The Christmas Hypothesis

by Anna Blix

  “I can’t believe it. It is a red scooter!”

  “Yes!”

  Underneath all the rubble in the pit was indeed a red children’s kick scooter, discarded by someone who no longer wanted it and left to decay. It looked like it had been in there for a while, rusted and partly blackened by fire.

  “It looks even worse than the one you built out of a shopping trolley.” Clare laughed.

  Niklas gaped at her. “You know about the shopping trolley?”

  He looked so worried Clare had to smile. “Mrs Dollimore told me the whole story. And the skateboard with the skull. What were you thinking?”

  “Oh, yes. The skull.” Niklas scratched his head. “Do you know what, Clare?”

  “What?”

  “It’s time to go.”

  41

  The Underground station had closed for the night. Lights were turned off, and the motionless escalators disappeared down into the black behind steel shutters.

  Niklas realised they were going to have to find a different means of transport. It didn’t matter — he’d never taken to riding the Underground anyway. Should he phone for a taxi? It would take ages for one to arrive on Christmas night. Bus? The night buses were going to be few and far between. Besides, he had no clue where the nearest stop was. He unfolded the map and studied it. He estimated that walking back to Mrs Dollimore’s B&B was going to take them around half an hour. It was most likely the quickest way of getting back.

  He looked at Clare and said, “Let’s walk.”

  They navigated the quiet streets of West London on foot. The walk back to Mrs Dollimore’s B&B proved to be an uphill climb. There was a low murmur of noise coming from the heart of the city, but their immediate surroundings were silent, save for Clare’s leather boots click-clacking against the tarmac. The streets felt safe this Christmas night, cloaked in the warm yellow glow from the thick blanket of clouds, and with people sound asleep in the homes they passed.

  Niklas wondered about the families behind those curtains. Parents, tired after a rush of last-minute wrapping. Children, who in a few hours would wake up, excited to find what their parents — alias Santa Claus — had left under the tree. Maybe there would be mounds of presents, or just a few? He wondered if Sophie would get any presents when she woke up, and he felt a sting of guilt.

  They walked slowly, without saying a word. Clare had already been delayed, and Niklas knew she was eager to set off as soon as they got back. She was going to fetch Einar and load him onto the trailer, and then drive the eight hours back to the family farm. With a couple of stops along the way, she would be lucky to arrive in the late afternoon, and he was painfully aware she wanted to be on her way. Yet, he didn’t want their walk to end. He slowed his pace and came to walk slightly behind Clare, as they both carried on up the hill.

  He watched how their shadows grew and shrank as they passed from one cone of light to another. Streetlight after streetlight, new shadows formed and faded away. He listened to the steady beat of Clare’s boots, click-clack, click-clack. He changed his pace and shortened his stride to fall into the same rhythm. Click-clack, click-clack, they marched.

  Suddenly, Clare stopped in front of him, and Niklas put his hand on her shoulder to stop himself from bumping into her.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Look at that view. I didn’t realise we were so high up,” Clare said.

  “We’ve been walking uphill for the last fifteen minutes. Haven’t you noticed?” Niklas looked through the gap between two houses. A spectacular view of the city unfolded in front of him, thousands of lights, miles and miles ahead.

  “Is that the London Eye?”

  Clare nodded. “And that’s the Shard,” she pointed to a tapered building in the distance, lit up like a Christmas tree with a brightly shining top. “Niklas?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you got Sophie’s letter?”

  “Why?”

  Clare was staring at the house to their left. Niklas followed her gaze. It was a typical English house, nothing special. A two-storey red masonry building with sash windows. It had a little porch with a slanted roof and a blue door. A thin line of smoke rose up from the chimney, as if someone had left a fire to die out.

  Niklas felt a tingle run from his face, down the back of his neck and shoulders. With trembling hands, he took the envelope out of his pocket and pulled Sophie’s creased letter out of it. He held the drawing up in front of the house.

  It couldn’t have been a closer match.

  “It’s exactly the same.” He beamed at Clare, who was shaking her head in disbelief. “We’ve found Sophie’s house! This is it!”

