Lost Christmas by David Logan

gutters, retracing her steps from the day before. What had she done? She had gone to the post office in the morning and sent a birthday card to her niece, Asha, who lived in Toronto with a very boring man called Tim. After the post office she had stopped off at the library to change her books. If she had taken it off while she was out, then she would have put it into her bag. But she had gone through her bag. Tipped it out on the kitchen table. It definitely wasn’t there. That thought made her heart ache. If it had fallen out of her bag, would she have noticed? And why did it have to snow last night of all nights? It made her search so much harder. Her banglecould be next to her but covered in a thick layer of snow so she would never know.
    She turned the corner of Sutherland Road and saw the bus stop ahead. She had walked from the library to the bus stop. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground as she went.
    There was a young woman at the bus stop with a toddler in a buggy, which was loaded down with shopping. ‘You all right, love?’ she asked. Lal looked up at her with teary eyes. ‘Is something the matter?’
    â€˜I’ve lost a bangle. It’s gold. In the shape of two snakes. It’s very precious to me. I can’t think where I could have lost it. I’ve been retracing my steps from yesterday.’ After fifty-four years there was only the merest hint of her native Gujerati accent left in her voice. Lal sounded Mancunian now.
    The young woman looked around her. She saw a drain and crossed to it, peering down into the darkness. She frowned. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
    Lal went over and looked down too. Both women saw something glinting, something metallic, in the shadows of the drain, but couldn’t make out what it was. Lal’s heart leaped. Could it be her bangle? She dropped to her knees, taking the young woman by surprise.
    â€˜Maybe I should do that,’ she said.
    Lal smiled. ‘You’re very sweet, love, but you don’twant to get all mucky.’ She threaded her fingers through the grating and stretched her hand down as far as it would go, but the glinting object was agonizingly just out of her reach. She gave up. ‘Can’t reach it!’
    The young woman was a good bit shorter than Lal, so there was no way she would be able to reach it if Lal couldn’t. She looked around and saw a man in a heavy trench coat on the other side of the road. He was staring up at a building site opposite.
    â€˜â€™Scuse me! ‘Allo!’ she called.
    Anthony turned to look. Was that young woman calling to him? He looked around and didn’t see anyone else so he crossed the street. As he drew closer, the old Indian lady got to her feet with the young woman’s assistance.
    â€˜Where are the flats?’ asked Anthony, pointing at the building site.
    â€˜What?’ said the young woman. ‘No, they haven’t built them yet.’
    â€˜But I remember them,’ said Anthony, looking bewildered.
    â€˜There used to be an old factory there. They knocked it down … to build flats.’
    Anthony looked across the street to the building site. Something wasn’t right. He remembered them, and they weren’t new. They were grubby and run-down. He was lost in his thoughts when the young woman broke through.
    â€˜Listen, could you help? This lady’s lost a bangle. Looks like a snake.’
    â€˜Two cobras,’ added Lal, in case that would help.
    â€˜Quiver,’ said Anthony automatically.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜It’s a quiver of cobras,’ explained Anthony. A crow sitting on a nearby telegraph pole squawked and caught Anthony’s attention. ‘A murder of crows’. An old lady trotted past with a Pekinese dog on a short lead. ‘A pomp of Pekinese.’ The facts came tumbling out of Anthony seemingly at random.
    Lal and the young woman exchanged concerned looks. Both considered the