Lost Christmas

by David Logan

  The anger within her evaporated as she saw Goose’s pain. She reached out to him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘It was,’ said Goose in an almost inaudible voice.

  Helen shook her head. ‘No. No. I should know. I forgot to lock the gate, you see. We always locked the gate. Accidents happen.’ She didn’t really believe what she’d said. Not as far as she was concerned, at least. Her mind drifted to her room of recrimination: a place she went to often. It was a cold and inhospitable place. A place where she could punish herself. WHY hadn’t she heard her daughter getting up? WHY hadn’t she heard her going down the stairs and outside? WHY did they live in such a big house where she couldn’t hear the back door being unlocked? WHY had she left the key in the door? WHY hadn’t she padlocked the back gate? Why? WHY? WHY? For a year now, these questions and a hundred more just like them would torment her morning, noon and night. Sometimes she couldn’t sleep because the questions were being asked so loudly and aggressively. She would try to dull the questions with wine, but that didn’t always work. The buzz from the alcohol would wear off in the early hours and she would be awake at four in the morning with her husband snoring next to her and those incessant questions for company. And four in the morning was the loneliest time of all. That was when she would dig her fingernails into the flesh of her forearm and tear at her skin until she bled. The pain was fleeting, but it was the only thing that took her mind elsewhere. She hadn’t worn short sleeves all year. Henry hadn’t noticed.

  Helen realized she had drifted into her thoughts when she caught Goose staring at her.

  ‘The bangle,’ he said, struggling to find the right words. ‘I-it wasn’t Noel’s to sell. It was …’ The word stuck in his throat, but he knew he had to say it. ‘Stolen.’

  He saw Helen react to that the way honest people should react to discovering something they have is stolen. He saw a mixture of alarm, disgust and confusion play across her face. Goose knew there was no way he could get through this without telling her the whole story, but he so didn’t want to. There was something about Helen that reminded him of his mum. Not the way she looked or sounded, but there was a warmth to her that made him feel safe. He wished he could give in to that, let her envelop him in her arms, stroke his hair and tell him everything was going to be okay. That’s what his mum used to do when he had a bad dream. Sometimes he used to pretend that he’d had a nightmare and cry out in the night so she’d come running. He didn’t do it often. Just once or twice when he was awake in the night and needed that feeling of security, his mother’s reassurance.

  But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He had to finish what he’d started. He had to tell Helen the rest. He felt confident that she wouldn’t scold him when he told her. He was more afraid of seeing a look of disappointment in her expressive eyes.

  Goose took a deep breath and summoned the strength to say just six little words, but they were the hardest six words he could remember having to say for a long time.

  ‘It was me who stole it.’

  Goose looked down at his feet after that, studying the weave of his laces. Considering the aglets. That actually made him smile, but not strongly enough to show on the outside.

  ‘Oh,’ said Helen. The suspense was torturous. Goose had to look at her to see if she hated him now. His neck muscles didn’t seem to want to comply as he slowly raised his head. He looked at her. He didn’t see reproach in her face. He wasn’t sure what he saw. It might have been understanding, maybe even acceptance. Goose wanted to touch her. He wanted her hand to surround his protectively. His hand started to jerk forward but it only moved a fraction before he stopped and brought it back. It was too much to expect.

  ‘I have to give it back, you see. Belongs to an old lady and it’s very special to her. I shouldn’t have taken it. I know it was wrong, and I have to make it right.’

  He considered what he had said and he was happy with it. He had said everything he needed to and had said it well enough. Then an afterthought occurred to him and he dug into his pocket. ‘Here! I have money. I’ll buy it off ya.’

  ‘She doesn’t want money, Goose.’ Anthony’s tired voice came from behind him and startled both of them. They turned to see that he was standing now. Neither had noticed him getting up. He was silhouetted against the dying light coming through the windows and, in his long coat, he had something of the air of an angel about him. ‘She bought it for Milly,’ Anthony said as he stepped forward into the light. Helen felt a surge of adrenalin flow through her at the sight of him. He made her heart beat faster. Not in some hokey romantic way. She didn’t know what it meant. She had to look away.