  “And look at the house number, Niklas.”

  The house number was hand-painted onto a round ceramic tile, decorated with a garland of flowers. It was number fifty-seven. “Whoa!”

  Clare took hold of his arm. “I know, but shh, don’t wake them up,” she whispered. “You’re right. It is an exact match — to the dot. I can’t believe she’s drawn it so accurately! Like a little architect.”

  “So we were looking in the right part of the city.” He knew he had used the correct method when calculating the location.

  “Yeah, but it’s a fair way outside your search area. You were incredibly lucky to just come across it like this.”

  “Call it the Santa sense,” Niklas said.

  Clare smiled at him, then chuckled. He would have walked right past it if she hadn’t alerted him to it. She knew it too — Niklas could see it in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.

  Slowly it dawned on him what this meant. The Christmas Hypothesis could still be verified! He had not failed yet — there was still a chance. But he had to act fast. He grinned and said, “I’ve got to go back and fetch the scooter, Clare. I’m going to give it to Sophie!”

  Clare’s smile disappeared from her face. “Erm, Niklas, you can’t take it back. You’ve given it to the charity. Even if they’re still there, you can’t just go and ask for it back.” She shook her head. “And you won’t find a toy shop open at this hour.”

  Niklas smiled. “But I’m not getting that scooter. I’m getting the pit one.” A laugh bubbled up inside him. “Can’t you see? This is exactly how it was meant to happen. Going to that place in the middle of the night and finding a scooter there, a red one. I had a feeling about that plot.”

  Clare shook her head.

  “Yes!” Niklas jumped up and down. “I was meant to do this! Anything is possible, if you believe. I’ve got to run, Clare. You carry on to Mrs Dollimore’s — it’s only a few blocks to go. Here, you take the map, I’ll find the way now.”

  Niklas handed Clare the map. “Safe drive home. Call me the minute you get there.” He turned and sprinted back down the hill.

  42

  And like that, Niklas was gone. “You still haven’t given me your number,” called Clare, but he was already halfway down the road and couldn’t possibly hear her. She shrugged.

  She stood there with the map in her hand. It was an unwieldy thing, so she decided to use her phone instead. She keyed in Mrs Dollimore’s address. Funny, it was only a short walk back, hardly more than fifteen or twenty minutes. If only Niklas had known from the start, it would have saved him a lot of trouble.

  She continued up the street, over the crest of the hill and then downhill again. She turned right and walked along winding residential roads. Soon, she started to recognise her surroundings. Mrs Dollimore’s home quarters. She walked past the Underground station with its little cluster of shops, all closed for the night. The kebab shop, the dry cleaners’, the One Cut Ahead hairdressers’ with its sun-bleached posters in the window. Blueish, ghostlike women, modelling styles that might have been, but probably weren’t, the height of fashion ten years ago. “Redefine Your Future Self” read the tagline.

  Redefine your future self. But how? The poster offered no further suggestions. While in London, Clare had not thought much about her future, but wh
en she came home, she was going to have to make an important decision that would affect the course of her whole life. Her would-be new employers were waiting for her reply, and she was going to have to let them know.

  No matter what she decided, she was going to let somebody down. Was she going to reject the job offer and live out her life as a spinster? On the mountain with her dad, and when he was gone — alone? Was she to become a hermit and barricade herself against all human contact? Surviving solely on reindeer milk and mushrooms?

  Or was she going to accept the offer — and cold-heartedly desert her father in order to pursue a career and a new life in the city? Leave Dad to fend for himself, withering away in the harsh Highland winter? Whatever the solution was, Clare was certain it didn’t involve getting one of those haircuts.

  When she arrived back at the house, she found Mrs Dollimore asleep in her easy chair in the lounge, snoring softly. She had changed into her pink dressing gown and her glasses lay beside her on the little table. Clare picked up the blanket that had slipped to the floor and placed it gently over the sleeping lady.

