Lost Christmas

by David Logan

  Goose and Mutt ran all the way home in time for Christmas dinner. As he sat at the table pulling crackers with his mum, dad and nan and surreptitiously feeding Mutt little pieces of turkey, Goose thought about miracles. What an incredible place the world was. Magic existed. He was filled with a sense of excitement and wonder.

  He thought about ‘Anthony’, which meant he was thinking about himself. It was a mind-boggling concept to get his head around. He had actually met his future self. Except of course he hadn’t. That Anthony – homeless-Anthony, street-performer-Anthony, walking-encyclopaedia-of-useless-trivia-Anthony – was a product of his parents’ dying when he was just a kid. Goose looked around the table, watching his mum cut up Nan’s food while his dad refilled the wine glasses. Hopefully that wasn’t going to be a contributing factor in his life now.

  However, the fact that this had all happened to him would be a contributing factor. He had changed. He didn’t know how exactly, but how could it not have changed him? He had discovered that the world was more incredible, strange and unexpected than he could ever have imagined. He couldn’t wait to see what the rest of his life had in store for him.

  A thought occurred to him and he put down his knife and fork with a clatter, which caused everyone at the table to look up.

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I just had a thought,’ said Goose. ‘What if you have to remember something for a really long time?’

  ‘How long?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I don’t know. Thirty years. Maybe more.’

  ‘What would you have to remember for that long?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Well, don’t ask me to remind ya.’ Nan laughed.

  ‘You wouldn’t remember if he asked you to remind him in thirty minutes,’ said Dad, eliciting a scowl from Mum.

  ‘Remind him of what?’ said Nan, looking blank for a moment before cracking a grin and dissolving into laughter. Mum and Dad started laughing too.

  Paul noticed that Goose was looking very serious. Clearly his question was essential. ‘Is this thing you’ve got to remember really important?’ he asked.

  Goose nodded. ‘It is,’ he said. ‘It really is.’

  ‘Then I suppose,’ said Paul, ‘you’ll just remember.’

  ‘Even for that long?’

  ‘If it’s important enough.’

  Goose sank into his thoughts. It was important enough, and he knew he would remember.

  24

  THIRTY-FOUR YEARS LATER

  Richard Thornhill drove north along Blackpool’s famous promenade. He could see the illuminated tower in all its splendour in the distance ahead. He hadn’t been back to Blackpool in twenty-odd years. Not since he had moved down south to seek his fortune, to find his place in the world.

  Richard thought back to his childhood, growing up in Manchester. He thought back to the days when he was known as Goose. No one called him that now. Hadn’t for decades. He’d gone from Goose to Richie then to Richard or Rich, depending on who was addressing him. But never Goose.

  He wondered what the boy he used to be would think about the man he had become. He was an architect now. And a successful one at that. He owned his own business with offices in London and New York, splitting his time between the two cities.

  Richard had enough money in the bank to retire tomorrow if he wanted to. He had a beautiful wife, Chloe, three children and three dogs. He glanced over to the back seat where one of his dogs was curled up asleep. Officially the dog was called Porridge. He had made a mental note never to let his children name any more pets. He, however, called him Mutt, and the dog seemed to like that more. He was, after all, the great-great-grandson of the dog Richard had had as a kid. That Mutt had lived a long and happy life.

  Richard was forty-four years old, though he had lived one of those years twice (‘the year that never was’, he liked to call it) so in reality he was forty-five. However, he had never told anyone what had happened on Christmas Eve all those years ago. Actually that wasn’t entirely true. Once, at university, at a party, he had got very drunk and told the whole story to a girl he was besotted with. She thought he was weird and never spoke to him again.

  He had never told his parents. They’d retired a few years ago and now lived in the Lake District. After he’d done what he had to do tonight, he would drive there to spend Christmas with them. Chloe and the kids were there already, as was his little sister, Rebecca, her husband and their two children. Richard loved big family Christmases.

  Earlier today he had stopped by the cemetery to visit his nan’s grave. She had died when he was seventeen. Her Alzheimer’s had been kept under control by his mother’s loving care, and it never got as bad as it had been sometimes during the year that never was.

  ‘In two hundred yards, turn left,’ said the satnav. Richard pressed a button on the steering wheel and the navigation map was overlaid on the windscreen. He could see the turn marked up ahead. He let go of the button and the overlay vanished. ‘Next left,’ said the satnav. Richard indicated and rolled to a stop. Traffic was thin at this time of night. He only had to wait for one taxi to slide past and then he turned.

  It was a narrow side street, barely wide enough for his car. A lot of old roads in the north were not suitable for modern-day cars. He drove to the end of the street and a dead end. The beach was ahead and an alleyway led off to the left.

  Richard stopped the car and got out. Mutt/Porridge woke up and yawned. Richard opened the back door for him and he jumped down.

  ‘Come on, Mutt,’ said Richard. The dog obediently followed his master. They veered off from the alleyway into a cardboard city that Richard remembered well from his childhood even though he had only been here once. He was aware that there were people all around them, but he couldn’t see anyone. There were small fires burning in large catering-size tin cans and the shadows moved. If his life had been different, this would have been his home. It had been his home but in a different life. One he didn’t know.

