Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  ‘I don’t really understand,’ said Owen, making an attempt to eat at a more leisurely pace. ‘I mean, if you’re just made of wood, what’s all that stuff leaking out of your head?’

  ‘It’s … complicated,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘You’re just a kid. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

  Owen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, you could try me,’ he said. He thought for a moment. ‘What you told me when I first met you … about how you were a real boy? Is that what this is all about?’

  ‘Umm … sort of …’ Mr Sparks seemed uncomfortable. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘when Nail gets here, leave the talking to me. And don’t worry about pretending that it’s you that’s really talking. Nail knows about me. He’s one of the few people who does.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just somebody I’ve used before. A trawlerman. He has his own boat, you see. He’s got me and Otto out of a couple of scrapes before now.’

  ‘And he’s always known about you?’

  ‘Not always. The first time we met, we kept up the pretence. I did the talking and Otto just chipped in with the odd comment, as though it was some kind of act. But we soon stopped doing that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the man isn’t as stupid as he looks. I could tell that he knew how it really was. So pretty soon, we stopped pretending. Everything was fine after that. He was very fond of Otto. The two of them got along well. I’m not sure how he’ll take the news that he’s gone.’

  Owen scowled. He didn’t like talking about Mr Schilling. It made him think about the old man lying dead back at the Sea View hotel. Not that he’d still be there, of course. Surely somebody must have taken his body away by now. Which reminded him of something else.

  ‘Those men who are chasing us …’ Owen raised the subject for perhaps the sixth time since they’d set off. ‘You promise they’re not the police?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, Owie. They are bad men. Men who cannot be trusted. If they were to get their hands on me, I don’t know where I’d end up. Murdered, most probably. Experimented on like some animal. But of course, the police will be looking out for us too, make no mistake about that!’

  ‘But why? We haven’t done anything wrong, have we?’

  ‘Well, technically, yes. We left poor old Otto lying dead in that hotel, didn’t we? The police don’t take kindly to that kind of thing.’

  ‘But I didn’t want to leave him! You said we had to go. You said—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done, so there’s no use crying about it. But trust me, the coppers will be looking for us. Why do you think we’re staying in this rat hole? It’s not because it’s so luxurious or anything. We’re just keeping a po lofile … I mean a low profile!’

  ‘If Aunt Gwen ever gets her hands on me, my life won’t be worth living,’ said Owen glumly. He found he’d suddenly lost his appetite, so he pushed the rest of the loaf back into the paper bag.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘Once we’re across the channel …’

  ‘That’s another thing. I’ve never been abroad before. And … well, I can’t speak any French.’

  ‘You surprise me! I’d have thought you’d be au fait with le français.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll do the talking for both of us. I speak the lingo.’

  ‘But … I don’t understand why we have to go all the way to France. Surely there must be somebody in England who can repair you?’

  ‘No, Owie, let me assure you there isn’t. I’ve been damaged. Badly damaged. And there’s only one person who I can trust to put me right. He happens to live in France.’

  ‘Well, all right, but what about—’ Owen broke off as a fist pounded on the door. He looked at Mr Sparks in alarm. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, apprehensively.

  ‘Sparks, are you in there?’ boomed a deep voice.

  The dummy’s eyes flickered in recognition. ‘It’s Nail,’ he whispered. ‘Remember. Leave the talking to me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Enter!’ he said.

  The door opened and a man stepped into the room, a stocky little fellow, wearing a thick reefer jacket and a cloth cap. His face was heavily bearded and a pair of beady black eyes peered into the room from beneath wild, overgrown brows. The room immediately filled up with a powerful odour – the unmistakable stink of raw fish. It was evident that he must have come straight from his work at the docks. He noticed Mr Sparks and smiled. Then his gaze moved across to Owen and the smile faded.

  ‘Where’s Otto?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, of course, you won’t have heard,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘A terrible thing. I’m afraid poor Otto isn’t with us any more.’

  ‘Not with us?’ Mr Nail looked puzzled. ‘How do you mean exactly?’

