Lost Christmas (24 page)

‘First night?' Anthony asked. The young guy, the real Anthony, nodded.

‘Lost me job today,' he said. ‘Me mam threw me out. Said I was a waste of space just like me dad.'

Anthony stared at real Anthony. It was clear to see how bone-numbingly cold he was. Anthony considered what to do and then took off his heavy coat.

‘Here,' he said, holding it out. ‘Swap ya.'

Real Anthony didn't have to be told twice. Instantly he was on his feet. He pulled his thin jacket off and gave it to Anthony. He grabbed Anthony's coat and wrapped it around himself.

‘Oh thank you,' he said. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!' He could already feel the warmth soaking into his bones.

‘Just for tonight, you understand,' said Anthony, pulling on the thin jacket. ‘I want it back in the morning.'

Real Anthony nodded vigorously. ‘Course,' he said.

‘What's your name?' asked Anthony.

‘Anthony,' replied real Anthony, nodding at the name badge on his jacket. Anthony looked at it and held out his hand.

‘I'm Richard,' he said, and they shook hands.

Goose looked on. He still hadn't put all the pieces together. He was surprised to discover that the man he knew as Anthony had the same name as him.

Anthony, real Anthony and the dog all settled down for the night. As Anthony pulled the collar of the jacket shut
round his neck a chill wind rattled through the cardboard city. He shivered and tried to ignore it …

Then, just like that, it was morning, which took Goose by surprise. He looked around and realized they were somewhere underneath the Blackpool Tower. He could see it looming above them through gaps in the roof. He heard movement and turned to see real Anthony waking up.

Real Anthony sniffed. His face, particularly his nose, was like ice. He pulled Anthony's coat around his throat. The rest of him was fine. It took him a few moments to get his bearings and recall the events of the previous night. He looked over at Anthony and his dog. The dog woke up, stretched and yawned.

‘Awright, boy,' said real Anthony, and reached out to scratch the dog behind his ear. The dog liked it. ‘Hey, errr … Richard?' said real Anthony, tapping Anthony on the leg. ‘Wake up, mate. It's morning.' Real Anthony rubbed his hands together vigorously and blew on them to warm them up. ‘Bloody 'ell, it's cold!' He shivered. ‘Don't know what I would've done without your coat. You're a gentleman.' Real Anthony turned to Anthony and noticed that he still hadn't stirred. ‘Richard,' he said, and tapped Anthony on the shoulder. ‘I got a little bit of money. Not much,' he said, rooting through his trousers pockets and bringing out a few coins. ‘But enough to buy us breakfast.
My way of saying thank you.' Real Anthony looked over to Anthony, who still hadn't moved. Goose was looking too, wondering why Anthony wasn't moving. ‘Mate? Mate,' said real Anthony more forcefully. As he stared at Anthony's back, he realized he wasn't moving at all. There was no gentle rise and fall associated with breathing. Real Anthony scrambled over to him. He saw that there was a blue tinge to Anthony's lips. ‘Oh no.'

Goose came over. ‘Oh no? What's “oh no” mean?' The dog started to paw at his master and whine miserably. Real Anthony turned Anthony over on to his back and put his ear to his chest. He listened intently for a heartbeat but there wasn't one to be found. Real Anthony leaned back and sighed. He looked down at the dog, who had stopped whining and now had his head and front paws propped up on Anthony's leg.

‘I'm sorry,' Real Anthony said to the dog.

Goose stared at the scene playing out before him with a look of incredulity on his face. He shook his head. ‘I don't understand. You can't be dead …'

And once again everything changed in an instant. Goose was in a back street somewhere in Manchester. He knew it was Manchester instinctively. He heard a commotion behind him and turned to see his Anthony running towards him. He was very much alive. In fact, he looked younger
than Goose had ever seen him look. A good five, maybe even ten, years younger.

He raced past Goose, unable to see him. Ten seconds later two burly policemen came thundering after him. They too shot past Goose …

As Goose turned to follow them, he wasn't in the back street any more. He was in an office somewhere, in the dark.

Suddenly the light from a torch cut through the blackness and Goose saw Anthony crouched by the desk. He was jimmying a drawer open.

‘Ha! You're a thief,' said Goose. ‘Pot … kettle … whatever …'

Again everything changed in a flash. Goose was standing outside a dark and imposing redbrick building with two turreted towers at the front. This was H. M. Manchester Prison, also known as Strangeways.

The door opened and Anthony stepped out. He looked younger still. He tossed a hold-all over his shoulder and set off down the street …

Now Goose was sitting on the top bunk in a cramped prison cell. The cell door opened and Anthony walked in escorted by a guard.

‘Welcome to your new home, Thornhill. Dial one for
room service.' The guard chuckled to himself. Goose was frowning.

‘What did you call him?' asked Goose, but of course the guard didn't hear him and left. Now the pieces started to coalesce for Goose. His friend didn't just have the same first name as him but the same surname as well. His name was Richard Thornhill. Just like Goose.
How could that be? …

Again everything changed. Goose was in a large bathroom looking at himself in a mirror. There was something institutional about the place. It was white-tiled and grubby. A row of ten washbasins stood between him and the mirrored wall. He realized that his own clothes had changed. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.

There was movement behind him and two boys about his age appeared. They too were wearing white T-shirts and jeans. Like a uniform. Goose expected them to ignore his presence, but they didn't. They crowded him, one on either side, and they made eye contact in the mirror. It took Goose by surprise.

‘You got a big mouth, Thornhill,' said the one on his left.

Goose frowned. ‘You can see me?'

The two junior thugs smirked. ‘Yeah,' said the one on the right. ‘Guess your invisibility cloak ain't working, Goose.'

