Lost Christmas (9 page)

‘Eggy bread,' she said.

‘Eggy bread it is,' replied her mother. She ran her long slender fingers through her hair, looped it behind her ears and climbed out of bed.

Milly was already in the kitchen when Helen entered. The little girl was sitting on one of the high stools by the breakfast bar and twisting from side to side. Helen looked at the detritus left over from the previous night's Thai takeaway.

‘I suppose I had better clear up first. Make a little space.' She busied herself loading the dishwasher. She had meant to cook last night, but time had got away from her and in the end they ordered in.

‘Why's Daddy like he is?' asked Milly.

‘How do you mean?' asked Helen, but she knew exactly what Milly meant.

‘He's so cross all the time now.' Milly stopped swinging and considered a thought. ‘Is it because of me?'

Helen didn't answer immediately, but eventually she nodded. ‘Yes,' she said.

‘But you're not cross. You're just sad all the time.'

‘Different people deal with things like this in their own way.'

She crossed to the pedal bin with a plate, ready to scrape off the remains of pad thai and king-prawn keang kiew wan, but as soon as she opened the bin she saw the pale blue envelope Henry had discarded. She put down the plate and retrieved it, ripping it open with her finger.

It was just a Christmas card with a cartoon of a fat reindeer on the front. She opened it up and read the simple inscription: ‘Thinking of you. Love from Anna, Mark and the sprogs.'

Helen threw the envelope back in the bin and headed out of the kitchen into the hallway. There were two doors leading into the large L-shaped lounge. She crossed to a chest of drawers, which stood behind a baby-grand piano and opened the second drawer down. She retrieved a shoe box, opened it up and added the card to about twenty others. She looked around at the bare room. There was no tree, no decorations, nothing. No indication at all that it was Christmas Eve. Henry had cancelled Christmas. She remembered that line in
Robin Hood
, the one when the Sheriff of Nottingham, played by that actor who's in everything … she was terrible with names … cancelled
Christmas in a fit of pique. That's what Henry was like. The thought made her laugh.

‘What's so funny?' Milly was sitting on the piano stool, swinging her bare feet back and forth.

Helen shook her head. ‘Oh, it's nothing. Just … you loved Christmas.'

‘I still do,' said Milly. ‘I wish we had a tree this year.'

‘Me too,' said Helen.

‘Why don't you get one? Today.'

‘It would upset your father,' said Helen.

‘He doesn't seem to worry about upsetting you,' said Milly.

‘Now that's not fair,' said Helen, frowning.

Milly slid off the stool and crossed to the door. She turned and looked at her mother. She shrugged. ‘It's not me saying that,' she said. ‘After all, I'm not even here.' And with that Milly faded away.

It was one year ago today that Milly had died. Helen spoke to her more and more frequently, and she always missed her when she left.

Goose couldn't sit still. He would sit down for a second or two, then jump to his feet, striding back and forth on the far side of Frank's stained and scuffed coffee table. Frank was sprawled out on the sofa sipping from a can of Beck's, watching Goose's maniacal marching, feeling a little fatigued by the frenzied activity before him, as Goose described his encounter with the weirdo in the park.

‘And then he goes,' said Goose, pausing for effect, ‘“She lost her bangle, you stole it and you lost your dog.”' Goose looked at Frank, adding a little involuntary affirmative nod of the head, unconsciously telling Frank it was time for him
to agree that what had happened was extraordinary and twisted. Frank took a sip of his lager and said nothing. Not the reaction Goose wanted. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek. ‘So what do you think?'

Frank just scratched at the ginger stubble on his jawline. ‘I don't know, Goose. There's a lot of strange people in the world.'

‘You reckon he's some sort of undercover copper?'

Frank's brow knitted as he ran over everything Goose had just told him, wondering if he had missed something; namely the bit that suggested that the bloke hanging about in the park was the Old Bill. Frank shook his head.

‘Be serious, Goose. Manchester's finest have got better things to do than hang about in cold parks talking to kids on Christmas Eve. They could get themselves arrested.'

At that, Goose plopped down on the sofa, threw his head back, looked up at the ceiling and huffed. Frank wasn't treating this with the importance it deserved. Frank could see the irritation writ large on Goose's face. He felt bad, but still had the embers of a hangover so had to force himself to care. All he could think of to say was, ‘So he have a name, then?'

‘Anthony,' answered Goose, then added quickly, ‘though he said it wasn't.'

‘Wasn't what?'

‘His name.'

Frank closed his eyes and concentrated. He rubbed his eyes. This conversation was more than he could handle. ‘I don't understand. Was it his name or not?'

Goose shrugged. ‘He had a badge that said, “I'm Anthony. How—”'

‘– can I help?' Frank interrupted, finishing the sentence for Goose.

‘Yeah, that's right.' Now Goose had the same confused look on his face as Frank. ‘How'd you know that?'

‘Cos I met him,' said Frank. ‘Last night. Near the Witches. I think he made it snow.'

‘You what?'

Frank suddenly realized how daft that sounded. ‘Maybe it was a coincidence.' Frank wanted to change the subject. Then he remembered something relevant. ‘'Ere, he had dog collars on.'

‘He what?' asked Goose.

