Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  ‘Well, I’ll need to rest up for a few days,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘My sports are still a bit mixed up …’

  ‘Thoughts?’ suggested Gerard.

  ‘Exactly. But we can’t stay here in Germany …’

  ‘France?’

  ‘Yes, because Owie doesn’t speak any Chinese. So I was thinking London. Haven’t been there for a long time, not since I worked with old … ooh, what was his name? Montague, that was the fellow! Montague Watts … and I was Lord William. The act we did, Lucien …’

  ‘Gerard.’

  ‘Yes, the act we did, I had to pretend to be slowly sizzled … I mean, slightly sozzled, every night. Went down a storm, we did! Did a show in front of Mean Dictoria herself. I mean, Bean Quicktoria … er …’

  ‘Queen Victoria?’ suggested Gerard.

  ‘The very one! People reckoned she was a misery but she nearly laughed her knickers off at our act, I can tell you! Gave me a medal, she did. In fact, we’ve still got it in Otto’s trunk …’ His face fell. ‘Oh!’ He shook his head. ‘Poor old Otto. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘He’s dead!’ snapped Owen. ‘You killed him.’

  ‘Who says that? Show me the man who says it and I’ll knock his block off!’

  ‘You said it,’ cried Owen, and now he could feel the anger rising up within him. ‘You lied to me. You told me he died of old age!’

  ‘Well, he was knocking on a bit! I just … helped him along.’ He lapsed into one of his little ditties. ‘This is the tale of Otto Schilling. He always gave me second billing. He told me he was old and tired. So I said, “Otto, you are fired!”’ He burst into a manic shriek of laughter, which faded quickly when he realised that nobody else was laughing. ‘Oh, come on,’ he said. ‘What do you have to do to crack a smile around here?’

  ‘Nobody’s laughing!’ cried Owen. ‘You’re talking about murder!’

  ‘Well, I’ll grant you, it’s not the funniest material I’ve ever worked with …’

  ‘You really think I want to go to London with you after what you just told me? That could be me one day!’

  ‘Well, not for a very long time. I mean, seriously, you’re only a kid.’

  ‘That’s not the point! Otto looked after you for all those years and that’s how you repaid him?’

  ‘You’re taking this the wrong way,’ muttered Mr Sparks.

  ‘There’s only one way I can take it. You’re a killer. A murderer.’

  ‘That’s a very unpleasant word.’ Mr Sparks looked at Gerard. ‘Lucien, you tell the boy. He can’t call me names like that.’

  ‘It’s Gerard! And yes, I’m afraid he can, because that is what you are. You just confessed to us.’

  ‘Did I? That was a mistake. But you don’t understand, Owie! Try and think for a moment what it’s like to be me. Trying to survive in a world that doesn’t understand you. Having to pretend that I’m just this stupid hunk of lead …’

  ‘Wood,’ said Gerard.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, wood! A hunk of wood in a world where most of the people who find out your secret, think that you should be destroyed. That you’re some kind of evil monster!’

  ‘Maybe they’ve got that bit right,’ snarled Owen.

  ‘Oh, you’re just overcome with emulsion … er, emotion! But if you think about it for a minute, you’ll realise that I did what I had to do in order to survive. It’s what I’ve been doing ever since I came into the world.’

  ‘You didn’t have to kill him. Couldn’t you have just … put him into a trance or something?’

  ‘Oh yeah, good idea. Let him slowly starve to death. Look, Owen, the man was finished anyway. He was already dying. I just … speeded things up a bit.’

  Owen couldn’t listen to any more of it. He motioned to Gerard. ‘Put him back to sleep,’ he said.

  Gerard gave Owen a warning look and Mr Sparks reacted. ‘You can put me to sleep?’ he shrieked, glaring at Gerard. ‘How long have you been able to do that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gerard.

  ‘Oh, but it does. I bet Otto taught you that trick, didn’t he? You know, I always wondered if that sly old devil had found a way to do it. It explains a lot.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ said Owen. ‘I’m sick of the sound of your voice!’

