Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I’m coming to that! My word, you’re impatient! Lucien didn’t eat nor sleep for five days and nights, so obsessed he was with the thing he was making. Now, I’m not sure entirely what the plan entailed, but it had something to do with galvanism. You ever heard of that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, see, this scientist called Luigi Galvani, an Italian feller, as you might guess from his name, he’d done some experiments with frogs’ legs …’

  ‘Frogs’ legs?’

  ‘Yes, frogs’ legs, you heard me right!’

  ‘Are you being funny?’

  ‘No, straight up! History, that is. You look it up, sunshine. Now, it’s all a bit complicated but apparently, this Galvani fellow started pumping electricity into these frogs’ legs … this is after they’d been chopped off the rest of the frog, you understand … and by all accounts, the legs started dancing a jig all by ’emselves!’

  ‘Oh, now come on, that’s a bit far-fetched!’

  ‘No, it’s absolutely genuine, Owie, I promise you! Lucien must have read about this stuff somewhere and he was desperate enough to believe that there could be something in it, because the next thing you know, he’s only gone and shoved a long metal pole through the roof of his workshop! People round about the place started to say that he’d gone pure loopy and poor old Marianne had to keep turning away all these customers who’d ordered fancy toys for their kids, so there was no money coming in and things was beginning to look pretty grim for the Lacombe family.

  ‘Well, one night, there was a big storm, a real humdinger – rain, wind, thunder, lightning, the works! At one point, somebody living nearby claims they saw Lucien out in the garden in the pouring rain and he was digging furiously as though his very life depended on it. Later on that same night, somebody else reported that a lightning flash had hit the metal pole sticking up out of the roof and a great puff of smoke flew up into the sky. That same person swears they heard Lucien let out a yell but whether it was a cry of pain or a shout of joy, he wasn’t sure and by this time, people were so afraid of Lucien, nobody wanted to go and check that he was all right.

  ‘Somehow, Marianne managed to sleep through the whole thing. The next morning when she dragged her sorry carcass out of bed, she found the door of the workshop open and she could hear voices coming from inside. When she went in, she got a terrible shock. Charles’ dead body was stretched out on a workbench, all covered in mud and slime. It had these wires and things attached to it and it looked sort of … burnt. Not a pretty sight. But that wasn’t the half of it! Lucien was sitting beside the bench, looking all thin and bedraggled and perched on his knee was this dummy he’d made. And Lucien was talking to it! When Marianne asked what the blinking flip he thought he was doing, the dummy looked up at her and said, in Charles’ voice, “Hello Mother, I’m back,” whereupon she just fainted away on the spot.’

  ‘Charlie? I mean, Mr Sparks … is this … is this your story?’

  ‘It’s a story. Something to take your mind off being ill.’

  ‘Yes, but it sounds as though you—’

  ‘Make of it what you like! But let me finish, all right? Oh yes … Lucien took no notice of Marianne. When she eventually came round, he was still talking to the dummy and it was talking right back at him, and it really did sound like Charles’ voice. Well, Marianne decided that Lucien had gone insane. She’d had enough, hadn’t she? Packed a bag and cleared out of there, went to live with her mother in the neighbouring village, saying she wanted nothing to do with this ‘devil-doll’ that Lucien had made. As for Lucien, he abandoned his business and forgot about all the orders that were still outstanding.

  ‘Luckily for him, that was when his younger brother, Michel, moved back from Paris where he’d been working in the theatres making props and so forth. He was quite a skilled toymaker himself, so he took over that side of things. He applied himself to the business and got stuff going again. Lucien, meanwhile, was just obsessed with his new toy. He spent hours sitting there, talking to it, listening to it. Michel was convinced his brother had lost his mind, even thought about having him committed to an asylum. Oh, no offence, Owie! But how could he do such a thing to his own brother? Then, one morning, Lucien announced that he had come up with a bright new future for himself and his … son. He told Michel that he was bound for Paris and he asked his brother to furnish him with introductions to all the theatre people that he’d worked with over the years. He told his brother that he’d return when he’d made his fortune. Everyone thought he’d lost his mind and nobody – not even Marianne – could account for the fact that he seemed to have become a gifted ventriloquist overnight. He’d never shown any skill at that before.

