Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Schilling. ‘Very polite.’

  ‘Manners are so important. My old mum used to say—’ ‘Your mother?’ interrupted Mr Schilling. ‘Why bring her up?’

  ‘I’m just making conversation! I had a lovely mum, I did. Handsome woman. Lovely flowing red hair all down her back. None on her head, mind you.’

  ‘That’s an old one!’ laughed Owen.

  Mr Sparks looked up at him reproachfully. ‘Of course it’s an old one. But it was brand new two hundred years ago, when I first heard it. Why is everyone a critic these days? It’s so easy to criticise …’ His eyes seemed to narrow. ‘Tell you what, if you’re so good, Owie Bowie, why don’t you tell me a joke?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t …’

  ‘No, come on, big mouth. Let’s hear it. Give me your best shot.’

  ‘Umm … all right then.’ Owen thought for a moment and then remembered a silly little joke he’d heard from one of the boys in school. ‘Why is a dog like a tree?’ he asked.

  Mr Sparks rolled his eyes. ‘They both lose their bark when they die.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve heard it before.’

  ‘Heard it? I wrote it! Give me another one.’

  ‘Er … well, I …’

  ‘Come on, come on, that was useless. Try again!’

  ‘Umm … all right. Why did the dentist seem sad?’

  ‘Because he always looked down in the mouth! Oh, for goodness’ sake, you can do better than that, surely?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if—’

  ‘Tell you what. Tell me one I don’t know the answer to and I’ll give you threepence. How would that be?’

  ‘That would be great, only—’

  ‘Come on, come on, stop making excuses. Hit me with it!’

  ‘All right.’ Owen considered for several moments and then thought he had the answer. ‘What’s green with wheels?’ he asked.

  Mr Sparks looked stumped by that one. ‘Er … a green motor car?’ he suggested. Owen shook his head. ‘A train? A trolley bus. A … pram?’ Owen just kept shaking his head. ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Mr Sparks, after a long silence. He sounded quite annoyed about it. ‘What is green with wheels?’

  ‘Grass,’ said Owen. He paused for effect. ‘I lied about the wheels.’

  Mr Sparks eyes bulged and for a moment, he looked absolutely furious. ‘You … you cheated!’ he complained.

  ‘No he didn’t,’ said Mr Schilling. ‘He just got the better of you, Charlie. There’s not many people who can do that.’

  ‘You stay out of this!’ Mr Sparks studied Owen for a few moments in silence. Then his wide mouth relaxed into a grin. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Otto, give him threepence.’

  ‘But you made the bet!’ protested Mr Schilling.

  ‘I know that. But I can’t give it to him, can I? Come on, stump up!’ Mr Schilling frowned but he reached out to a pile of change on the bedside cabinet, extracted a coin and handed it to Owen. Owen smiled at it before slipping it into his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve just made my mind up about this lad,’ announced Mr Sparks. ‘Otto, I wouldn’t mind having a little chat with him on my own. I think you’d feel much better if you had a nap.’

  ‘I don’t want a nap,’ said Mr Schilling.

  ‘Who said I’m giving you a choice?’

  ‘Look, I want to know what you—’

  ‘Cyan, magenta, ultramarine,’ said Mr Sparks in a monotone. ‘Falling … very … slowly.’

  An incredible thing happened. Mr Schilling’s eyes closed and, quite suddenly, he was fast asleep. His bony chest rose and fell silently. Mr Sparks gazed at him for a moment and then turned his gaze back to Owen. ‘That’s got rid of the old fool,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s talk turkey.’

  Owen took a step back from the bed, his heart thumping in his chest. It had been weird enough before, when Mr Schilling was awake and not actually touching the dummy. Now …

  ‘Who … who’s operating you?’ cried Owen.

  Mr Sparks moved his eyebrows up and down. ‘Take a wild guess,’ he said. ‘I told you before, I do all the work here.’

  ‘But … that’s … that’s not … possible.’

  ‘Think not?’ Mr Sparks grinned delightedly. ‘Then what do you call this, sunshine? An optical illusion?’ His brows furrowed. ‘Oh come on, step over here, I’m not going to bite you!’

