Lost Christmas (11 page)

‘Something,' Anthony agreed.

‘This sort of thing happen a lot?' asked Frank, trying to be helpful.

‘I don't think so.' Anthony's face darkened. ‘And I think I'd remember. It hurt.'

‘Hurt?' asked Frank.

Anthony nodded. ‘A lot. Like burning needles slicing through my brain.'

‘Eeurrgghh,' said Frank.

‘Like rats scratching to get out of me from the inside. Biting.'

‘Yeah, awright. We get it,' said Frank, who was actually quite squeamish. ‘Sounds nasty.'

Sounds nasty? Goose looked at Frank with a deep sneer etched on his face. It sounded to him like Frank believed this rubbish. ‘Oh, come on, Frank. You're not actually buying any of this old guff, are ya?'

Frank resembled a rabbit caught in headlights. He hadn't really got as far as considering whether or not he believed Anthony. He'd been reacting more to the images that his words threw up in his head. ‘Well, I mean, I'm—' was about all Frank managed to say.

Goose was in no mood to entertain any of this as
potentially true. He was on the offensive straight away. ‘So you expect us to believe that you touched this old woman's hand and saw me robbing her? said Goose, really pushing the incredulity in his voice. ‘When that never happened. You know that'd never stand up in court, right?'

‘I wasn't planning to go to court,' said Anthony.

But Goose wasn't listening. He was on a roll. ‘So come on then, show us this amazing mind-reading gift, Derrensodding-Brown. Frank, give him your hand.'

‘What?' said Frank, suddenly scared.

‘I'd rather not,' said Anthony quietly, though Goose wouldn't have heard him whatever the volume.

‘Give him your hand, Frank. Let him tell you what you've lost. Old lady's lost a bangle; he knows I've lost a dog. Well, you've lost something too. Let him tell you what.'

‘I don't want to,' said Anthony, more forcefully this time. Goose heard the words but still was choosing to ignore them.

‘Course you don't. Cos it's a load of old bolsh.'

‘It hurts,' said Anthony meekly, remembering the sensation and not relishing it.

‘Yeah, yeah, needles and rats,' sneered Goose. ‘We get it.' Goose was so worked up that he had pushed towards Anthony, getting closer and closer.

Anthony responded to his increasing proximity by moving back until now he was pressed up against the
green-tiled abutment with nowhere left to go. Suddenly Goose's hands shot out from his body. He grabbed hold of Anthony's sleeve with one hand and Frank's with the other. He slapped their two hands together, too fast for either man to react. And as skin touched skin Anthony drew in a sharp breath. He felt a sensation like pins and needles times a thousand coursing up his arm. The feeling spread quickly through his body: flooding into his chest, rising up through his throat, into his head until it reached the very centre of his brain.

The bridge and canal and park vanished and Anthony found himself in Frank's grotty flat, standing behind the sofa, looking down at Frank slobbed out beneath him. Frank was drinking from a can of lager, king-prawn bhuna in a foil takeout container resting on his chest, staring through heavy-lidded eyes at
Antiques Roadshow
on the television in front of him.

On-screen a book expert wearing a pair of white gloves, like a snooker referee, was holding a small maroon-coloured hardback in his hands, rotating it slowly, reverentially opening the pages and breathing in its musty, hundred-year-plus odour. A woman in her late eighties with a neat white bob was sitting across from him, listening intently to what he had to say. Frank watched, sucking up a prawn as he did, sauce dribbling down his chin.

‘What we have here,' said the expert, ‘is a very early
edition of Oscar Wilde's
The Happy Prince
. I remember reading this as a boy. It's a marvellous story.'

‘My father bought it for sixpence during the war,' said the old woman with the neat white bob.

‘Sixpence,' said the book expert with a patient smile in his voice.

‘It was a lot of money then,' added the old woman. ‘For us, anyway. We were very poor. We lived in Coventry. Lost everything in the Blitz in forty—'

But the book expert didn't want to hear her life story. He was more interested in the small, thin book, which he now lay on the table in front of him. He put his hands together as if he was about to start praying, resting the tips of his index fingers on his chin.

‘Wilde published
The Happy Prince
in 1888 in a collection of short stories. This edition was released by Raven Publishing some seven years later. So not a first edition, but interestingly Raven Publishing didn't exist for very long, and the illustrator they commissioned for their Wilde series was Arthur Rackham, quite early in his career. He had only been illustrating for about two years when he worked on this. Sadly Raven went bankrupt almost immediately afterwards.'

‘Oh dear,' said the sweet little old lady, but what she really meant was
howmuchhowmuchhowmuch?

‘You probably want to know how much this is worth
today,' said the book expert, nodding knowingly. They all just want to know how much. ‘This is in reasonable condition, a little wear and tear on the spine but nothing too serious. I would think this could fetch somewhere in the region of …' He paused for maximum effect. The old woman with the neat white bob was hanging on his every word. So too was Frank. ‘… Forty thousand pounds.'

The old woman was looking at the book expert open-mouthed. Frank was staring at the TV screen open-mouthed. Then suddenly he leaped to his feet. His king-prawn bhuna landed face down on the carpet with a splat! Frank hurried over to the packing boxes lined up against the wall and started riffling through them one at a time. He dumped the contents of each on the floor around him, clearly looking for something specific.

Back in the park, Anthony let go of Frank's hand and slumped back against the green wall. His whole body was shuddering from the experience of seeing inside someone else's head. His face was a light beige colour and a film of greasy sweat clung to him. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets in an attempt to alleviate the drilling in his brain. The shaking eased off after a few moments and he caught his breath. The pounding in his head eased off too.

‘Was that it? That were impressive. So?' asked Goose, eager to prove Anthony a fraud.