  ‘Oh now, Owie, don’t be like that, please! I’m getting better now. I … I’ll behave myself, I promise.’

  Owen looked at Gerard. ‘Sleep,’ he said.

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t talk to him now.’ Owen turned and began to walk away.

  Mr Sparks shouted after him, ‘Owie! Owie, don’t let him do it. Please! I’ll be a good boy, I’ll say my prayers every night, I won’t kill anybody else, I promise, just let me—’

  The voice cut off abruptly. When Owen glanced back, Mr Sparks was on his back again, gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling. Gerard was standing over him, looking thoughtfully down. Owen turned away and went through to the kitchen. He took a seat at the table and buried his face in the pillow of his crossed arms. After a little while, Gerard came into the room and stood behind him.

  ‘It was what I was afraid of,’ he said. ‘He only spoke of it because he was … all mixed up. And you know something? I can’t honestly say I believe it was the first time he’s done something like that.’

  Owen said something but his mouth was against the back of one arm and it came out unintelligible.

  ‘Say it again?’ suggested Gerard.

  Owen lifted his head, his eyes wet with tears.

  ‘Maybe we should have that cup of coffee now,’ Gerard said.

  20

  The Trip

  The day dragged on while they sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and staring blankly out of the window. It was a pleasant autumn morning, the surrounding trees swaying in the breeze, but Owen wasn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate it. He didn’t know what to do for the best. Part of him wanted to instruct Gerard to make sure that Mr Sparks never woke up again and he could tell from the Frenchman’s grave features that, if given such an order, he wouldn’t hesitate to carry it out. But, Owen told himself, if they did that, wouldn’t it make the pair of them as bad as Mr Sparks? Wouldn’t that make them murderers too?

  Eventually, they could stand it no longer. ‘I need to go into Paimpont for some provisions,’ Gerard announced. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  Owen nodded, telling himself that perhaps some fresh air would help to clear his head. ‘How will we get there?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  They got their coats and Gerard led Owen outside and around the back of the building. There was a short track, which led to a clearing in the woods, where Owen was surprised to see a ramshackle old barn, that he hadn’t even realised existed. Gerard pulled back the big wooden doors to reveal a brown horse, standing in a stall and alongside her, a simple four-wheeled carriage that looked to Owen like it must have been hundreds of years old.

  ‘This is Mathilde,’ said Gerard, slapping the horse on the rump. ‘Like everything else around here, she’s getting a little long in the tooth, but she gets me where I want to go, provided I don’t need to be there in a hurry.’ He took a bridle from a hook on the wall and fitted it into Mathilde’s mouth, then led her out of the stall and began to hitch her to the carriage. Owen examined this in more detail. He could see that it once must have been rather grand, but now the black lacquered finish was scuffed in a dozen places and he could see where bits of wire and twine had been used to make temporary repairs. ‘This thing has been in my family for many years,’ explained Gerard. ‘I can remember riding in it with my grandfather when I was your age. People keep telling me I should get a new one, but I say to them, “Why would I do that?” This suits me fine.’ He smiled sympathetically at Owen, no doubt seeing the troubled expression on his face. ‘But here am I, talking away and all you can think of is what to do about Charlie,’ he said. ‘You know, it doesn’t have to be so difficult. It wouldn’t be lik
e we were killing him.’

  ‘No?’ Owen was unconvinced.

  ‘No. If I don’t say the sequence of words, he never wakes up again. I could just put him in a cupboard somewhere and … forget all about him.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t feel right either,’ said Owen. ‘That would be like … like we’d buried him alive or something.’

  Gerard secured the leather yoke around Mathilde’s neck. ‘Well, what else are you going to do? Take him back to your country and inform the police that he’s a murderer?’ He chuckled. ‘That’s a trial I’d pay money to see,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine Charlie up in the dock answering questions?’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ Owen told him. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I appreciate that. It’s not a decision I would like to have to make.’

  ‘Why does it have to be me who decides, anyway?’ protested Owen. ‘You’ve known him a lot longer than I have.’