  Owen took a cautious step closer to the bed. He reached out a finger and prodded Mr Schilling’s shoulder. The old man stirred a little but didn’t wake.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘Mesmerised. A little trick I picked up in Paris when we were touring there in the forties.’

  ‘The forties?’ Owen was puzzled. ‘But … it’s only 1919.’

  ‘The eighteen forties, you idiot! I learned it from this Swiss chap, Charles La Fontaine. Very good, he was. Comes in handy from time to time.’

  ‘I don’t really understand how …’

  ‘Never mind about that! Come on, sit down for a minute, I need to have a serious talk with you.’

  Owen lowered himself carefully onto the side of the bed. He felt as though he was dreaming this and part of him stayed tense, ready to jump up and make a run for it if he needed to.

  ‘Relax,’ Mr Sparks told him. ‘Now, listen carefully. I need your help.’ His blue eyes seemed to concentrate their gaze. ‘We don’t have much time. Old Otto here, anyone can see he’s on his last legs. Been good to me over the years, I’ll say that for him, but I’ve put gold in his pocket and food in his belly, so I’d say he’s done well out of the arrangement. But he’s slowing down. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this world, it’s that you have to stay on the move. That’s where you come in.’

  ‘Look, I don’t really—’

  ‘Shut your cake hole and listen! There are some people after me. Bad people. I won’t say too much about them, but you wouldn’t want to mess with ’em. They’ve been after me for a while now. Me and Mr S, we’ve been keeping one step ahead of them, see? But we used to be six steps ahead. And it’s poor old Otto, slowing us down. Chances are, they’ll come looking for me before very much longer and if I continue to hang around in this dump of a hotel, they’ll catch me.’

  ‘Who are these people?’ asked Owen. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘That’s too complicated to explain right now. All you need to know about them is that they are villains. Now, you know barely anything about me, we’ve only just met, but let me ask you a serious question. Do you want something bad to happen to me?’ He moved his eyebrows up and down. ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘Er … no, of course not.’

  ‘Well then, here’s what’s going to happen. Tomorrow morning, early … and I mean really early, you are going to come to this room and collect me – and then we’ll leave this place together and we’ll get as far away from here as possible.’

  Owen laughed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘I know so,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘I know it so deeply it hurts. Let me ask you this, Owie, do you like it here?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Tell the truth!’

  ‘Umm … no. No I don’t like it, not really. But that’s not the—’

  ‘And we already know how you feel about dear old Auntie Gwen.’

  Owen sighed. ‘That doesn’t mean I can just … run away.’

  ‘Of course it does! It’s your free pass to do exactly that. And don’t worry, Owie, I’ll make it worth your while. Stick with me, sunshine, and you’ll never be hungry again. You’ll never want for anything.’

  ‘But … what about Mr Schilling?’

  Mr Sparks twisted his head around to look up into the old man’s slumbering face. ‘He’s had his day,’ he said. ‘Aww, look at him. Poor old devil. Fair breaks my heart it does, to do this to him, but … now it’s a question of survival. He’s done his best by me but his best is no longer good enough. It’s time for fr
esh blood.’ He turned his head back to look at Owen. ‘I knew, the moment I heard your voice, Owie, that fresh blood was you.’

  ‘Oh … I see. But look, even if I wanted to leave, I can’t just …’

  ‘I understand only too well how these things work. It can’t all be one way, can it? I have to do something for you. So, let me ask you this, what is it you want more than anything?’

  ‘Want?’

  ‘Yes, what is it that rotten old Auntie Gwen won’t let you have?’

  Owen thought for a moment. ‘Well …’

  ‘Go on,’ Mr Sparks urged him. ‘Spill the beans.’

  ‘I keep asking her if we can go and visit my ma. But she just keeps putting it off. Like she doesn’t want to.’

  Mr Sparks’ eyes opened as wide as they could possibly go. Then he sniggered. ‘Aww, he wants to see his mummy!’ he jeered.

  Owen started to get up from the bed. ‘If you’re going to make a joke of it …’

  ‘No, wait!’ Mr Sparks’ arm shot out and one hand grabbed Owen’s wrist with a power that shocked him. He stared down at the hand in dismay.