  ‘I mean he’s shuffled off this mortal coil. He’s … not to put too fine a point on it … snuffed it. It was very sudden. His heart, you see. Fragile as a paper bag. It just gave out on him.’

  Nail looked genuinely upset. ‘Oh dear, what a pity. I always liked Mr Schilling. One of life’s gentlemen, he was.’ The beady eyes focused on the bandage. ‘And what’s happened to you?’ he asked, pointing. ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘Just a bit of a bump,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  The man’s gaze flicked back to Owen. ‘And who’s this?’ he asked.

  Owen was about to answer but Mr Sparks got there first.

  ‘This is my new partner, Owen Dyer.’

  Mr Nail sneered. ‘Him? He’s just a kid.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but he’s good. Trained by Otto he was, for just such an eventuality. Weren’t you, Owen?’

  Owen nodded and Mr Sparks continued. ‘Otto knew he didn’t have long, you see. And he knew he had to pass the baguette on …’

  Nail looked puzzled. ‘The baguette?’ he echoed.

  ‘Er … the baton! Owen was his protégé.’

  ‘I see.’ Mr Nail frowned. ‘So, what was so urgent you needed to see me straight away? My old mum was in a fair old tizz about it. Said some kid had turned up at the ’ouse, giving ’er orders.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t do that,’ protested Owen. ‘I was polite.’

  Mr Sparks ignored him. ‘It’s the usual thing, Lemuel,’ he said. ‘We need to get across the channel. No questions asked.’

  Mr Nail lifted a hand to rub at his beard. ‘I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while. Have you seen what it’s like out there? Blowing a fair old gale, it is. You’ll need to hold your horses for at least twenty-four hours.’

  But Mr Sparks was shaking his head, an action that seemed to cause him considerable pain, judging by the gasps for breath that Owen heard escaping from him. ‘You … don’t understand. We need to go tonight.’

  ‘What’s the big hurry?’ Mr Nail studied the two of them with interest. ‘What have you been up to this time, Charlie? Robbed the flipping crown jewels, have you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Mr Sparks gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘No, we … we have to get over there for … an appearance. At a theatre in Paris. Very prestigious show, it is. They’re depending on us.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, it’s going to take quite a lot of convincing to get me to put my boat out on that sea,’ said Mr Nail, pointing towards the room’s single window. ‘Very dicey out there, it is.’

  Mr Sparks lowered his eyelashes. ‘I thought the usual fee?’ he murmured. ‘Ten pounds. In cash.’

  Mr Nail looked shifty. ‘I don’t think that’s enough,’ he said. ‘That’s what you pay me when it’s nice and calm.’

  Mr Sparks smiled. ‘A fair point,’ he admitted. ‘How about … fifteen?’

  ‘Twenty-five sounds better,’ said Mr Nail. ‘Danger money.’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  The grin stayed on Mr Sparks’ shiny face but his eyes flashed with malevolence. ‘You … drive a hard bargain, Lemuel,’ he observed. ‘But I’m in no position to quibbl
e. Twenty-five pounds it is.’

  Mr Nail grinned, his teeth startlingly white against the black of his beard. ‘A pleasure, as always,’ he said. ‘Meet me on the dock at midnight. The usual mooring.’ And with that, he went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘He seemed nice,’ said Owen.

  ‘Nice? He’s a ruddy thief, that’s what he is! He knew I was desperate. Twenty-five pounds.’ He growled and turned his head to look at Owen. ‘How are our finances?’ he asked.

  Owen frowned. ‘Not that great,’ he said. ‘Once I’ve taken out the twenty-five …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ll have twenty-eight pounds, two shillings and four pence.’

  Mr Sparks raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s very accurate,’ he observed.

  ‘I’m good at mental arithmetic,’ Owen assured him.

  ‘Hmm. Well, it could be worse, I suppose. It could be no pounds, no shillings and four pence. We’ll just have to be carpet, won’t we?’

