger next to Terttu. They were both holding big glasses with colourful drinks and were in the middle of a convoluted discussion that Niklas had zoned out from.
Teijo sat in a plastic chair in the shade underneath a parasol. The man had not uttered many words since Niklas arrived the previous day, but now out of the blue, he said, “I thought you would be more different.”
Niklas looked up. Was Teijo speaking to him? It seemed like it, the way he stared. Dad had gone back inside the house and was rummaging around in the kitchen.
Teijo gulped down his beer. ”You seem about the same as any other person.”
“What do you mean?”
Teijo shrugged. “Your mother told us about your problems.” Niklas blinked in confusion. “I thought it would be more noticeable,” continued Teijo.
Niklas looked over at his mother. She was still talking to Terttu. “Mum?”
She looked up.
“Your son must be doing better. I can hardly tell at all,” Teijo said.
A strange expression came over Mum’s face. She shook her head at Teijo.
“What?” Niklas said.
“I never said that.” She gave a strained smile and there was a long pause before she continued, “I think Teijo just means that it’s great you’re doing so well. Living on your own and all.” Her tone was light, but her face was tense. She stood up. “I must get started with the ham.”
Niklas got up and left the pool area. He walked down the winding road to the beach. He wore only his shorts and the sandals he had borrowed from his father, but he didn’t care. What had that man meant? How was he different? He didn’t remember being different as a child. Had he? No, his childhood had been good. Normal. What had Mum said to Teijo? What was it she couldn’t talk to him about, but that she felt okay telling a perfect stranger? Teijo had expected him to be different. He had said it in a strange way, like it was a bad kind of different. Had his parents found life with him so unbearable that they had to escape abroad as soon as he turned eighteen? Was that why they had moved? Because of him?
Niklas walked by the seaside all afternoon and evening. Lava beaches and rocky cliffs. Up and down winding roads, pavements and esplanades. Until a car pulled up in front of him and a door opened.
“Niklas! We’ve been worried sick!” His mother rushed out and threw her arms around him. She pulled him towards the car.
22
Niklas remained seated while Mrs Dollimore cleared the table and put the kettle on for coffee. She returned from the kitchen with two suspicious-looking creations on a dish. They were pastries of some sort — pale and sprinkled with icing sugar. She set the dish down in front of him. “Have you tried mince pies before, Niklas? They’re a Christmas speciality in this country.”
“No.”
The kettle boiled in the kitchen, and Mrs Dollimore hurried back. Niklas picked up one of the two pastries and took it out of its tin case. He bit into it. The whole thing was filled to the brim with raisins, chopped into a thick, sticky substance. No, wait — there was something else in there as well. Orange peel. He shuddered. The mouthful seemed to grow as he chewed it.
Mrs Dollimore placed a cup in front of him. “Well, what do you think?”
Niklas chased down the first bite with a mouthful of burning coffee. He coughed, then he nodded and smiled. “Nice,” he said.
“Well, you’d better like it.” Mrs Dollimore patted his arm. “If the hypothesis is right and you are Father Christmas, then I have been putting out mince pies for you every Christmas night for forty years, ever since Steven was little. It would be a disgrace if yo
u didn’t enjoy them.”
Niklas didn’t answer, but dutifully chewed and swallowed the rest of his pie.
After coffee and mince pies, it was time for the big reveal. Niklas flicked the light switch and turned to the workbench, where he had left the scooter.
“Here she is,” he said.
Mrs Dollimore peered at it. At first, she didn’t say anything.
The scooter somehow seemed different the second time Niklas looked at it. The handlebar was out of proportion, and the garden string didn’t look quite as sturdy as he had remembered it. The wheels he had salvaged from the shopping trolley now seemed comically oversized. Funny he hadn’t noticed these things before. Now he almost regretted swapping out the original ones.
“It’s…very nice,” Mrs Dollimore said after some consideration.
“Thank you!” Niklas smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
The little lady bit her lip. “Is that garden string you’ve used there?”
“Yes. And glue. The string is more of a precaution.”
“Marvellous.” Mrs Dollimore reached out to touch the scooter.
Niklas grabbed her arm. “It’s still drying!”
Mrs Dollimore pulled her arm back. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Niklas. I didn’t realise.” She put her hands in her pockets.
“That’s all right.”
“Is that paper glue?” Mrs Dollimore nodded towards the bottle of PVA glue.
“Yes.”
“Can I… have a look at it?”
“Okay.”
She took her hands out of her pocket and picked it up. “Is this what you used on the scooter?” She turned the bottle around and read the label.
“Yes,” Niklas said. His smile felt congealed on his face.
“Do you think it will hold? It says here it’s intended for small craft projects.”
“I’m sure it will hold. All adhesives are the same. In principle.” Mrs Dollimore looked unsure, so Niklas explained, “You apply it in its liquid form and allow it to penetrate the pores of the two substrates, see?” He had to think back to his physics lessons at university. It must have been in the second year they taught the science behind adhesives. Not bad that he could still remember.
After a few seconds, the little lady’s face brightened. “Oh… You put it on? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Niklas sighed patiently. “I guess you could say that. Then, when the adhesive comes into contact with air, a chemical process is initiated which triggers a phase change.”
Mrs Dollimore studied the bottle of glue in her hand and shook her head.
“From liquid to solid!”
The little lady looked startled. “Oh… Oh, I see… Do you mean to say that it dries? You put the glue on… and then it dries?” She nodded encouragingly.
It sounded ridiculous when she said it like that. “I guess you could say that. If that’s the terminology you want to use.”
“And then?”
What did she mean? “And then nothing. Done.”
“Oh, is that it? Very good, Niklas. But, I still don’t see how that makes all glues…” Mrs Dollimore shook her head. “Well, you’re the engineer. If you say it will hold…” She leaned in to inspect the join.
