Lost Christmas (20 page)

Henry caught up to Goose quickly and easily. The builders, now all at the top of the scaffolding, looked down at the drama unfolding below. They stopped what they were doing and watched as Henry grabbed Goose by his hood and yanked him back viciously.

Goose spun and lost both his footing and his hold on the bangle. He crumpled to the snow-covered ground and Henry fell with him. Goose struggled to get his head up and watched the flight of the bangle. It rotated through the air in a wide arc. Goose's gaze moved on and saw where it was heading: the roofers' bonfire.

‘No!' Goose screamed, but there was nothing he could do except watch helplessly as the bangle plunged into the heart of the roaring fire, sending up an eruption of sparks.

Helen and Anthony emerged from the chapel and saw Henry wrestling with Goose on the ground.

‘HENRY!' Helen's shrill cry distracted Henry's attention from Goose for half a second, but that was all that Goose needed. He twisted violently, causing Henry's hand that was holding tightly to Goose's hood to twist with him. Henry was forced to let go. Goose leaped up and started running. He ran straight to the bonfire and in the same instant everyone could see what he was about to do. ‘Don't!' cried Helen.

‘Goose, no!' said Anthony.

‘NO!' shouted the builders from the roof. Goose could see the bangle. He thrust his left hand into the fire, wrapped it around the scalding metal and pulled it free all in one swift movement. He was already screaming as he drew his hand out. The bangle was searing the skin on the heel of his hand. Goose had no choice but to let go. The bangle flew out of his grasp and landed in a pile of snow, where it fizzed and steamed. Goose dropped to his knees and plunged his blistered hand into another mound of snow.

‘Come here, you little … !' Henry scrambled up and was coming after Goose.

Goose threw himself out of Henry's path, rolled, snatched up the bangle and spun on to his feet. He ran again. Henry started after him, but Helen had caught up by now and got in his way. She put her hands on his chest.

‘Henry! Stop it!' she commanded. ‘Stop it now! He's just a child.'

Goose didn't look back as he ran. As he reached the angel gates he stumbled, his foot snagging a pothole, and he took a heavy tumble. He tried to stay upright but scraped a knee on the tarmac, ripping his jeans. He could feel gravel digging into a bloodied graze, but he ignored the pain and kept going. He ran out through the gates and dashed across the road. A car had to brake aggressively. The driver smashed his fist down on his horn.

‘YOU STUPID LITTLE BRAT!' he screamed, but his words were muffled by the fact that his windows were all closed.

Goose didn't stop; he didn't look back. He just kept running, clutching the bangle tightly in his hand.

Back in the cemetery, Henry was purple-faced with anger. He was panting fiercely, more from rage than exertion. He turned on his wife.

‘You don't … !' He couldn't even finish his sentence. His teeth were clenched tightly together. ‘I have to deal
with these people on a daily basis. They are scum!' And Henry actually spat in his wife's face as he sputtered out the last word.

Calmly Helen wiped her cheek and shook her head. ‘'Scum?'' she said. ‘‘These people'? My God, Henry, have you always been like this? So full of bile? Or is this just since—'

Henry cut her off. ‘Don't!' he warned.

Helen was shocked by the ferocity of his reaction, but it only riled her more. ‘Don't what?' she said. ‘Don't mention our daughter? Don't mention Milly? Milly! Milly! MILLY!
MILLY!
' she shouted in his face.

‘I haven't got time for this,' said Henry, pulling out his BlackBerry. ‘We'll talk about this at home.'

‘No, I don't think we will,' said Helen.

Her sudden calm unnerved him. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It means there's nothing left to talk about. Or at least no point talking. We both know it's over.'

‘Now?' growled Henry. ‘This is when you want to do this? Now?'

Helen shook her head sadly. ‘I don't want to do this at all. I don't want … to be here. I don't want to
have
to be here. I don't want Milly to be dead. I want the life we had before. That was wonderful and perfect. She was perfect. You were perfect. I want that life. Not this one.' Tears were
streaming down her face. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.

Henry frowned. ‘You're just being …' but he couldn't finish his sentence.

‘Being what?' asked Helen. ‘Emotional? You should try it some time.'

Henry couldn't look at her. He looked down at the phone in his hand, studying the buttons. 6-4-5-5-9. He wrote out Milly's name as he had all year long, finding it in signs and adverts or in clouds in the sky or even once in the oily film on the surface of a puddle after a heavy rainstorm. She was everywhere. More than anything in the world he wanted her to be alive.

Henry prided himself on being a pragmatist. He never tried punching above his own weight. As a child, dreams of being an astronaut were quickly pushed aside. He decided to strive for the best life he could
realistically
achieve. He married as well as he possibly could, actually a little better than he deserved. Maybe the one time he did punch above his weight was with Helen. And maybe working in Manchester's probationary services wasn't in the same league as NASA, but he had worked hard and risen to a position of some authority. He had had a beautiful, bright, funny, loving daughter and had considered himself a very lucky man. His life might not have been spectacular, but it made him happy.

He had lost his daughter and now he was about to lose his wife. He had been frozen with fear the day Milly drowned and had done nothing to save her. He hadn't jumped into the canal like Helen. He had been punishing himself for that all year. Now here he was faced with another moment of decision. What he did next would determine all of his tomorrows. He had lost his daughter and there was no bringing her back, but he could still hold on to his wife. His beautiful, caring wife whom he loved more now than the day he married her. All he had to do, he knew, was tell her. All he had to do was put the phone away and take her hand. They could go away together. Go to the other side of the world if necessary. They could rebuild what they had. They would never forget Milly, but they could move on together. It was all down to him.

