by Danny Weston
‘Lemuel,’ he said, in a voice that was as smooth and calm as warm oil. ‘Here you are at last. We were wondering what had happened to you.’
Mr Nail took an urgent step towards his mother, but as he did so the thin man cocked the hammer of the gun with an audible click, so he took a step back and lifted his hands to show that they were empty. ‘What’s this all about?’ he croaked, though he already knew. Of course he did.
‘It has come to our attention,’ said the thin man, ‘that you took a passenger out on the sea a couple of nights ago. Midnight, I believe. A young boy carrying a leather suitcase.’
Mr Nail licked his lips. ‘What of it?’ he asked.
The thin man’s smile deepened. ‘It’s of interest to me,’ he said. ‘Particularly, what the boy was carrying in the suitcase. I wonder, would you know what that was?’
Mr Nail shrugged. ‘Clothes, I expect.’
There was a long silence while the thin man gazed at him in silent accusation. ‘Let’s be clear on this,’ he said at last. ‘We’ve just spent the last hour or so getting acquainted with your charming mother …’ He paused to direct that venomous smile in her direction. ‘If you want something bad to happen to her, Lemuel, please do keep on lying to me. If on the other hand, you would prefer to keep her exactly as she is now, then let me explain what you need to do.’ He leaned forward in his seat. ‘You will tell me everything you know about the boy and the creature that he carries in that case. And I do mean everything. Every last little detail, even things that you might think are of no importance. Then you will tell me where you took the boy and his wooden companion and finally, you will take me and my associate to the very same spot where you last saw them. Do you understand?’
‘But that … that’s France. I took them across the channel.’
The two strangers exchanged glances.
‘Heading back to where he came from?’ suggested the heavyset man, who sounded like a Londoner.
‘It would seem so,’ said the thin man. ‘But of course, that makes perfect sense. When we went back to speak to the orderly at the asylum, he said he thought the dummy had been damaged.’ He turned back to glare at Nail. ‘Your boat is seaworthy?’ he asked.
‘Well … yes, but … that’s quite a trip, you know. And there are expenses … getting hold of the petrol isn’t easy. Costs an arm and a leg.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said the thin man. ‘I don’t expect you to work for nothing. I suppose your last passengers had to pay you for your services. I will of course match the fee they paid.’
‘But sir, that was … that was thirty-five pounds!’ Nail just couldn’t help himself. He had to try and improve on his previous trip. It was his instinct to do so and he’d just gone along with it. But instantly he sensed his mistake.
There was another long silence. Then the thin man shook his head. He looked disappointed. He turned and pointed the gun in the direction of Nail’s mother, as if taking aim.
‘Twenty-five!’ shouted Nail hastily. ‘I’m sorry, I made a mistake. They … they paid me twenty-five pounds. Please, sir, don’t hurt her!’
The thin man looked doubtful but after a few moments, he lowered the gun. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I can see you’re telling the truth. Don’t ever try to lie to me, Lemuel. Because I can read you like a book. Furthermore, I would suggest that you rather overcharged your last passengers, probably because you knew that they were desperate. So, I propose to pay you ten pounds for the trip. How does that sound?’
‘Very good, sir, thank you, sir!’
‘Excellent. Well, Lemuel, we’re going to set off tonight, once we’ve laid in a few provisions, but before we do, you are going to tell me everything you know about Mr Sparks and his new companion. And, should you even try and deviate from the absolute truth for one split second, believe me, I will know instantly and my associate, Mr Wilkins, will ensure that you regret doing so for the rest of your life. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Nail.
‘Jolly good. Well, in your own time then?’
Mr Nail nodded. He took a deep breath. And then he began to talk.
15
Home Run
Owen ran frantically along the dirt track, his eyes straining to spot some sign of habitation. As he ran, the golden leaves of autumn fell all around him, as though the entire world was dying. On either side of the narrow track the trees towered above him. They seemed to be crowding in, their jagged, half-naked branches clawing at the sky. When he’d first started running, there’d been the occasional low groan of pain from the suitcase, but now everything was ominously silent. He was just beginning to think that it really was too late, when the track took a long slow curve to the left and, up ahead of him, seemingly looming out of the forest itself, was the cottage. It was exactly as it had looked in his dream – low, white-painted walls, a thatched roof and a stubby chimney, from which a column of grey smoke rose. It was like something out of a fairy tale and Owen knew in an instant that this had to be the place.
