by Danny Weston
With that, he’d turned on his heel and let himself out of the room. Wilkins stood there, staring stupidly at the card. Ruby reappeared in the doorway.
‘What was all that about?’ she asked.
Wilkins was still staring at the card, noting Quinn’s address in Buckinghamshire, a place that Wilkins had driven past a few times in the course of his duties. It was a handsome pile that was little short of a stately home. He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ll tell you something, Ruby. I’ve a feeling my luck’s about to change.’
8
Visiting Time
Ma still had a small room of her own, though the word ‘cell’ might have described it better. It was bare and cheerless, nothing but white-tiled surfaces and a single metal-framed bed. Peering through the grille on the steel door, Owen could see that she was sitting in her familiar spot in front of the barred window, gazing out at the hospital grounds. She was turned away from him and, for the moment, he couldn’t see her face. The orderly produced a large bunch of keys on a length of chain and proceeded to unlock the door. ‘Not too long now,’ he warned Owen. ‘She tires easily.’
Owen nodded. When the door swung open, he stepped into the room, but she didn’t turn to look at him.
‘I’ll be outside if you need me,’ added the orderly. ‘Just give me a shout.’ He looked at Owen intently. ‘You all right?’ he asked. Owen nodded. The orderly stepped back into the corridor, closing the door gently behind him.
Owen stood there. Now that he was here, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. When he’d visited before with Aunt Gwen, she’d always set the tone, prattling on about the hotel and the various problems she’d had to deal with, but Owen had never been much good at small talk. He set down the case on the tiled floor and moved nearer to her chair.
‘Ma,’ he said. ‘Ma, it’s me.’ Now she did glance up, her pale blue eyes flickering over him for a moment, but they registered no sign of recognition. She looked so thin, he thought, thin and pale and anxious, the eyes somehow too big in her ravaged face. She seemed to have aged several years since he last saw her. She wore a shapeless white hospital gown, from which her arms and legs protruded like white-painted sticks. ‘It’s Owen,’ he added, as though it might make some difference. He nearly said, ‘Your son,’ but stopped himself.
She nodded, sighed, as though his presence had somehow filled her with a terrible sadness. She turned her gaze back to the window. ‘He’s late,’ she said.
Owen fetched another chair from the far side of the room and set it down alongside hers. ‘Who’s late?’ he asked her, though he already knew the answer. This was a familiar refrain.
‘Gareth,’ she said. Owen’s father. ‘He said he’d be back for dinner but he’s terribly late.’ She shook her head. ‘It’ll be ruined.’ She seemed to consider for a moment. ‘Shall I give you yours now, or would you rather wait till he gets here?’
Owen didn’t know what to say to that. He reached out and enclosed one of her hands in both of his.
She looked down at the hands as though trying to figure them out, as if they were a puzzle that needed deciphering. ‘He promised me he’d be back for dinner,’ she repeated.
‘Ma, Da’s gone,’ said Owen. He didn’t know what else to say.
‘Gone?’ She turned her head and looked at him, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Gone where?’ she asked him.
There was a long silence while he considered some possible answers to her question. Gone away to war. Gone to be a soldier. Gone to hell and damnation. Gone to the silent dirt of an unmarked grave in France. But even if he’d known which one of these answers was correct, he couldn’t have brought himself to say any of them, so he simply told her, ‘I’m not really sure.’
She smiled. ‘Such a silly man,’ she said. ‘I told him, you should wear a scarf, it’s cold out there, you could catch a chill. But did he listen to me?’ She shook her head. ‘He never listens.’ She returned her gaze to the window. ‘So we’ll just sit here and wait for him, shall we?’
There was a long silence. Owen racked his brains trying to think of something else to say to her, but try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything. What was he supposed to do? Discuss the weather? Tell her about the horrible life he had suffered at Auntie Gwen’s hotel? Mention the recent Spanish ’flu epidemic that was in all the papers? Or, perhaps, let slip the fact that he was on the run with a ventriloquist’s dummy? Well, he had to try something so he opted for what seemed the easiest option.