  ‘It was so silly, I know, but she kept asking for one. Her friend had one like it. Not really. Not nearly as nice. I saw it in the window and just went in and bought it.’ Helen had to pause to shift the build-up of emotion that she could feel coming. It passed and she went on: ‘It was only when I left the shop that I remembered or realized. I was a year too late. See. Very silly.’

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a small green box. She opened it up, parted the white tissue paper inside and revealed the bangle. The glimmering light of the lit candles on the side altar coruscated over the cobras and their eyes shone.

  ‘Most people would think I’m mad but … here.’ She took the bangle out of the box and held it out to Goose.

  ‘I will give it back. I promise,’ he said.

  Helen smiled and nodded. ‘I know you will.’ Goose could tell she truly believed him and wasn’t just humouring him. That made him feel happy. And with Helen’s endorsement still ringing in his ears he reached out to take the bangle.

  ‘STOP RIGHT THERE!’

  Henry Taylor’s voice bellowed through the chapel, taking everyone by surprise. They froze on the spot, turning only their heads towards the door where they saw Henry framed in the entrance. He strode forward, marching down the aisle towards them.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t know what sob story this little yob has told you, Helen, but I guarantee one hundred per cent it’s not true.’

  Helen’s mind raced to try to catch up. She frowned at her husband. Did he know this boy?

  ‘Mr Taylor?’ Goose’s mind was reeling too. What was his probation officer doing here? Had he tracked him down? Goose remembered now that he had missed an appointment earlier. It had completely slipped his mind. Then Goose realized that Mr Taylor had called Helen by her name. He turned to her. ‘How do you know Mr Taylor?’

  ‘He’s my husband,’ Helen managed to say. Goose couldn’t believe it. He turned to Henry. He had never realized after all this time. ‘You’re Milly’s dad?’ he said.

  Fury flashed across Henry’s face and he lurched towards Goose. ‘Don’t you ever say her name!’

  Helen and Anthony stepped forward to protect Goose, but Henry pulled back. He didn’t understand what was going on. He had spent half his day chasing around the city looking for this kid, which caused him to be late meeting his wife to visit their daughter’s grave, and now here he was.

  Henry turned to Helen. ‘This is who I was supposed to be seeing this morning, except – surprise, surprise – he never showed.’

  ‘I lost Mutt,’ protested Goose. ‘I had to get him back.’

  ‘Now I demand to know what is going on here!’ said Henry. He looked down and saw the bangle, which was still in Helen’s hand. Henry held out his hand and clicked his fingers. ‘Come on. Give that to me.’

  Helen bristled with indignation. ‘Henry, don’t speak to me like a child,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Now maybe you do know …’ She stopped as she realized she didn’t know Goose’s name.

  ‘Goose,’ said Goose.

  ‘Maybe you do know Goose, but have you ever actually listened to what he has to say?’

  ‘Helen, I talk to him all the time,’ said Henry, trying to keep his composure.

  ‘That’s not what I asked,�
�� said Helen. ‘I’m sure you do talk to him, but have you ever listened to him?’

  ‘I’m not having this conversation in front of this little toerag. Now please give me that.’ Henry held out his hand for the bangle. He didn’t know the relevance of it, but clearly it was integral to whatever was going on here.

  Goose looked from Henry to Helen and could see she was struggling to know what to do. Goose panicked, thinking that the bangle was about to be taken away from him. He knew he would never get it from Mr Taylor so he jumped forward and snatched it from Helen’s hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and with that he turned and ran. He jumped up and over the first few pews, stumbled as he landed, but was on his feet instantly and headed towards the door.

  ‘Come back here!’ barked Henry as he pushed past Helen in pursuit of Goose.

  ‘Henry! Leave him be,’ shouted Helen, but Henry wasn’t listening.

  *

  Goose ripped open the tall doors and tore out of the chapel. He jumped down the two wide steps at the front and started running towards the angel gates.

