Lost Christmas (6 page)

‘I've told you before, Goose: I don't wan' him in 'ere.'

‘Ah, come on, Frank. Look, he's shivering.' They both
looked down at Mutt, who wasn't shivering in the slightest, but, almost as if he could understand what Goose was saying, he started quaking and looking pathetic. He even let out a sad little whine.

‘Don't push it, Goose. I've got the worst bloody hangover,' growled Frank.

‘Yeah, you do look grey,' said Goose, staring at Frank's bloodshot eyes and lifeless complexion. He turned to Mutt. ‘Stay here, Mutt. I won't be long.' Mutt lay down on the doormat and curled up into a little ball to wait as Goose headed inside and Frank closed the door.

Goose followed Frank into the darkened living room. Frank drew back the curtains and immediately wished he hadn't. The sunlight reflected off the snow outside, blinding him. His hangover throbbed angrily behind his eyes. Frank redrew one side of the curtains and slumped down on his sofa.

Beer cans, bottles, pizza boxes and takeaway cartons were everywhere. Packing cases were stacked along one wall. Frank had been living here for the best part of a year, but he still hadn't really unpacked. He wasn't sure he'd ever get around to it, but that was mostly because, even after all this time, he still hadn't come to terms with being here and not there. There being home with his wife, Alice, and their daughter, Jemma.

He saw Goose looking at some photo albums open
on the coffee table. Inside were pictures of Frank and his estranged family. Goose didn't need to say anything. He knew that Frank had been wallowing in his own misery the night before. Same as he did every night. Frank reddened with embarrassment, but then he noticed that Goose was only looking at one of the photos. It showed Frank in mid-flight alongside his best friend as the two of them bombed into a swimming pool on holiday in Corfu when they were in their early twenties. Frank's best friend had been Paul, Goose's dad. He and Frank had known one another since their school days. Goose was Frank's godson. A thought flitted through Frank's mind: would Paul approve of what he and Goose were doing? Frank told himself that he was doing it for the right reasons. Goose would be doing this with or without him. This way Frank could keep an eye on him and make sure he didn't get hurt. Frank quickly shut the albums and moved them aside. Goose looked away and noticed an ugly brown stain on the carpet. He didn't want to know what had made that.

‘What've you got then?' Frank asked.

Goose started emptying his pockets: various pieces of jewellery, iPods, a couple of mobile phones, a glass eyeball and the cobra bangle. Goose thought for a moment and then quickly pocketed the eyeball again.

Frank leaned forward and rooted through the pile of swag with a finger, looking at it all somewhat dismissively.
Then, almost against his will, his hand was drawn towards the bangle. He held it up to the light and for a moment seemed mesmerized by its beauty.

‘Nice, eh?' said Goose, looking for approval.

Realizing he was tipping his hand, Frank chastised himself silently. He had just broken the first rule in the fence's handbook. He tossed the bangle back on the pile and shrugged indifferently.

‘‘S'all right. Nothing special. You can pick that sort of thing up all over the shop.'

Goose rankled. ‘Yeah? Not that I've seen.'

Frank sifted through the loot, separating everything into two piles. The last item he allocated was the bangle and he made a pantomime of choosing where it should go. This pile? That pile? This pile? That pile? Finally he tossed it unceremoniously on to the right-hand pile.

‘This stuff …' said Frank, pointing to the pile on the right, ‘it's not bad. Not great, but not bad. This stuff …' the left-hand pile, ‘cack!'

‘What're you talkin' about?' said Goose indignantly. ‘What about them phones? And that iPod; nothin' wrong wi' that!'

Frank sighed, forcing the paternal patience of his voice, making sure that Goose didn't miss his point.

‘I've told you before, Goose, no one wants straight mobiles these days. I couldn't give 'em away … 'less it
was as a free gift with an iPhone!' Goose looked deflated. Frank smiled sympathetically. ‘I'll tell ya what, seeing as it's Christmas, I'll give you fifty for the lot.'

Goose frowned. ‘Fifty! You havin' a laugh?'

‘It's a fair price,' said Frank.

Goose's brow furrowed some more and he sat looking at Frank, breathing heavily, his anger rising. ‘No, it's not!' Seething, he started to gather everything together, jamming it all back into his pockets. ‘Don't do me no favours, yeah, Frank. You don't wan' it, I'll just go see what Kermit'll give us for it.'

Suddenly Frank became deadly serious and grabbed Goose's wrist. He held him a little too hard. ‘I've told you before about that Kermit. Stay away from him. He's a right headcase.'

‘You can't tell me what to do, Frank; you're not me dad!'

Frank's jaw tensed. He tightened his grip on Goose's arm and his mind raced as he debated how to deal with this. It was more than he could handle: Christmas Eve morning, and with a marching band playing vuvuzelas passing through his head. He let go of Goose's arm and nodded.

‘Fair enough, Goose. I'll give you seventy.'

‘Hundred,' said Goose without missing a beat.

‘Okay, eighty. Final offer.'

‘Hundred,' said Goose again. He was now angry
enough to actually take this stuff to Kermit. He wasn't going to back down. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

Frank shook his head. ‘‘Aven't quite got hagglin' yet, have ya? All right, hundred it is. But you promise me you won't have nothin' to do with that Kermit and his lot. Promise me, Goose.'

Goose couldn't remember Frank being so passionate about anything before, but he still wasn't quite ready to back down. He stalled for time by running the back of his hand under his nose. The move from the cold air outside to the warmer air had made his nose run.

‘You promise me on your dad's memory.' Frank stared Goose in the eye. He'd never used that before, and evoking his dad's name made the fight bleed out of Goose. Goose nodded.

‘Yeah, okay, Frank. I promise.'

