Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  ‘So who looks after you? You said something about a hotel?’

  ‘Yes. It belongs to my aunt Gwen. She … she’s not a nice person. And when Charlie said we should run away from there, I just went along with him.’ Owen gazed down at Charlie. ‘Now I … kind of feel responsible for him,’ he said.

  Gerard sighed. ‘So many people want him to live, don’t they?’ he observed. ‘A lot of people like Charles. Apart from those who hate him, and believe me there are many of those too. He has done bad things, I think. Things you would not forgive any ordinary man. And for all that you care about him, I bet he has not been particularly nice to you, eh? I bet he has made you dance to his tune.’

  Owen frowned. ‘I suppose he has,’ he admitted. ‘But for all that … I would hate anything bad to happen to him. I feel like he’s depending on me now.’

  Gerard shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Of course, I will try to save him,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do. But you should be prepared for the worst.’

  He slotted the wedge into the opening in Mr Sparks’ head and Owen could see that now that with a little pressure applied, it would fit in there perfectly. ‘How did you learn to work wood like that?’ he asked.

  ‘From my father, of course, who learned from his father before him. It is a role you are born into. Oh, in my youth, I lived in London for a time. It was where I learned to speak your language even though now I am not so good, I think, as I was. I enjoyed my time there, but … I somehow knew I would always come back here. That it was waiting for me. When my father was near the end, he sent for me and I took his place. It’s what we Lacombes do.’ He set the wedge down on the workbench. ‘Bien,’ he said. ‘Now we need a little colle … what is the English word? Ah yes. Glue.’ He went over to another bench and returned with a pot and a fine brush. He unscrewed the lid of the pot, slipped in the head of the brush and carefully smeared the edges of the wedge with white goo. Once he’d done that, he pushed it back into position, having to use just a little effort to get it properly aligned. ‘Now for the difficult bit,’ he said. He opened the vice as wide it would go and repositioned Mr Sparks so that his head was lying between the jaws. Then slowly, as gently as he could, he tightened the vice until a little glue oozed from the cracks in the fit.

  ‘Do you have to do that?’ asked Owen apprehensively.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Gerard. He mopped away the residue with a cloth and smiled encouragingly. ‘We have to be sure that it is completely sealed,’ he said. ‘Voila.’ He stepped back from the bench and studied his handiwork, his hands on his hips. ‘Now we can only wait,’ he said. ‘He needs to rest for a while.’ He studied Owen thoughtfully. ‘You must be tired and hungry after your long trip,’ he said. ‘Come, I will get you something to eat.’

  Owen nodded. Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. He followed Gerard to the door, but paused to look back at the little figure lying on the bench. ‘He will be all right, won’t he?’ he murmured.

  ‘We will see,’ said Gerard. He lifted a hand to show Owen that he had two fingers crossed. Then he opened the door and led Owen into the kitchen.

  16

  Supper

  Owen sat at the pine table in Gerard’s simple kitchen and devoured a bowl of earthy meat stew, served with hunks of wholemeal bread. It was getting dark now and Gerard had lit a couple of hurricane lamps, which gave the small room a warm, cosy feel. Until the food was placed in front of him, Owen hadn’t realised exactly how ravenous he was. On the other side of the table, Gerard sat with his own meal, eating more sedately and sipping at a glass of red wine. ‘You were hungry,’ he said.

  Owen nodded, his mouth too full for the moment to make a reply. He glanced around the kitchen as he ate, taking in the small black wood-burning stove, the rough-plastered walls, the battered-looking wooden dresser and cupboards. Gerard was clearly a skilled toymaker but it didn’t seem to be keeping him in a life of luxury. He seemed to have read Owen’s mind, when he said, ‘It is not much of a place, but it suits me.’

  Owen swallowed down the last of his stew. ‘Oh no, it’s nice,’ he said. ‘A bit off the beaten track …’

  Gerard looked puzzled. ‘I do not understand this phrase,’ he said. ‘Off the … track?’

  ‘I mean, you’re … a long way from a town.’

