him, but he would keep going, stumbling, slipping, but always forward.
âMUTT!â Goose was scared now. Mutt never, ever ran away. Not once. Not even when he was a puppy. All Goose ever had to do was call him and Mutt would come running. Goose knew someone must have taken him. It was the onlyexplanation. But who would take him and why? And, more importantly, where? â
MUTT!
â
Goose finally had to stop to catch his breath. He put his hands on his knees and gulped down great lungfuls of oxygen. Sweat poured off him, running down his face and dripping into the grey snow beneath him. He kept looking all around. The streets were busy. Half of Manchester seemed to be out doing last-minute Christmas shopping.
Suddenly he heard a bark somewhere in the distance. It was carried past him on the breeze. He stood up and looked around. Another bark. Still a long way off but from behind him. He spun round, looking along the street. He looked between the legs of thirty pedestrians in time to see something small and brown turning a corner.
âMutt?â He started running again. He ran the two hundred metres to the corner, weaving between people, twisting and turning, always moving forward, always keeping his eyes on the corner.
When he got there he looked into the adjacent street. No sign of a dog. But then he heard another bark.
âMUTT!â he called. Another bark and he continued running. Down the street to the next corner. A crossroads. He looked in all directions. No dogs. Another bark and he took off running again, to his left.
*
Anthony couldnât sit still. He was pacing back and forth, talking out loud. His only audience was a rather mangy-looking pigeon pecking at the remains of a bag of prawn-cocktail crisps that someone had tried to throw in a bin but missed.
âSomethingâs happened,â Anthony told the bird. âHappening,â he corrected himself, slumping down on a bench. âI canât work out which bitâs a dream and which bitâs real. Or maybe none of it is â¦â With that he jumped back up on to his feet and resumed his pacing. âOr perhaps I got knocked on the head.â He rubbed his gloved hands over his face and looked down at the pigeon. âAnd now Iâm talking to a pigeon.â Anthony stamped his foot in frustration, causing the bird to fly away.
âMUTT! HERE, BOY!â
Anthony turned in time to see Goose sprinting past. Instantly Anthony recognized him. He was the boy from the vision. The boy at the window. The thief.
Goose reached the middle of the park and stopped. He could see a long way in every direction and there was no sign of Mutt. Goose was ready to cry, but he sucked back the tears. He looked down and saw that his shoelace was untied. He focused on that, crouching down to tie it, forcing himself not to cry, willing the tears back into his tear ducts.
âAglet!â Goose heard the word from behind him andjumped up and spun round. He saw Anthony, who was frowning. Cross with himself because that wasnât the best way to start a conversation. Still, it was a way.
âYou what?â asked Goose.
âLittle hard bit at the end of your shoelace. Itâs called an aglet. And that â¦â Anthony pointed his finger at the gap between Gooseâs eyebrows. This was a bigger mistake. The attempt at physical contact put Goose on guard and he pulled back sharply. Anthony could see the wariness in the boyâs eyes. He was thinking Anthony was a nutter at best, a perv at worst. He would get away from him as quickly as he could. Anthony knew he didnât have long to get Gooseâs attention. He knew he should just get to the point, but he was unable to. Some sort of mental block somewhere was stopping him. Making him talk. He wondered if he had Touretteâs. Not that he shouted out swear words uncontrollably, but he assumed Touretteâs came in many different shapes and sizes.
âMUTT!â Goose was scared now. Mutt never, ever ran away. Not once. Not even when he was a puppy. All Goose ever had to do was call him and Mutt would come running. Goose knew someone must have taken him. It was the onlyexplanation. But who would take him and why? And, more importantly, where? â
MUTT!
â
Goose finally had to stop to catch his breath. He put his hands on his knees and gulped down great lungfuls of oxygen. Sweat poured off him, running down his face and dripping into the grey snow beneath him. He kept looking all around. The streets were busy. Half of Manchester seemed to be out doing last-minute Christmas shopping.
Suddenly he heard a bark somewhere in the distance. It was carried past him on the breeze. He stood up and looked around. Another bark. Still a long way off but from behind him. He spun round, looking along the street. He looked between the legs of thirty pedestrians in time to see something small and brown turning a corner.
âMutt?â He started running again. He ran the two hundred metres to the corner, weaving between people, twisting and turning, always moving forward, always keeping his eyes on the corner.
When he got there he looked into the adjacent street. No sign of a dog. But then he heard another bark.
âMUTT!â he called. Another bark and he continued running. Down the street to the next corner. A crossroads. He looked in all directions. No dogs. Another bark and he took off running again, to his left.
*
Anthony couldnât sit still. He was pacing back and forth, talking out loud. His only audience was a rather mangy-looking pigeon pecking at the remains of a bag of prawn-cocktail crisps that someone had tried to throw in a bin but missed.
âSomethingâs happened,â Anthony told the bird. âHappening,â he corrected himself, slumping down on a bench. âI canât work out which bitâs a dream and which bitâs real. Or maybe none of it is â¦â With that he jumped back up on to his feet and resumed his pacing. âOr perhaps I got knocked on the head.â He rubbed his gloved hands over his face and looked down at the pigeon. âAnd now Iâm talking to a pigeon.â Anthony stamped his foot in frustration, causing the bird to fly away.
âMUTT! HERE, BOY!â
Anthony turned in time to see Goose sprinting past. Instantly Anthony recognized him. He was the boy from the vision. The boy at the window. The thief.
Goose reached the middle of the park and stopped. He could see a long way in every direction and there was no sign of Mutt. Goose was ready to cry, but he sucked back the tears. He looked down and saw that his shoelace was untied. He focused on that, crouching down to tie it, forcing himself not to cry, willing the tears back into his tear ducts.
âAglet!â Goose heard the word from behind him andjumped up and spun round. He saw Anthony, who was frowning. Cross with himself because that wasnât the best way to start a conversation. Still, it was a way.
âYou what?â asked Goose.
âLittle hard bit at the end of your shoelace. Itâs called an aglet. And that â¦â Anthony pointed his finger at the gap between Gooseâs eyebrows. This was a bigger mistake. The attempt at physical contact put Goose on guard and he pulled back sharply. Anthony could see the wariness in the boyâs eyes. He was thinking Anthony was a nutter at best, a perv at worst. He would get away from him as quickly as he could. Anthony knew he didnât have long to get Gooseâs attention. He knew he should just get to the point, but he was unable to. Some sort of mental block somewhere was stopping him. Making him talk. He wondered if he had Touretteâs. Not that he shouted out swear words uncontrollably, but he assumed Touretteâs came in many different shapes and sizes.
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