Lost Christmas by David Logan Page A

fact that Anthony was not quite right in the head. Anthony noticed the looks on their faces.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t really help, does it?’ He refocused. ‘A bangle, you say. Like a cobra.’
    â€˜Two cobras,’ corrected Lal.
    â€˜Yeah, well, we was wondering if that was it,’ added the young woman, pointing to the glinting metallic object in the drain. ‘Our arms aren’t long enough to reach.’
    Anthony nodded. He peered down into the drain and saw the glint. It didn’t cross his mind not to help, even though helping involved reaching down into the grubby drain. He took off his heavy overcoat and removed the fingerless glove from his right hand. Then he knelt down on the kerb and flexed his fingers as if he was a magicianabout to perform a coin trick. He slid his hand in between the narrow opening in the grate and stretched down as far as he could.
    His head was turned to one side and he was looking at the toddler sitting in his buggy. The boy ignored him. He was much more interested in pulling at one of the shopping bags hanging behind him.
    Anthony stretched down just a little bit more and managed to hook the tip of his middle finger around the metal object. It was curved and smooth; could be a bangle.
    â€˜Got it!’ exclaimed Anthony as he pulled it up. Lal and the young woman looked on expectantly as Anthony withdrew his arm. Lal’s face dropped when Anthony’s hand came out and she saw that he was holding a pair of scissors.
    â€˜Not a bangle,’ said Anthony. ‘Sorry. Invented by Leonardo da Vinci, you know,’ he added, indicating the scissors. ‘Do you want them?’
    Lal and the young woman both shook their heads no, and Anthony let them drop once again.
    â€˜Well, thank you for trying,’ said Lal, and she held out a hand to help him up. Anthony’s ungloved hand took hers, and as skin touched skin Anthony reacted immediately. He drew in a sharp breath. A shock wave tore through him. Energy coursed up his arm at lightning speed and exploded in the centre of his head. He was blinded by burstsof colour: oranges and reds and purples and whites. Then images started to bombard him. It was like a dream. There was no discernible beginning. He was just there.
There
was a wedding in India. There were mirrored shamiana tents, and garlands of flowers strung everywhere. It was the early fifties. There was nothing specific that Anthony could point at as an example of this, but, just as in a dream, he understood without understanding how.
    The bride was sitting in her wedding chair, wearing an exquisite red sari. The floor around her was festooned with a sea of orange carnations. She lifted her head. It was Lal, and she was just sixteen. She smiled up at her husband. His name was Meher and he was a handsome young man, though some ten years her senior. He looked more nervous than she as he presented her with an ornately carved box. He lifted the lid and showed her the contents. Lal liked what she saw and reached in, pulling out her gold cobra bangle. She slid it on to her delicate wrist …
    Without warning, the colours drained away like paintbrushes being washed clean and Anthony found himself looking at Meher and Lal standing in a rundown street in Manchester. Everything was blue-grey. All the life and joy of India had gone. They were outside Lal’s tiny terraced house. A gaggle of braying skinheads was coming along the road. They hurled abuse and bottlesat Meher and Lal. Meher hurried to open the front door while Lal clutched the cobra bangle on her wrist. Somehow Anthony understood that it gave her strength. She glared at the jeering skinheads as they passed. Meher had to pull his headstrong young wife into the house. He closed the door behind them, locking out the harsh and unfriendly world.
    Lal opened the back door and stepped out into a wilderness. The small garden was hugely overgrown and unloved.