‘The … the weather’s not bad for the time of year,’ he said.
Another long silence. It seemed she had no opinion on this.
‘They … they say we could be in for a bad winter, though.’
Again, silence.
Then to his absolute horror, he heard another voice, a high-pitched, muffled voice, coming from the suitcase on the other side of the room. ‘Oh, come on, Owie, is that the best you can do?’
Owen threw a furious glare in the direction of the suitcase. ‘Be quiet!’ he hissed. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’
‘I appreciate that. But I thought you came her to talk to her.’
‘I did, but—’
‘Well, you’re doing a terrible job of it, if you don’t mind me saying so. The weather? Surely you can do better than that?’
‘It … it’s none of your business!’
Now Ma had become aware of the new voice. She turned to look down at the case, clearly intrigued, a puzzled smile on her face. ‘Gareth?’ she murmured. ‘Is that you?’
‘No it is not!’ said Owen, a little more forcefully than he’d intended. She looked offended. ‘Ma, it’s just a … a friend,’ he said, not really knowing what else to say. ‘Just … somebody I met.’
‘A friend,’ echoed Ma. ‘In your suitcase?’
‘It’s hard to explain,’ said Owen. ‘You see, I—’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Dyer!’ said Mr Sparks, with exaggerated glee. ‘Owen’s told me so much about you.’
‘Has he really?’ Ma seemed delighted and, for the first time in ages, lucid. ‘Only good things. I hope.’
‘Oh yes, he speaks very highly of you, Mrs D. In fact, if I could get out of this ruddy case, I’d like to shake you by the hand. Any friend of Owen’s is a friend of mine and, after everything I’ve heard about you, it would be nice to actually clap eyes on you. I understand that Owen gets his good looks from your side of the family.’
‘Shut up!’ snapped Owen. ‘Stay out of this! I told you, it’s not your business.’
‘Owen!’ Ma looked appalled. ‘Don’t speak to your friend like that. Where are your manners?’ She smiled apologetically down at the case. ‘I’m sorry, Mr … I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.’
‘It’s Sparks, madam. Charlie Sparks. At your service.’
‘Mr Sparks. Delighted to meet you.’ She looked at Owen. ‘Well, don’t just sit there, Owen, get your friend out of that thing. He must be very hot.’
‘Yes, Owie, take me out for a moment, there’s a good fellow.’
Owen looked imploringly at his mother. ‘You really don’t want to meet him,’ he said.
‘Well, of course I do!’ she corrected him. ‘I like to meet all your friends.’ She gestured to the case, her expression cross. Owen sighed. He might have known the dummy would be incapable of keeping his mouth shut for more than ten minutes. There was nothing for it but to do as Ma asked. He got up from his chair and walked slowly over to the suitcase. He had a bad feeling about this. He kneeled down, unlatched the case and lifted the lid, scowling in at Mr Sparks’ pink, smiling face.
‘I’m warning you,’ he whispered. ‘Be on your best behaviour.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘I’ll just be my charming self.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Owen warned him.
He reached in and lifted the dummy into his arms. Then he stood up and started to walk back towards his mother.
&nbs
p; Her reaction was dramatic. Her eyes widened as she registered what Owen was carrying. Then she recoiled, so violently she almost seemed to shrink back into herself. Her features rearranged themselves into an expression of pure terror. ‘What’s … that?’ she hissed.
‘Steady on,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘You could hurt a fellow’s feelings!’
‘It’s all right,’ Owen assured her, settling into the empty seat. ‘It’s just a … silly old wooden dummy.’
‘Oh, please,’ said Mr Sparks, ‘talk about me as though I’m not here!’
But Ma was shaking her head from side to side, her eyes wide with panic. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, no, no, get rid of it, Owen. Drown it! Burn it! It’s bad. Can’t you see? It’s evil!’
‘Ma!’ Owen was shocked by the sudden turn she’d taken. ‘Really, he’s absolutely harmless. There’s no need to—’
‘Can’t you see?’ shrieked Ma. ‘Can’t you see what it is?’
