The Thief of Broken Toys (4 page)

“Sorry, Toby,” he said. “Really, son, I'm so
sorry.” He'd been a terrible father. He hadn't
deserved such a wonderful boy. People would
judge him and he wanted that, because he was
so unable to judge himself. All these thoughts
harried at him, though he knew none of them
were completely true.

Grabbing the Ben 10 watch, he turned from
the room, shutting off the light behind him
and closing the door.

Standing
on
the
landing,
Ray
heard
raindrops tapping at the window. They were
blown by a strengthening sea breeze. He took
a deep breath and thought of the cliff top, how
wild and untouched it was up there, and how
alone he would be.

The broken toy went into his coat pocket,
and five minutes later he was making his way
up the coastal path toward the cliffs.

The storm's growth tracked his progress up
out of Skentipple. When he left his home, the
rain was light, the wind gentle but starting to
gust harder. The coastal path curved up and
out of the village, and the higher he walked,
the stronger the wind and more persistent the
rain. It was as if the weather sensed the village
held some semblance of civilization, and that
the cliffs were the wilds.

Ray loved walking up here. Being alone was
part of it, because circumstance had made him
the loner he'd always believed he was meant
to be. But there was also an element of feeling
closer to Toby here than anywhere, even in his
home. The little boy had loved walking, adored
the views, had been fascinated by nature and
the wildness of that place. It had started as a
toddler's eternal interest in somewhere new,
but by the time he died, Toby's love of nature
was becoming obvious. Like most kids, he was
drawn to dinosaurs and the strange mysteries
they represented — monsters in a world where
adults said there were none — but animals
he could see, hear, and sometimes touch had
always held greater allure for him.

Once, they had found a dead seagull tucked
beneath a huge sprout of ferns. It had taken
Ray a couple of minutes to approach, because
there had been no obvious injuries. He'd
seen the birds close up many times before —
troubling holidaymakers for food, or crying
out when their eggs had been holed in the
annual cull — and he had always respected
their size and aggression. But like any living
thing of any size, seeing it motionless looked
so wrong. There was something unearthly
about a creature that should be revelling in
movement being so still. He'd edged closer,
reaching out his hand, Toby hanging onto his
leg not in fear, but for comfort because his
father was there with him. And just before he'd
touched the bird, Ray thought he saw it move.
But it was only an errant breeze twitching one
of its complex, beautiful feathers.

Toby had looked the same that morning
when they found him. Motionless, silent, not
there. He'd worn the features of their son, but
he had never been so still.

And there were so many things to collect,
so many of nature's wonders to marvel over
or question, especially when you viewed the
world from a child's eyes. Toby had seen so
much that Ray had always taken for granted,
and Ray had been forced to buy several books
just so he could keep up with his son's demand
for information. Plants and flowers needed
categorizing and pressing, and Ray had made
a small book-sized flower press for his boy.
Small mammals needed naming, their tracks
identifying,
habitats
understanding.
Ray
had learned at the same time as Toby that
there were shrews, badgers, rabbits, stoats,
rats, voles, moles, hedgehogs, foxes, and
perhaps even deer living on the stretch of
wild countryside above the village. There were
birds to watch through binoculars, species
identified by their type of flight or song, and
the two of them had often spent hours sitting
up there watching birds fishing, or dropping
shells onto rocks to break them open. It had
become a revelation for Ray, and in some ways
he'd found himself more surprised at the
variety of wildlife around them than Toby.

Because Toby was a little boy who
expected
amazing things. His mind was wide open
and prepared for there to be a multitude of
discoveries yet to make. His sense of wonder
had been alive and on fire, and Ray's . . .
perhaps that had dwindled and died with the
withering effects of age. He'd often watch
his son stop to root through undergrowth or
examine a caterpillar beneath a magnifying
glass, and grow sad at the idea that wonder
was such a difficult commodity to retain.
More often than not he would have simply
walked on.