  She walked quietly up the stairs to her room. A yellow glow seeped in through the curtains from outside. The room seemed emptier than she remembered it — uninhabited, as if she’d already left. Her ready-packed shoulder bag was waiting for her on the bed. She took it downstairs and left it by the back door. Then she left the map on the table in the breakfast room and on her phone, checked the route back to where she’d managed to park her car. She didn’t have to walk far, only about ten minutes. It was going to be fine, even though she had to bring Einar with her.

  She wrote a short note to Mrs Dollimore and placed it on the little table next to her. A soft purr broke the silence. Clare looked down. White the cat had come up to her and rubbed his side against her leg. She bent down and stroked his back. The cat arched up against her hand. “Bye, White,” she whispered.

  She opened the back door and stepped outside to go and fetch Einar, but just then, there was a sharp knock at the front door. She stopped and listened. She could hear Mrs Dollimore stir in the lounge. Another sharp knock followed, and then Mrs Dollimore’s soft footsteps as she went to open the door.

  Clare heard her say, “Chrissy! But what on Earth are you doing here at this hour?”

  She eased the back door shut and sneaked back to the hallway. Hiding in the shadows, she peered over Mrs Dollimore’s shoulder. On the doorstep stood a young girl, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. Her hair was bobbed and coloured pink, and she wore a cropped faux fur coat. Her eyes were heavily caked with mascara, and she was energetically chewing gum.

  “Police — do you mind if we come in?” The voice came from behind the girl. A man’s voice, but Clare couldn’t see the speaker. Before Mrs Dollimore had a chance to answer, the man had pushed his way past the girl and into the hallway. The girl followed in his footsteps.

  The man jumped when he spotted Clare. “Stay right there,” he commanded and pointed his hand at her.

  Clare obeyed. She examined the man. He was tall and slim and had acne on his cheeks. He couldn’t be over twenty-five, but he did indeed look like a police officer in his uniform and hat, and in addition, he had a police badge pinned to his vest.

  “Officer Brendt. Who is the owner of this house?” he demanded.

  Mrs Dollimore raised a trembling hand. “I am.”

  Clare took a step closer to Mrs Dollimore and put a protecting arm around her shoulders. “What’s going on?”

  Officer Brendt planted his feet squarely on the floor and put his hands on his hips. “I’ve had information that this lady is harbouring a fugitive.”

  Mrs Dollimore shook her head. “Wha—” She looked at the pink-haired girl, who had come inside and closed the door. “Chrissy? What have you done?”

  The girl chewed her gum. “I recognised him straight away. That odd man you were with. I saw the photo in the newspaper. Lyndsey didn’t believe me, but I knew it was him.” She swept her hair out of her eyes. “She wouldn’t let me check the register, so I had to wait until I had five minutes on my own in the salon.”

  “But Chrissy, it’s me,” Mrs Dollimore said. “You know me. How could you think I was involved in anything unlawful?”

  Chrissy rolled her eyes.

  “Do you mind if I have a look around?” The police officer didn’t wait for an answer but stomped past Mrs Dollimore. He searched the downstairs toilet, lounge, breakfast room and kitchen. The pink-haired girl followed him.

  Clare watched Mrs Dollimore’s distraught face. “Don’t worry,” she whispered.

  The police officer strode up the stairs.

  “Where is Niklas?” whispered Mrs Dollimore.

  “He’s on his way. There was just something he had to do. He’ll tell you.”

  Clare could hear Brendt clomping about upstairs, opening and closing doors. The girl remained in the kitchen. There was a rattling sound as if she was going through Mrs Dollimore’s drawers.

  “Who is she?” Clare nodded towards the other room.

  Mrs Dollimore whispered, “It’s Chrissy, the Saturday girl from the salon. Jane, who I used to go to choir with, Chrissy is her daughter. I can’t believe she’s turned me in to the police!”

  There was more rustling and rummaging coming from upstairs. Clare wondered what he might find up there. Had Niklas left anything in his room? Anything that could identify him?

  After a few minutes, the police officer came back down. “Nobody’s upstairs.” He turned to Mrs Dollimore. “Does anybody else live here?”

  Mrs Dollimore glanced at Clare. Neither of them said anything.