  ‘Carpet?’

  ‘Careful! I mean, careful.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ They fell silent for a moment, but outside, the wind was making a terrible commotion. ‘What we were talking about before,’ said Owen. ‘About that stuff that’s coming out of your head and whether you’re real or not …’

  ‘I can’t get into that now,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘I’m proper worn out. I’m going to grab forty winks, while I’ve got the chance.’

  ‘But … what about me?’ asked Owen.

  ‘You? I’m counting on you to give me a call at half past eleven, so we can head down to the quayside.’

  ‘But … what if I fall asleep?’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Once again, Charlie seemed to soften, his expression pleading. ‘Please, Owen, you’ve got to try and stay awake. You’re the only person I can count on now. The only one I can trust. And I promise, once we’re out of danger … once we’re across the water, I’ll make it up to you. Deal?’

  Owen frowned. ‘Deal,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, kid. I knew I could rely on you. You know, you’re my only friend now. There’s nobody else I can trust.’

  And with that, Mr Sparks closed his eyes and slumped back against the pillow, fast asleep.

  11

  All At Sea

  Owen had never felt so sick in his entire life. He and Mr Sparks lay side by side on a grubby little bed in a grubby little cabin, where Mr Nail, once he’d pocketed his fee, had commanded them to keep themselves hidden for the entire trip. The place stank of a mixture of petrol fumes and raw fish and the world seemed to be rising and falling around them in a juddering, shuddering rhythm, the waves seemingly intent on smashing the tiny fishing boat to pieces. There was a single porthole, which offered nothing more than a view of great plumes of water crashing against it.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ announced Owen.

  ‘No you’re not,’ insisted Mr Sparks. ‘It smells bad enough in here already.’

  ‘I can’t help it! My stomach …’

  ‘Just try and put your mind on something else.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  The boat gave a particularly violent lurch and Owen was aware of his meagre dry bread dinner rising up within him. He groaned and clamped a hand over his mouth.

  ‘Owen, listen to me! You’re not going to be sick.’ In the gloom of the cabin, Mr Sparks’ eyes seemed to glow with an eerie light. ‘Look, I’m going to tell you a story,’ he said. ‘Something to take your mind off this.’

  ‘But I can’t …’

  ‘Quiet! Are you listening?’

  Owen nodded, though moving his head seemed to make him feel even worse. ‘I’m listening,’ he croaked.

  ‘Good. Then I’ll begin.’ Mr Sparks took a deep breath. His head was very close to Owen’s, so close that the boy could feel the dummy’s warm breath gusting onto his face, breath that smelled like the mothballs that Auntie used to put at the back of the linen cupboard. ‘Once upon a time,’ said Mr Sparks, ‘there was a little French boy called Charles Lacombe …’

  Owen nodded, trying to ignore the frantic lurching in his belly.

  ‘Charles lived with his mother and father on the edge of this big forest …’

  That struck a chord with Owen. Hadn’t he dreamed of a forest, the morning that he’d run away from Auntie Gwen’s hotel? He remembered now how he’d been walking through shady green depths, the trees towering above him, the birds singing up in the canopy …

  ‘It was called Paimpont Forest and a lot of people believed it was the Brocéliande, the forest of King Arthur – you know, the sword in the stone and all that malarkey?’

  ‘But … I thought he was Welsh?’ muttered Owen. ‘Oh, he’s every nationality if you believe what people tell you. They all want a bit of King Arthur, don’t they? But never mind about that! Charles’ father was called Lucien and he was a toymaker, a bit of a big cheese around the area where he lived on account of how skilled he was at his craft. He made dolls and puppets and little wooden carriages, stuff like that, and because many of his customers were members of the local aristocracy – you know, barons and earls, real toffs – he was able to make a very comfortable living out of it. Charles’ mother was called Marianne. She doesn’t figure much in this story but she was decent enough to Charles and all that. Used to sit him on her knee when he was a toddler and sing him songs of the day. Sur le Pont d’Avignon …’

  ‘Frère Jacques?’ suggested Owen.