And in that moment, in that second before Goose took a beating, he finally understood: Anthony was him. He was Anthony. They were one and the same person. Always had been, since the first time they met in the park. These two thugs could see him because he was no longer an observer in this dream. This was his dream. This was his life. This was his future …

Before the first punch landed Goose was running down a shopping street. There was a man chasing him and a woman was screaming after him to stop. Goose looked down and saw he was carrying a handbag. He understood he had just stolen it …

Without warning, everything went dark. Light from a torch cut through the darkness. Goose looked through a pair of French windows. The torchlight landed on the arm of a chair where it glinted off Lal's cobra bangle.

Goose was in the room, standing over the bangle. He reached out and picked it up. He heard a noise coming from upstairs. He turned his head and looked back at the bangle. He remembered this moment like it was yesterday. Wait, it was yesterday.

Everything went black.

Goose woke to the distant sound of a dog barking. It wasn't much of a bark. More of a yip. A yip that belonged to a small dog. A puppy. And not so distant. Actually … close. Very close. In his house close.

Goose pushed himself up on one elbow and listened. His wild, all-over-the-place hair stuck out all over the place. Goose frowned and looked around. This was wrong. This was his old bedroom. He thought he must still be dreaming, but everything was so vivid. He could feel the texture of his duvet between his fingers, and the room smelled exactly as he remembered.

He heard another yip and realized this was the day he first met Mutt, the day he lost his parents. He had dreamed
about this day many, many times, but it had never felt quite so real before. The dream was always the same. He would wake up in his bed. Hearing Mutt yipping he would make his way downstairs, but as he pushed the door to the lounge open there would be nothing but blackness, emptiness reminding him how alone he truly was and he would wake up crying. He hated those dreams and this time he wasn't going to play ball. He turned over and put the pillow over his head to block out the sound. It didn't really work. As soon as everything was quiet and still, the yipping, albeit muffled, still penetrated the feather pillow.

Gradually Goose realized something was different. Usually the dream just happened around him. This time he was dictating events. Putting the pillow over his head – he had never done that before. This was lucid dreaming. Must be. He hadn't thought about that workshop he'd gone to for ages. He sat up. There was yet another yip from downstairs. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but maybe this time it would be different. If he was really controlling it, maybe he could open the lounge door and rather than be met with nothingness he would get to see his mum and dad one more time.

He made a decision. He was going to go for it. He leaped out of bed. Almost immediately he trod on a toy: a Lego model of Imperial AT-ST.

‘OOWWW!' He fell back on the bed and rubbed the sole
of his foot. He looked down at his bedroom floor, which was strewn with pieces of Lego and other toys and he had an incredible wave of déjà vu wash over him. The dream had never been this detailed. And his foot really hurt.

He wanted to get downstairs. He tiptoed across to the door, avoiding the many toy-based hazards along the way, and hurried out into the hallway.

He went past his parents' bedroom. The door was open. The white quilt was turned down at both top corners and up at the bottom on the right, where his dad slept.

He continued downstairs. He reached the door to the lounge and stopped. This was almost the end. Usually he would push open the door and that would be that. He had had this exact same dream thirty, maybe even forty times in the last year. He hated this part, but he really believed that this time would be different. Truth be told, maybe he didn't believe it but he hoped it more than anything. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

One.

Two.

Three.

Goose opened his eyes and almost burst out laughing with joy. There wasn't emptiness facing him. He saw his old living room and his mum, dad and nan standing in a line, trying to look innocent, just like they had that day a year before.

‘Hello, Mum. Hello, Dad,' said Goose, stepping into the room.

‘Awright there, Sir Gooseby?' said his dad. ‘What are you doing up so early?' It was just as it had been. Goose was wearing the biggest grin of his life. He ran to them and threw his arms around them, hugging them tightly.
Please still be here when I open my eyes
, Goose thought to himself.
Please still be here
.

He opened his eyes and his mum, dad and nan were still very much there, but looking at him curiously.

‘You all right, love?' asked his mum. ‘You have a bad dream or something?'

‘No,' said Goose. ‘Good dream. Don't want it to end.' Just then there was another yip and Goose remembered Mutt. He would get to see his dog one more time as well. He dropped to the floor. ‘Come here, Mutt,' he called, and the puppy scampered out from behind his parents and started to slobber all over him. Goose was crying.

‘You got a name for him already then?' asked Dad, clearly surprised.

‘Yeah, Mutt. He's called Mutt.'

‘That's a nice name, dear,' said Nan. ‘Is it me, or is it a bit dark in here?' Nan crossed to the lamp in the corner and turned it on. It was one of those energy-saving bulbs that comes on dim and takes several seconds to brighten. Goose frowned. A thought started to bloom in his mind. It took a
moment to become real and he thought back to the lucid-dreaming workshop once again.
You can't turn on a light in a dream
, he thought. His mind raced.
What did that mean?
It meant this wasn't a dream. This was real. This was last Christmas. He looked up at his parents and his nan. ‘I'm not dreaming, am I?'

They all smiled and shook their heads. ‘Good present?' asked Dad.

‘We were going to hide him till tomorrow,' explained his mum, ‘but he doesn't seem to want to play along with that plan. Happy Christmas, sweetheart.'

Goose wasn't really listening. A billion thoughts were raging around his head. This was real! His dad crouched next to him and smiled. ‘He's had all his shots. Wanna take him out?' Goose started to cry but with happiness. There was a massive smile plastered on his face. Paul and Linda looked on with concern.

‘Are you okay, love?' asked Linda. Goose nodded. The grin on his face couldn't be contained. It was threatening to go all the way around to the back of his head and meet up.