The Christmas Hypothesis

by Anna Blix

  “Run, Clare. Run!” she called. “Take Einar and run!”

  43

  Niklas ran the whole way back to the abandoned plot. With a burning throat and sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades, he arrived at the metal fence. He pushed his way through the thicket to the wooded area surrounding the pit, where he stopped and caught his breath.

  The pit looked exactly as Clare and he had left it. The tree trunk with its musty smell was exactly the same — he could even see that the frost had melted in the spot where they had been sitting an hour ago. The rope swing was still in place, hanging motionless from its branch. There was not a living being in sight. Yet Niklas walked around the pit, holding his breath. What if the scooter was gone?

  He peered down at the burnt debris — the scooter was still there, just as he’d seen it, with its faded red board, and blackened frame, sticking halfway out from underneath a rusty bicycle.

  It was a steep decline to the bottom of the pit. Shaking with excitement, Niklas tested the ground with his foot. The soil was dark, and in places ruptured by trailing ivy. He took a step, and skidded about a metre before regaining control. Another step, and the top layer of black soil gave way, sending him sliding down the slope. He grabbed hold of a thin root and managed to slow his descent momentarily before the root snapped and he tumbled all the way to the bottom of the pit.

  His head spun. For a minute, he lay on his back, staring up at the sky, stunned and disoriented. Silhouettes of branches made an intricate dark pattern against the clouded night. He could hear a small animal scurry away through dry leaves. Then the world was quiet again.

  There was a sharp sting in his right leg. Niklas eased his head from side to side and flexed his limbs. Otherwise, it didn’t feel too bad. No broken bones. He sat up slowly, supporting his weight on his hands.

  He examined his right leg and winced. There was a tear running down the side of his calf — something had ripped right through his jeans and into his flesh. Blood trickled down the outer side of his leg. He turned and saw a large piece of rusty scrap metal halfway up the slope. A few strands of denim fibre were caught on its jagged edge. Niklas grimaced. With trembling fingers, he separated the rough edges of denim around the wound on his shin. Even in the dim light, he could see it clearly. It was a long, but thankfully superficial cut, and the blood was already starting to congeal.

  He looked around to orient himself. There was the scooter, right in front of him. He struggled to his feet and took a sturdy hold of the handle. He gave it a hard jerk, groaning at the pain in his leg. The scooter shifted somewhat, but the back wheel was stuck between the spokes of the rusty old bicycle. He jerked it again. This time it came loose and he staggered backwards with the scooter in his hand.

  He gave it a close inspection. It still had both of its wheels — good. They even spun when he tried them with his hand — excellent. The red paint was a little flaky, and the frame was charred in places, but he wouldn’t exactly call it burnt. The handle felt stable. Overall, he would say that the scooter was in fair condition.

  Holding the scooter in one hand, and with the other grabbing hold of whatever roots seemed strong enough to use as leverage, Niklas scaled the pit. The wound had opened up again and blood was trickling down his leg. He grimaced at the pain but refused to let it stop him.

  When he finally reached the top of the pit, he stopped for a quick breather. The cold air stung inside his lungs, and it felt good. He drew another deep breath and exhaled loudly before he made his way back through the thicket.

  Black soil was caked on the bottoms and sides of his snow-boots and fell off in clumps as he strode towards the fence. He stopped briefly and wiped his feet on the long grass before he stepped through the hole in the fence, back onto the pavement.

  He continued down the street. At the corner was a rubbish bin, full to the brim. “Normal collection day is Wednesday”, a note on its side announced, although Niklas deemed it unlikely anyone would come and empty it over the holidays. He examined the contents: discarded sandwich packs, plastic bottles and a newspaper. A newspaper — he could use that.