  ‘You’ve got to remember, Owie, these were very superstitious times and a lot of the locals started muttering about the Devil and so forth. There were some people who wanted Lucien tried as a witch! So when he finally set off for Paris, everyone breathed a big sigh of relief and waited for things to return to normal.

  ‘What nobody could have expected was that Lucien Lacombe and the “Incredible Charles” would prove to be the hit of the century. But they did! The first variety theatre they auditioned for gave them a spot in their latest show and the audience reaction was incredible. Within a matter of weeks, the act was topping the bill and in a couple of months, it was the toast of Paris.

  ‘When Lucien and Charles finally found time to return to the shop, Lucien had enough money to pay off all the debts and even to buy the premises outright. Using the shop as a base and leaving Michel to take care of the business, the act set out to tour the world … they went to Italy, Spain, Belgium, you name it! And that was just the start of— Owie? Owie? Are you listening to me?’

  But Owen was asleep and dreaming and this time, the dream was not of a deep, dark forest but of a huge music hall packed with people in strange costumes, the men wearing frock coats and powdered wigs, the women dressed in elaborate satin dresses in a multitude of vibrant colours. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the brightly lit stage where a tall thin man, dressed in a richly embroidered gown and wearing an orange turban, sat on an elaborate golden throne. And on his knee, dressed in a multi-coloured jester’s outfit sat Mr Sparks, or at least an earlier version of him, grinning maniacally and chattering away in a language that Owen didn’t understand. Whatever he was saying must have been funny because the crowd around Owen threw back their heads and roared with laughter. They clapped their hands and stamped their feet and chanted his name over and over, ‘Charles! Charles! Charles!’ And the chanting rolled like the roar of an angry ocean and the music hall swayed back and forth, up and down, in a turbulent restless rhythm, as the tiny fishing boat lurched on across the water to an unknown destination.

  12

  Brittany

  The forest. He was back in the forest again, tall, slender trees towering over him for as far as he could see, bathing him in their green dappled light. He was walking along a narrow twisting track and there in front of him, emerging from the undergrowth as though it was somehow part of the vegetation, was a cottage. It was like something from a fairy tale, small, white-painted, the roof thatched, a thin column of smoke billowing from the chimney and rising into the blue sky …

  ‘Owie, Owie, wake up! I think we’re there!’

  Owen opened his eyes and came slowly, painfully back to reality. He lifted his head and peered around the filthy cabin. Sunlight was pouring in through the porthole, the sea had calmed itself and as far as he could tell, he’d managed to avoid throwing up in the night, which was something to be very thankful for. He felt pretty awful though, his stomach an empty aching void, his mouth dry as a bone, his head throbbing with a dull ache.

  ‘Take me up on deck,’ urged Mr Sparks. ‘Come on, stir yourself!’

  Owen rolled around into a sitting position and scratched his head. Mr Sparks was glaring at him impatiently. He still had the bandage wrapped around his head and Owen couldn’t help but notice
that a large grey stain had seeped through the fabric at the side of the dummy’s head. ‘Where are we?’ he muttered.

  ‘France, of course! Where did you think we were, Mars? Come on, shake a tail feather!’

  Owen blinked himself back to wakefulness. He picked the dummy up, swung his legs over the side of the narrow bunk and got unsteadily to his feet, then stumbled towards the short flight of wooden steps that led to the deck. ‘The suitcase!’ Mr Sparks reminded him, and Owen obediently picked it up. He climbed the steps, unlatched the door and pushed it open. The world came at him in a rush of salty air, wind and sunshine. Squinting, he stepped out onto the lurching deck and saw that the boat was puttering slowly towards a little wooden jetty set into a rocky shoreline. As far as Owen could see there was not another soul in sight. He carried Mr Sparks along the deck to the wheelhouse where Mr Nail stood at the tiller, guiding the boat expertly into shore. He glanced over his shoulder as he heard footsteps approaching.