He didn’t slow down. He was almost out of breath now, his heart thudding like a drum in his chest, but he crossed the space like a champion sprinter and lurched to a halt, gasping for breath, in front of the plain wooden door. Above it, a small elegantly carved sign announced a name. G. Lacombe. The surname struck a chord with Owen. The story that Mr Sparks had told him on the trawler, hadn’t there been a Lacombe in that? Wasn’t it the name of Mr Sparks’ original owner? But there was no time to think about that now. A bell pull hung in front of the door, attached to a length of chain and Owen yanked it repeatedly, the sound clamouring in the silence, but nobody came to answer the call. Growing impatient, he tried the handle of the door. It turned easily and swung open on well-oiled hinges. Owen stepped inside and stood looking uncertainly around.
It was clear he had come to the right place. He was standing in what looked like a toyshop, with a simple wooden counter directly in front of him. On the counter and ranged on shelves all around the room, were wooden toys of every description. Puppets, dolls, automobiles, trains, biplanes, Jack-in-the-boxes, tops, hoops, castles, dolls’ houses and much, much more, all of them beautifully crafted and painted in a profusion of bright shiny colours that thrilled the soul and dazzled the eye. They were a bit young for Owen, though in different circumstances he would have happily browsed here for hours, admiring the craftsmanship, but he was desperate and knew he had already wasted too much time. ‘Hello?’ he shouted. ‘Is there anybody here?’ His voice seemed to echo in the enclosed space.
He listened intently. At first he heard nothing but the slow, steady ticking of an unseen clock. Then he thought he heard the sounds of movement somewhere beyond this room, the slow, measured creaking of footsteps on floorboards. Owen held his breath. Suddenly, with a harsh click that nearly made him jump out of his skin, a door behind the counter opened and a man stepped into the room. He stared at Owen for a moment, looking vaguely surprised. Then he smiled.
He was a big fellow, probably in his late fifties, Owen thought, but it was hard to be sure. He had a genial, red-cheeked face that was fringed with a scruffy beard, and his straight black hair was long and just as unkempt. He was dressed in khaki overalls, the front of which were liberally stained with streaks of different coloured paint. ‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘Excusez-moi, mais je ne—’
‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted Owen. ‘I’m sorry, but … I don’t speak French. Do you speak any English?’ He stepped quickly up to the counter and swung the case up onto it.
The man nodded. ‘Yes, of course, a little.’ He regarded the case warily. ‘What is this you have brought me?’
For answer, Owen unlatched the lid and flung it open. The man stared down at the contents in amazement. ‘Charles,’ he whispered.
Mr Sparks stirred slightly as though responding to the voice. His eyes flickered and then creaked open. ‘Gerard,’ he whispered. ‘Long time … no see. And it’s Charlie now … you know that.’ He gave a low groa
n. The eyes closed again and he lay still.
Gerard looked at Owen accusingly. ‘But what has happened?’ he asked. He pointed a big index finger at the stained bandage around the dummy’s head. ‘Did you do this?’
‘No! No, it was somebody else. It was … an accident. He had a fall. Cracked open his head. He said I had to bring him here.’
The man looked dismayed. He seemed to think for a moment, then reached into the case and swung Mr Sparks up into his powerful arms. He turned and headed for the door through which he had just entered. He didn’t invite Owen to follow him, but the boy walked around the counter and went after him anyway. Now they were in a small workshop, a place that smelled of the delicious scent of freshly carved wood. Shavings crunched like autumn leaves under Owen’s feet and from the walls hung tools of every description – saws, chisels, hammers, planes. From the rafters hung a selection of wooden toys in various stages of construction. Gerard hurried over to a bench on which rested a half-finished model yacht, a beautiful thing, but he swept it aside as though it was a piece of junk and laid Mr Sparks down in its place. He began to undo the bandage around the dummy’s head, his big fingers working with quick precision. ‘When did this happen?’ he asked.