  He plucked the newspaper out of the wastebasket, tore off a few pages and spread them out on the frozen pavement. He lay the scooter in the middle and folded the pages up and around it into a neat parcel. Now that was a real Christmas present! Taking a step back, he admired his work. The pages immediately opened up and once again revealed the scooter. He needed something to hold them together — a piece of string maybe, or some tape. He rummaged through the bin and fished up two sandwich boxes. Both were decorated with adhesive stickers that read “Meal Deal”. They would do just fine. Carefully, he removed the labels from the boxes and positioned them in strategic places on the parcel. He let go cautiously. Now the wrapping stayed in place.

  Pleased with himself, he half-jogged down the middle of the road, back towards Sophie’s house, holding the parcel triumphantly above his head, like an Olympic flame bearer.

  44

  “Hurry up, before they get out,” called Mrs Dollimore, pressing her shoulder against the shed door. “Run!”

  But Clare didn’t move. She stood still, holding Einar’s rope tight in her hands. Mrs Dollimore had pushed the policeman and his girlfriend into the shed and locked the door. What was she thinking? You don’t push police officers. You don’t lock them in sheds. She had done it to help Clare, and she would of course get caught for it. She could end up in deep trouble for this. Was Mrs Dollimore going to prison on account of her?

  “You have a good head start. Run to your car! They’ll never catch you!” Mrs Dollimore put all her weight against the door. “I’ll hold them as long as I can.”

  “What are you doing? Stop!” called Clare.

  There was a loud banging at the door. And then a thud, as if the police officer had thrown his weight at it. Then another one. The door bulged against Mrs Dollimore’s shoulder, but it didn’t give way — yet. A muffled voice commanded from inside, “Open immediately!”

  But Mrs Dollimore stayed where she was.

  There were whisperings from inside the shed. Clare couldn’t make out any of the words. Mrs Dollimore gestured wildly to her, but she shook her head.

  From inside came the crackling of a police radio. “Requesting backup. Assault on a police officer and ongoing kidnapping. I repeat, assault on a police officer and ongoing kidnapping. Requesting backup.”

  “He’s calling for backup,” whispered Clare.

  “Kidnapping! He can’t be serious.” Mrs Dollimore motioned to Clare. “You need to go, now! The backup unit will be here any minute.”

  “I’m not leaving you like this!”

  “You have to!”

  Clare stayed in her spot on the grass. She looked at Mrs Dollimore, pressing her frail body against the door. Dressed in her pink slippers and nightgown. In some ways, Mrs Dollimore reminded her of her dad. The way she always stood up for the people around her. She decided that if she got out of this situation, she was going to talk to him, and deep down, she knew what he would say. He’d want her to go her own way through life. A lump built in her throat.

  After what felt like forever, the sound of sirens rang in the distance, slowly growing stronger. Blue lights flashed over the rooftops and tyres screeched as a vehicle pulled up. Car doors slammed. The garden gate flung open and two police officers came running towards them. “Police!” called the male one, pointing what looked like a Taser at Clare, then he spun to his left and right to check his surroundings and clear the place.

  Officer Brendt banged on the door. “In here!” he called.

  “Put your hands where I can see them,” shouted the police officers to Clare. She backed up against the fence and held her hands up. “You there, step away from the door!” He motioned to Mrs Dollimore. Then he laughed. “Agnes Dollimore? Of all people! I haven’t seen you since…”

  Mrs Dollimore squinted her eyes at the police officer, and chuckled. “…Since the funeral,” she said. �
��I know. How lovely to see you, Curtis — I mean Inspector Green.” Mrs Dollimore stepped forward with her hands in the air.

  “The garden is clear.” The female police officer positioned herself next to Inspector Green.

  Inspector Green deemed the situation under control. He holstered his Taser and said, “Good old Dollimore. What a terrible shame it was. It must have been what, ten years ago?”

  “It was ten years last summer, yes.”

  “Ten years. How time flies. Agnes, I’m sorry I haven’t been more…”

  Mrs Dollimore shook her head. “Don’t mention it, Curtis.”

  Inspector Green pointed at the shed. “Who have you got in there then?”

  Mrs Dollimore cleared her throat. “In there? Well, in there is Police Officer Brendt, if you’ll believe a word he says. And Chrissy, the Saturday girl from my hairdressers’.”