Elizabeth used to complain when the two
of them embarked on their expeditions during
bad weather.
But Mummy
, Toby would wail,
some of the animals only come out of their houses
when they know there's no one there
. It was an
incredibly mature observation for someone so
young — he was acknowledging that the world
existed without him, as well as with him —
and Elizabeth had never complained again.

With Toby, he had never been scared. But
now he felt the wild inside him, not just all
around. The cliff path at night was an alien
place to Ray, one where his son no longer
existed, shadows throbbed with malice, and
memories flitted through the darkness like
teasing ghosts.

He paused and turned around, looking back
the way he had come. He could still see a few of
Skentipple's more remote buildings, but most
of the village was hidden from view behind
the shoulder of the land. It was built in an
inlet in the coast, a natural harbour protected
from the sea by the high cliffs on either side,
and from here he could see little more than
its glow. Rain falling over Skentipple was set
aflame by the lights, and it seemed that huge
fires danced in the air.

Elizabeth was down there somewhere.
Still in the Flag and Fisherman perhaps,
several drinks in and relaxing more in Jason's
company. His hand might be higher up her
thigh now, little finger nestling against the
place only Ray had seen and touched and
tasted for the last ten years. He wondered
what she thought of as she drank and laughed
at the big fisherman's jokes, whether she
sometimes saw Toby watching her through the
dusty windows, or heard him asking her what
she was doing. Ray had never actually seen or
heard his dead son, but he felt his presence
everywhere.
It's your memories where he's still
alive
, someone had told him shortly after
his little boy's cremation. He couldn't even
recall who she had been. An aunty, perhaps,
or one of Elizabeth's friends. Ray had been
experiencing a moment of sheer panic at what
they had done, destroying what little was left
of Toby, and he had tortured himself for not
burying the boy and allowing him the chance
to fade.
That wasn't really him
, the woman had
said, and she had touched Ray's forehead,
thumb reaching down to smudge his tears.
This is the place where he still lives
.

Not in Heaven
, Ray had said, but it had not
been a question. Then, and ever since, he had
coveted the comfort that faith gave some
people, but it had never been a part of him.
It's
just a story, son
, he'd told Toby.
Made up
.

Sometimes he thought about Toby's last
moments, and what he had been dreaming
when he died.

He turned away from the village and
continued walking. He wanted to go far
enough to leave its glow behind, to a place
where the only light was the occasional
glimpse of the half-moon through storm
clouds, speckling the wet ground in a million
places and glancing from the wild waves. The
ground was wet, and slippery in places where
the bare path had turned muddy. This route
was used extensively during tourist season,
but now that the year's end loomed, it was only
the occasional hardy local who came this way,
walking their dog or their lover or themselves.
To his right lay the cliff's edge, farther down
the slope and shielded from him by growths
of low hawthorn bushes, brambles, and the
remnants of the summer's ferns. He knew if
he worked his way down lesser-trodden paths,
he would draw much closer to the cliff, but he
was mostly safe where he walked now.

A gust of wind brought the scents of the sea,
and rain stung the right side of his face. He
heard a cough, and cleared his throat before
realizing the sound had not come from him.

Ray
paused,
motionless
beneath
the
weather doing its best to set him tumbling,
or rolling, or rushing back for shelter. A chill
ran down his back like a drip of icy water, and
he squinted as he scanned the path ahead
of him. A dozen steps from where he stood,
slightly uphill, a holly tree leaned toward the
sea, and he remembered that directly beyond
it the path veered left and down a short
series of uneven, naturally formed steps. A
shadow stood beneath that tree now, so still
he wondered whether it was his own. But the
moon was to his right, not behind him. And
then the shape dropped away along the path.

“Hey!” Ray called, because the complicit
storm of rain and wind needed breaking.
He stumbled ahead, slipping and almost
sprawling in the mud, heart thudding and
chest pulsing from the shock. When he found
his feet again and paused beneath the holly,
the path ahead and below him appeared
empty. He moved on, stepping carefully down
the rocky steps. Movement ahead drew his
attention again, and as he glanced up, his foot
slipped. He reached out and grasped a branch
hanging above him, howling as several leaf
spikes pierced his palm and fingers.