  ‘You … you can move,’ he said.

  ‘A bit,’ admitted Mr Sparks. ‘Not that well, though. Lack of practice, I suppose.’ Mr Sparks’ glossy lips peeled back revealing his shockingly white teeth. ‘Sorry about the sarcasm, couldn’t help myself. It’s like a reflex action with me. Of course we can go and see your mum. Provided she’s not somewhere impossible.’

  ‘She’s in the … the …’

  ‘Nut house?’ offered Mr Sparks, helpfully. ‘The booby hatch, the funny farm, the …’

  ‘The North Wales Asylum,’ said Owen frostily. ‘In Denbigh.’

  Mr Sparks nodded. ‘Well, that’s easy enough. It’s barely spitting distance. We’ll go there first and once you’ve seen your mum, we’ll go where I want to go.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘All in good time, young man, all in good time. Now. Do we have a deal?’ He lifted the hand from Owen’s wrist and held it out as if to shake.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Owen. ‘If Aunt Gwen catches me, she’ll cane the britches off me.’

  ‘Hmm. And she treats you so nicely now, doesn’t she?’

  Owen scowled. ‘She treats me like a servant,’ he said. ‘She works me every spare minute that God sends. And she’s beaten me already. Three times.’

  Mr Sparks waggled his eyebrows. ‘Oh, well I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave all that,’ he said. ‘Very enticing.’

  ‘But we … we would come back again, wouldn’t we?’

  Mr Sparks looked back at him. ‘Why exactly would you want to?’ he asked.

  Owen had to admit that he couldn’t think of an answer to that one. He looked doubtfully at Mr Schilling, who was still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling. ‘And … what about him?’ he asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, don’t you think he’d miss you?’

  ‘I reckon he’d be grateful. He’s been saying for ages that all he wants is a nice rest. So why not let him have one? Now, Owen, look at me for a moment.’ The blue eyes focused on Owen and seemed to concentrate their gaze. ‘Not a lot of people know this, but when I was made, they got my eyes slightly wrong. One of them is a tiny bit bigger than the other. Can you see which one?’ Owen stared into Mr Sparks’ eyes. He could feel his resistance slipping away like water draining through a colander. A strange red mist seemed to flow through his mind. When Mr Sparks spoke next, his voice had acquired a strange, monotonous tone and Owen felt as if every word was being chiselled into the inside of his skull. ‘You know what to do, Owie,’ murmured Mr Sparks. ‘Be here tomorrow at first light. Four a.m. Be here … or spend your entire life regretting that you didn’t come.’ He turned his head to look at Mr Schilling. ‘Ultramarine, magenta, cyan,’ he said. ‘Rising … very … quickly.’

  And the old man opened his eyes. He blinked a couple of times and then looked from Mr Sparks to Owen. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Must have nodded off for a moment. Did I … miss anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘Owie was just telling some more of his jokes. To tell you the truth, I was jealous of you.’

  ‘Jealous?’ muttered Mr Schilling.

  ‘Yes. I kept wishing I was asleep.’ He sniggered. ‘Anyway, he was just leaving, weren’t you, Owie?’

  Owen nodded. He got up from the bed but he still felt dazed and slightly nauseous. I’m not coming back here at four in the morning, he told himself. No way. But even as he thought it, the words somehow lacked conviction. ‘I’ll see you both later,’ he said and headed for the door. He paused for a moment as he turned the door handle and looked back at them, lying side by side on the bed.

  ‘Now, Otto,’ Mr Sparks was saying, in that soft persuasive tone. ‘Why don’t you eat your sandwich like a good boy? You need to keep your strength up.’

  Owen went out, closing the door behind him.

  4

  Moonlight Flit

  Owen woke abruptly from a very bad dream. He lay on his back in his narrow bed trying to recall what it had been about, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember any details. Had it been something about … travelling through a forest? For a moment, some wisps of the dream came fleetingly back to him, but when he tried to seize on them, they burst apart like confetti and drifted beyond his reach. He always hated it when that happened.