  Inspector Green exchanged a look with his colleague. “Brendt,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  The female officer sighed. “I can’t believe we were called out for this.”

  “And I assume you two ladies are the alleged kidnappers?” Mrs Dollimore opened her mouth to reply, but Inspector Green added, “Better not answer that question. Do you have the key, Agnes?”

  Mrs Dollimore shrugged mischievously. “It went over the fence.”

  The female police officer walked up to the shed and banged on the door. “Are you in there, Brendt?”

  “Yes,” sounded a voice from inside the shed.

  “And is there a girl called Chrissy with you?”

  There was a pause and then another “Yes.”

  She turned to Mrs Dollimore, “Are you precious about your shed?”

  Mrs Dollimore shook her head.

  The police officer shouted, “Stand back!” She took a step back, lifted her knee high, and kicked the lock off the door with one forceful blow. The door swung open and Brendt and Chrissy appeared in the doorway. “Inspector Green,” Brendt said. “This lady has been harbouring a fugitive. And she locked me in the shed.”

  “Now calm down, Brendt,” Inspector Green said. “There’s no need to jump to conclusions.”

  “But that is the escaped reindeer! The one from the shopping centre.” Brendt pointed at Einar. “I was going to call for animal control to have it put down,” his voice rose in indignant falsetto.

  Inspector Green sighed. “Constable Brendt, what do you think you are doing? Why are you out bothering these people in the middle of the night? Christmas night, of all nights. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  Brendt shook his head. “What memo?”

  “We already caught the guy responsible. His name is Russ Gibson and we’ve got him in the holding cell down at the station.” He turned to Clare. “And you must be Clare Sheldon.”

  Clare nodded.

  “Is she…” Brendt said.

  “She’s the third person we’ve been wanting to speak to, yes,” Green said. “Did you not recognise her?”

  Inspector Green turned to Clare. “I don’t suppose you could tell us where a Dr Niklas Heikkinen is as well?”

  “Depends. Why do you want to know?” Clare said.

  Inspector Green raised his hands. “Don’t worry, he’s not in trouble. You can tell him if you see him; let’s leave it at that. And the only reason we still wanted to see you is to say that Russ Gibson stated he had signed over the reindeer to your possession. I’ve got the identification documents for you. Mr Gibson said he didn’t have time to give them to you at the, ahem… handover. If you jot down your address, I’ll send them to you in the post. I assume that reindeer is yours? That’s the information we’ve been given.”

  “Um, yes. He’s mine… I was just going to load him in the trailer to take him up to Scotland.”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan.” Inspector Green handed her a notebook and she wrote down her address and telephone number.

  “I’d imagine a garden shed isn’t the best place to keep reindeer. Do you have a suitable transport?”

  “I’ve got a trailer that’s been modified to suit his needs, and my car is parked a short walk from here. I was just about to go when your friends showed up.”

  Officer Green smiled. “Brendt, would you be so kind as to escort Clare here to her vehicle? It’s time the reindeer went home where it belongs.”

  Clare shook her head. “I’m not leaving Mrs Dollimore here on her own. She’s had an awful fright.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Mrs Dollimore said. “I’ll give Jane a ring and tell her she’s got to come and pick Chrissy up. You wait here with me, Chrissy.”

  “Erm, I don’t know… It’s the middle of the night…” Chrissy said.

  “Don’t be silly, young lady. We’ll have a cup of tea and a nice catch-up, you and I. It’s always so busy at the salon, we never get to chat properly. And you two are welcome to stay for a cup of tea as well, officers,” she added to Inspector Green and his colleague. “You go, Clare, if you feel up for the drive. Take it slow, stop and nap along the way, and promise to ring me when you arrive.”

  Clare gave Mrs Dollimore a hug. “I promise,” she said.

  As soon as they stepped onto the pavement outside the B&B, Clare turned to Brendt. “Get lost,” she snapped at him.

  Brendt staggered back. “But… I’m escorting you to your car. It’s an order from Inspector Green.”

