Lost Christmas

by David Logan

  ‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, Fa la la la la, la la la la, ’Tis the season to be jolly …’

  Goose didn’t feel very jolly. He pushed on. His lungs felt as if they had shrivelled to nothing and a great bony hand was reaching into his chest and squeezing them tightly so he couldn’t get any more air in.

  He took short cuts everywhere he could. He knew this city better than anyone. The most direct route to the old Indian lady’s house from the cemetery meant Goose had to go past his own house. He didn’t plan on going in, but as he ran past something made him stop. He couldn’t explain what it was, but he felt an overwhelming need to check on his nan.

  Goose ran through the front door. The house was quiet.

  ‘Nan?’ he called.

  ‘Is that you, Goose dear?’ He heard his nan’s quavering voice coming from the kitchen. ‘We’re in here.’

  Goose headed to the kitchen, and it was only as he was on the threshold, his hand reaching out for the door handle, about to enter, that Nan’s use of the word ‘we’ registered with him. He had enough time to think, What does she mean, ‘we’? but not enough time to stop himself opening the door. Goose entered, and instantly wanted to back up and run the other way. Nan was sitting at the kitchen table flanked by a PC on one side and a WPC on the other. The PC, Storbridge was his name, stood up as Goose clattered into the room. He was big and imposing. He had hands the size of frisbees.

  ‘Richard,’ he said, ‘I’m PC Storbridge, this is WPC Havelock. Your probation officer called us. Why don’t you come and sit down?’ Storbridge’s voice was thunderous even though he was speaking at a neutral level. Goose wondered what it would sound like when he shouted. Would it rattle the plates? Could it bring the building crashing down?

  Goose ran quickly through his options. He had to get out of there. Surely the best thing to do would be to double back on himself, but Storbridge must have been able to tell what he was thinking because he said: ‘Don’t try running, son. You’ll only make things worse. Sit down.’

  Goose looked forlorn. His shoulders sagged and he moved towards the kitchen table. As he eased himself into a chair, PC Storbridge and WPC Havelock started to sit too. Then, at the very last moment, as the two police officers lowered their guard and their bottoms touched their chairs, Goose jumped up, spun on his heels and raced back out of the kitchen. Storbridge and Havelock scrambled to their feet and gave chase.

  Goose had a healthy head start, but the front door slowed him down. The wood in the door was warped from the damp autumn and it would stick from time to time. Now was one of those times. It only held him up for a second or two, but it was enough. Storbridge and Havelock barrelled into the hallway just as Goose strained to yank the door open. As it started to swing back, Storbridge’s massive hand reached out, thumped against the door above Goose’s head and slammed it shut. Goose was trapped.

  ‘That was a very silly thing to do,’ said Storbridge. Goose said nothing. He turned around to face the two coppers and wondered if he could get past them and back into the kitchen. Unfortunately the hallway was far too narrow. Storbridge alone practically filled it.

  ‘You go make sure the old girl’s all right,’ Storbridge said to Havelock. From the look on her face it didn’t appear she enjoyed being ordered around by her colleague, but she nodded and headed back to the kitchen. Storbridge turned to Goose. ‘Now, Steve McQueen, let’s turn out your pockets.’

  Goose frowned. ‘Who’s Steve McQueen?’ he asked.

  Storbridge shook his head indignantly. ‘You kids today. You don’t know you’re born. Come on. Pockets.’

  The last thing in the world Goose wanted to do was reveal what he had in his pockets, but he couldn’t think of a way out. Slowly, reluctantly, he started to empty them.

  In the kitchen, WPC Havelock closed the door behind her. She could see that Nan was looking distressed by the drama unfolding around her. Nan was still wearing her apron and she was twisting the material in her hands and muttering inaudibly to herself.

  ‘Shall I make us a nice cup of tea?’ said WPC Havelock.

  ‘He’s a good boy, he is,’ said Nan, out loud but not necessarily to Havelock.

  ‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Thornhill. Don’t you worry yourself. We all just want what’s best for you and Richard.’