“I’m a physicist, not an engineer.”
“Sorry, Niklas. You’re the physicist. I’m sure you’ve got this worked out perfectly.” She turned her head to the side and looked closer at the spot where the board met the metal rod. “But… Are you sure it will hold for a child to ride on?”
Niklas didn’t answer. Funnily, the construction now looked a lot weaker than it had an hour ago, when he’d last seen it.
“So you decided to use the shopping trolley’s wheels?” continued Mrs Dollimore. Her voice sounded cheerful, but there was tension underneath.
“Yes. And that’s precisely what makes it hand crafted.” He gestured to the oversized wheels and added, “Unique.”
Mrs Dollimore smiled. “Well, it is red, that’s the main thing. And you don’t really notice the skull that much, with everything else going on. I’m sure it will be lovely, once the glue has dried.” She put her hands back into her pockets. “It’s just that… how can I phrase this? You may not be aware… I mean, coming from the North Pole… In this country, we have regulations you need to follow when you produce children’s toys.” She had turned her eyes to the floor.
“It’s safe. There’s nothing wrong with it.” Niklas could feel his face turning red. “Are you telling me I can’t even do this? Build a scooter for a child? The simplest of toys?” Mrs Dollimore didn’t answer, but clenched her jaw. “Well, you’re wrong. This is a state-of-the-art, precision vehicle. I don’t have to oblige by your red tape and regulations. It’s going to be a very special Christmas present for Sophie.” Niklas stopped to compose himself.
Mrs Dollimore stood speechless for a minute. Then she said, “I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing. It will be perfectly fine.” She left the shed and walked back towards the house.
Niklas grabbed the scooter by the handle. The steering rod immediately detached from the base, leaving the board in a tangle of garden string. He threw the handlebar on the floor with a clang, and instantly the two pieces separated from each other. He kicked the entangled pieces of metal into the corner. Then he picked up the board and threw it on the floor. It rolled off, the skull grinning maliciously at him.
“Saatanan helvetti!” Niklas stormed out of the garden shed. He didn’t want to go in the house, so he lay flat on his back on the muddy lawn, staring up into the blue sky. What was wrong with this weather? Wasn’t it supposed to be cold in December? Wasn’t it supposed to snow? This wasn’t Christmas. This was… This was… What was this?
Ten minutes later, Niklas heard a door close. Just what he needed, Mrs Dollimore was coming back out. He could hear her footsteps as she walked across the grass. He closed his eyes. Maybe she would think he was asleep and leave him alone. No, she walked right up to him.
“Niklas?”
He lay as still as he could and waited, but the little lady stayed where she was. “Go away,” he said.
Mrs Dollimore didn’t go away. “What on Earth are you doing on the lawn, Niklas?”
Niklas rolled over on his side, away from her, facing the shed.
“Why don’t you come inside? We can talk over a cup of tea. I know you like your coffees, but there’s something comforting about a nice cup of tea, don’t you think?”
“No. I’ll stay here.”
Mrs Dollimore took off her coat, spread it out on the grass, and sat next to him. “Well, then I’ll stay with you. What happened? Why are you so upset?”
Niklas sighed. “The scooter fell apart as soon as I picked it up. Sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologise.”
“I don’t know. Sorry I snapped at you. And I’m sorry I couldn’t do it. You’re right, there’s no way we can give that thing to a child. It would be dangerous. I’m sorry I let you down.” He nodded at the shed. “And your husband.” He turned back to her.
Mrs Dollimore raised her eyebrows. “My husband? What does he have to do with it?”
“For letting me borrow his shed. You said he still watches over you.”
The little lady laughed. “My husband’s the last person you need to worry about. You should have seen the things he cobbled together in that shed!”
“Really?”
“Yes! And he was just as sensitive about it as you are. I was never allowed to give any form of criticism, or he would sulk for days. Once he made a shelf that… Well, you’ve seen it, haven’t you? It’s the one hanging in the hallway. The one my angel sits on.”
Niklas had seen the shelf in the hallway, and now that Mrs Dollimore mentioned it, it did look somewhat crooked. For some reason, this made him feel better.
“What happened to your husband?” he asked.
Mrs Dollimore was quiet for a long time, then she said, “It was his sixty-fourth birthday. I
bought him a scuba diving experience as a surprise. Well… There was an accident. He was rushed to the nearest hospital. He was in intensive care. But in the end… Well, he didn’t make it…”
Niklas reached out and touched her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Mrs Dollimore shook her head. “Anyway, it was a long time ago.” She shrugged. “Let’s talk about something else. How about that scooter of yours? I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”
Niklas pulled up some grass from the lawn and rubbed it between his fingers. “It’s really bad. Unsalvageable.”
“Maybe you moved it too soon? The glue might not have been completely dry?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. It would have come apart just as quick if I’d waited another hour, or until tomorrow, or until next Christmas.” He arranged the grass in a neat pile. It smelled of summer.
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but it did look like there was something not quite right about that construction. Maybe if you put the original wheels back on…”
Niklas rolled onto his back. “It would still be useless.” What had he expected? That he could actually succeed at something? “I’m not Santa Claus,” he said. “This was just… for fun. I’m not going to be able to make any presents. You know you have to reject the Christmas Hypothesis, don’t you?”
Mrs Dollimore sighed. “Now, don’t be too hasty. So you’re of a theoretical disposition. That doesn’t mean you can’t be Father Christmas.” She too pulled a handful of grass from the lawn and added it to his pile.
“My scooter was a death trap — you saw it yourself. There’s no use in trying again.”
Mrs Dollimore raised her hand. “Hold on. Father Christmas doesn’t make all the toys himself. What on Earth gave you that idea? Everybody knows he has a whole arsenal of elves helping him.”