  ‘Ah, oui. Well, this is where the shop has always been. Lucky for me that all those hundreds of years back, Lucien bought the place, so I can live here rent-free. But of course, it gets harder to make the ends meet … is this how you say it? Make the ends meet?’

  Owen nodded. He pushed a hunk of bread around the bottom of his bowl, to mop up the gravy.

  ‘You would like more lapin?’ asked Gerard.

  ‘Lapin?’ Owen wasn’t familiar with the word.

  Gerard had to think for a moment to remember the English word. ‘Rabbit,’ he said, pointing to the bowl. ‘I caught that rascal in a snare only yesterday.’

  ‘Ah …’ Owen dreaded to think what Aunt Gwen would say if she heard he was eating rabbit. She had always maintained that it was ‘for peasants’. But somehow, defying Aunt Gwen only made it seem more enjoyable.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘It’s delicious.’

  Gerard took Owen’s empty bowl and walked over to a large casserole that stood on the wood burner. He spooned a generous dollop of stew into the bowl and carried it back.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Owen. He started on his second helping, eating at a more leisurely pace now that his initial pangs were satisfied. ‘So,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘this same shop has been here since … the seventeen hundreds?’

  ‘Oui. It does sound fantastic when you say it like that. Maybe because it is so remote, nobody takes much notice of us.’ He took another gulp of his wine. ‘It has been a long time, but I fear it is coming to an end.’

  Owen frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Gerard shrugged. ‘There is nobody to take over from me when I am gone. I never married, never had children. I am unique amongst the Lacombes in that respect. I suppose I just never met anybody I could get on with enough to live with them for the rest of my life.’

  ‘But … couldn’t you find a … what do they call it? An apprentice or something?’

  Gerard chuckled. ‘I fear that wooden toys are also coming to an end. They already belong to another time. I went to a toy fair in Paris a couple of months ago and I saw clockwork metal toys there. You wind them with the key and they do amazing things. They walk, they jump, they dance! I thought to myself, Gerard, that’s the future.’

  Owen scoffed. ‘I think what Mr Sparks can do is more amazing than any clockwork toy!’ he said.

  ‘True enough. But, Mr Sparks, as you call him, he is the one in a million. I cannot make another one like him. Lucien Lacombe made him and nobody is really sure how he did it. I would be willing to bet that if he came back from the dead, he would not be able to repeat the trick. And I’ll be honest with you. It is not something that should be repeated.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Charles is the product of a man’s desperation. Think about it! A dead child, an enchanted tree and a lightning storm. He did not come from happy beginnings. And he does not bring happiness to those who know him. You met Otto Schilling. Did he seem like a happy man to you?’

  ‘Well, no,’ admitted Owen. ‘He seemed … nice though.’

  ‘When you are twelve years old, everyone seems nice. But he was a haunted soul. He was still a young man when I first met him and let me tell you …’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I still do not know your name,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Owen. Owen Dyer.’

  ‘Well, Owen, Otto was a happier man in those days. Please don’t think I am criticising but … you need to think about what you are getting yourself into.’

  This remark puzzled Owen. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  Gerard took another sip of wine. ‘I’m saying that when Charlie came into your life, I don’t expect he a
sked you if you wanted to join with him, did he? I bet he just told you what was going to happen. You did not have any real choice in this matter.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Let me ask you this, were you happy where you were?’

  ‘Well, no,’ admitted Owen. ‘It was a horrible place. My aunt … she … she treated me like a slave.’

  ‘Well, there you are. That’s how it is with Charles. Always, he finds the people who are weak, unhappy, people that he knows he can bend to his will. It was the same with Otto when they first met. As you say, he was a nice enough man, but he had no ambitions. He had been disappointed in a romance, I think, a woman he wanted to marry who turned him down. He didn’t know where he was headed. Not until Charlie came along and made up his mind for him.’

  Owen frowned. ‘Are you saying that Mr Sparks isn’t good for me?’