  ‘Yeah. That sort of thing. French stuff. Anyway, when Charles was old enough to walk, Lucien used to take him into the forest to show him this ancient tree. Big old thing, it was, branches thick as your waist, been there for thousands of years. Lucien told him about a local legend that said this was the tree in which Merlin had been imprisoned by Vivianne, the sorceress, who was the Lady of the Lake, you know, the one that brought Arthur his special sword … can’t remember what it was called …’

  ‘Excalibur?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever, don’t interrupt! Where was I? Oh yeah, one day, when Charles and Lucien were visiting the tree, Lucien noticed that a big brick … er … a big branch had fallen off, so he picked it up and carried it back to the shop, saying that when the wood was properly seasoned, he’d carve something out of it. He was full of these strange ideas. He put the branch in the corner of his workshop and forgot all about it.

  ‘Now, when Charles was ten years old, him and some of the local lads used to go into the forest in the summer time, to this lake, where they liked to swim.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a proper swimming baths?’

  ‘No, you nit, this was in the olden days! I thought I told you that.’

  ‘No, you didn’t!’

  ‘Well, it was, this was like the seventeen hundreds or something, proper olden times. Anyway, this lake they went to had a high rock sticking out over the top of it and some of the bigger boys used to dare each other to climb up there and dive off into the lake, showing off and all that. But none of them would ever do it because it looked, you know, really dangerous and people always said that anyone who had tried it always came a cropper. Now, Charles wasn’t what you’d call a really good swimmer … he was a bit puny to tell you the truth, so he used to make excuses not to go up there. But this one particular day, some girls had come along to watch and there was one girl in particular that Charles really liked. Fabienne, her name was, pretty little thing with blonde hair and blue eyes, cute as a button!’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve actually met her!’

  ‘Will you stop interrupting? So … er …? Oh yes, Charles, he wanted to, you know, impress Fabienne, like young lads do, so against his better judgement, he climbed up onto the high rock, intending to dive in. Well, he got all the way up there and looked down and realised it was a lot higher than he’d thought, but Fabienne was watching him, and he would have felt a right chump if he’d backed down, so he sort of steeled himself and dived in.

  ‘Before you say anything, yes, it wa
s stupid of him. He should have known better and the other boys ought to have warned him off, because there were deep bits and shallow bits and nobody really knew where was the safest place to go in. But boys being boys, they didn’t bother to do that, so … well, not to put too fine a point on it, Charles went down like a rock, smacked his head on the bottom of the lake and broke his flipping neck. Dead, instantly, he was.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s terrible!’

  ‘Bit of an understatement. Fabienne was impressed, mind you, but in the worst possible way. And the lads … well, they had the tricky task of fishing Charles’ body out of the lake and carrying it back through the woods to his house. His parents were … as you might imagine … devastated about what had happened to their only son. Marianne had … well, I suppose they’d call it a nervous breakdown these days …’

  ‘Like my ma,’ murmured Owen.

  ‘Yeah, like your ma. Lucien wasn’t much better off. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t sleep, it was as though his life was over and done with. Anyway, they buried poor Charles in the garden right by the cottage …’

  ‘Are you allowed to do that?’

  ‘You were then! They didn’t have all the silly rules we’ve got now. You could plant somebody in your window box if you felt like it! Anyway, life went on but the Lacombes were barely getting by. Marianne spent all her time in her room, crying. Lucien tried to get her out of there, but she was wasting away poor thing, barely eating more than a crust of bread a day and it began to look as though she wouldn’t last much longer than her poor son. Lucien didn’t know what to do for the best.

  ‘And then … it must have been a couple of weeks later … there were a lot of bad storms. The area’s known for them. Lucien was sitting in his workshop one night and for some reason, his eyes fell on the old branch in the corner, you know, the one from the so-called “enchanted” tree and he had this sort of mad brainwave. He went and fetched the branch over to his workbench and he started going at it, carving something new.’