  ‘True. But you are his operator now. Charlie chose you. When he did that, he gave you control of him. So it has to be your decision. But I will help in any way I can.’ Gerard made a few last checks on the fastenings and then climbed up behind the reins and gestured to Owen to take the seat beside him. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We will ride into Paimpont. Maybe a change of scenery will help you make up your mind.’

  Owen clambered up beside him. Gerard clicked his tongue and Mathilde started walking, pulling the carriage out of the barn.

  ‘Aren’t you going to close the door behind us?’ Owen asked him.

  Gerard shook his head. ‘I already told you …’

  ‘Nobody comes here! Yes, you keep saying that. But what if somebody did come here? A thief or something. The door of the house isn’t locked. Somebody could come in and take Mr Sparks away.’

  Gerard considered for a moment. ‘Which would save us both a lot of trouble,’ he said drily. He slapped the reins against Mathilde’s back and she broke into a trot, pulling the carriage along the narrow track that led to the main road.

  Paimpont turned out to be a picturesque little village in the very heart of the forest, a few thatched-roof buildings, all made from the same grey stone, ranged on either side of a hard dirt road. As they drove in to its outskirts, Gerard chatted happily about the area and pointed out things of interest.

  ‘You know, this village hasn’t changed one bit in all the years I have been coming here,’ he told Owen. ‘There’s the forge where I bring Mathilde, when she needs to have a new shoe. And over the back there is the church, where I go to pray … well, when I remember. But we stop here, at the épicerie – the village store.’ He brought the carriage to a halt outside a grey stone building, with green wooden shutters and rust-coloured ivy clambering up the walls. ‘Here they sell everything I need,’ he explained. ‘Bread, cheese, wine. I am a man of simple tastes.’ He looked at Owen thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you should wait here,’ he suggested. ‘Monsieur Rambroche, who runs the store, he is the long-nosed sort, you know? If he asks me questions about you, I don’t know exactly what I would tell him. You don’t mind waiting here a little while?’

  Owen shook his head. ‘It’ll give me a chance to think,’ he said.

  Gerard smiled sympathetically. He climbed down from his seat and took a couple of hessian bags from the back of the carriage. ‘I won’t be long,’ he promised.

  Owen nodded and watched as Gerard walked to the entrance of the store and went inside. It was quiet in the village, just the soft sounds of birdsong from the surrounding forest. Owen looked around, but the place seemed deserted apart from three workmen who were crouched on the other side of the road, some fifty yards ahead of him. They appeared to be making repairs to the kerb. Two of the men wore blue overalls and flat caps, but the third man, taller and thinner than his companions, wore a heavy military-style greatcoat. He was helping the other two manoeuvre a heavy kerbstone into position at the side of the road and Owen thought that for some reason, the man looked vaguely familiar. A jolt of anxiety went through him as he thought about the two men who had pursued him back in Wales. Could it be one of them, the thin man who had chased him along the platform at Denbigh station? But no, he decided, this fellow wasn’t quite as tall, or quite as thin and his hair was shorter and sandy-coloured.

  And yet, for all that, there was something about the man that made Owen think that he had seen him before, that there was something maddeningly familiar about him. But how could that be? Owen had never been to France before, didn’t know anyone that lived here. Unless …

  Just at that moment, the workmen got the kerbing stone into position and the tall man straightened up and took a step back. For some reason, he turned to gaze down the street in Owen’s direction. The face that looked at him was unmistakable, though there was not a sign of recognition in those dark brown eyes. Owen felt an abrupt shock ripple through him, a shock that seemed to momentarily stop his heart from beating in his chest. He gasped aloud, then couldn’t seem to get his breath. It couldn’t be, could it? Had he gone mad? Was he imagining things? Because the face was familiar for a very good reason.

  Almost before he knew what he was doing, he was scrambling down from his seat, as though his arms and legs had taken on a life of their own. Now he was running along the street, his arms held out in front of him. The man saw him coming and his eyes narrowed quizzically. He opened his mouth to say something but before he could speak, Owen flung himself the last few steps and wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, almost knocking him off his feet.