‘Now, now, calm down, madam,’ reasoned Mr Sparks. ‘We’ve come a long way to see you, Owie and me. He said to me, “Charlie, I want to see my dear old mum” and I said to him—’
‘Get it away from me!’ Ma lashed out suddenly with one arm, catching Mr Sparks a blow across the side of his head and knocking him clean out of Owen’s arms. He tumbled to the floor, his skull hitting the tiles with a loud clunk.
‘Oww!’ shrieked Mr Sparks. ‘You’ve hurt me, you silly cow!’
Owen started to get up from his chair but Ma grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him back down again, displaying a power that both shocked and scared him. ‘Owen,’ she shrieked. ‘Owen. Get rid of that thing. Get rid of it!’
‘But Ma, I—’
‘It’s bad! It’s evil!’
Just then the door opened and the orderly hurried back into the room, his former charming grin replaced by a stern, no-nonsense look. ‘What’s going in in here?’ he cried. ‘What did you say to her?’
‘I didn’t … I just—’
Ma was raving now, shrieking and shouting something about the Devil hiding behind a grin and the orderly had to restrain her, had to forcibly push her back down into her chair.
Owen stared at her for a moment, feeling terrible. ‘Mum, I don’t understand what you—’
‘Get away!’ shrieked Ma, and her eyes seemed to have doubled in size. ‘Get away from here and take that devil with you!’ Owen turned and saw that Mr Sparks was splayed on the floor, staring resentfully up at Owen. There was a big, jagged crack running down one side of his head from temple to cheek. Owen walked over to him and picked him up.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ murmured Owen. ‘She just—’
‘Never mind that!’ hissed Mr Sparks. ‘Get me away from her before she kills me.’
‘But she—’
‘Can’t you see I’m injured?’ Owen looked closer at Mr Sparks’ head. He saw to his surprise that something was leaking out of the crack. Something grey.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Just get me out of here,’ whispered Mr Sparks. ‘Owie, please!’ Owen saw something on the dummy’s face that he’d never seen there before. A look of fear. As he picked the dummy up, he realised that the little body was shaking. He carried Mr Sparks over to the case, kneeled down and set him carefully inside, before closing the lid. He stood up and turned back to look at his mother. She was struggling in the orderly’s grip, her back arched, her mouth open. Her thin body was shaking convulsively.
‘Devil!’ she growled. ‘Little devil! Little monster!’
The orderly turned his head to look at Owen. ‘Better get out, lad,’ he advised him. ‘Wait for me in the reception and I’ll come and have a word with you.’
‘Yes sir.’ Owen turned away and walked out of the door. But as he stepped into the corridor, Mr Sparks voice piped up, harsh and urgent. ‘We’re not staying. Get me out of this madhouse. Now!’
9
On The Run
Owen headed back towards the reception, moving along anonymous grey corridors, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor.
‘We can’t just leave,’ he reasoned, ignoring the questioning looks he was receiving from other people passing by. ‘The man said we were to—’
‘I don’t care what he said!’ came the muffled reply. ‘I’m hurt. I need to get help as soon as possible. Take me to the taxi, NOW!’
The urgency in the dummy’s voice invited no compromise. So Owen continued back the way he had come, following the signs that led to the reception area. He pushed through the entrance and stood for a moment, gazing around. Then he headed for the front door.
‘Just a moment!’ called the woman at the desk, but Owen ignored her. ‘I say, you boy. Come back here!’ He pushed out into the open air, went down the steps and strode across the forecourt towards the taxi, which was waiting, as arranged, a short distance away. Just as he was approaching it, another motorcar came racing up the drive from the direction of the road, going flat out. It shot past the taxi for some distance, before the driver slammed on the brakes and it slewed to a halt, scattering gravel in all directions.
‘What was that?’ asked Mr Sparks’ voice, sounding fearful.
‘Another car,’ said Owen. ‘A big fancy one. Two men are getting out of it—’
‘Quick! Into the taxi!’
