by David Logan
Anthony crossed to the French windows and saw only the reflection of the room he was in. It was pitch black outside. ‘Are there any lights?’ he asked Lal. She nodded, reached behind the curtain and flicked a switch. Outside hundreds of small white lights blazed into life. It was a wondrous sight. The strings of fairy lights were arranged around the shrines and statues, creating the most extraordinary display. They looked like a bright, chaotic spider’s web stretching around the whole garden.
‘Put them in for Diwali,’ said Lal. ‘But they looked so good I left them up for Christmas.’
Anthony pushed down the handle and opened up the doors. He stepped outside and walked to the middle of the small garden, turning in a circle, taking in the snow-covered spectacle around him with a blissful smile on his face. It had started to snow again, lightly but getting heavier. Lal’s garden hadn’t been disturbed since the snowfall of the previous night apart from the tracks of a few animals, mostly birds and cats: the birds looking for food, the cats looking for birds. Goose’s footprints from the previous night had been obliterated almost as soon as he had left.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Anthony said to Lal.
‘Thank you. I know,’ said Lal, smirking a little. ‘This is my little slice of heaven on earth.’
Somewhere in the distance a church clock started to chime the hour. Anthony stopped and tilted his head to listen. He nodded to himself.
‘He’s coming,’ he said.
‘Who? Goose?’ asked Helen. ‘How do you know?’
All Anthony could do was shrug. He had absolutely no idea how he knew, but he felt sure that Goose would be there any moment. The three of them stood and waited in silence. The clock stopped chiming. Still they waited. After a while they all started to feel a little silly, standing there in the snow, all shivering, their teeth chattering.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ said Lal.
‘Ooh, yes, please,’ said Helen.
‘Why not?’ said Anthony, and the three of them started back inside. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later,’ he said.
Just as they were about to step inside, they heard a scrambling noise behind them. All three stopped and turned. They saw a hand reach up and over the high brick wall. A moment later, Goose pulled himself up into view. He scraped his burnt hand on the rough stone on top of the wall and stopped until the stinging passed. He looked down and saw Lal, Helen and Anthony watching him. No one said anything. Goose hauled himself up and over and dropped down into Lal’s garden in much the same way he had done the previous night when he robbed her.
Instinctively Anthony and Helen moved aside, allowing Lal to pass between them. She stood on the edge of the lawn and looked at Goose. He felt terribly self-conscious, what with everyone staring at him, but he was so close to the end now. He took a deep breath and stepped forward. He crossed the snow-covered lawn towards Lal. As he did so, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bangle.
‘I really am very sorry,’ he said, and held it out to her. A tear sprang from Lal’s eye and she smiled beatifically as she gazed down at her bangle. Then she reached out and took it from Goose. She slipped it on to her wrist and savoured the familiar feeling of its weight.
‘You’ve caused me a lot of worry,’ said Lal, but there was no anger or recrimination in her voice. She was merely stating a fact. ‘I hope you had a good reason for taking it.’
Goose considered his answer carefully and then shook his head. ‘Not really.’
‘At least you’re honest.’ She paused. ‘Well, you know, for a thief.’
‘Are you angry?’ asked Goose.
‘Very,’ said Lal.
Goose was confused. She didn’t seem very angry. He wondered if pointing that out might be a mistake, but he couldn’t quite stop himself. ‘You don’t seem very angry,’ he said.
‘What have I got to be angry about? I’ve got my bangle back, haven’t I?’ The truth was that Lal had been angry and desperately sad all day, but none of that mattered now. Not now her precious bangle had been returned. Lal held up her arm, rotating it gently. A thousand tiny lights glittered over the bangle’s polished surface, making it look truly magical. The cobras looked so lifelike that for a moment Goose half expected them to uncoil and hiss.
‘What’s the writing say?’ asked Goose.
‘It’s Sanskrit,’ said Lal. ‘It’s a quote about Shiva. Do you know who that is?’ Goose shook his head. ‘People always think he’s the god of destruction, but he isn’t. Shiva just knows that sometimes you have to destroy to begin again. To make the world a better place.’