  “I have information that a man who is suspected of stealing a reindeer, and who may be in this country illegally, lives at this address,” continued the police officer. “Does that ring any bells?”

  So he was looking for Niklas only, thought Clare. But her photo was also in the newspaper. Had he not recognised her? Could Chrissy have recognised her? She lowered her head and concentrated on the floor.

  Before Mrs Dollimore could answer, Chrissy came back from the kitchen.

  She pulled her gum out in a long string, rolled it up, popped it back in her mouth, resumed her chewing, and said, “The light is on in the shed.”

  The shed door opened with a creak. Einar was lying down, asleep on his pad of straw. When Clare entered, he opened his eyes and blinked sleepily at her.

  “I’m sorry Einar, I had no choice,” Clare said.

  Officer Brendt followed close behind her. He pushed her out of the way and entered the shed, but immediately took a step back. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. “It’s the reindeer! You’re keeping it here!” The words seemed to bubble out of him.

  Chrissy elbowed in front of Clare. “Oh my God! I knew it, Toby!” She grinned. “Betcha you’ll get your promotion now.”

  The police officer grabbed her waist. “Wow.” He kissed her cheek. “Sorry I didn’t believe you, babes.”

  Clare stared at them in disgust. “Do you two know each other?”

  The police officer dropped his hand from Chrissy’s waist and put on a serious face. Chrissy took a step back. Brendt stared at Clare and narrowed his eyes. Did he recognise her? “That is none of your business, ma’am. Get the animal ready — I’m calling animal control. They can transport it to its final destination.”

  Nausea washed over Clare as she processed the meaning of Brendt’s words. It couldn’t be true. “You’re taking him away? But…” She shook her head. “But he’s mine…” Einar was hers. Russ Gibson had given him to her. But how could she prove it? There were no papers, no receipt. Nothing.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” she asked. But she already knew the answer.

  The police officer grinned. “They’ll put it down of course. That’s what happens to dangerous animals.”

  “No!” shouted Clare. “He’s mine, I’m taking him to Scotland. He isn’t dangerous!”

  Einar startled at th
e noise and staggered to his feet.

  “Get out of my way. I’ll take him outside myself.” Brendt pushed Clare out of the way and grabbed Einar’s halter. Einar pulled back and shook his head. He kicked his back legs, hitting the wall with a thud. “Stupid animal,” spat Brendt. “Just wait until the dog warden gets his hands on you. He’ll send you to the sausage factory.” He raised a hand as if to smack Einar’s nose.

  “Stop!” yelled Clare. “Stop! I’ll take him.” She grabbed hold of Einar’s halter. “There, boy, It’s all right, don’t worry.”

  Officer Brendt backed off, out of the shed. Clare reached across Chrissy for a rope, shooting her ice-cold stares. She fastened the rope onto Einar’s halter and held him tight. She stroked his neck, stalling, desperately searching for a way out. But she was only delaying the inevitable.

  “What are you waiting for? Come on!” shouted the officer. “Watch out, Chrissy, it might kick.”

  Chrissy took a step back. She crossed her arms over her stomach.

  Clare sighed. “Come on, let’s go outside.” She walked Einar past Chrissy, whispering through gritted teeth, “You little…”

  Chrissy seemed mesmerised by the brass bells adorning Einar’s other halter, which hung from a peg on the wall, shaking it so it jingled. She smiled back. “These are pretty,” she said.

  Clare and Einar stepped out on the frosty lawn. Mrs Dollimore was standing with her hand over her mouth and eyes wide open. “It can’t be true,” she whispered. “Clare, we’ve got to do something.”

  “Wait there,” the officer said. He marched up to the doorway and reached out his hand to Chrissy, “Come on, let’s turn the beast in.”

  But before they could do so, Mrs Dollimore ran up to him, raised her leg, and gave his backside a hard kick with her pink slipper. Brendt stumbled forwards into the shed, pulling Chrissy down with him, who grabbed at the halter, which came off the wall. The pair fell to the floor in a flurry of jingling bells. Mrs Dollimore slammed the door shut behind them and padlocked it. She pulled the key out and threw it over the fence.