Read The Thief of Broken Toys for Free Online Page B

has glandular
fever. That worries Rachel, because she had
that
illness
when
she
was
young
and
its
regular recurrence is one of the main things
she remembers from her teens. Whatever is
wrong with him, Ollie has been home from
school for three weeks, meaning that her
working patterns at the bakery during the
day have been haphazard at best. Margaret
the
owner
is
sympathetic,
but
she’s
also
said she might have to let Rachel go and
have her niece Maxine work the still-busy
lunchtime shift. She doesn’t pay much, and
if Rachel hired a babysitter to come and look
after Ollie for those four hours, she’d end up
working them for a little over ten pounds.
It’s a problem — so much so that for the last
three days she’s been considering contacting
that fucking bastard Johnny and begging
him for help. But this evening Ollie seemed
to suddenly improve, between the time she
started dinner and the time they’d finished.
His pallor lifted, his eyes grew bright again,
his colour returned, and by nine o’clock he
wanted to go out for ice cream. If there’d
been one place in the village still open at that
time, she’d have gone out to buy him a whole
tub.
    So she sits watching him now, and the frown
is only a little to do with the mystery of his
miraculous recovery. Mostly it’s because he is
cuddling his old beanie doll, and she disposed
of Oswald a few weeks ago when its leg came
off and started leaking bean-innards. Now it’s
whole again, and so, it seems, is Ollie.
    We move away from Rachel now, back into
the storm, because come morning she will
have forgotten Oswald and found a measure of
happiness again. On to the top of the village,
following the direction of the storm, and in
a small attic room above the Smugglers’ Inn,
a man and woman sleep wrapped together,
naked, warm. There are dreams in this room,
and Elizabeth opens her eyes and cries out
as she hears her dead son’s laughter. The
fisherman, Jason, mumbles something in his
sleep and cups her breast, and Elizabeth lifts
her head and stares through the curtainless
window at the storm beyond. She’s breathing
heavily, and soon the tears on her face echo
the raindrops on glass.
    Back through the village, its secret lives
huddled down against the storm, we see and
sense other people enjoying or suffering
different
dreams.
There
is
laughter
and
sadness, lovemaking and lovelessness. And
up past the last of the houses, on the cliffs
overlooking the sea, here he is, the man sitting
in a small stone shelter working by the light of
a fire.
    â€œWake up, sleepy bum!” Toby shouted, and Ray
smiled as he surfaced from sleep. He could
smell fire, and they were camping on the
moors, one of their neighbours having already
fired up the barbeque for breakfast. “Sleepy
bum, sleepy bum!” Toby called, and Ray was
stiff and sore.
I just love my home comforts
,
he remembered Elizabeth saying about her
ambivalence toward camping, but this holiday
would change that.
    Ray opened his eyes, expecting to see Toby
kneeling just outside their tent compartment,
ready to open the zip and leap onto their
airbed. But everything was wrong. The ceiling
was too high, and lined with spider webs. The
airbed was harder than it should have been,
and he wondered whether it had gone down
during the night.
    Reality crowded in and Ray groaned. The
smell of smoke remained.
    He sat up slowly. Some of the duvet had
slipped from the sofa during the night, and
he was cold. He’d gone to sleep still naked,
the fire roaring in the hearth, but now it
was a sculpture of ash, and he saw his breath
condensing before him.
    â€œDamn it, Toby,” Ray whispered, as if his son
really had woken him. He stood and walked
slowly to the kitchen, pausing with every step
to twist and turn the kinks from his limbs and
back. He must have slept in the same position
all night, and now his body wanted to remain
in that shape. He was like the teenager Toby
had never