Goose’s brow furrowed as he thought about that. He couldn’t fathom what that might mean. A thought was knocking at the periphery of his mind. He didn’t want to let it in so he concentrated on something else and cast his mind back to history lessons. Wars were destructive. They destroyed a lot of things. Did they make the world a better place? Maybe on a worldwide scale. Maybe the world was a better place because of the Second World War, which he had learned about at school. Nazis = bad. No Nazis = good. That seemed to be the gist of history with Mr O’Brien. But what about all the people who had died? Being destroyed wasn’t good for them or the people they left behind.
He thought about Kieran Moss, who was in his year at school. They had been friends once – back when he’d had friends. Kieran’s older brother, Graham, was in the army and went out to Afghanistan. The convoy he was in was attacked and Private Graham Moss was killed. He was nineteen years old. He was given a medal, which Kieran brought into school one day. Goose remembered thinking to himself: What use is a soddin’ medal? Was a medal really a fair swap for a brother? He remembered Graham and his mates would let them play footie with them. He’d liked Graham. He knew he would rather have a brother who let him play football than a medal any day. Just like he’d rather have his mum and dad back than … There was that treacherous thought that had been trying to get in. It had found a way, snuck in through the back door when he wasn’t looking. Now he was thinking about his mum and dad and he couldn’t stop. They were destroyed. How was anything better now?
The emotion of the moment got to him and tears started to well up in Goose’s eyes, but he refused to give in. He wouldn’t cry. He rubbed his face vigorously. Blotting the tears.
‘That’s not true,’ he said, shaking his head.
Lal shrugged and smiled patiently. ‘Like most things in life, young man, it depends on your point of view.’
Still shaking his head, Goose said, ‘World’s not a better place without me mum and dad.’
Lal stopped to consider Goose’s words. Of course, there was no way she could have known his story. No one had mentioned it. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. She reached out but Goose pulled away. Being touched by anyone right now would be disastrous. He’d be bawling like a newborn and he knew it. He kept his mouth tightly shut, choking back the sobs that were building up in his throat, locking them away until they passed. He turned to Anthony.
‘Now, where’s Mutt?’ Goose demanded. ‘You said I’d get him back if I did the right thing.’
‘Did I?’ asked Anthony, thinking back. He couldn’t recall saying that, but of course that didn’t mean anything. Goose thought about it too and he knew that’s not what Anthony had promised. He, Goose, had come to that conclusion on his own and was loath to let go of it. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate, but contemplate it he did. He couldn’t stop himself. His eyes hurt from forcing himself not to cry, his throat hurt for the same reason, and there was a pain in his chest as if someone was squeezing his heart. His legs felt weak, like they were about to give out from under him.
‘He’s not coming back, is he?’ said Goose. ‘There isn’t any magic. You’re just some nutter.’
Anthony shrugged. ‘Maybe, but—’
‘No. No “but”,’ said Goose, cutting him off. ‘I’m going into care and dogs … they run away.’ Goose couldn’t keep the tears out of his voice any more. He fought hard not to gi
ve in, but it was no use. His eyes were red and his throat felt dry. It hurt to swallow. ‘Or get knocked over.’ Images of Mutt lying dead or worse, injured, bleeding and in pain, in a gutter somewhere flooded into Goose’s mind’s eye. He screwed his eyes up tightly to try to block them out, but it was no good. His mounting anger had kept them at bay, but now the dam had well and truly burst. ‘He’s all I had left,’ Goose wailed. ‘It’s not fair. Why is everything being taken away from me?’ He covered his face with his arms to muffle his sobs.
Helen stepped forward, the mother in her needing to comfort the child in front of her. Within seconds, thoughts of a new life filled her mind. She was a mother without a child, and here was a child without a mother. A child so much in need. As was she. She so desperately needed a child to love and care for. She had been a good mother. A loving mother. She had devoted so much of those six years that Milly had been alive to raising her daughter as well as anyone could: teaching her, loving her, protecting her. Of course she had failed in that last aspect and her failure had had terrible consequences, but that had been an accident. It was not her fault, she told herself, thinking back to what she had said to Goose in the chapel. She didn’t fully believe it, but she told herself again: it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people. There is no pattern, no rhyme or reason. It’s just life, and you make of it what you will.
