Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  He waited, hardly daring to breathe. Then a familiar figure loomed out of the darkness and stepped into the room. Aunt Gwen. She came and stood over Owen, frowning down at him with evident displeasure, her lips pursed into a tiny dot of disapproval. He noticed with a jolt of apprehension that she had one arm held behind her back.

  ‘The trouble I’ve had finding you,’ she said. ‘You’ve led me a merry dance, Owen Dyer.’

  Owen opened his mouth to make some excuse but found that he had no words in him. His tongue seemed to be momentarily stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could only lie there, staring helplessly up at her.

  ‘I did warn you,’ said Aunt Gwen. ‘I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me again. I said there’d be consequences.’

  The arm came out from behind her back and he saw that it was clutching the familiar length of bamboo cane.

  He was aware of beads of sweat popping on his brow and trickling down his face. ‘Please,’ he managed to whisper. ‘Don’t. I … promise I’ll be good.’

  Aunt Gwen was smiling but there was no warmth in it. ‘Good?’ she sneered. ‘You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word, boy. I always said you’d turn out just like your mother. Good for nothing.’

  Just then, Owen became aware of movement at the open doorway – a small, pink-faced figure with red hair was crouched there, smiling malevolently up at Aunt Gwen, as if appraising her. Owen opened his mouth to say something but at that same moment, Charlie lifted his other hand and raised a finger to his lips. Then he winked.

  ‘Well, come on,’ said Aunt Gwen, still looking impatiently at Owen. ‘What are you waiting for? Get up and take your punishment.’

  ‘Please,’ whispered Owen. ‘Please … don’t …’

  That was as far as he got because at that moment, Charlie gave a wild shriek and sprang through the open doorway, moving in a lithe, feral way that Owen had thought him incapable of. He seemed as though he had springs in the heels of his shoes, moving upwards and forwards across the space and landing with a thud against Aunt Gwen’s back. Owen saw her eyes widen in surprise and then her mouth opened in a scream of agony as Charlie’s white-gloved hands closed around her throat. Aunt Gwen dropped the cane and lifted her arms to try and push her assailant away, but he was clinging tightly onto her, cackling dementedly as he did so. She lost her footing and fell forward onto the bed, her features arranged in an expression of pure agony.

  ‘Help me!’ she croaked. ‘Owen, please help me!’

  He couldn’t move. He lay there, with Aunt Gwen’s dead weight pinning him to the bed. He saw that now Mr Sparks was peeping over her shoulder, grinning insanely. He said in that sly, wheedling voice, ‘Isn’t this what you wanted, Owie? Isn’t this what you’ve been praying for?’

  Owen sat up with a gasp to find himself alone in the unfamiliar bedroom. His face and neck were soaked with sweat and he had to look around to reassure himself that there really was nobody else there. His head was filled with a close-up image of Aunt Gwen’s face as she’d screamed. It had seemed so real …

  He sat for a moment, allowing his breathing to settle. He wondered how long he’d been asleep. There was no sign of a clock anywhere in the room, so after a few moments, he swung his legs off the bed, stood up and went to the closed door. He pushed it slightly open and peered into the room beyond, nervous that something horrible might be waiting on the other side of the door, ready to jump at him out of the gloom. But it was just the small kitchen he remembered from before and it was quite empty. He walked across it and tried the next door, the one that led to the workshop. It swung silently open.

  Gerard was sitting slumped at the bench, over the still form of Mr Sparks. The room’s single window showed the pale grey light of early morning. Owen went in and could see now that the big man was dozing, his bearded chin resting on his chest.

  Owen coughed gently and that was enough to startle Gerard awake. He grunted, then gazed at Owen for a moment as though confused. After a few moments, he seemed to remember and nodded a bleary greeting. ‘You slept well?’

  Owen nodded. He didn’t think he’d better mention the dream. He pointed to the sprawled figure on the workbench. ‘Charlie?’ he whispered.