  Richard and Mutt moved deeper into the cardboard city, and the further he went the less memorable things became. He stopped and looked around, looking for some sort of landmark that would trigger a memory. Then he saw it: the angel with a monkey’s head.

  He moved towards the graffiti art and the shadowy alcove beyond. He stopped and listened. He had to filter out the distant roar of the sea and other sounds, but when he did he heard it: clackclackclackclackclack. He moved towards the sound and pulled the cardboard forward, revealing a young guy, barely twenty years old: real Anthony.

  Real Anthony backed up, scrambling, scared. ‘I don’t want no trouble,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Me neither,’ said Richard. The young guy was shivering violently in his thin maroon jacket with yellow horizontal stripes and matching yellow trim.

  Thirty-four years ago Richard/Goose had made a mental note to come back to this place, at this time, on this day to find the person whose life he had once given up his own for. His dad had been right. He had never forgotten something that important.

  ‘Hello, Anthony. My name’s Richard. You won’t remember me, but I remember you. What say you and I get out of this place? Got any plans for Christmas?’

  The end

  READ ON FOR AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH EDDIE IZZARD …

  EDDIE IZZARD plays Anthony in the film version of Lost Christmas. Here he tells us about playing Anthony, and about his favourite Christmas movie and the people who inspire him …

  What do you as an actor look for in a role?

  I look for a curious and drivable character in a good story, which sounds rather simple but it is the essence. And you have to train yourself to be able to know, or sense from reading, what is a good story and what makes a good character.

  What was it about the character of Anthony that attracted you to the part?

  I realized that as Anthony had no memory he also had no fear – which made him very ethereal to inhabit. I also decided that he had all the knowledge in the universe at his disp
osal, but he didn’t quite know how to control it or when that information would appear in his brain. This combination made him quite a joy to play.

  Explain how you became Anthony – what’s your process? How did you get into his mindset?

  For me to become someone, I have to bolt the intrinsic parts of their character on to the chassis of my own. With Anthony I left my internal engine running on him but left him open – so he had a wistfulness but also a drive. He would just keep on going, affecting all the other characters in the film, until he felt he had finished his work.

  Do you have a dream part that you have yet to play?

  I don’t have dream parts because I don’t want to be disappointed if I don’t ever get to play them. But I like playing physical roles with characters who have depths that you can explore. Having just played Long John Silver in Treasure Island and Anthony in Lost Christmas, I feel I am now being offered the roles I wanted to play when I started wanting to act - which was when I was seven.

  Who inspired you when you were young?

  Steve McQueen and Monty Python.

  Which person, living or dead, do you most admire and why?

  Nelson Mandela – he’s shown what a great politician can do.

  What is your Mutt? In other words, is there anything that you couldn’t bear to lose and would do everything in your power to get back?

  I already lost my mother, so nothing really compares.

  What are your favourite Christmas films?

  Trading Places, It’s a Wonderful Life and Lost Christmas.

  Do you have any Izzard-family Christmas traditions?

  We used to write a list of what things we would like for Christmas and then the list would go into the living-room fire and burn up and magically go off to Father Christmas.

  What would you have for Christmas dinner? Are you a traditional turkey man or do you go out of your way to avoid it?

  Always Turkey and all the extras.

  If there was a little Christmas magic in the world, what would your Christmas wish be?

  The gift of common sense, suddenly given to all the world.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank, first and foremost, John Hay, my cowriter on the screenplay that started all this. I don’t know if it was your idea for someone to write the novelization, but thank you for stepping back and letting me do it my way. Even though we both know how much you love to ‘tweak’ my dialogue in the script. Thank you also to Eddie Izzard, who charmed the BBC, gave us the ending and stuck with us as we got the film going. Without the film there probably wouldn’t have been a book. So thank you also to Sue Nott, Anne Gilchrist, Connal Orton and Elliot Jenkins. Thank you to Eugenie Furniss at William Morris Endeavor, who has held my hand as I’ve found my way into a whole new world of creative writing, and to Lucinda Prain at Casarotto-Ramsey, who has guided me through every avenue of my professional life for several years now and I hope will carry on doing so for many years to come. I would be rather lost without you. Thanks also to Claudia Webb at WME for all her invaluable help and hard work. Thank you to Roisin Heycock, Niamh Mulvey and everyone at Quercus. You guys do the best meetings and I could not be happier that you’re publishing this. Thank you to Talya Baker for scrutinizing the manuscript so thoroughly and showing me how shockingly illiterate I really am. Thanks to Bill Nicholson for all your patient advice. Thank you to mum and David, who have always been supportive and encouraging and who have gone out of their way to help. I wouldn’t have got anywhere without such great parents. Thanks to Carl McAdam, Jason Cramer, Vincent Holland, Julius Brinkworth, Toby Merrett and George Arton, because what’s the point without great friends? And you lot are great! And last but by no means least, thank you to my amazing children, Joseph, Grace and Gabriel, Daddy loves you very much, to the world’s greatest dog, Harper, and to my beautiful, wonderful wife, Lisa.