Lost Christmas (22 page)

‘I don't understand,' Lal said.

‘The boy who stole it is bringing it back.'

Helen glanced at Anthony: impressed by his faith in Goose.

‘Well, you'd better come in then,' said Lal, and she opened her door wider.

Helen and Anthony stepped inside, wiping their feet on the doormat, and looked around Lal's small living room. There were two armchairs; one high-backed and the other low, with rounded arms. They were both covered in the same red leather and faced an old chunky television set that must have been twenty years old. There was a little set of three stacking tables nestled between the two chairs. One of the chairs was covered in magazines, newspapers and books of Sudoku puzzles. This was Meher's chair.

Anthony crossed to the French windows and saw only the reflection of the room he was in. It was pitch black outside. ‘Are there any lights?' he asked Lal. She nodded, reached behind the curtain and flicked a switch. Outside hundreds of small white lights blazed into life. It was a wondrous sight. The strings of fairy lights were arranged around the shrines and statues, creating the most extraordinary display. They looked like a bright, chaotic spider's web stretching around the whole garden.

‘Put them in for Diwali,' said Lal. ‘But they looked so good I left them up for Christmas.'

Anthony pushed down the handle and opened up the doors. He stepped outside and walked to the middle of the small garden, turning in a circle, taking in the snow-covered spectacle around him with a blissful smile on his face. It had started to snow again, lightly but getting heavier. Lal's garden hadn't been disturbed since the snowfall of the previous night apart from the tracks of a few animals, mostly birds and cats: the birds looking for food, the cats looking for birds. Goose's footprints from the previous night had been obliterated almost as soon as he had left.

‘It's beautiful,' Anthony said to Lal.

‘Thank you. I know,' said Lal, smirking a little. ‘This is my little slice of heaven on earth.'

Somewhere in the distance a church clock started to chime the hour. Anthony stopped and tilted his head to listen. He nodded to himself.

‘He's coming,' he said.

‘Who? Goose?' asked Helen. ‘How do you know?'

All Anthony could do was shrug. He had absolutely no idea how he knew, but he felt sure that Goose would be there any moment. The three of them stood and waited in silence. The clock stopped chiming. Still they waited. After a while they all started to feel a little silly, standing there in the snow, all shivering, their teeth chattering.

‘Shall I put the kettle on?' said Lal.

‘Ooh, yes, please,' said Helen.

‘Why not?' said Anthony, and the three of them started back inside. ‘I'm sure he'll turn up sooner or later,' he said.

Just as they were about to step inside, they heard a scrambling noise behind them. All three stopped and turned. They saw a hand reach up and over the high brick wall. A moment later, Goose pulled himself up into view. He scraped his burnt hand on the rough stone on top of the wall and stopped until the stinging passed. He looked down and saw Lal, Helen and Anthony watching him. No one said anything. Goose hauled himself up and over and dropped down into Lal's garden in much the same way he had done the previous night when he robbed her.

Instinctively Anthony and Helen moved aside, allowing Lal to pass between them. She stood on the edge of the lawn and looked at Goose. He felt terribly self-conscious, what with everyone staring at him, but he was so close to the end now. He took a deep breath and stepped forward. He crossed the snow-covered lawn towards Lal. As he did so, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bangle.

‘I really am very sorry,' he said, and held it out to her. A tear sprang from Lal's eye and she smiled beatifically as she gazed down at her bangle. Then she reached out and took it from Goose. She slipped it on to her wrist and savoured the familiar feeling of its weight.

‘You've caused me a lot of worry,' said Lal, but there was no anger or recrimination in her voice. She was merely stating a fact. ‘I hope you had a good reason for taking it.'

Goose considered his answer carefully and then shook his head. ‘Not really.'

‘At least you're honest.' She paused. ‘Well, you know, for a thief.'

‘Are you angry?' asked Goose.

‘Very,' said Lal.

Goose was confused. She didn't seem very angry. He wondered if pointing that out might be a mistake, but he couldn't quite stop himself. ‘You don't seem very angry,' he said.