Anthony took several deep breaths and the colour started to return to his face. ‘A book.'

Both Goose and Frank were unable to hide their astonishment.

‘What book?' Goose was cross. This was not the answer he had expected.

‘
The Happy Prince
by Oscar Wilde,' said Anthony. He could see from the looks on their faces that he was right, but he knew that already.

Frank started to laugh, which made Goose even angrier. ‘Bloody hell!' said Frank. ‘Bloody hell!' he said again. Then he looked straight at Anthony, desperation on his face. ‘Do you know where it is? I've been looking everywhere for that.'

Anthony shook his head. ‘Sorry. I didn't stay long enough to see that.'

‘So do it again,' pleaded Frank, thrusting out his hand. ‘Please!'

Anthony looked at Frank's outstretched hand as if it was a red-hot poker he was being asked to hold by the glowing end. But it might well have been. A poker probably would have hurt less.

‘It's a wind-up, Frank!' said Goose. He turned on Anthony. ‘Tell him! Tell him how you know. You could've
asked someone.' He alternated his focus between Frank and Anthony. ‘People know you've been looking for it. You've asked around. Someone told you, that's all.'

‘No,' said Frank, shaking his head. ‘No one told him. He saw it just like he said.' Frank emphasized his hand, which was still outstretched. ‘Please.'

Anthony stared at Frank's hand. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was take hold of it, but he knew he was going to. He summoned up the courage from within and slowly he put his hand out. It hovered just over Frank's. The last few centimetres were the hardest. Scared Anthony might change his mind. Frank grabbed his hand and held on to him tightly. Anthony reacted immediately. He drew in a sharp breath and then a violent jolt rippled through him. Then another. His eyes grew wide and his mouth opened to scream but no sound came out. Then he started shaking as if gripped by palsy. His eyes rolled back so only white was showing. He emitted a strangled gurgle and his legs buckled beneath him as he dissolved into a heap on the ground. Frank let go as he fell away. Anthony hit the ground with a resounding thud and didn't move. Goose and Frank stood over his inert form.

‘Bloody hell, Frank. I think you've killed him,' said Goose.

Frank crouched down and was about to pat Anthony's
cheeks because he'd seen that in a film once, when Goose stopped him. ‘I'm not sure you should touch him again.'

Frank froze, realizing that Goose was right. Instead, he leaned over him. ‘Anthony? Can you hear me? Anthony?' After a moment, Anthony groaned and Frank breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh thank God, he's not dead. Anthony? Wake up.'

Anthony's eyelids fluttered open and it took him a moment to focus on Frank and Goose. Frank helped him to sit up, making sure only to touch his clothing. He sat him back against the wall and tried to control the eagerness apparent in his voice. ‘What happened? What did you see?'

Anthony said nothing for several long seconds. His mouth was dry.

‘Did you see it?' asked Frank. ‘Do you know where it is?'

Anthony hesitated again before nodding his head ever so slightly.

‘Tell me,' said Frank. And then more insistently, ‘Tell me what you saw.'

The first thing Anthony saw was a younger, happier Frank. He was lying on a wide bed with his wife, Alice. Anthony looked around at the room. It was clear they didn't have very much money, but what they did have had been spent well. They had made a little go a long way. There was a sparkle to everything in the room, as if he was seeing a rose-tinted memory. Alice was heavily pregnant, about ready to pop, and Frank had his head next to her belly, reading to their unborn child. He was reading from
The Happy Prince
.

‘“High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves
of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt …”'

Alice looked down at Frank and stroked his mane of thick hair as he read. A deeply contented smile played on her lips. The same smile was mirrored on Anthony's lips …

In the blink of an eye the location changed and Anthony found himself sitting on a small rocking horse in a child's bedroom. A pink lampshade with embroidered princesses hung from the ceiling directly above him. There were garlands of pink paper flowers running along the picture rail and criss-crossing the magnolia walls. It was a very girly room.

Anthony glanced over to the bed and he saw Frank again. Just a little older than before. His three-year-old daughter, Jemma, was curled up in his arms as he read to her from the same book.

‘“He was very much admired indeed. ‘He is as beautiful as a weathercock,' remarked one of the Town Councillors …”'

Frank's voice had the exact same timbre as when he had read to Alice's belly. And, as if the little girl could remember, she had a serene look of contentment on her face.

Alice stood in the doorway watching without being seen, and smiling just as she had before. She watched her
husband, whom she loved very dearly, and their beautiful little girl, who had long, straight blonde hair just like the embroidered princesses on her lampshade.

Anthony craned his leg over the head of the rocking horse as he clambered off clumsily, but he was just a ghost and no one was aware of his presence …

Everything changed just as suddenly as before. Now Anthony was standing in the middle of a long, narrow hallway. Gone was the sparkle and the warmth. It had been replaced by a chill in the air.

Anthony looked to the stairs and saw Alice sitting on the bottom step with her arms wrapped around her legs. Tears were streaking her cheeks; her eyes were red and puffy.

‘Bloody Australia!' Anthony heard this from behind him and he turned to the front door. There was no one there. The top half of the door was frosted glass, but there didn't seem to be anyone outside. Then Anthony noticed the letter box in the middle of the door and he saw Frank, or at least his eyes, framed within it. ‘How do you bloody well expect me to react, Alice? It's the other side of the bloody world!' He spat the angry words.

Alice held herself tighter and choked back the tears to speak. ‘Please, Frank.' Anthony could hear the desperation in her voice. This was a woman at the end of her tether. ‘I
can't do this any more.' She was begging. There was a long pause and then she added, ‘It's all gone so wrong since …' But she didn't finish the sentence.