  ‘Goose,’ said Nan quietly. ‘He’s called Goose.’ Havelock nodded and busied herself making the tea. Nan closed her eyes. ‘Goose,’ she said again under her breath. ‘Goose … Goose … Goose.’ Her eyes popped open and there was something different about her. There was a clarity and a look of determination on her face where usually there was only benign indifference. Nan turned her head to look at WPC Havelock’s back. Nan was doing something she rarely did these days. She was thinking. More than that, she was plotting.

  In the hallway, Goose was going through his pockets, removing the contents and placing everything on to a small table that usually held the telephone, which PC Storbridge had removed and placed on the floor.

  There was a collection of junk of the type that Goose and most other eleven-year-old boys tend to carry about with them: odds and sods that he had found and stuffed into his pockets without thinking. There were tissues, sweet wrappers, sticks, pen lids, scraps of paper, his mobile and a small ball of Blu-Tack covered in lint. Goose made a show of patting down all his pockets one final time to make extra sure that he hadn’t missed anything. He felt something in an inner pocket of his jacket and had to root down deeply to get it. His fingers brushed against both lots of money Frank had given him and the bangle; those were three things he didn’t want to have to try to explain to a policeman. He drew out his hand and held it open to reveal the glass eyeball that he had decided not to give to Frank earlier. It was stolen, but he felt confident that Storbridge wouldn’t guess.

  ‘That’s everything?’ asked Storbridge. Goose nodded. ‘Good lad.’ Storbridge seemed to believe him and Goose relaxed just a little. ‘Now put your arms out.’ Goose’s face dropped. Clearly Storbridge didn’t believe him. He was going to pat him down. What could Goose do?

  ‘Why? That’s everything right there,’ said Goose, jabbing a finger at the pile on the table.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t mind if I check for myself. Now put your arms out.’ Storbridge said this more forcefully, and Nan’s prized commemorative plate of Prince Charles and Lady Di’s wedding that was hanging on the wall next to him did indeed rattle in its holder a little.

  Goose’s mind was blank. He couldn’t think of any way out of this predicament, so reluctantly he raised his arms out to his sides. Storbridge started at Goose’s left wrist. He turned his hand over and saw the red welt on the heel of Goose’s palm.

  ‘That looks nasty. How’d you do that?’ asked Storbridge.

  Goose shrugged. ‘Burned it.’

  ‘Well, I can see that, Mister States-the-bloody-obvious. How did you burn it?’

  ‘Accident,’ said Goose.

  Storbridge wanted to press it; he could tell there was more to the burn than Goose was letting on, but he decided to leave it for now. ‘Well, we’ll have it seen to presently,’ was all he said, and then he continued his search.

  He patted up Goose’s left arm and down the right. Then he went back to his shoulders and patted down his sides. He stopped when he reached the pocket in Goose’s jacket where the bangle and money were hidden. ‘Looks like you missed something,’ he said, and reached into the pocket. He took out the roll of cash Frank had given him before he went to see Noel and the hundred pounds he had given him that morning. That seemed such a long time ago now. The surprise on Storbridge’s face was plain to see. ‘Now that’s a lot of money for a young lad like you. Lot of money for anyone. Care to tell me how you came by it?’

  ‘A friend gave it me,’ said Goose weakly.

  ‘What generous friends you have,’ said Storbridge, loading his voice with scepticism. ‘This friend have a name?’

  Goose didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to get
Frank into trouble so he just shook his head. Storbridge didn’t force the issue. He resumed his search. He put his hand into the inside pocket again and brought out the bangle. He whistled appreciatively.

  ‘Friend give you this too, did he?’ Goose just shook his head. ‘We’re not idiots, son. We know you’ve got previous. Housebreaking’s your thing, ain’t that right? You ever stop to think about your nan in there? She’s not a well woman.’ Goose muttered something that Storbridge couldn’t hear. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

  ‘I stole the bangle, okay, but … I need it. I need to give it back.’

  Storbridge laughed at that one. ‘Ten out of ten for originality, boy. You can tell it to the magistrate.’