  Gerard frowned. He regarded the figure as though he’d forgotten all about him until now. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose we will have to wake him some time,’ he said. ‘Let us see how he is.’ He leaned forward and gently unscrewed the vice from around the dummy’s head. Then he whispered the sequence of words into Mr Sparks’ ear. For the longest time, there was no reaction whatsoever. Then one of the dummy’s eyes creaked momentarily open, before snapping abruptly shut again. Owen moved closer to the bench.

  ‘Mr Sparks?’ he murmured. ‘Charlie?’

  This time, both eyes opened and they surveyed Owen with a flat, disinterested stare. ‘Well, whoop-de-doo,’ he said.

  ‘Are you … are you feeling all right?’ asked Owen.

  ‘A … a … apple strudel,’ said Mr Sparks.

  Owen and Gerard exchanged worried looks. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ asked Gerard.

  ‘It means … I … you … not …’ Mr Sparks closed his eyes for a moment as though trying to gather his thoughts. Then the eyes sprang open and the mouth assumed a manic grin. ‘Apple strudel, what a treat! Get a portion, nice and sweet. Just the thing I like to eat.’ The eyes quivered, the grin faded. He stared at Owen forlornly. ‘Why did I wash that?’ he asked. ‘Why did I wash it in … vinegar?’

  ‘You didn’t … wash anything,’ Owen assured him.

  ‘Oh, you say that but you don’t really … Do I … do I … do I know you?’ asked Mr Sparks. ‘Wait, aren’t you Algernon Flip? I mean, Reginald Blink? Er … Sidney, Arthur, Prendergast, Archibald, Cuthbert, Benedict, Montmorency, Marmaduke Moggins?’

  Owen could only stand and stare. ‘Mr Sparks, what are you talking about? You’re not making any kind of—’

  ‘Mr Sparks? Mr Sparks? Who do you think you are, calling me that? How dare you call me that? What do you, why do you, when do you think … when do you think? When? Do? You? Think?’

  Gerard leaned closer and whispered the sequence of words into the dummy’s ear again. Mr Sparks’ body went limp and his eyes slid shut.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Owen asked Gerard. ‘We need to—’

  ‘We don’t need to do anything,’ Gerard assured him. ‘Not yet. He has to rest more. It’s dangerous to try things too early. He needs longer to heal.’ He pushed himself up from the stool. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I’ll make us some coffee. We’ll try again later.’

  ‘But … has he been like this before?’

  Gerard sighed. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen. But he’s never been so badly injured before. I think it makes sense to give him more time.’ He placed a hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘We must be patient,’ he said. ‘Come on. Coffee. And then I think we’ll get a little fresh air.’

  They walked away from the cottage, heading along a track that led deeper into the forest. The sun was gathering strength now, sending rays of light filtering down though the canopy of autumn leaves. Owen looked back at the building, reluctant to abandon Mr Sparks in his hour of need.

  ‘He has you well trained,’ observed Gerard, drily.

  ‘I just … don’t like leaving him on his own,’ said Owen.

  ‘I think it’s the best thing we can do for him right now,’ said Gerard. ‘His head is …’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘… all jumblied up?’ he said. ‘Is that what you say? Jumblied up?’

  ‘Jumbled,’ Owen corrected him. ‘But he’s alone. What if somebody came here looking for him?’

  Gerard smiled. ‘Not many people come here now,’ he said. ‘You are the first visitor I’ve had in weeks. I thought I’d show you the sights. That’s what they used to call it in London, I think. The sights. Although in London, of course, it was the Houses of Parliament, Big Bill …’

  ‘Big Ben?’ suggested Owen. Gerard s
miled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Big Ben. And Piccallily Surplus.’

  Owen didn’t bother to correct him on that one. They strolled on in silence for a while. They were moving deeper and deeper into the forest, the track becoming ever more narrow and winding as they walked. ‘So … Charles … Charlie … he has told you about this place?’ asked Gerard. He waved an arm to indicate the backdrop of red and gold trees all around them. ‘About the Brocéliande?’

  ‘Yes, a bit. He talked about it on the way here, on the boat. Well, he told it more like a story, really. But he was injured, so I wasn’t sure how much was true and how much was made up.’