‘What have I got to be angry about? I've got my bangle back, haven't I?' The truth was that Lal had been angry and desperately sad all day, but none of that mattered now. Not now her precious bangle had been returned. Lal held up her arm, rotating it gently. A thousand tiny lights glittered over the bangle's polished surface, making it look truly magical. The cobras looked so lifelike that for a moment Goose half expected them to uncoil and hiss.

‘What's the writing say?' asked Goose.

‘It's Sanskrit,' said Lal. ‘It's a quote about Shiva. Do you know who that is?' Goose shook his head. ‘People always think he's the god of destruction, but he isn't. Shiva just
knows that sometimes you have to destroy to begin again. To make the world a better place.'

Goose's brow furrowed as he thought about that. He couldn't fathom what that might mean. A thought was knocking at the periphery of his mind. He didn't want to let it in so he concentrated on something else and cast his mind back to history lessons. Wars were destructive. They destroyed a lot of things. Did they make the world a better place? Maybe on a worldwide scale. Maybe the world was a better place because of the Second World War, which he had learned about at school. Nazis = bad. No Nazis = good. That seemed to be the gist of history with Mr O'Brien. But what about all the people who had died? Being destroyed wasn't good for them or the people they left behind.

He thought about Kieran Moss, who was in his year at school. They had been friends once – back when he'd had friends. Kieran's older brother, Graham, was in the army and went out to Afghanistan. The convoy he was in was attacked and Private Graham Moss was killed. He was nineteen years old. He was given a medal, which Kieran brought into school one day. Goose remembered thinking to himself:
What use is a soddin' medal?
Was a medal really a fair swap for a brother? He remembered Graham and his mates would let them play footie with them. He'd liked Graham. He knew he would rather have a brother who let him play football than a medal any day. Just like he'd
rather have his mum and dad back than … There was that treacherous thought that had been trying to get in. It had found a way, snuck in through the back door when he wasn't looking. Now he was thinking about his mum and dad and he couldn't stop. They were destroyed. How was anything better now?

The emotion of the moment got to him and tears started to well up in Goose's eyes, but he refused to give in. He wouldn't cry. He rubbed his face vigorously. Blotting the tears.

‘That's not true,' he said, shaking his head.

Lal shrugged and smiled patiently. ‘Like most things in life, young man, it depends on your point of view.'

Still shaking his head, Goose said, ‘World's not a better place without me mum and dad.'

Lal stopped to consider Goose's words. Of course, there was no way she could have known his story. No one had mentioned it. ‘Oh, I'm sorry,' she said. She reached out but Goose pulled away. Being touched by anyone right now would be disastrous. He'd be bawling like a newborn and he knew it. He kept his mouth tightly shut, choking back the sobs that were building up in his throat, locking them away until they passed. He turned to Anthony.

‘Now, where's Mutt?' Goose demanded. ‘You said I'd get him back if I did the right thing.'

‘Did I?' asked Anthony, thinking back. He couldn't recall
saying that, but of course that didn't mean anything. Goose thought about it too and he knew that's not what Anthony had promised. He, Goose, had come to that conclusion on his own and was loath to let go of it. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate, but contemplate it he did. He couldn't stop himself. His eyes hurt from forcing himself not to cry, his throat hurt for the same reason, and there was a pain in his chest as if someone was squeezing his heart. His legs felt weak, like they were about to give out from under him.

‘He's not coming back, is he?' said Goose. ‘There isn't any magic. You're just some nutter.'

Anthony shrugged. ‘Maybe, but—'

‘No. No “but”,' said Goose, cutting him off. ‘I'm going into care and dogs … they run away.' Goose couldn't keep the tears out of his voice any more. He fought hard not to give in, but it was no use. His eyes were red and his throat felt dry. It hurt to swallow. ‘Or get knocked over.' Images of Mutt lying dead or worse, injured, bleeding and in pain, in a gutter somewhere flooded into Goose's mind's eye. He screwed his eyes up tightly to try to block them out, but it was no good. His mounting anger had kept them at bay, but now the dam had well and truly burst. ‘He's all I had left,' Goose wailed. ‘It's not fair. Why is everything being taken away from me?' He covered his face with his arms to muffle his sobs.