She saw her future now: her future with Goose. No Henry. He was gone. Goose needed her.
‘Goose …’ She started to speak, was about to wrap her arms around him and comfort him, but Anthony held up a hand and stopped her. That one simple gesture brought her plans crashing down around her. It wasn’t lost on her how ridiculously easy it was for him to stop her in her tracks. And, as if a back door in her head had sprung open, the thought came that although Goose could be a replacement for her own lost girl, what she really, truly wanted was to have her daughter back. To have Milly back. She could be a good mother to Goose but not the one he really wanted, no more than he could ever be the child she truly wanted. That child was dead and buried and could not come back. Ever.
Helen turned away. She didn’t want to be here any more. She wanted to run. It felt to her as if the walls of this tiny garden were closing in on her. She felt like screaming. She opened her mouth to say she was leaving, but no sound came out. She was frozen. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move.
‘Hold out your hand,’ said Anthony to Goose. ‘Where you burned it. Hold it out.’
‘Why?’ asked Goose.
‘Because I’ve realized something. Something extraordinary has happened. Because I remember, you see.’
‘Remember? Remember what?’ said Goose quietly.
‘Everything. Everything I’d lost. It’s come back.’
‘What? When?’
‘In the cemetery. When you burned your hand.’ Goose looked at his palm. It was red and blistered. It throbbed. ‘I remembered my name and how I got here and why I’m here.’
‘Y-you’ve remembered your name?’ said Goose. ‘It’s not Anthony then?’
Anthony shook his head. ‘Told you I didn’t feel like an Anthony.’
‘So what is it?’
‘Hold out your hand,’ Anthony said again. Goose didn’t move. Anthony could see he thought it was a trick. ‘It’s not a trick,’ he said. ‘Hold out your hand.’ Still Goose didn’t move. ‘Goose.’ Anthony spoke softly. ‘Trust me.’
Goose couldn’t see where this was going. His mind was a mess. For most of the day, or at least the last half, he had just focused on getting here and returning the bangle. He had convinced himself that everything would be all right then. He would get Mutt back. He hadn’t let himself think about what would happen after that. Now he thought about it. He wouldn’t be allowed to keep Mutt. Mutt would be taken away from him and he would be taken away from Nan. She would be locked up in some dreary home that he knew she would hate. He would … what? Go to some horrible foster family or a care home full of unpleasant angry kids who didn’t want to be there any more than he did. He was already planning his escape. He’d lost the money Frank had given him, but he had some more at home. He wondered if that was still there. Had the police searched his room? The money, proceeds of crime, was not particularly well hidden. There’d been no need. He knew Nan wouldn’t go looking for it. All he had to do was put it somewhere where she wouldn’t take it by accident. Like the time he had hidden three hundred pounds in his trainers, only to come home and discover Nan had given away all his left shoes. He had no idea what had been going through her muddled head, but she had collected the left one of all her pairs of shoes and all of Goose’s and given them away. She couldn’t remember who to. Now he hid his money, rolled up in a sock, in one of the hollow tubular legs of his bed. He was fairly confident that Nan wouldn’t give his bed away.
So all he had to do was get home, get into his room and out again without the coppers catching him. He wasn’t sure whether that was going to be possible. But then again, did he even want to go? Alone. Without Mutt, nothing mattered now. First his mum and dad, then his nan. Maybe not in body, but definitely in mind. All he had had left was Mutt and now he was gone too.
He looked at Anthony, who was still standing in front of him waiting for him to hold out his hand. Goose had truly wanted to believe that some sort of magic existed in the world and that this strange, odd, weird, bizarre man could give him back what he wanted most. His little Mutt. But he couldn’t. Life’s just not like that.
Goose let out a long, slow breath and reached out his left hand. Lal and Helen looked on as Goose turned it palm side up, exposing the welt of the burn. It was in a very distinctive crescent shape. And it was deep. Goose would have that scar for the rest of his life.
‘So there it is,’ said Goose with a heaviness to his voice. ‘Now what?’