  ‘No!’ Goose shouted, louder than he had planned.

  In the kitchen, WPC Havelock was pouring the tea when they heard Goose’s raised voice. Both she and Nan looked up.

  ‘Stay here, Mrs Thornhill,’ she said to Nan. ‘I’ll be right back.’ Havelock headed out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Everything okay out here?’ asked Havelock. Storbridge glanced at her quickly, then returned his focus to Goose.

  ‘Yeah, I was just hearing how Raffles here has seen the error of his ways. Plans to return all the hooky gear he’s nicked.’ Storbridge held up the bangle. Havelock chuckled.

  Suddenly the kitchen door opened and Nan came out carrying the tea tray. Before either of the coppers could react, Nan had walked into the middle of the hall, positioning herself very deliberately between them and Goose. ‘Anyone for Battenburg?’ she asked gaily. Then she looked at Goose and made a minute gesture with her eyes, indicating that he should run.

  Goose couldn’t believe it. After a split second of hesitation, he overcame his surprise and leaped into action. He jumped up, snatched the bangle out of PC Storbridge’s hand and was already sprinting towards the back door.

  ‘Stop right there!’ bellowed PC Storbridge. Nan shrieked with fright and threw the tray into the air. Instinctively Storbridge tried to catch it. The hot tea drenched him. ‘Aaarrrggghhhh!’ he cried in pain and fury.

  Storbridge and Havelock scrambled after Goose. Nan made sure to get in their way to slow them down as long as she could. By the time the two police officers had made it past her, Goose was already out of the back door.

  Goose held tightly to the bangle as he came racing out of the back gate of Nan’s house into a rubbish-strewn alleyway. Orange-tinted sodium streetlights shone down, offering small pockets of illumination in the darkness. He turned left and sped up.

  Moments later, Storbridge and Havelock emerged. They saw Goose disappearing around the corner. Storbridge took off after him, calling over his shoulder to his partner, ‘Head him off at the Cross.’

  Havelock understood and ran over to their squad car parked nearby. She jumped in and started reversing at speed back down the alley with the siren blaring.

  Goose slid around an icy corner. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Storbridge coming after him. Goose cut left abruptly and headed across a housing estate.

  Storbridge barked into his shoulder-mounted walkie-talkie: ‘He’s heading across Clinton Court. Get him at Michaels Street.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Havelock over the radio.

  Goose ran past some garages at the foot of a block of flats. He went up a flight of stone steps daubed with graffiti and through a covered walkway where a fluorescent strip light flickered and buzzed.

  He came out the other side and ran across some open ground. A group of young hoodies were gathered on a climbing frame drinking cider. They saw Goose coming and started jeering at him. They didn’t know who he was – they just liked to jeer. Then they saw Storbridge pursuing him and they went quiet, hiding the bottles.

  ‘I saw that!’ shouted Storbridge as he passed by.

  Goose came up another set of steps on the far side of the estate, through a gate and out on to the street. He could hear the siren of Havelock’s car approaching. It was going to be close.

  He looked to his right and saw the squad car. He just managed to dash across the road ahead of it. Havelock had to slam on her brakes to avoid clipping him. Goose didn’t stop. He shot down an alleyway.

  Moments later, Storbridge came up the steps and across the road. He saw Havelock.

  ‘GO ROUND! GO ROUND!’ he shouted, waving his hand in the air, gesturing for Havelock to head round the block in order to cut Goose off. She put her foot down and sped away. Storbridge took off down the alleyway behind Goose.

  The alleyway was long and narrow. The walls on either side were high and Goose could see that the tops were peppered with broken glass embedded in the concrete to stop anyone climbing over. He looked back. Storbridge was gaining on him.

  Then he heard the siren again and to his dismay saw the glow of the squad car’s blue flashing lights before he saw the car. Havelock turned sharply into the mouth of the alleyway. There was nowhere for Goose to go: Havelock ahead, Storbridge coming up behind. He was on the verge of panicking. What to do? What to do?