  ‘That’s a trip I wouldn’t like to have to repeat,’ he roared. ‘At one point I thought we was headed straight to the bottom of the sea.’ He glanced quickly around. ‘It’s settling down nicely now, though.’ He nodded towards the jetty. ‘The usual place,’ he said. ‘Just as you asked.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ Mr Sparks told him. ‘You’ve saved the day once again.’

  Mr Nail grinned, showing those jagged white teeth. ‘And this concert that you were so keen to get to … where exactly is it taking place?’

  ‘Why? Thinking of booking a seat, were you?’ asked Mr Sparks.

  ‘Oh, no time for that, I’m afraid. I’ll be heading straight back. Got work waiting for me back in Portsmouth.’ He winked. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he observed. He studied Mr Sparks intently, no doubt noticing the stained bandage. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Never better,’ Mr Sparks assured him.

  Mr Nail lifted a hand to stroke his beard. He seemed unconvinced. He tilted back his head and looked at the sky. ‘I dare say the return trip will be a lot easier for me.’ He shot a challenging stare at Owen. ‘Think you can handle it from here?’ he asked.

  Owen was about to reply but Mr Sparks got there first. ‘He’ll be fine, Lemuel. He’s not as stupid as he looks.’ He twisted his head to gaze up at Owen. ‘Get me into the case,’ he suggested.

  Owen sighed. He was beginning to think that he’d have been better off staying with Auntie Gwen. At least he understood how she worked. He set the case down flat on the deck and unlatched it, then lowered Mr Sparks carefully into his nest of crumpled clothing. He was about to close the lid but the dummy seemed to have an idea. ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said. ‘Lemuel, have you got a knife we can borrow for a moment?’

  Mr Nail grunted and reached into his pocket. He pulled something out and threw it across to Owen. It was a clasp knife with several blades and other implements folded into the handle. Owen examined it for a moment. ‘What’s this for?’ he asked.

  ‘I want you to punch a decent-sized hole in this case,’ Mr Sparks told him. ‘Here, in the middle of the short side, so I can peep out and see what’s going on.’

  Owen frowned. ‘My ma and da gave me this,’ he muttered.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter! It’s a battered old thing, anyway. Go on, Owie, do it for me. I’ll get you a new one, once I’m all sorted out. Maybe even a big trunk, like Otto had. You liked that, didn’t you?’

  Owen scowled. It seemed to him that Mr Sparks had done nothing but make promises ever since they’d run off together, but so far there was very little to show for it. The only reason he’d managed to eat anything in the last twenty-four hours was because he’d taken the initiative and purchased a loaf of bread.

  Mr Sparks seemed to realise what was on Owen’s mind. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘the heat’s off now. Once we step out onto that jetty, it’s just a short walk to this little village I know called Erquy. There’s a lovely inn there. I’ll get them to rustle you up a proper cooked breakfast. Fried eggs, bacon, sausages … you name it.’

  Owen’s stomach gurgled at the mention of food. ‘Full English?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Well, full French, anyway,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘And the Frenchies are the finest chefs in Europe. Cross my heart and hope to die. You’ll see, it’ll all be much better from here on in.’

  ‘All right, then.’ Owen examined the knife for a moment. He found a round metal implement with a spike at the end of it, the kind of thing that Aunt Gwen had once told him was for removing stones from horses’ hooves. He pulled it out with a click. Then he looked for the right spot on the inside of the case. ‘Here?’ he suggested, pointing.

  ‘A bit higher,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘Yeah, that should be about right.’ Owen put the tip of the metal spike to the inside of the case and applied steady pressure, grunting with the effort. After a few moments, the tip emerged on the far side and Owen twisted it around a few times, to make the opening bigger. Then he pulled the spike out again. ‘How’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfect!’ said Mr Sparks. ‘Oh, I’ll be able to see everything now.’

  The boat was moving alongside the jetty now. Owen folded the knife shut and threw it back to Mr Nail, who caught it expertly and returned it to his own pocket. Owen closed the lid of the case and secured the clasps. He stood up, grabbed the handle of the case and moved across to the side of the boat. As it slid past the jetty, he jumped nimbly ashore.