  ‘This is one of those places,’ said Gerard, ‘where it is not possible to separate the truth from the fiction. It is … all the same thing. I thought perhaps you might like to see the tree. You know, the one that Charlie came from?’

  ‘It’s still here?’ gasped Owen. For some reason, he had thought that it would be long gone – that the gnarled hunks of wood in the corner of Gerard’s workshop were all that remained of it.

  ‘Oh yes, it is still alive. Trees last for many hundreds of years, you know, even thousands of years in some cases. Though I admit, this one has seen better times.’

  Owen frowned. ‘You believe it, then?’ he asked. ‘The story.’

  ‘I have no choice. I am part of it.’

  They passed a thick screen of bushes, and when they emerged on the far side of it, Owen saw, off to his right, a huge lake, the still water reflecting the trees that edged it. He turned his head to look in that direction and as they walked on, something else came into view … a high outcrop of rock, on the far side of the lake. It rose in a steep slope to a single shelf-like crag that overhung the edge of the water – and a shock of recognition went through Owen, making him stop in his tracks ‘That’s it,’ he said, pointing. ‘It has to be! The place where Charlie … I mean, Charles … the place where he dived in and broke his neck.’

  Gerard turned to look and then he nodded. ‘I believe so,’ he said. ‘At least, it is where I have always thought it must have happened.’

  ‘But that’s … that’s impossible,’ cried Owen. ‘That’s like …’

  ‘That’s like reading Pinocchio,’ said Gerard. ‘And then finding the shop where Geppetto made him.’

  They continued walking.

  ‘I saw that book in your room,’ said Owen. ‘Do you keep it there because … because you think you’re like Geppetto?’

  ‘Of course. I am part of the man’s family. Except that the family in my case is called Lacombe. But the story always makes me think of Charles. You see, part of his problem is, he believes he is a real boy.’

  ‘He is real,’ said Owen. ‘He walks, talks … thinks …’

  Gerard shook his head. ‘Oh yes, he does all that. And he does it very well. And there is no doubt that, yes, somewhere back in time, he was a real boy. But now … now he is something that cannot be explained. He is … neither dead, nor alive. He is a monster.’

  ‘No!’ Owen reacted to the word. ‘No, he’s … he’s just …’

  Gerard shook his head. ‘You see, you don’t exactly know what he is. That’s the problem. None of us do.’ He seemed to ponder something for a moment. ‘Owen,’ he said. ‘What will you do if he dies?’

  ‘Dies?’ Owen stared at the man, alarmed. ‘Do you think he’s going to?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Gerard told him. ‘We’re all going to die one day. And many people would say that Charlie has already had more than his fair share of life.’ He frowned. ‘Let’s say it did happen. Would you go back to how you were before you met him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, it was not a good place.’

  ‘No. It was horrible. Really bad.’ Owen shook his head. ‘But anyway, Charlie isn’t going to die.’

  Gerard seemed amused by this. ‘You seem very sure of this.’

  ‘There’s something about him. What was it you called him last night? A survivor? I think he’ll survive this too.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so, eh?’ Gerard stopped walking and nodded at something ahead of them. Owen had been concentrating on his own feet. Now he lifted his gaze and stared. The narrow path led to a tree – a gigantic tree. A great wide-trunked chestnut, its bark so pale that it was almost white against its darker brethren. It rose up from a collection of twisted roots that seemed to writhe around each other like a nest of intertwined serpents, and it was clear that it had once been lofty and imperious – but it was also evident that some mishap had recently befallen it. About twenty feet up, there was a great split in the trunk, an ugly jagged V-shape, as though a giant had hacked into it with an axe, causing the main body of the tree to almost split in two. Above this, there was very little in the way of branches, just broken black stumps. While most of its neighbours still had some of their autumn leaves, the Merlin tree’s branches were completely bare.

  ‘What happened to it?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Lightning happened,’ said Gerard. ‘About three months ago. I’m no expert, but I’d say the tree is dying.’

  Owen moved closer. Now he could see that the branches were not entirely bare. Here and there, they were adorned with little items – strange, crudely made dolls, pieces of jewellery, bunches of withered flowers … all of them had been tied to the branches with lengths of twine. It was clear that some of the items were recent but others looked as though they had been there for many, many years.