  ‘I’m saying that people need to make their own decisions.’ He made a sound of exasperation. ‘I don’t know why I am telling you this,’ he added. ‘I’m as bad as any of them. He has us all dancing to his tune, doesn’t he? If I can see what is wrong, how is it I’m still here in this lonely place waiting for the odd time when he shows up needing help? You tell me that!’

  Owen considered the question for a moment. ‘Perhaps because you care about him too?’ he suggested.

  ‘That may be so, but let me ask you this. Do you think he cares about me? You? About anyone but himself?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Think about this, Owen! Think how long he has existed. He is a survivor and to survive in the way he has, he must be selfish. He uses people like us, in order to go on surviving, day by day. And when we have outlived our usefulness, what happens to us then, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, think about it for a moment. Think about Otto. Did Charles hesitate to leave him and go away with you?’

  Owen frowned. ‘Well, no,’ he said. ‘But … what else could he do? Otto was dead and … and there were people after them, so …’

  ‘That is reason enough to abandon somebody?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t feel good about it. He told me that. And … he said that it was what Otto wanted.’

  ‘Oh, really? And Charles didn’t think twice about leaving his body in that hotel.’

  ‘He hated to do it. After all, they were friends.’

  ‘You think so? Did you not hear the way they spoke to each other?’

  ‘Well, perhaps they did bicker a bit.’

  Gerard laughed at that. ‘The way I remember it, they were at each other’s throats most of the time.’

  ‘All right, but … you see, Mr Sparks is so helpless, and …’

  Gerard laughed at this. ‘That is what he would have you believe,’ he said. ‘But he has made a career of seeming helpless, getting others to do all the hard work for him. Trust me, he’s not as feeble as he pretends.’

  ‘You … you sound like you … hate him,’ said Owen.

  Gerard shook his head. ‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘If I truly hated him, when I had his head in that vice, I’d just have carried on tightening and tightening it until …’ He stared into the middle distance for a moment as though picturing himself doing it. ‘But how could I ever do such a thing to him? After all is said and done, he is family.’

  ‘Family?’ Owen questioned the word automatically, but somehow it felt like the only one that made any sense.

  ‘Yes. He was Lucien’s son, before he became … whatever it is he is now. So, hate is the wrong word, Owen. I do not hate him. But I do not much like what he does to the people who care for him. People like you and me.’

  Owen pushed his empty bowl aside. Now that his stomach was full, a powerful tiredness was creeping steadily up on him. But there was still one more question he needed to ask before he slept. ‘Back in Wales,’ he said. ‘Those people who were chasing us.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Two men. I thought they were police but Mr Sparks said they were just … bad men. Do you have any idea who they were?’

  Gerard shook his head. ‘I cannot say. But there have always been people who want to get their hands on Charles. People who want to find out what he is, how he works. People who believe that he is … what would you call it? An … aberration. Something that goes against nature. Something … evil.’

  ‘He’s not evil,’ protested Owen. ‘Just a bit … mischievous.’

  Gerard smiled despite himself. ‘Ah, is that what he is? I always wondered.’

  Gerard sighed. He thought for a moment. ‘And these men who were chasing you? Where are they now?’

  ‘I think we managed to give them the slip,’ said Owen. ‘Back in Wales.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ said Gerard. He studied Owen for a moment, no doubt noticing his drooping eyelids. ‘You’re tired,’ he said. He gestured to another doorway off the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you stretch yourself out on my bunk?’ he suggested. ‘I will need to keep an eye on our patient through the night.’ He got up from his seat and fetched a candle set into a tin holder. ‘You’ll need this,’ he said. He took a box of matches from his pocket and lit the candle, then handed it to Owen. ‘Make sure you blow it out before you go to sleep,’ Gerard warned him. ‘A lighted candle can be dangerous.’

  Owen nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He got up from the table and started towards the door, but hesitated and looked back as another thought occurred to him. ‘What you said before … about tightening that vice around Mr Sparks’ head. You … wouldn’t do that, would you?’