The shadow moved along the path and then
paused again, as if drawing him on.

Ray let go of the branch and put his hand to
his mouth. He tasted blood.
It doesn't matter
,
he thought.
Even if it is someone, I don't need
to meet them
. But something about the vague
form lured him on, and he followed.

He passed by several places that held
memories of Toby, but kept his eyes on the
figure. It maintained the same distance
between them, however fast or slow Ray
moved. Once, he started running along a
stretch of path he knew to be relatively level
and unhindered by protruding stones or roots.
The shadow also ran.

At last he paused, examining his stillbleeding hand in the moonlight. Rain diluted
the blood and swilled it across his palm and
wrist, inside the arm of his coat to stain the
fabric in there.

“Fuck you!” he shouted into the storm, and
he turned around to walk back the way he had
come. At home he'd build the first fire of the
winter, lock all the doors, close the curtains,
and his house would become his castle against
the world. He would open a bottle of wine —
just for a glass or two, because drinking
never numbed the pain — and listen to the
storm defeated against the walls. If memories
came to haunt, so be it. If tears came, he
would let them flow. But he could rest with
the knowledge that he'd at least commenced
clearing Toby's room. Over the next few days
the room would change, and as it became a
spare room for visitors that never came, so he
too would try to move on. He'd always hated
symbolism — he prided himself on his straight
thinking — but sometimes, since Toby's death,
it was the only way he could see things.

“Have you brought me a broken toy?” a
voice said.

Ray spun around. An old man stood several
feet from him along the path. His voice had
carried well, though he'd spoken softly.

“Who . . . who are you?”

“Just an old man.” He eyed Ray up and
down, expression neutral. He wore a long black
raincoat with a hood pulled over his head, and
he stood leaning forward slightly, right hand
propped against his right knee. It was a calm
pose, as opposed to a frail one.

“What toy?” Ray asked.
How did he know?
What was this?
He brushed his hand across his
coat, feeling the uneven shape of the Ben 10
watch in his pocket.

The old man blinked, and water gathered
on his long eyelashes.

Ray took a step forward to see the man
clearer. It was an unconscious decision, and
as his foot lifted and moved forward, he was
assaulted by a flood of thoughts:
stupid move,
show him I'm not scared, he'll be startled, who is
he, what's he doing up here, he knows about the
toy but he can't, so he doesn't he doesn't know, and
I'm going closer even though
—

“Who are you?” Ray asked again as his foot
hit the ground, and the man took a hasty step
backward. His eyes grew wider, and he stood
up straight. For the first time Ray noticed
the walking stick, and the way the man's pale
hand was gripped around the handle. But
something about his expression was false. It
wasn't quite a smile he wore, but it didn't quite
vanish, either.

“Told you, boy. Just an old man.”

“Out in this storm?”

“So you going to give me the toy?”

“I don't recognize you from Skentipple.”

“I don't live down in the village,” the old
man said. “Go there sometimes, but got no
need to live there.” The wind continued to
blow, and rain hushed down all around them,
but the conversation was clear on both sides.
Ray had to raise his voice, but the man seemed
unconcerned.

“So where do you live?”

“Near enough.” He looked Ray up and down
again, his gaze finally settling on the coat
pocket.

“I've got no toy,” Ray said, harsher than
he'd intended.

The man seemed to lose interest, turning to
look out to sea at where a ship's lights blinked
on the horizon. He transferred his walking
stick from his left hand to his right, and
reached up to scratch his scalp. The movement
lifted the hood and, facing the moon, Ray saw
his face for the first time. He was extremely
old, skin creased and sagging from his face. His
eyes were wide and intelligent, but gravity and
time had pulled down the flesh around them,
giving him a permanently sad expression.
A few wisps of grey hair protruded from the
hood, and his chin and cheeks were white with
stubble. His jaw was strong, and Ray knew for
sure that he still had his own teeth.