‘I haven't got time for this,' he said, and he turned away, dialling on his phone. He hated himself more with every button he pushed.

Helen watched Henry walking away from her. She studied the back of his head and his shoulders. She knew this would be the last time she saw him. She didn't feel as sad as she'd suspected she would. She would miss the feel of his hair the most. She loved his hair. It was the exact same colour as Milly's.

‘Goodbye,' she said quietly to herself. It didn't feel like
a snap decision made in the heat of the moment. This was something that had been coming for a long time. Only today had brought something unexpected: clarity. She wasn't sure where it had come from. Maybe from Anthony and Goose, or maybe it was just getting past the awful one-year-anniversary milestone. Whatever it was, she understood that a new chapter of her life was about to begin. It was scary, but she felt energized by it. She wasn't sure where she would go or what she would do. There was a great big world out there and plenty of choices. However, there was one thing she had to do first.

She turned and walked towards Anthony, who stood by the flickering bonfire. The setting sun was behind him and the last dying rays shone down on him, making him look more otherworldly than ever.

‘We should find Goose,' said Helen.

‘We?'

Helen shrugged. ‘I feel somehow responsible.'

Anthony nodded. He understood. ‘I think I might know where he's going,' he said.

A thought occurred to Helen. ‘Who are you?'

‘That's a long story,' said Anthony. They turned and headed to the angel gates and the busy road beyond.

The sun dipped behind the buildings and the streetlights flickered to life as Goose sprinted through the streets. Most of the snow had turned to slush and the pavements were grey and wet. However, there was a chill in the air that held the promise of more snow to come. It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve and the roads were quiet. Most people were at home with their families by now. Goose could hear carol singing in the distance, carried on the breeze. He wasn't sure exactly where it was coming from. He could just make out enthusiastic snatches of ‘Deck the Halls'.

‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, Fa la la la la, la la la la, 'Tis the season to be jolly …'

Goose didn't feel very jolly. He pushed on. His lungs
felt as if they had shrivelled to nothing and a great bony hand was reaching into his chest and squeezing them tightly so he couldn't get any more air in.

He took short cuts everywhere he could. He knew this city better than anyone. The most direct route to the old Indian lady's house from the cemetery meant Goose had to go past his own house. He didn't plan on going in, but as he ran past something made him stop. He couldn't explain what it was, but he felt an overwhelming need to check on his nan.

Goose ran through the front door. The house was quiet.

‘Nan?' he called.

‘Is that you, Goose dear?' He heard his nan's quavering voice coming from the kitchen. ‘We're in here.'

Goose headed to the kitchen, and it was only as he was on the threshold, his hand reaching out for the door handle, about to enter, that Nan's use of the word ‘we' registered with him. He had enough time to think,
What does she mean, ‘we'?
but not enough time to stop himself opening the door. Goose entered, and instantly wanted to back up and run the other way. Nan was sitting at the kitchen table flanked by a PC on one side and a WPC on the other. The PC, Storbridge was his name, stood up as Goose clattered into the room. He was big and imposing. He had hands the size of frisbees.

‘Richard,' he said, ‘I'm PC Storbridge, this is WPC Havelock. Your probation officer called us. Why don't you
come and sit down?' Storbridge's voice was thunderous even though he was speaking at a neutral level. Goose wondered what it would sound like when he shouted.
Would it rattle the plates? Could it bring the building crashing down?

Goose ran quickly through his options. He had to get out of there. Surely the best thing to do would be to double back on himself, but Storbridge must have been able to tell what he was thinking because he said: ‘Don't try running, son. You'll only make things worse. Sit down.'

Goose looked forlorn. His shoulders sagged and he moved towards the kitchen table. As he eased himself into a chair, PC Storbridge and WPC Havelock started to sit too. Then, at the very last moment, as the two police officers lowered their guard and their bottoms touched their chairs, Goose jumped up, spun on his heels and raced back out of the kitchen. Storbridge and Havelock scrambled to their feet and gave chase.

Goose had a healthy head start, but the front door slowed him down. The wood in the door was warped from the damp autumn and it would stick from time to time. Now was one of those times. It only held him up for a second or two, but it was enough. Storbridge and Havelock barrelled into the hallway just as Goose strained to yank the door open. As it started to swing back, Storbridge's massive hand reached out, thumped against the door
above Goose's head and slammed it shut. Goose was trapped.

‘That was a very silly thing to do,' said Storbridge. Goose said nothing. He turned around to face the two coppers and wondered if he could get past them and back into the kitchen. Unfortunately the hallway was far too narrow. Storbridge alone practically filled it.

‘You go make sure the old girl's all right,' Storbridge said to Havelock. From the look on her face it didn't appear she enjoyed being ordered around by her colleague, but she nodded and headed back to the kitchen. Storbridge turned to Goose. ‘Now, Steve McQueen, let's turn out your pockets.'

Goose frowned. ‘Who's Steve McQueen?' he asked.

Storbridge shook his head indignantly. ‘You kids today. You don't know you're born. Come on. Pockets.'

The last thing in the world Goose wanted to do was reveal what he had in his pockets, but he couldn't think of a way out. Slowly, reluctantly, he started to empty them.

In the kitchen, WPC Havelock closed the door behind her. She could see that Nan was looking distressed by the drama unfolding around her. Nan was still wearing her apron and she was twisting the material in her hands and muttering inaudibly to herself.

‘Shall I make us a nice cup of tea?' said WPC Havelock.

‘He's a good boy, he is,' said Nan, out loud but not necessarily to Havelock.

‘I'm sure he is, Mrs Thornhill. Don't you worry yourself. We all just want what's best for you and Richard.'