  ‘What are those things?’ asked Owen.

  Gerard shrugged. ‘This tree has a local reputation,’ he said. ‘People have been making sacrifices to it for centuries. Back in the old times, they made bigger ones. I have heard that farmers would kill a lamb and sprinkle the blood onto the roots to ensure a good harvest. These days, it is dolls and charms and whatever else people think will bring them luck.’

  ‘And … does it work?’

  ‘Who can say? I know the tree can make strange things happen, because I have seen the proof. The proof is back at the cottage lying on a bench. It shouldn’t be alive but it is. So maybe the tree does have power. And maybe it works because people believe that it can. But I also think that not everything that comes from this tree is good. If you believe in magic, then you must believe in black magic, oui?’

  Owen scowled. ‘It sounds like you’re trying to tell me that there’s something evil about Mr Sparks.’

  ‘I only say that the power that gave him life may not be a power of good.’

  ‘But he’s my friend.’

  ‘Is he, Owen? Is he really? Or is he just using you. The way he uses everyone else who meets him?’

  ‘He took me away from Aunt Gwen’s hotel, a place I hated. He took me to see my mother, when nobody else would let me go. Even paid for a taxi to get there. And … it was my ma who injured him, you know?’

  ‘Was it? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Oh yes. I feel guilty about it. She … she didn’t know what she was doing. She saw Charlie and she just seemed to go crazy. So it’s kind of my fault that he’s injured. And … he … he’s been good to me. He’s bought me meals … and he says he’ll get me some new clothes the first chance he gets …’

  ‘All things that he knows will make you feel like you owe him something. But that’s not real friendship, Owen. You must realise that.’

  They were close enough now for Owen to reach out an arm and touch his fingers against the ancient bark of the tree. He thought that he detected a low vibration in the wood, something that set his teeth on edge. He pulled his hand away and gazed around. He got the strangest feeling that the other trees were watching him, waiting to gauge his reaction.

  ‘We should get back,’ he said.

  Gerard studied him. ‘What is the big hurry?’ he asked. ‘I told you, the longer he rests, the better chance he has of recovering his mind.’

  ‘I just want to get back,’ Owen insisted. ‘In case he wakes up and
I’m not there.’

  Gerard sighed. But he turned and began to retrace his steps along the path they had followed. Owen went with him, but as he walked, he experienced a strange sensation. The distinct feeling that danger wasn’t far away and that it was steadily drawing closer.

  18

  The Inn

  It was exactly where Mr Nail had said it would be, virtually the first building that Quinn and Wilkins encountered as they strolled into the outskirts of Erquy. It was still really early, the sun hardly above the horizon, but there was already a light on within and the aroma of fresh coffee spilling from the open doorway, so they went straight inside.

  It was a small, gloomy place, rustic with dark wooden tables and far too many plants for Quinn’s liking. The place had the lingering smell of grease and bad plumbing. Quinn ushered Wilkins to a table by the door and left the cases with him, then strolled over to the bar, where a thickset, middle-aged woman was half-heartedly wiping a damp cloth over the varnished wooden counter. She smiled welcomingly at Quinn as he approached, revealing two rows of teeth that would have kept a dental surgeon in constant employment for several months.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ she said.

  ‘Bonjour, madame.’ Quinn studied her for a moment, noting that she was wearing far too much makeup for a woman of her age and that her elaborately coiffed hair was dyed an improbable shade of red. He spoke to her in fluent French. ‘Are we too early for breakfast?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not at all. What can I get for you?’

  He ordered freshly baked croissants and coffee, realising how disappointed Wilkins would be that he hadn’t asked for eggs and bacon, and taking a certain amount of pleasure in the thought. The woman moved to a doorway behind her and barked the order through to an unseen chef. Then she turned back to Quinn.

  ‘It’s very early,’ she observed. ‘Have you come far?’

  ‘All the way from England,’ he told her. ‘Just to meet you.’ He smiled charmingly.

  ‘Oh, monsieur!’ She rolled her eyes, which were framed by luxurious lashes that were caked with mascara.