  Havelock skidded to a halt ten metres in front of Goose and squeezed out of the car. The alleyway was only just wide enough so she couldn’t open the door fully. Goose looked back. Storbridge was almost on top of him. The car was in front of him and Havelock was edging around to grab him. He had one chance. He found a reserve of strength and increased his speed. Just as Havelock brushed past the headlights, Goose reached the car and leaped into the air, landing on the bonnet. He didn’t stop. He ran up and over the car and down the other side. Havelock tried to grab him but missed. Storbridge made the same leap on to the bonnet but he was a big man and not designed for leaping. His foot slipped and he face-planted on to the windscreen. He rolled off the side of the car and became wedged between it and the wall, his feet sticking up in the air.

  ‘GET ME OUT OF HERE!’ he yelled to Havelock, who couldn’t help but smile at her colleague’s predicament. She looked over the car. Goose was nowhere to be seen.

  21

  RETURNING TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

  Anthony and Helen were walking along quiet, mostly empty streets. Whenever they came to an intersection Anthony would stop and look in all directions before choosing which way to go.

  ‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ said Helen after they had been walking for nearly half an hour.

  ‘I think so,’ said Anthony. The houses in this part of town were small and terraced. Street after street of mostly identical buildings, and Anthony was looking for one house in particular. And, to make it harder, he wasn’t entirely sure where it was. He sort of knew in a half-remembered, half-told-when-he-wasn’t-really-listening-properly kind of way.

  They stopped at a crossroads. Helen said nothing and just let Anthony take his time as he looked down each of the roads in turn. Finally he pointed left.

  ‘This way,’ he said. They walked along another road that looked much the same as the last six. Though, unlike some they had passed through, this one was well lit by street lamps. Evenly spaced cones of light shone down on the white ground, illuminating pockets of dancing swirls of snow.

  Helen was starting to think they were wandering aimlessly when Anthony stopped. Helen didn’t notice for several moments and walked on. When she realized Anthony was no longer next to her she looked back. He was standing outside one of the houses, staring at it. She walked back and stood next to him, gazing up at the house. It was the same as all the others apart from one very obvious difference: it had a bright orange front door, which they could see clearly thanks to a street lamp less than a metre away.

  ‘This one,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Anthony with a resolute nod of his chin.

  ‘Why are you sure?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Wait. You’re not sure now?’ asked Helen, confused.

  ‘No. I mean I’m not sure why I’m sure, but I’m sure. It’s this one.’


  With that he stepped up and rang the doorbell. They heard it bing-bong inside and they waited. After a few moments they heard movement, someone approaching, and the door opened inwards. An elderly Indian lady poked her head out and spoke in a broad Mancunian accent tinged with just a hint of Gujerati. She was tall though a little stooped with age. She had short hair, silver peppered with some black, and wore a pair of browline glasses.

  ‘Hello, yes?’ said Lal.

  ‘Remember me?’ asked Anthony, smiling. Lal frowned as her eyesight adjusted to the change in light levels from indoors to outside. Then she saw who it was: the strange man from the bus stop. The man who had looked for her bangle in the drain.

  ‘You! What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?’ Then those questions were quickly forgotten as a new thought occurred to Lal. She gasped, choked with excitement, and stepped forward. ‘Ha! My bangle? You’ve found it?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Anthony.

  ‘What does that mean? Have you got it?’ asked Lal with urgency.

  ‘No,’ said Anthony, and he saw a look of gloom descend on Lal once again. ‘But it’s on its way.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Lal said.

  ‘The boy who stole it is bringing it back.’

  Helen glanced at Anthony: impressed by his faith in Goose.

  ‘Well, you’d better come in then,’ said Lal, and she opened her door wider.

  Helen and Anthony stepped inside, wiping their feet on the doormat, and looked around Lal’s small living room. There were two armchairs; one high-backed and the other low, with rounded arms. They were both covered in the same red leather and faced an old chunky television set that must have been twenty years old. There was a little set of three stacking tables nestled between the two chairs. One of the chairs was covered in magazines, newspapers and books of Sudoku puzzles. This was Meher’s chair.