  Gerard laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s tempting but I will do my best to resist.’ He smiled. ‘Tell me Owen, what is it about Charles that makes you want to look after him?’

  Owen thought for a moment. ‘I suppose because he’s like me,’ he said.

  Gerard frowned. ‘Like you?’ he murmured. ‘How?’

  ‘He’s all alone in the world,’ said Owen. He doesn’t have anybody else to look out for him.’

  Gerard nodded. ‘Goodnight, Owen,’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight.’ Owen went through the doorway and found himself in a tiny white-painted room. In one corner, there was a rough-looking single bed and beside it, a small table. He carried the candle across to the table and set it down. Then he sat on the bed, kicked off his shoes and laid himself on top of the blankets. He turned on his side and noticed a low bookcase with a selection of titles ranged on the shelves. Owen reached out and selected a book at random. He examined the cover illustration, which depicted a comical-looking wooden puppet walking along a cobbled street. He wore odd-looking bib-fronted shorts and a shapeless hat with a colourful feather stuck in it. The title was familiar to him from primary school, though he had never actually read the book. Pinocchio. Underneath this was a name, which Owen presumed, must be the writer. Carlo Collodi. Owen opened the book and glanced at a sample page but it was written in French, so he returned it to the bookcase, blew out the candle and closed his eyes. He lay there, sleep closing steadily on him but even as he began to drift away, a last thought crossed his mind. Gerard had seemed worried about the two men that had chased after them back in Wales. But they could have no idea where Mr Sparks was now … could they?

  The thought sank like a stone into a calm pool of water and Owen went down with it, without putting up a fight. He slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The trawler chugged slowly up to the jetty, cutting through the calm moonlit water and this time, Mr Nail took the trouble to grab hold of a mooring rope and loop it around a post. The two men stood on the deck, holding their suitcases, looking far from impressed with their destination.

  ‘You’re sure this is the right place, Lemuel?’ murmured the thin man, who Mr Nail had already learned to have a healthy respect for. ‘This looks like the back end of nowhere.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Mr Nail. ‘Only place I’ve ever dropped him off.’ He pointed to the track at the end of the jetty. ‘I’ve never actually seen it, but Sparks said something about there b
eing a little town at the end of that path. I heard him promising the boy breakfast at some kind of café.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said the big man. ‘Me belly thinks me throat’s been cut.’ He stepped clumsily off the boat and onto the pier, using the suitcase for balance, but the thin man hesitated a moment as though there was something he’d forgotten to do. He reached into his pocket and took out a plain white envelope. ‘Your fee,’ he told Mr Nail and held it out. But as Mr Nail reached for it, he pulled it away again. ‘A couple of things before I pay you,’ he said. ‘You will forget that you brought us here.’

  ‘Er … yes, sir, whatever you say, sir.’

  ‘You will speak of it to nobody. And let me assure you that if for any reason you’ve brought us here on a wild-goose chase, I will come straight back to Portsmouth, by the quickest route possible. I will seek out you and your charming mother and I will ensure that neither of you are ever in a position to speak of it again. Understood?’

  Nail nodded grimly and Quinn finally handed him the envelope. He picked up his suitcase and stepped onto the jetty. Then he turned back. ‘One last thing,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Nail.

  ‘When you get home, for pity’s sake have a bath. You smell like a barrel of smoked mackerel.’ With that he strode off along the path and his companion followed. After a short distance they had vanished into the night.

  Mr Nail scowled. ‘And goodnight to you,’ he growled. He unhitched the rope and headed back to the wheelhouse, but on the way he stopped for a moment and sniffed at his own armpit. Maybe, he decided, the thin man had a point.

  He continued on into the wheelhouse, opened up the throttle and headed back out to sea, thinking that humble as his home was, he couldn’t wait to be there again.

  17

  Omens

  Owen opened his eyes and lay on his side in the unfamiliar bed, vaguely aware that something had woken him. A noise. A creaking sound. His eyes focused and he saw that the door of his room was slowly opening. Beyond it was a deep, unfathomable blackness.