The Thief of Broken Toys by Tim Lebbon Read Free Book Online Page A

he concentrated
on shaving, the bathroom’s décor, flossing,
brushing his hair, what he might have for
breakfast, what he’d need to fix the fence later
that day, and all the while that broken thing
was on his mind, fixed now and in the next
room.
    Standing on the landing, facing the open
door to Toby’s old room, Ray felt more normal
and
there
than he had since waking.
I dropped
it, someone found it and fixed it and brought it
back for me
, he thought.
Or maybe when it
dropped from my pocket, it hit the ground,
dislodged something that was
. . .
    But there was the spring that had fallen
from the toy. And when he’d started back
down the cliff path after leaving the old
man, he’d felt the lump in his coat, touching
it protectively because it was a secret the old
man had known. His coat pocket had a clip
button on the flap, and it had been securely
fastened.
    He could go mad thinking this through.
    The door creaked slightly as he opened it,
and he steeled himself for the rush of grief that
always awaited him in Toby’s room. But today,
the emotions were different. He gasped at the
strangeness of things, then sat on Toby’s bed
beside a dozen other broken toys. He looked
slowly around the room, and wondered where
this new feeling had come from.
    He
was
melancholy
rather
than
sad.
Where crushing grief usually compressed
his chest and distorted his perception of the
surroundings, now there was a cool glow
of distance and absence. And for the first
time, he could look around the room and see
evidence of joy. There on the bookcase was
one of his son’s drawing books. He’d become
adept at sketching, and could draw animals as
well as some kids twice his age.
I want to be an
artist
, he’d said once, and Ray remembered the
pride he’d felt at that moment, as if already
acknowledging future achievements. In one
corner sat a soccer ball, mud still dried into
creases and stitches from the last time they’d
kicked it around on the field at the top of the
village. Toby had been able to kick the ball
almost as far as Ray. They’d laughed as they
played, and there were many kids who never
had that, whose fathers were too busy or
distracted or distant. That was a
good
memory,
and though it would not be repeated, Ray felt
happy it had happened at all. Toby’s life had
been short. But he had been loved.
    Ray leaned forward and looked at the dusty
carpet between his feet, watching rosettes of
tears drop there. But he was smiling, because
for the first time in a long while he heard
Toby’s laughter afresh.
    The storm had cleared, blowing itself out
during the night, and now the sky was
crumbed with the remnants of white clouds.
It was still cool, but the weak autumn sun
was already drying the paths and streets in
random patterns. The harbour was bustling
with a bus load of tourists, cameras humming
and beeping, faces smiling, heads wearing
hats. Ray passed them by and headed into the
warren of back streets.
    The bakery was on the corner of two narrow
streets. It smelled wonderful, and Ray’s spirits
always lifted a little when he approached. The
sun peeked over the buildings behind him and
reflected from the upper half of the shop’s
window, and the lower half was alight with a
display of Chelsea buns, cream cakes, custard
tarts, fresh crusty rolls, and doughnuts. Part
of his reason for coming down was to buy a
loaf and a couple of cakes for lunch, but there
was another reason. That haunted him, and it
seemed to be the only darkness on his mood
this morning.
    I shouldn’t be feeling good, because Toby’s dead
,
he thought. But one thing he and his wife had
agreed upon from the beginning — from the
start of their new life, not the terrible end of
their old one — was that guilt would kill them
both. Their son had died of a rare condition
no one could have foreseen, and to carry guilt
for his death, as well as the grief, would be too
much. Acknowledging this