Free Lost Christmas by David Logan Page B

Christmas. She remembered that line in
Robin Hood
, the one when the Sheriff of Nottingham, played by that actor who’s in everything … she was terrible with names … cancelledChristmas in a fit of pique. That’s what Henry was like. The thought made her laugh.
    â€˜What’s so funny?’ Milly was sitting on the piano stool, swinging her bare feet back and forth.
    Helen shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just … you loved Christmas.’
    â€˜I still do,’ said Milly. ‘I wish we had a tree this year.’
    â€˜Me too,’ said Helen.
    â€˜Why don’t you get one? Today.’
    â€˜It would upset your father,’ said Helen.
    â€˜He doesn’t seem to worry about upsetting you,’ said Milly.
    â€˜Now that’s not fair,’ said Helen, frowning.
    Milly slid off the stool and crossed to the door. She turned and looked at her mother. She shrugged. ‘It’s not me saying that,’ she said. ‘After all, I’m not even here.’ And with that Milly faded away.
    It was one year ago today that Milly had died. Helen spoke to her more and more frequently, and she always missed her when she left.

10
THE MAN WHO MADE IT SNOW

    Goose couldn’t sit still. He would sit down for a second or two, then jump to his feet, striding back and forth on the far side of Frank’s stained and scuffed coffee table. Frank was sprawled out on the sofa sipping from a can of Beck’s, watching Goose’s maniacal marching, feeling a little fatigued by the frenzied activity before him, as Goose described his encounter with the weirdo in the park.
    â€˜And then he goes,’ said Goose, pausing for effect, ‘“She lost her bangle, you stole it and you lost your dog.”’ Goose looked at Frank, adding a little involuntary affirmative nod of the head, unconsciously telling Frank it was time for himto agree that what had happened was extraordinary and twisted. Frank took a sip of his lager and said nothing. Not the reaction Goose wanted. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek. ‘So what do you think?’
    Frank just scratched at the ginger stubble on his jawline. ‘I don’t know, Goose. There’s a lot of strange people in the world.’
    â€˜You reckon he’s some sort of undercover copper?’
    Frank’s brow knitted as he ran over everything Goose had just told him, wondering if he had missed something; namely the bit that suggested that the bloke hanging about in the park was the Old Bill. Frank shook his head.
    â€˜Be serious, Goose. Manchester’s finest have got better things to do than hang about in cold parks talking to kids on Christmas Eve. They could get themselves arrested.’
    At that, Goose plopped down on the sofa, threw his head back, looked up at the ceiling and huffed. Frank wasn’t treating this with the importance it deserved. Frank could see the irritation writ large on Goose’s face. He felt bad, but still had the embers of a hangover so had to force himself to care. All he could think of to say was, ‘So he have a name, then?’
    â€˜Anthony,’ answered Goose, then added quickly, ‘though he said it wasn’t.’
    â€˜Wasn’t what?’
    â€˜His name.’
    Frank closed his eyes and concentrated. He rubbed his eyes. This conversation was more than he could handle. ‘I don’t understand. Was it his name or not?’
    Goose shrugged. ‘He had a badge that said, “I’m Anthony. How—”’
    â€˜â€“ can I help?’ Frank interrupted, finishing the sentence for Goose.
    â€˜Yeah, that’s right.’ Now Goose had the same confused look on his face as Frank. ‘How’d you know that?’
    â€˜Cos I met him,’ said Frank. ‘Last night. Near the Witches. I think he made it snow.’
    â€˜You what?’
    Frank suddenly realized how daft that sounded. ‘Maybe it was a