  Mr Nail didn’t even bother to moor the boat, but turned the wheel and headed straight back out to sea. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Owen a fleeting grin. ‘Take care, lad,’ he roared. ‘Send me a postcard!’

  Then the boat was moving away, heading for deeper waters. Owen stared after it for a moment and experienced a sudden, curious sensation. For an instant, he wanted to throw the case aside, leap into the water and swim after the boat, shouting for Mr Nail to take him back to Portsmouth, so he could start the long journey back to Llandudno. Once there, he would face the wrath of Auntie Gwen and take whatever punishment was coming to him. In that instant, he actually saw himself doing all that. But the moment passed and he could see that the boat was already too far away for him to swim after it. He heard Mr Sparks’ muffled voice coming from inside the case.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Nothing,’ muttered Owen. ‘I was just … waving Mr Nail goodbye.’

  ‘Good riddance, I say. I won’t be using him again in a hurry. Twenty-five quid! At least Dick Turpin wore a mask! Come on, let’s get going.’

  Owen turned and began to walk, his footsteps clumping on the weathered boards of the jetty. After a short distance, a narrow stony path led onwards along the rocky coast and he took the path, walking briskly. When he glanced back again, Mr Nail’s boat was no more than a dark brown smudge on the blue horizon. ‘How far is it?’ he asked. ‘To this village?’

  ‘Not so very far. Ten or fifteen minutes’ walk.’

  ‘And is that where he is?’

  ‘He?’

  ‘The man who can fix you?’

  ‘Oh, no, there’s a way to go yet before we reach Paimpont.’

  ‘Is … isn’t that the place you were talking about last night? The … forest?’ Memories of the dream came back to him, the deep, unfathomable trees and that strange fairy-tale cottage …

  ‘You wait till you taste breakfast at the inn, Owie. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. But listen …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Obviously, you’ll need to leave all the talking to me. Er … I don’t suppose you speak any French at all?’

  ‘Bonjour,’ said Owen. ‘Au revoir. That’s about it.’

  ‘All right. That’ll have to do. We’ll do it like it’s all part of the act. Like you can only talk through me. If anyone asks you something just pull a funny face and I’ll answer for you. They’ll love it! Hopefully there’ll be a decent-sized crowd in. That way we can earn the price of your breakfast and maybe a bit more besides. We need to sta
rt building up our fighting fund.’

  ‘And how will we get to this Pam … Per …?’

  ‘Paimpont. Oh, you leave that to me, kid. I’ll take care of everything.’

  13

  Meanwhile…

  Wilkins guided the Daimler in through the ornate gates of Quinn’s country home and cruised up the driveway towards the front entrance, the huge three-storey house with its high walls looking more like a medieval castle than somewhere a person might actually live. He motored past the immaculately tended tennis courts and the extensive stables, where a groom dressed in jodhpurs and boots was brushing out the mane of a magnificent Arab stallion. One day, Wilkins promised himself, he’d have a place like this … in his dreams.

  On a more modest note, he was at least glad to have the car back on the road again. It had been quite a bother getting hold of four brand-new tyres for a German vehicle and a pretty penny they had cost too, but Quinn had signed the cheque without raising an eyebrow and had instructed Wilkins to get straight back out there to do some sniffing around. He didn’t intend to let the trail go cold.

  For a day or so, there’d been absolutely nothing of any use, but now from out of the blue, Wilkins had been given a hot lead. He pulled the vehicle to a halt outside the main doors, got out of the car and crunched his way across the gravel towards the flight of marble steps that led up to the front door.

  He paused on the top step for a moment and surveyed Quinn’s kingdom, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time how the man had ever managed to acquire such wealth. Probably born into it, Wilkins thought, the lucky blighter. Wilkins had never used his contacts to find out more information about his employer. It would have been easy enough to do so and there would surely have been little chance of being discovered and yet … and yet, he was too wary of Quinn to ever take such a chance. The man scared him in a way that he could never fully explain, even to himself. Quinn was tenacious, fanatical … and deep down, Wilkins thought, very, very dangerous. In the end, perhaps some things were better left unknown.