Frank followed Goose along the hallway towards the front door. Goose was counting through the money Frank had just given him.

‘God's sake, Goose, it's all there,' said Frank, clearly put out.

‘You're the one always said count it.'

‘I didn't mean from me though, did I?'

Goose stopped counting and shoved the wad of tenners into a pocket. They reached the front door and Goose went
to pull back the lock but he stopped. He turned back to Frank, but couldn't quite look at him. ‘What you doin' tomorrow?' he asked.

Frank looked uncomfortable. He shuffled his feet. ‘I'm not sure yet. I might have to see a man about some stuff.'

Goose nodded, awkwardly. ‘If you want, you could come over to our place. Can't guarantee turkey'll be cooked, but it'll probably be clean.' Goose smiled to himself, but Frank didn't get it.

Frank nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe. I'll see.'

Goose unlocked the door. He was about to step outside when Frank said: ‘But thanks.' And Goose knew he meant it. Goose left, closing the door behind him.

The shock of the cold made Goose's skin feel as if it was being stretched tight across his face. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked down, expecting to see Mutt. He wasn't there. Goose looked along the straight walkway. First one way and then the other.

‘Mutt!' he called. ‘Where are you, you dumb dog?' He whistled and waited. Mutt didn't come running. That was odd. Mutt always came running. ‘Come on, Mutt!' He waited some more, and as he did panic was just starting to rise inside him. Mutt never wandered away. Not very far at least. The logical part of Goose's brain was telling him that there was a very simple explanation for where Mutt had
got to, but that part of his brain was being shouted down by the other part. The part that was all passion and no logic. He and Mutt had not been apart for a single full day in the year since he'd got him. Goose always knew where he was. Even when Goose went to school he would run home and Mutt would be waiting for him. Goose couldn't count on his nan. Her Alzheimer's made her unpredictable. Mutt wasn't unpredictable. He was the only constant left in Goose's life. His reaction wasn't logical, but it was inevitable. ‘MUTT!' he called, louder this time.

Goose started towards the stairs, thinking maybe Mutt had ducked in there to get out of the wind and he couldn't hear him calling. But when he reached the steps there was no sign of him.

Goose stepped back to the walkway and looked over. He had a bird's eye view, but there was no sign of Mutt anywhere.

‘MUTT!'

He looked straight down and caught sight of footprints in the snow, or at least what he thought were footprints, or paw prints rather. He turned and ran. He hit the stairs and bounded down the eight flights as quickly as he could, jumping the last three or four steps each time.

Soon he reached the ground floor and raced out into the snow. The paw prints he had seen from up above were
a mishmash of a hundred sets of footprints, paw prints and bike tracks.

Goose started running, but he had no idea in which direction to go. He headed off the estate into the road. As he came out he could see for a good half-mile east and west. No sign of Mutt.

Goose stood in the middle of the road, turning in a circle.

‘Mutt!' he cried. ‘Where are ya? Come 'ere, boy! Come 'ere, Mutt!
Please!
'

Still nothing. Choosing a direction at random, he started running again.

Lal Premji had taken her cobra bangle off, but where? She remembered her wrist had been aching the night before. Sometimes her bangle seemed heavy. She had taken it off. Yes, she distinctly remembered taking it off. It was a tight squeeze to remove it. Didn't used to be. Not in her youth, when Meher had given it to her. She was a slim, lithe young thing back then. Over the years she had plumped up a little; she blamed her love of custard creams.

She was seventy-six years old. A tall woman, though a little stooped with age. She had short hair, silver peppered with some black, and wore a pair of browline glasses.
She had come to this country from the Gujerati region of north-western India in her twenties. She had been here, in the north of England, for fifty-four years and, after living through fifty-four freezing, wet winters and summers not much better, she still loved the cold. Growing up in India she had always been too hot. Back there, she felt sluggish and tired. Here it was like a million freezing needles pricking her. She felt alert.

Today, though, she wasn't enjoying the cold. It rarely snowed in Manchester, and the few times she had experienced snow she had loved it. Felt like a kid. Today, however, was different. Today she was padding through the white streets in her slippered feet, wearing a thick green cardigan she had knitted for her husband some fifteen years ago, searching the pavements and gutters, retracing her steps from the day before. What had she done? She had gone to the post office in the morning and sent a birthday card to her niece, Asha, who lived in Toronto with a very boring man called Tim. After the post office she had stopped off at the library to change her books. If she had taken it off while she was out, then she would have put it into her bag. But she had gone through her bag. Tipped it out on the kitchen table. It definitely wasn't there. That thought made her heart ache. If it had fallen out of her bag, would she have noticed? And why did it have to snow last night of all nights? It made her search so much harder. Her bangle
could be next to her but covered in a thick layer of snow so she would never know.

She turned the corner of Sutherland Road and saw the bus stop ahead. She had walked from the library to the bus stop. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground as she went.

There was a young woman at the bus stop with a toddler in a buggy, which was loaded down with shopping. ‘You all right, love?' she asked. Lal looked up at her with teary eyes. ‘Is something the matter?'

‘I've lost a bangle. It's gold. In the shape of two snakes. It's very precious to me. I can't think where I could have lost it. I've been retracing my steps from yesterday.' After fifty-four years there was only the merest hint of her native Gujerati accent left in her voice. Lal sounded Mancunian now.

The young woman looked around her. She saw a drain and crossed to it, peering down into the darkness. She frowned. ‘What's that?' she asked.

Lal went over and looked down too. Both women saw something glinting, something metallic, in the shadows of the drain, but couldn't make out what it was. Lal's heart leaped. Could it be her bangle? She dropped to her knees, taking the young woman by surprise.

‘Maybe I should do that,' she said.