Lost Christmas (8 page)

Goose was frowning deeply. Anthony persisted. ‘It's true. You see, someone, somewhere has named everything. Think about it.
Everything!
' He emphasized the word. ‘That's a lot. Not just one person, of course, that would be ridiculous. Did you know an owl has three eyelids? Bet you they all have a name.' In his head, Anthony was telling himself, G
et to the point! Get to the point!
but he seemed incapable of it. Despite himself, he just kept talking. ‘You can make about
eleven and a half omelettes from one ostrich egg, Coca Cola'd be green if they didn't add colouring and …' he took a deep breath, ‘hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is the fear of long words.'

Anthony exhaled and finally stopped talking. Goose looked at him open-mouthed, buffeted by the torrent of trivia that this strange man had just unleashed.

‘Is that true?' asked Goose.

‘I'm not sure. I think so.'

‘Fascinating!' Goose sneered, making it clear he wasn't fascinated or even interested and that he would very much like Anthony to go away. Goose started to walk past him but Anthony followed. Goose, however, was a tough kid. He had to be. He spent most of his time alone – well, with Mutt – and mostly out on the streets. He knew how to take care of himself or at the very least he knew how to project the idea that he knew how to take care of himself. In a year, no one had really tried to mess with him so he assumed it was working.

‘Listen, I've tried to be nice, but I'm not interested, okay? So go and annoy someone else or I'm gonna start shouting at the top of me lungs! Got it?'

‘Got it,' said Anthony.

Goose switched direction and started walking away. Anthony knew he only really had one more shot. It was all or nothing.

‘So you lost something then?'

Goose froze, turning his head slowly to look back at Anthony. ‘Yeah, how'd you know that?'

‘What d'you lose?'

‘My dog. He's called—'

Anthony held up his hand, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as if concentrating hard.

‘Mutt,' he said finally.

Goose actually gasped. He felt a flutter of excitement in his belly. ‘Yeah! You seen him?' There was suddenly a childlike stutter of expectation in Goose's voice. Like something out of
Oliver Twist
.

‘No, it's what you were shouting earlier.' Anthony could see the child in Goose retreat and the hard-edged mini-adult reappear. Silently he admonished himself. This was the wrong approach. He was losing him again. ‘I lost a dog when I was about your age.'

‘Is that right?' said Goose, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Anthony could sense Goose's invisible wall being rebuilt before his very eyes.

‘Yeah, I think so. I mean I'm not sure. There's a lot I'm not sure about right now. Like this.' It was the only thing Anthony could think of to say at that precise moment. He grabbed the name badge pinned to his striped jacket and held it out to Goose. ‘I don't feel like an “Anthony”. Do I look like an “Anthony” to you?'

Goose frowned, and Anthony could tell he had hooked his interest once more. He was determined not to lose it again.

‘Are you saying you don't know your own name?' Goose was looking for the angle, wondering if this weirdo was about to try to get some money off him.

‘I don't want any money or anything,' said Anthony, apropos of nothing verbal.

‘You what?' said Goose, wondering if Anthony was a mind-reader.

‘You looked like you were thinking I wanted money off you,' said Anthony, by way of explanation.

‘What does someone look like when they think that?' asked Goose, clearly incredulous.

‘I don't know.' Anthony shrugged. ‘Like you. Anyway, back to me not knowing my name.'
Don't lose his attention again
, Anthony told himself.

‘How can you not know your own name?' asked Goose.

‘I'm not sure. There seem to be lots of things I can't remember. Like I'm pretty sure I wasn't here yesterday, but today I am and I don't remember the bit in between. The getting here.'

‘So where were you?' asked Goose.

‘I don't remember. I remember lights. Lots of lights and noise.'

‘Maybe you were abducted by aliens,' said Goose. ‘I
saw a film about that once. People lose whole chunks of time.'

‘It's a possibility, I suppose,' said Anthony.
Don't go off on a tangent!
He admonished himself in his head, partly because he already knew he was about to go off on a tangent. ‘Did you know that the sun is three hundred and thirty thousand, three hundred and thirty times larger than the Earth?'

‘Can't say I did know that,' said Goose. ‘Or particularly want to know it,' he added.

Get to the point! Get to the point!
‘And there are three hundred and thirty-six dimples on a regulation golf ball.'

Anthony could see Goose running the figures through his head.

Then the boy frowned. ‘So? So what?' he asked. ‘Three hundred and thirty thousand, three hundred and thirty, and three hundred and thirty-six aren't the same numbers.'

‘No, but they're close.'

‘No, they're not.'

‘No, I suppose they're not. Similar though.'

Goose shook his head. ‘They both have some threes in them. You seem to know a lot of useless facts.'

‘Yeah, I do, don't I? Maybe I got hit on the head by an encyclopaedia salesman.' Anthony meant it to be funny, but he knew it wasn't, and he could tell Goose didn't think it was either. The boy was looking away.

‘Look I've got to be going now, okay?' said Goose, having decided a direct and calm approach was probably the best way to handle this guy.

Anthony nodded. ‘Okay.'
It's now or never
, he told himself.

‘I don't want you following me. You tell me which way you want to go and I'll go the other way.' Goose sounded very reasonable and mature. Anthony suddenly felt like the child. ‘You want to go that way –' Goose pointed west – ‘and I'll go this way?' He pointed east. ‘Or you go this way –' east – ‘and I'll go that way.' West.

‘By lying on your back and raising your legs, you can't sink in quicksand.'

Goose was already shaking his head before Anthony had even finished the sentence. ‘That's not going to be much use in Manchester, is it? Not a lot of quicksand.'