‘Yeah. On his wrist. Three of them.'

‘Are you winding me up?' asked Goose.

‘No, swear. It was weird. He wasn't there one minute and then …' Frank's voice trailed off as he caught himself and heard what he was saying.

‘So,' said Goose, ‘are you saying he's got Mutt?'

‘Nah. Just … I don't know. There was a bloke in
Brockley I remember, used to go out nicking people's dogs, then waited for the reward posters to go up so he could claim the money.'

With that, Goose shot to his feet, paused a moment, then sat back down. Then, back to his feet.

‘We need to go and find him,' said Goose.

‘What d'you mean, “we”?' Frank really didn't have any plans to leave the sofa today.
Miracle on 34th Street
was on in half an hour. The old version, with Edmund Gwenn and Natalie Wood when she was little, not the colour one with Dickie Attenborough.

‘He might be a total nutjob, Frank,' said Goose.

‘All the more reason to leave him well alone, I'd say.'

‘But what if he's got Mutt?' asked Goose. The desperation and need in his voice were plain to hear. Frank tried to block them out. He flipped through different answers in his head. What could he say to avoid having to go out, trudge down to the park and confront a loony? While Frank was considering his response, Goose said the one thing Frank couldn't ignore. The one thing that meant Frank
had
to go with him.

‘My dad would have come.'

Frank grated his teeth together and thought of a dozen choice swear words, each more inventive and angry than the one before, but he didn't say any of them out loud. Once he'd finished muttering them all to himself he
couldn't do anything but grunt out a laugh and shake his head.

‘You're a manipulative little git, Goose, you know that?'

Goose smiled, picked up Frank's tatty leather coat and held it out to him. Frank knew he wasn't going to get to see
Miracle on 34th Street
after all.

Henry Taylor worked for the Greater Manchester Probation Trust. Their headquarters were housed in an eyesore of a building in Old Trafford, about halfway between United's home ground and the cricket ground. His was just one desk out of forty-two in a vast open-plan office. However, Henry was the only person in the office that day. His desk (fourth row from the door, sixth along) stood out from all the others as it was the only one that bore no Yuletide additions. Some of his neighbours seemed to be competing to see who loved Christmas the most. The desk to his right had a small potted tree caked in baubles weighing down its little branches, a doll of Santa, eight reindeer whose noses
all flashed, two snowmen and a garland of holly running around the table's edge. The desk to his left looked like an explosion in a tinsel factory. There was practically a canopy of tinsel of all colours and mistletoe. The woman who sat there, Audrey Toohey, a pleasant woman though with alarmingly distracting cankles, had a crush on Henry, which he did his best to pretend to be oblivious to. Henry didn't even know what a cankle was until he met Audrey. It turned out to be the ankle of heavily overweight people where there was no discernible slimming between calf and ankle, hence cankle.

Henry's desk, in contrast to all the others, was mostly clear. There were several folders stacked in his in and out trays positioned just so on one side of the desk, the telephone on the opposite side and a single Manila folder sitting in front of him with a Bic biro placed on top. Henry sat with his fingers spired, his mouth and nose resting on them. He listened to the
tick-tick-tick
of the office clock and glanced up at it every ten seconds or so. He was waiting for someone, and whoever that someone was, they were late.

Finally Henry grew tired of waiting and watching the clock. He opened the folder in front of him, revealing the details of one of his juvenile probationers: ‘Richard M. Thornhill'. A dour-looking photograph of Goose stared up at him. Henry ran his finger down the page until he found
the home phone number. He picked up the phone and dialled. It started ringing.

Across town, in Goose's kitchen, Nan was baking bread. She was white with flour. Great puffs of it filled the air. She heard a muffled ringing and paused to listen with a frown on her face.
Where was that ringing coming from?

She followed the sound around the kitchen from the oven to the washing machine and finally to the fridge. As she opened the door, the ringing became louder and Nan saw the cordless phone standing in the door. She saw a carton of milk on the worktop and swapped the two over. As she closed the refrigerator door and turned her attention to the phone, it stopped ringing. Nan looked annoyed. She liked to get phone calls. She opened the fridge and put the phone back inside. Then she returned to her mixing bowl.

Back in Henry's office, he replaced the handset and sat with his thoughts for a few moments. He looked at his watch and then up at the office clock. Both said the same time. It was getting late. He made a decision and stood up, gathering Goose's file, sliding his biro into his jacket pocket and throwing his topcoat over his arm. He left the office.

Henry drove across town in silence. He tried listening to the radio, but the chattering voices annoyed him. Most
things annoyed him now. At some traffic lights a man on a bicycle slipped in front of him and stopped. This annoyed him. When the lights turned green it took the man on the bicycle almost three seconds to get going. This annoyed him. The man on the bicycle was forced to pedal directly in front of Henry's Volvo because the cycle lane to the left was blocked ahead with road works. This annoyed him.

Henry parked his car across the road from Nan and Goose's house and got out. He looked around, not comfortable in this neighbourhood. Further along the road he saw gaggles of children playing happily in the snow. He glared at them as if to say,
I've seen you, and if you mess with my car I'll know who you are
. The thing was, not one of the children was paying any attention to either Henry or his rather dull car.