Anthony took a deep breath and slowly started to remove the glove from his left hand. He hadn’t removed that glove all day. It was always the right he would take off. There was a reason for this. He felt self-conscious about his left hand. He finished removing the glove and held it out to Goose, palm up. Goose frowned as he saw what was on Anthony’s hand.
A scar.
A scar like his. No, not like it. Identical. The two scars were the same. The only difference was that Anthony’s was old. Years old. But it was in exactly the same place on his hand and exactly the same shape. That doesn’t make any sense, thought Goose. How can that be? How could Anthony have exactly the same scar as him?
‘I don’t …’ Goose’s voice faltered for a moment but he found it again. ‘I don’t understand.’
Anthony smiled. ‘You will,’ he said, and with that he clamped his hand on to Goose’s. As skin touched skin, both Anthony and Goose drew in a sharp breath. They felt as if they had been snatched up in a passing tornado. Everything was spinning wildly. Lal’s garden quickly became a blur. It felt as if the g-forces were going to rip them limb from limb and turn them inside out. Then a black hole opened up beneath them and they were sucked down into nothingness.
22
BACK TO BLACKPOOL AND THEN BACK AND BACK
The whirlwind disorientation segued into a world of noise and movement, lights of every colour and people: hundreds and hundreds of people. Whizzes, bangs and music filled the air. There were a dozen different tunes and songs coming from a dozen different directions, mixing together into a cacophonous porridge of sound. Goose found himself standing in the middle of a crowd. His dizziness passed and he looked about him but didn’t recognize anyone. He was surrounded by happy-looking strangers. Families mostly. Fathers with children on their shoulders. Mothers pushing buggies. Kids eating toffee apples and balls of candyfloss bigger than their heads. The air smelled of roasting chestnuts and cinnamon.
Goose squeezed his way through the crowds until he found a little open space. He hopped up on to a low wall to give himself a better view. Was he dreaming? How did he get here? He rec
ognized where here was. He was in Blackpool, and he could tell from the special Christmas-themed illuminations, which were impressive though paled a little in comparison to Blackpool’s regular illuminations (which were also on), that it was Christmastime. He had been here before. Two years ago at Christmas with his parents as a treat. He had loved it.
However, something was different, but he didn’t know Blackpool well enough to pinpoint exactly what. It was more a feeling. He glanced up at the soaring buildings that lined the promenade. He couldn’t remember so many being so very high. There were advertisements everywhere playing on massive video screens. They were for products Goose wasn’t familiar with. He gazed up at one billboard directly above him. It was for something called the ‘eyePhone’ by Apple, which, as far as Goose could tell, was similar to a contact lens. Plus people’s clothing looked odd. So many styles he had never seen before.
‘’Scuse me,’ said Goose to a woman walking past. Her skin was blemish-free and she was slim and pretty. She ignored him and walked on. Goose watched her go, thinking she was rude. She must have heard him. Then he noticed something as he looked at the people around him. They were all slim, tall, healthy-looking. This wasn’t the Blackpool he remembered. Junk food was being consumed everywhere, but there wasn’t a single fatty to be seen.
A man walked past, tall, broad-shouldered, chiselled jaw. He looked up, directly at Goose, who was on the wall.
‘Can you help me?’ asked Goose, but the man looked right through him. Goose realized the pretty woman from before wasn’t being rude. She couldn’t see him. No one could see him. He decided he was definitely dreaming. Strange thing was, he couldn’t remember going to bed. Last thing he remembered was being in the old Indian lady’s garden. He had given the bangle back. Anthony had taken off his glove and showed him a scar on his hand that was identical to Goose’s. Goose looked at his hand and the scar. It tingled and looked fresh. Not like Anthony’s. That was the same shape but it was old. Their hands had touched. Goose could remember a feeling of exhilaration coursing through him. Making every inch of his body feel weightless. Like being on a ride at a fairground. Suddenly he realized what this was. This was one of Anthony’s visions. Except it wasn’t Anthony’s. It was his. Frank hadn’t reported seeing anything when Anthony touched him. Neither had Dr Clarence, or Helen in the chapel. So why was he seeing this? What was he seeing? Why was he in Blackpool of all places?