‘S'pose not,' muttered Anthony.

‘And I don't want to know any more trivia,' added Goose.

‘Dogs can make up to a hundred different expressions,' said Anthony hopefully.

‘No,' said Goose, forcefully but still not losing his temper. ‘Listen, Anthony, or whatever your name is, we need to go our separate ways now, okay?'

‘But our paths must've crossed for a reason.'

Goose frowned. ‘How d'you mean?'

‘Well, it can't be a coincidence, can it?' asked Anthony.

‘What can't?' Goose didn't understand.

‘That I meet the boy who stole the bangle from the old lady right after I meet the old lady whose bangle you stole.' Anthony stopped to repeat that in his head to make sure it made sense. He was relieved that it did make sense and he had finally managed to say what he had been trying to say all along. Then he looked at Goose and could literally see the colour draining from his face. Anthony realized he had said the wrong thing. He was angry with himself. Goose started backing away.

‘Don't go,' pleaded Anthony. ‘There's some kind of pattern: she lost a bangle, you stole the bangle, you lost your dog and here we are. It's got to mean something, hasn't it?'

But Goose wasn't listening. He was scared. Who was this weirdo? How did he know about the bangle? Goose had to get away from him. As far away as possible. He turned on his heel and started running. Goose ran faster than he had all day. He looked back only once to make sure Anthony wasn't following. He wasn't. Goose kept going.

Helen Taylor woke softly as she felt a small body slipping into bed with her. She opened one eye and saw a lump making its way up towards her under the duvet. Then a small, perfectly formed little hand appeared and touched her face. Helen smiled.

‘Hello, baby girl,' she whispered, and lifted up the duvet to see her daughter's beautiful, bewitching blue eyes smiling up at her from a face framed by a mass of blonde curls.

‘Hello, Mummy,' said Milly Taylor. Helen kissed the palm of her six-year-old's hand and sighed.

Just then Helen became conscious of the sound of running water. She frowned and glanced over her shoulder,
to see an empty space next to her where her husband should have been.

‘What's your daddy doing up?' Helen asked Milly. The door to the en suite opened and Henry strode out. He was wearing a shirt and tie. Helen sat up, adjusting the pillow behind her. She realized that Milly wasn't in the bed with her any more. She hadn't noticed her leave.

‘What are you doing?' she asked Henry.

‘That's an odd question,' was his reply.

‘Are you going to work?'

‘Yes,' he said, but didn't look at her. He sat at the end of the bed with his back to her and pulled on his socks.

Helen was tall and thin. Bony, most would say. She had hard, angular features that were all perfectly in proportion, but there was nothing feminine about her. Her hands were large, the same size as a man's but with long, slender fingers. She was a strong, intelligent woman who had been to very good schools and paid attention. Both physically and intellectually she was intimidating and she knew it.

‘Today?' She knew her tone was verging on combative but she didn't care. He couldn't possibly be going to work. Not today of all days.

‘There's someone I have to see before the holidays.' Henry still didn't look at her. He flicked imaginary dots of lint from his socks; anything so as not to look at her. He could feel her glaring at the back of his neck, making his
neck feel hot. He wondered if it was turning red. She said nothing, which was worse, and finally he felt compelled to turn. He looked at her but only from the side. ‘It won't take long,' he said calmly. ‘An hour or two at the most.'

‘Don't worry. Take all the time you need.' He hated it when she sounded like that. The words were reasonable, but the tone was aggressive. There was a sharpness to them, making it clear how offended she was.

‘Don't be like that,' he said. He could feel the ever-present anger creeping into his voice now. He had to leave quickly before he said something he'd regret. ‘I have responsibilities.' Immediately he wished he hadn't said that.

‘And what about your responsibility to me?' Helen let a beat of silence hang for just the right amount of time before adding, ‘To Milly?'

Pain shot through Henry at the mention of the name. He had hardly slept. He had lain awake most of the night, listening to Helen snore softly. At one point she had cried out in her sleep. Henry had turned to look at her, wondering if he should wake her. He could see she was dreaming and that the dream was upsetting. He had a pretty good idea what the dream was about. He would have wanted her to pull him out of it, if it was the other way round, but he didn't do anything. He just looked at her and listened to her whimpering sobs until they stopped.

Henry stood up and threw on a jacket. He wasn't particularly tall. He liked to think he was of average height, but he was a little shorter than his statuesque wife. His body was solid with very little fat. He had the physique of an athlete and the head of an accountant.

‘If I'm running late, I'll text you and meet you there.' He moved around the bed, pausing to lean down to kiss his wife. Helen turned her head away. Henry just kissed her roughly on the top of the head and left.

Helen covered her face with her hands and silenced a sob that reverberated through her.

Out in the hallway, Henry heard her. He wished he could go back in and make everything right, but he knew he couldn't. He didn't have the strength and, even if he did, some things can't be fixed. No matter what he did, it would never, ever be right again. He took a deep breath and headed down the stairs.

As he took his overcoat down from the hooks by the front door he saw a small pile of envelopes on the doormat. Mostly bills and junk mail. Henry looked through them. He stopped when he found a pale blue envelope. He stared at it for a moment and then he strode into the kitchen, opened the bin and dropped it in without a second thought. He headed back out to the hallway, wrapped his scarf around his neck, picked up his briefcase and left.

*

Helen heard the front door closing. She leaned her head back and stared up at the ceiling. The duvet rippled and Milly was back in bed again. Helen peeled back the covers and the little girl smiled.

‘Are you hungry?' Helen asked. Milly nodded. ‘What do you fancy?'