Owen did as he was told, throwing the case onto the leather seat and settling in beside it. He looked over his shoulder to see the two men running towards him, one tall and thin, a long black coat flapping behind him, the other short and tubby, one meaty hand clamping a bowler hat onto his head.
‘Where to?’ asked the driver casually.
‘Er …’ said Owen.
‘Back to the station!’ hissed Mr Sparks. ‘Hurry.’
‘Yes, er … back to the station, fast as you can!’
‘Very well …’ Now the cab driver was looking into his rear-view mirror. ‘Hello!’ he muttered. ‘Who are those two?’
‘Drive!’ bellowed Owen, and the cab driver instinctively put his foot down. The vehicle shot forward, wheels spinning on gravel, before they found purchase and the cab headed towards the exit. The two men pursued it for a short distance, waving their arms and shouting something but then realising they were outpaced, they broke off and hurried back towards their own vehicle.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded the cab driver. ‘Who are those men?’
Owen panicked. ‘They … they …’
‘Here, they’re not policemen, are they?’ The cab driver began to slow down, as though having second thoughts. ‘Look, I don’t want any trouble.’
‘No, they’re … bad men!’ shouted Owen, desperately trying to think of something that would convince the driver. ‘They’re … Germans.’
‘Germans?’ cried the cab driver incredulously.
‘Yes. German spies!’
‘Get away.’ The man sounded doubtful, but he did speed up again.
‘Yes, they … I found out about them and they’re after me! They want to shut me up.’
‘I see.’ The cab driver licked his lips nervously. ‘So … wouldn’t I be better taking you to the police station?’
‘No. No, I have to get out of Denbigh. I need to catch a train to … to London.’
The taxi driver looked doubtful. ‘Why London?’ he asked.
‘Because the … the Foreign Office is there, isn’t it? I need to warn them. About the spies.’
The cab driver still didn’t look convinced. ‘How do you know they’re spies?’ he asked.
‘They were staying at my aunt’s hotel in Llandudno. I took them up a sandwich and I overheard them talking … in German.’
‘You speak German?’
‘Er … no. But I thought it was funny, you know? So I stood by the door and listened. Then they started speaking on the phone to somebody in English. And they were plotting to … to blow up a building. I came here to tell my mother about it … she works here, you see and … and she told me to get to London, st
raight away. She said, “Go to the Foreign Office and tell them everything you heard.” So … so, we’ve got to get back to the station, as quick as we can.’
The cab driver looked in his rear-view mirror. ‘They’re following us,’ he announced grimly.
Owen glanced over his shoulder. The big shiny black car was coming in pursuit, swerving dangerously around the bends on the narrow country road.
‘You’ve got to speed up,’ demanded Owen.
‘That’s a Daimler, they’re driving,’ said the cab driver. ‘It can outrun this old bucket in a heartbeat.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, isn’t that a German car? You’d think they’d at least try to keep a low profile.’
‘You can’t let them catch us,’ Owen warned him. ‘If they do, they’ll … they’ll kill both of us.’
‘Surely not?’ whispered the cab driver.
‘I’m telling you. They’re armed and dangerous. I heard them say they’ve already shot somebody else who found out about them.’
‘Oh my goodness.’ The cab driver stared at him desperately for a moment. ‘But what can I do?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t have a chance of outrunning them.’
‘Offer him money,’ whispered a muffled voice. Owen nodded. He lifted his shirt and groped around in the money belt. ‘I’ll give you a pound,’ he said.
‘More!’ hissed Mr Sparks.
‘Er … I mean, five pounds!’
‘Offer him ten, you idiot!’
The cab driver was peering frantically around the back of the cab. ‘Where’s that ruddy voice coming from?’ he cried, before returning his gaze to the road ahead.
‘What voice?’ asked Owen.
‘I thought I heard somebody … in the case?’
‘Don’t be daft. How could anybody fit into a suitcase?’
‘Yes, but I could have sworn …’
Owen reached into the money belt and pulled out one of the big white ten-pound notes. He waved it enticingly. ‘Do we have a deal?’ he asked.