Richard Thornhill drove north along Blackpool’s famous promenade. He could see the illuminated tower in all its splendour in the distance ahead. He hadn’t been back to Blackpool in twenty-odd years. Not since he had moved down south to seek his fortune, to find his place in the world.
Richard thought back to his childhood, growing up in Manchester. He thought back to the days when he was known as Goose. No one called him that now. Hadn’t for decades. He’d gone from Goose to Richie then to Richard or Rich, depending on who was addressing him. But never Goose.
He wondered what the boy he used to be would think about the man he had become. He was an architect now. And a successful one at that. He owned his own business with offices in London and New York, splitting his time between the two cities.
Richard had enough money in the bank to retire tomorrow if he wanted to. He had a beautiful wife, Chloe, three children and three dogs. He glanced over to the back seat where one of his dogs was curled up asleep. Officially the dog was called Porridge. He had made a mental note never to let his children name any more pets. He, however, called him Mutt, and the dog seemed to like that more. He was, after all, the great-great-grandson of the dog Richard had had as a kid. That Mutt had lived a long and happy life.
Richard was forty-four years old, though he had lived one of those years twice (‘the year that never was’, he liked to call it) so in reality he was forty-five. However, he had never told anyone what had happened on Christmas Eve all those years ago. Actually that wasn’t entirely true. Once, at university, at a party, he had got very drunk and told the whole story to a girl he was besotted with. She thought he was weird and never spoke to him again.
He had never told his parents. They’d retired a few years ago and now lived in the Lake District. After he’d done what he had to do tonight, he would drive there to spend Christmas with them. Chloe and the kids were there already, as was his little sister, Rebecca, her husband and their two children. Richard loved big family Christmases.
Earlier today he had stopped by the cemetery to visit his nan’s grave. She had died when he was seventeen. Her Alzheimer’s had been kept under control by his mother’s loving care, and it never got as bad as it had been sometimes during the year that never was.
‘In two hundred yards, turn left,’ said the satnav. Richard pressed a button on the steering wheel and the navigation map was overlaid on the windscreen. He could see the turn marked up ahead. He let go of the button and the overlay vanished. ‘Next left,’ said the satnav. Richard indicated and rolled to a stop. Traffic was thin at this time of night. He only had to wait for one taxi to slide past and then he turned.
It was a narrow side street, barely wide enough for his car. A lot of old roads in the north were not suitable for modern-day cars. He drove to the end of the street and a dead end. The beach was ahead and an alleyway led off to the left.
Richard stopped the car and got out. Mutt/Porridge woke up and yawned. Richard opened the back door for him and he jumped down.
‘Come on, Mutt,’ said Richard. The dog obediently followed his master. They veered off from the alleyway into a cardboard city that Richard remembered well from his childhood even though he had only been here once. He was aware that there were people all around them, but he couldn’t see anyone. There were small fires burning in large catering-size tin cans and the shadows moved. If his life had been different, this would have been his home. It had been his home but in a different life. One he didn’t know.
Richard and Mutt moved deeper into the cardboard city, and the further he went the less memorable things became. He stopped and looked around, looking for some sort of landmark that would trigger a memory. Then he saw it: the angel with a monkey’s head.
He moved towards the graffiti art and the shadowy alcove beyond. He stopped and listened. He had to filter out the distant roar of the sea and other sounds, but when he did he heard it: clackclackclackclackclack. He moved towards the sound and pulled the cardboard forward, revealing a young guy, barely twenty years old: real Anthony.
Real Anthony backed up, scrambling, scared. ‘I don’t want no trouble,’ he said.
‘Good. Me neither,’ said Richard. The young guy was shivering violently in his thin maroon jacket with yellow horizontal stripes and matching yellow trim.
Thirty-four years ago Richard/Goose had made a mental note to come back to this place, at this time, on this day to find the person whose life he had once given up his own for. His dad had been right. He had never forgotten something that important.
‘Hello, Anthony. My name’s Richard. You won’t remember me, but I remember you. What say you and I get out of this place? Got any plans for Christmas?’
The end