Helen stepped forward, the mother in her needing to comfort the child in front of her. Within seconds, thoughts of a new life filled her mind. She was a mother without a child, and here was a child without a mother. A child so much in need. As was she. She so desperately needed a child to love and care for. She had been a good mother. A loving mother. She had devoted so much of those six years that Milly had been alive to raising her daughter as well as anyone could: teaching her, loving her, protecting her. Of course she had failed in that last aspect and her failure had had terrible consequences, but that had been an accident. It was not her fault, she told herself, thinking back to what she had said to Goose in the chapel. She didn't fully believe it, but she told herself again:
it wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people. There is no pattern, no rhyme or reason. It's just life, and you make of it what you will
.

She saw her future now: her future with Goose. No Henry. He was gone. Goose needed her.

‘Goose …' She started to speak, was about to wrap her arms around him and comfort him, but Anthony held up a hand and stopped her. That one simple gesture brought her plans crashing down around her. It wasn't lost on her how ridiculously easy it was for him to stop her in her tracks. And, as if a back door in her head had sprung open, the thought came that although Goose could be a replacement
for her own lost girl, what she really, truly wanted was to have her daughter back. To have Milly back. She could be a good mother to Goose but not the one he really wanted, no more than he could ever be the child she truly wanted. That child was dead and buried and could not come back. Ever.

Helen turned away. She didn't want to be here any more. She wanted to run. It felt to her as if the walls of this tiny garden were closing in on her. She felt like screaming. She opened her mouth to say she was leaving, but no sound came out. She was frozen. She couldn't speak. She couldn't move.

‘Hold out your hand,' said Anthony to Goose. ‘Where you burned it. Hold it out.'

‘Why?' asked Goose.

‘Because I've realized something. Something extraordinary has happened. Because I remember, you see.'

‘Remember? Remember what?' said Goose quietly.

‘Everything. Everything I'd lost. It's come back.'

‘What? When?'

‘In the cemetery. When you burned your hand.' Goose looked at his palm. It was red and blistered. It throbbed. ‘I remembered my name and how I got here and why I'm here.'

‘Y-you've remembered your name?' said Goose. ‘It's not Anthony then?'

Anthony shook his head. ‘Told you I didn't feel like an Anthony.'

‘So what is it?'

‘Hold out your hand,' Anthony said again. Goose didn't move. Anthony could see he thought it was a trick. ‘It's not a trick,' he said. ‘Hold out your hand.' Still Goose didn't move. ‘Goose.' Anthony spoke softly. ‘Trust me.'

Goose couldn't see where this was going. His mind was a mess. For most of the day, or at least the last half, he had just focused on getting here and returning the bangle. He had convinced himself that everything would be all right then. He would get Mutt back. He hadn't let himself think about what would happen after that. Now he thought about it. He wouldn't be allowed to keep Mutt. Mutt would be taken away from him and he would be taken away from Nan. She would be locked up in some dreary home that he knew she would hate. He would … what? Go to some horrible foster family or a care home full of unpleasant angry kids who didn't want to be there any more than he did. He was already planning his escape. He'd lost the money Frank had given him, but he had some more at home. He wondered if that was still there. Had the police searched his room? The money, proceeds of crime, was not particularly well hidden. There'd been no need. He knew Nan wouldn't go looking for it. All he had to do was put it somewhere
where she wouldn't take it by accident. Like the time he had hidden three hundred pounds in his trainers, only to come home and discover Nan had given away all his left shoes. He had no idea what had been going through her muddled head, but she had collected the left one of all her pairs of shoes and all of Goose's and given them away. She couldn't remember who to. Now he hid his money, rolled up in a sock, in one of the hollow tubular legs of his bed. He was fairly confident that Nan wouldn't give his bed away.

So all he had to do was get home, get into his room and out again without the coppers catching him. He wasn't sure whether that was going to be possible. But then again, did he even want to go? Alone. Without Mutt, nothing mattered now. First his mum and dad, then his nan. Maybe not in body, but definitely in mind. All he had had left was Mutt and now he was gone too.