  ‘Da!’ he cried. ‘Da, what are you doing here?’

  There was a silence then, a silence so deep that Owen thought he would fall into it, that he would go on falling for ever. It occurred to him that the man was not returning his hug, that the body beneath the greatcoat was stiff and unyielding. Owen pulled back a little and looked up into his father’s face, only to see those familiar features staring blankly down at him as though he was a stranger. In that moment, Owen noticed something he hadn’t been able to see from a distance – the long jagged streak of pale scar tissue that stretched from Gareth Dyer’s left temple to the corner of his left eye.

  ‘Da?’ whispered Owen. ‘Da, it’s me. Owen. Don’t you know me?’

  But Da just looked down at him, his expression stern. Then he spoke in Welsh-accented English.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

  21

  Found

  They rode slowly back from Paimpont, Owen sitting beside Gerard, Da hunched on a seat in the back, beside the sacks of groceries. He was staring straight ahead, his expression still blank. Owen was in shock and Gerard was clearly mystified by what had happened during his absence.

  He had emerged from the general store to find Owen desperately trying to explain to the other two workmen that he was their assistant’s son, and that he needed his father to go with him, so he could explain to him everything that had happened since they had last seen each other. But the men spoke hardly any English and Owen’s jabbering had made them think he was some kind of maniac. Gerard had managed to explain the situation to them, and they told him that the Welshman was only with them because they had taken pity on him when he’d drifted into the area a couple of months ago. Yes, they knew he had no memory, he had managed to explain that much to them, and quite obviously his amnesia must have something to do with the scar on his temple, an injury they had assumed he’d sustained in the Great War. Of course they were happy to let him go. The problem was that Da didn’t seem that happy to say goodbye to them.

  ‘But these are my friends,’ he kept saying, as Owen and Gerard led him to the carriage. ‘I work for them. Why would I want to leave them?’

  ‘Because … I’m your son and I … need to take you home to Ma.’

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘My ma … your wife. Megan?’ But Da’s expression had remained unchanged all through the conversation. If the name Megan meant anything to him, he didn’t show it. Now he sat in the back of the carriage looking like a whipped dog, as thou
gh the last thing he wanted was to go anywhere with these two strangers who had accosted him in the street.

  Gerard gave Owen a sidelong look. ‘Well, I have to say that going shopping with you is full of surprises. I was expecting only to pick up bread, cheese and wine. But I come back with another mouth to feed.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How could he be here? He has the whole of France to choose from, and he just happens to be in the same little village that I’m in?’

  ‘You are not glad to find him?’

  ‘Of course I am! We thought he was dead. But … he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything about me or Ma. How is that going to work?’

  ‘Maybe his memory will come back,’ suggested Gerard. ‘Once he has got to know you again.’

  ‘But those men said he’d been working with them for two months. And it’s a year since the War ended.’

  Gerard looked thoughtful. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not an accident that you came here. Maybe you were brought here for that very reason. To find your father.’

  ‘What do you mean? Brought here … by who?’

  ‘Don’t you believe in fate, Owen? Don’t you think that sometimes things happen that help people to find what they have lost?’ He glanced briefly over his shoulder at the figure in the back of the carriage. ‘Think about it! Think of all the little things that had to happen to make sure you met your father on the road by the store. What if he had gone to some other town to work? What if you had decided to stay at home instead of coming to the store with me? What if I had told you to come inside and help me with the shopping? You would have missed seeing him. We could have got back in the carriage and rode home without even noticing that he was there. And think why you are here in the first place.’

  ‘Well … because Mr Sparks made me come here.’

  ‘Yes! So maybe that is why you met Charlie. Maybe something sent him to find you and bring you out here to meet with your father. Do you see what I am saying? Things happen for a reason, Owen! There is no such thing as chance. If Otto hadn’t died, then you wouldn’t even be here now. So … I suppose what I am saying is … maybe Otto had to die, in order for all these things to happen.’