  Henry was right behind him and gaining. In much the same way that Helen would drink when the pain of losing Milly became too much, Henry would run. Sometimes he would run three, four times in the same day. He would always take the most punishing routes and push himself to his limit, to the point when he felt as if his feet were bleeding, his muscles were cramping and he was about to throw up. Then he would push himself further. He would keep going until his feet were bleeding and his muscles were cramping, until he was vomiting by the side of the road.

  Henry caught up to Goose quickly and easily. The builders, now all at the top of the scaffolding, looked down at the drama unfolding below. They stopped what they were doing and watched as Henry grabbed Goose by his hood and yanked him back viciously.

  Goose spun and lost both his footing and his hold on the bangle. He crumpled to the snow-covered ground and Henry fell with him. Goose struggled to get his head up and watched the flight of the bangle. It rotated through the air in a wide arc. Goose’s gaze moved on and saw where it was heading: the roofers’ bonfire.

  ‘No!’ Goose screamed, but there was nothing he could do except watch helplessly as the bangle plunged into the heart of the roaring fire, sending up an eruption of sparks.

  Helen and Anthony emerged from the chapel and saw Henry wrestling with Goose on the ground.

  ‘HENRY!’ Helen’s shrill cry distracted Henry’s attention from Goose for half a second, but that was all that Goose needed. He twisted violently, causing Henry’s hand that was holding tightly to Goose’s hood to twist with him. Henry was forced to let go. Goose leaped up and started running. He ran straight to the bonfire and in the same instant everyone could see what he was about to do. ‘Don’t!’ cried Helen.

  ‘Goose, no!’ said Anthony.

  ‘NO!’ shouted the builders from the roof. Goose could see the bangle. He thrust his left hand into the fire, wrapped it around the scalding metal and pulled it free all in one swift movement. He was already screaming as he drew his hand out. The bangle was searing the skin on the heel of his hand. Goose had no choice but to let go. The bangle flew out of his grasp and landed in a pile of snow, where it fizzed and steamed. Goose dropped to his knees and plunged his blistered hand into another mound of snow.

  ‘Come here, you little … !’ Henry scrambled up and was coming after Goose.

  Goose threw himself out of Henry’s path, rolled, snatched up the bangle and spun on to his feet. He ran again. Henry started after him, but Helen had caught up by now and got in his way. She put her hands on his chest.

  ‘Henry! Stop it!’ she commanded. ‘Stop it now! He’s just a child.’

  Goose didn’t look back as he ran. As he reached the angel gates he stumbled, his foot snagging a pothole, and he took a heavy tumble. He tried to stay upright but scraped a knee on the tarmac, ripping his jeans. He could feel gravel digging into a bloodied graze, but he ignored the pain and kept going. He ran out through the gates and dashed across the road. A car had to brake aggressively. The driver smashed his fist down on his horn.

  ‘YOU STUPID LITTLE BRAT!’ he screamed, but his words were muffled by the fact that his windows were all closed.

  Goose didn’t stop; he didn’t look back. He just kept running, clutching the bangle tightly in his hand.

  Back in the cemetery, Henry was purple-faced with anger. He was panting fiercely, more from rage than exertion. He turned on his wife.

  ‘You don’t … !’ He couldn’t even finish his sentence. His teeth were clenched tightly together. ‘I have to deal with these people on a daily basis. They are scum!’ And Henry actually spat in his wife’s face as he sputtered out the last word.

  Calmly Helen wiped her cheek and shook her head. ‘’Scum?’’ she said. ‘‘These people’? My God, Henry, have you always been like this? So full of bile? Or is this just since—’

  Henry cut her off. ‘Don’t!’ he warned.

  Helen was shocked by the ferocity of his reaction, but it only riled her more. ‘Don’t what?’ she said. ‘Don’t mention our daughter? Don’t mention Milly? Milly! Milly! MILLY! MILLY!’ she shouted in his face.

  ‘I haven’t got time for this,’ said Henry, pulling out his BlackBerry. ‘We’ll talk about this at home.’