‘Umm …’ Owen found it was difficult to work it out. So much had happened since then. ‘It must have been four … maybe five days ago? We were in Llandudno …’
‘Where?’
‘It’s in Wales. Er … Le Pays De Galles, I think you call it? Mr Schilling turned up at my aunt’s hotel and—’
‘Where is Otto?’
‘He … er …’ Owen realised you were supposed to break such news gently, but there seemed to be no other way than to put it bluntly. ‘He died.’
Gerard stopped for a moment as the words registered with him. ‘Oh no,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘How … how did he …?’
‘He was old,’ said Owen, as though that was explanation enough. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added.
Gerard shook his head. He clearly wanted to ask more, but must have decided that he had no time to waste. He went back to unwinding the bandage. The last bit came away revealing a dressing that was soaked with grey matter and Gerard muttered something under his breath.
‘Is it bad?’ whispered Owen.
‘Bad enough,’ said Gerard. Mr Sparks began to stir under his hands, as though fresh pain had hit him and Gerard leaned forward and whispered a sequence of words into his ear. He immediately settled and his eyes closed again. Owen was reminded of the way Mr Sparks had put Otto to sleep that time. What was it he called it? Mesmerism.
‘He’ll sleep now,’ said Gerard. He looked towards the corner of the workshop, where something lay covered by a grubby tarpaulin. He left Owen where he was and walked over to it, then pulled back the sheet, to reveal some oddly shaped offcuts of gnarled wood. He crouched down and rooted through the pieces as though looking for something in particular. Finally he selected a smallish chunk and carried it back to the workbench.
‘Is that the special wood?’ asked Owen. ‘From Merlin’s tree?’
Gerard looked at him in surprise. ‘How do you know about the tree?’ he asked.
‘Charlie told me. On the boat, coming over. He told me a story about Lucien Lacombe and Charles.’ He looked at Gerard, remembering the wooden plate over the door of the shop. ‘Lacombe,’ he said. ‘You have the same name.’
Gerard nodded. ‘Yes. Lucien’s brother, Michel, was my er … big, big, big grandpapa.’
‘I think you mean … great?’ Owen corrected him.
‘Yes, perhaps.’ Gerard placed the piece of wood in a vice at one end of the bench and tightened it. ‘I used to speak the English better but now I am somewhat rusted?’ He looked again at Mr Sparks and pointed to the strangely coloured crack in his head. ‘Putty?’ he muttered.
‘It was his idea,’ insisted Owen. ‘I only did what he told me.’
‘You probably saved his life,’ said Gerard. ‘But I am going to have the demon of a job getting this out without removing …’ He waved a hand, unsure of how to say what he wanted. He pointed at the grey stain on the bandage. ‘We will just have to hope that not too much is lost.’
‘He’s been saying strange things,’ said Owen. ‘Getting the wrong words. Forgetting stuff.’
Gerard nodded. ‘I guess that makes sense,’ he said. He went over to a wall and selected a sharp-bladed plane. He came back to the piece of wood and began to push the blade expertly across it, taking off slices of the rough brown bark to reveal the clean smooth wood beneath. Owen watched, entranced. He saw that Gerard was expertly working the wood into a curve and realised that he was shaping it to match the curve of Mr Sparks’ forehead. Gerard paused for a moment and looked at Owen.
‘If this … bores you …’ He pointed to another door at the back of the workshop. ‘There is a kitchen through there. You can make coffee … eat food?’
Owen shook his head. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather watch.’
Gerard grunted. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. He went on with his work. After a little while, he had a smooth, curved piece of wood. Now he set down the plane and went over to another worktop, where he selected some small metal tools, with different-shaped hooks and points on them. ‘Now for the tricky bit,’ he said. He selected a hook-shaped tool and, leaning over Mr Sparks, he started working it carefully into the mud-coloured seam of dried putty. When he found purchase, he pulled gently back and eased out a small chunk. He had a clean cloth ready to pat back any grey stuff that threatened to leak out. He worked carefully, methodically, going from top to bottom of the opening, until he’d removed all the filler. Within, Owen could see a wet pulsing grey substance.