  “I promise not to tell anyone. I don’t care where you go. But Einar doesn’t want you around.”

  Brendt looked at her and the reindeer. He opened his mouth as if to say something, offer some sort of explanation, but Clare ignored him. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know. She heard Brendt say, “I’m sorry,” when she turned and walked away.

  “Let’s go, boy.” Einar followed Clare up the road. They walked back past the Underground station, but at the point where she was meant to carry on straight ahead to her car, Clare turned off to the left. There was one more thing she had to do.

  She couldn’t just take off and leave without it. No matter how late it was, she had to go back. There were things left to say. Important things.

  45

  It was a couple of hours before daybreak when Niklas reached Sophie’s house. In his hands, still held high above his head in triumph, was a peculiar looking parcel — wrapped in stained newspaper and held together with meal-deal stickers. But even though the wrapping didn’t look like much, the contents of the parcel were priceless. For inside the tarnished pages of yesterday’s news was a red scooter. It was exactly what Sophie had asked Santa Claus for, and if Niklas could deliver it to her before she woke up in the morning, then the final criterion of the Christmas Hypothesis would be met and, by definition, he would be Santa Claus. Unbelievable as it may seem, Mrs Dollimore would have proven her hypothesis.

  He stopped on the pavement in front of Sophie’s house. All was quiet, curtains drawn, the family fast asleep. Good.

  Sophie’s house appeared unreal in a fairy-tale kind of way, in the all-encompassing glow which lay over the city this Christmas night. Even though all the lights were off, the two-storey red masonry building seemed to emit a glow of its very own, its sash windows beckoning him and its little porch and blue door inviting him in.

  Niklas gazed up at the chimney. Somehow, he was going to have to make his way up there — but how? And if he did make it all the way to the top, then how would he be able to squeeze the present down the flue? He didn’t know, but he figured there was only one way to find out.

  The exterior of the house offered few alternatives for scaling. Niklas took each into careful consideration. Could he jump onto the little porch? Then pull himself up to the second-floor window? Balance on the ledge and reach for the gutter? No, it was too far —he’d never make the leap. Could he maybe climb up the drainpipe? If so, which one? There were two drainpipes at the front of the house, one on each side. Niklas inspected them. They were both fitted with metal brackets attached to the wall. He tested the pipes with his hand. P
ulled, and then tugged as hard as he could. The left one detached from the wall and shifted suspiciously above his head. But the right one didn’t budge. It was a good four-metre climb to the eaves and from there, another couple of metres of steep roof tiles before he could reach the top. Furthermore, he would have to traverse all the way across the ridge to the left side, where the chimney was situated.

  He tucked the parcel inside the back of his red parka, letting the handlebar end stick out at the neckline, then he rubbed his hands together and commenced his ascent up the pipe.

  He scaled the wall with his back arched. The soles of his snow boots found a firm grip against the wall, and his hands grasped the pipe. He placed one hand above the other, and walked his feet up the wall, working himself up. It was hard going. The metal pipe cut into his hands, freezing his fingers until they lost all sensation. The cut on his shin was stinging again, and he could feel a slow ooze of blood trickle down his leg. But he kept going, tirelessly putting one hand above the other. Only a little further; soon he would reach the gutter. One foot at a time.

  When he reached the second-floor window, he ran into trouble. Suddenly, his foot slipped and he lost grip with his boots. He knocked his chin against the metal pipe and was left hanging on by his hands only. He kicked furiously, but slowly he slid further down the pipe until he hit the next metal bracket below. And there he stopped.

  He kicked his feet, scraped them against the wall, but he couldn’t walk his boots up high enough to generate any traction. Neither going up, nor down, Niklas hung helpless, with his fingers slowly losing their grip.

  “Hey, Niklas,” a voice said from below.

  He looked over his shoulder. There, on the pavement below him, stood a woman wearing a green bobble hat and brown leather boots. Next to her was a ragged-looking reindeer, idly chewing a tuft of hay.