  He wondered what time it was. Turning his head to the side, he peered at the cheap alarm clock on his bedside cabinet. A quarter to four in the morning. What could possibly have awoken him so early, tired as he was from a day of hard work? Then he remembered. Mr Sparks was expecting him. He’d told him to be there at four. Well, blow that, Owen told himself. If that stupid dummy thought that Owen was going to get out of a nice warm bed at this unearthly hour and go running off to God-knows-where, he had another think coming. Owen turned on to his side and closed his eyes, attempted to find a way back into the world of dreams – but he couldn’t do it. He kept experiencing a mental image of Mr Sparks’ shiny pink face, looking at him pleadingly.

  I’m not getting up, Owen told himself. I’m too tired. But even as he thought it, he found that he was pushing aside the bedcovers, as though his arms had a mind of their own. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sat up and reached out to strike a match and light the candle on the bedside table. He looked around at the bleak little box room that had been his sleeping quarters for the past ten months. Tucked away up on the third floor, it was a bare cheerless place with peeling wallpaper and a badly stained ceiling. There were a few cheap sticks of furniture – a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a bentwood chair – and that was all that Owen had to call his own.

  I’m not getting dressed, he decided. And found himself rising from the bed and doing exactly that. Now he was pulling the battered leather suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, where it had lain undisturbed ever since he arrived here, the action causing clouds of dust to swirl down around him. And now he was actually rooting in the wardrobe and throwing items of clothing into the suitcase, so it was clear that he was planning to do something. This is stupid, he thought. Because whatever happens, I’m not going downstairs.

  The next thing he knew he was putting on his overcoat and cap. Then he picked up the suitcase and pushed open the door of his bedroom. He stood in the gloom listening intently. A deep silence reigned, apart from the ticking of the big grandfather clock down in the hotel foyer. He thought about using the lift but decided that would be too noisy – so he crept down the staircase, placing each foot with great care, wincing at every creak of wood beneath his tread.

  The clock was softly striking four when he finally came to the door of Mr Schilling’s room. He lifted his hand to knock but then thought better of it, imagining the sound reverberating through the hotel. So he tried the handle instead and the door opened easily, silently. He peered into the room. The bedside lamp was on and he could see the two figures, still lying side
by side on the bed, the way he had left them. Mr Sparks was clearly wide awake, his eyes studying Owen as he closed the door gently behind him and moved closer. Mr Schilling was lying on his side, his face turned away.

  ‘Bang on time,’ whispered Mr Sparks. ‘Good lad.’

  ‘I don’t know why I came,’ said Owen sullenly. ‘I didn’t want to, but somehow I couldn’t stop myself. This is stupid.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘This is the cleverest thing you’ve ever done.’ He glanced quickly at Mr Schilling. ‘And keep your voice down,’ he hissed. ‘You don’t want to wake the old man, do you?’

  Owen frowned. ‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye to him?’ he murmured.

  ‘No. What’s the point? He needs his rest.’ He moved his eyebrows up and down, making that soft creaking sound. ‘Well, come on, what are you waiting for? Pick me up.’

  Owen set down the case and did as he was told. As he reached across Mr Schilling’s sleeping form, he noted that the old man wasn’t making a sound.

  ‘Is he all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, right as rain. Come along, we’re wasting time!’

  Owen lifted the dummy from the bed, once again marvelling at the weight and the warmth of him. He popped him against his shoulder, like a mother with a baby. ‘Is that what you’ve brought to carry me in?’ asked Mr Sparks doubtfully, peering over Owen’s shoulder.

  Owen looked down and realised that he was referring to the suitcase. ‘No, they’re my clothes,’ he said. ‘Aren’t we going to take the trunk?’

  Mr Sparks shook his head, making a rattling sound. ‘Oh yes, good idea! We’ll make great progress dragging that blooming thing around with us! I’ve been on at Otto for years about dumping it, but would he listen to me?’

  ‘But—’ Owen turned to look at the open trunk with its colourful posters and handbills. ‘It’s got so many lovely things in it.’

  ‘It’s dead weight,’ said Mr Sparks bluntly. ‘Stuff like that drags you down. From here on we’re going to be lighter, faster. It’ll help to keep us more than just one step ahead.’

  Owen wasn’t convinced. ‘But this case is full of my clothes,’ he protested.