‘What is that?’ he whispered.
Gerard shrugged. ‘I suppose you would call it his cerveau?’ He registered Owen’s puzzled look and struggled to find the right word. ‘His … brain.’
‘He has a brain?’
‘I do not know what else you would call this.’ Gerard did a last careful scrape around the edges of the opening and then wiped them clean with the cloth. Now he picked up the piece of wood he’d planed and tried it in position. There was still a little more work to be done. He took a pencil from the bench and drew some faint lines along the edges of the piece, indicating where more wood needed to be removed. He secured the wood in the vice and after choosing a smaller plane, went to work again. ‘So, how did you come to be with Charles … with Charlie?’ he asked.
‘Well … that’s hard to say. He was at the hotel, see, and … we just got talking. He told me that Mr Schilling was ill and that it was slowing the two of them down. Then he said that I should call for him the next morning and take him away from there because people were after him. I … didn’t want to do it but somehow, I sort of couldn’t help myself.’
Gerard sighed, shook his head. ‘That sounds about right,’ he said. He looked at the dummy lying in front of him and waved an admonishing finger. ‘Oh Charlie, tu es très mauvais.’ He continued with his work. ‘And Otto?’ he asked. ‘You said he died?’
Owen nodded.
‘And you just … left him there?’
‘Well, yes. It had only just happened, you see, that same night.’
Gerard stopped working and looked at him. ‘And how exactly did he die?’ he asked and his expression was grave.
‘In his sleep,’ said Owen. ‘He must have been worse than he looked.’
Gerard frowned. For a moment, he seemed deeply troubled. He muttered something under his breath. Then he shook his head and removed the piece of wood from the vice. He tried it in position, then put it back and shaved a fraction more off one edge. When it was almost exactly right, he went and got a sheet of sandpaper and started gently rubbing the edges of it. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Otto had been with Charlie for many years. He was certainly old.’ His hands moved with practised skill, smoothing the edges of the wood. ‘So now, Charlie has chosen you?’ he asked. ‘To be his … operato
r.’
‘Is that what I am?’ Owen thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose he has.’ Now that he thought of it, it was the only description that fitted. ‘But there have been others? Before Otto, I mean? Charlie told me a story about a boy that drowned and he said that it happened in the seventeen hundreds, but … well, that can’t be right, can it? That’s hundreds of years ago.’
Gerard didn’t pause in his work. Now the curved wedge of wood was almost a perfect fit. It needed just a touch more sanding. ‘There have been, I think, six others since Lucien, who was the first. People in different countries around the world. Some lasted a long time, others only a month or so. Otto was in his twenties when he began. And this …’ Gerard waved a hand over the still figure beneath him. ‘This is only the third time in my life that I have seen Charles … Charlie … whatever he calls himself now. He has had many names, but to me, always, he is Charles.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘He comes here only when he is in trouble.’
‘And … he really is as old as he says?’
Gerard nodded. ‘The first time I saw him, I was in my teens – I had only just begun to work here with my papa. It was a small problem, that time. A broken elbow. We fixed that together, my papa and me. I remember him saying that I would need to learn how to fix Charles, because he would be back again some day. Like the expression you have in your country. The bad penny that always turns up? The next time, I was, I think, forty years old. Again, not a big job. His leg joints were wearing out, they needed replacing.’ He pointed into the corner of the room. ‘Always, it has to be this wood. But what has happened now …’ He blew air out from between pursed lips. ‘This is serious, I think. Maybe I cannot fix him this time.’
‘Oh, but you have to!’ said Owen urgently. ‘He’s … he’s all I’ve got now.’
Gerard looked puzzled. ‘What about your parents?’ he asked.
‘My father was killed in the War,’ said Owen bleakly. ‘And my mother … she … she’s very ill. She hardly knows who I am.’