  ‘No, I don’t think we will,’ said Helen.

  Her sudden calm unnerved him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means there’s nothing left to talk about. Or at least no point talking. We both know it’s over.’

  ‘Now?’ growled Henry. ‘This is when you want to do this? Now?’

  Helen shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t want to do this at all. I don’t want … to be here. I don’t want to have to be here. I don’t want Milly to be dead. I want the life we had before. That was wonderful and perfect. She was perfect. You were perfect. I want that life. Not this one.’ Tears were streaming down her face. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Henry frowned. ‘You’re just being …’ but he couldn’t finish his sentence.

  ‘Being what?’ asked Helen. ‘Emotional? You should try it some time.’

  Henry couldn’t look at her. He looked down at the phone in his hand, studying the buttons. 6-4-5-5-9. He wrote out Milly’s name as he had all year long, finding it in signs and adverts or in clouds in the sky or even once in the oily film on the surface of a puddle after a heavy rainstorm. She was everywhere. More than anything in the world he wanted her to be alive.

  Henry prided himself on being a pragmatist. He never tried punching above his own weight. As a child, dreams of being an astronaut were quickly pushed aside. He decided to strive for the best life he could realistically achieve. He married as well as he possibly could, actually a little better than he deserved. Maybe the one time he did punch above his weight was with Helen. And maybe working in Manchester’s probationary services wasn’t in the same league as NASA, but he had worked hard and risen to a position of some authority. He had had a beautiful, bright, funny, loving daughter and had considered himself a very lucky man. His life might not have been spectacular, but it made him happy.

  He had lost his daughter and now he was about to lose his wife. He had been frozen with fear the day Milly drowned and had done nothing to save her. He hadn’t jumped into the canal like Helen. He had been punishing himself for that all year. Now here he was faced with another moment of decision. What he did next would determine all of his tomorrows. He had lost his daughter and there was no bringing her back, but he could still hold on to his wife. His beautiful, caring wife whom he loved more now than the day he married her. All he had to do, he knew, was tell her. All he had to do was put the phone away and take her hand. They could go away together. Go to the other side of the world if necessary. They could rebuild what they had. They would never forget Milly, but they could move on together. It was all down to him.

  ‘I haven’t got time for this,’ he said, and he turned away
, dialling on his phone. He hated himself more with every button he pushed.

  Helen watched Henry walking away from her. She studied the back of his head and his shoulders. She knew this would be the last time she saw him. She didn’t feel as sad as she’d suspected she would. She would miss the feel of his hair the most. She loved his hair. It was the exact same colour as Milly’s.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said quietly to herself. It didn’t feel like a snap decision made in the heat of the moment. This was something that had been coming for a long time. Only today had brought something unexpected: clarity. She wasn’t sure where it had come from. Maybe from Anthony and Goose, or maybe it was just getting past the awful one-year-anniversary milestone. Whatever it was, she understood that a new chapter of her life was about to begin. It was scary, but she felt energized by it. She wasn’t sure where she would go or what she would do. There was a great big world out there and plenty of choices. However, there was one thing she had to do first.

  She turned and walked towards Anthony, who stood by the flickering bonfire. The setting sun was behind him and the last dying rays shone down on him, making him look more otherworldly than ever.

  ‘We should find Goose,’ said Helen.

  ‘We?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘I feel somehow responsible.’

  Anthony nodded. He understood. ‘I think I might know where he’s going,’ he said.

  A thought occurred to Helen. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That’s a long story,’ said Anthony. They turned and headed to the angel gates and the busy road beyond.

  20

  NAN AND THE FUZZ

  The sun dipped behind the buildings and the streetlights flickered to life as Goose sprinted through the streets. Most of the snow had turned to slush and the pavements were grey and wet. However, there was a chill in the air that held the promise of more snow to come. It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve and the roads were quiet. Most people were at home with their families by now. Goose could hear carol singing in the distance, carried on the breeze. He wasn’t sure exactly where it was coming from. He could just make out enthusiastic snatches of ‘Deck the Halls’.