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

Christmas.” The old man shrugged, and
in that dismissive gesture Ray saw a level of
complete control, and calm confidence.
    The safari jeep had grown warm in his
hand, absorbing heat through his skin, and
something made him look down at it. The last
time it had been this warm was when Toby
was playing with it, and a rush of emotions
shuddered through him.
That’ll be me one
day, Daddy
, he’d said, squinting through the
scratched plastic window at the featureless
man cast behind the steering wheel.
    â€œYou know I can help it,” the man said. He
held out his hand. “There’s no need for you to
. . .” He nodded sideways, toward the cliff edge
and the mounds of undergrowth there, hiding
whatever it hid. “Not yet, at least. Maybe next
time, when you’re more settled, and you need
to see so you can take it on. Maybe then.”
    â€œTake it on?”
    The old man looked tired, at last, and
something else. Unsettled. Even nervous.
“The toy?”
    For a moment, Ray thought of throwing
the toy jeep toward the cliffs and then
running back the way they’d come. But he was
scared that he’d arrive home and find it on his
doorstop, broken door fixed, three bare tires
rounded with rubber once more. So he placed
it gently in the old man’s hand and mourned
the loss of warm metal against his skin.
    â€œHmm,” the old man said in satisfaction. He
nodded to Ray, then looked past him along the
path.
Time for you to leave
, that look said. Ray
wanted to defy him, to stay here and watch
while he did whatever it was he did up here.
But that would defeat the object. He’d brought
the jeep here for this reason, and now it was
time to go.
    â€œWhatever it is you do . . .” he said, and the
nameless man raised an eyebrow, a faint smile
on his lips.
He’s laughing at me
, Ray thought.
    â€œWhat?” the man said.
    â€œIt works,” Ray said. And he turned and
marched back along the path, heading for the
village and the safe comfort of his house. With
every step he took, something drew him back,
a desire to understand, to witness. It wasn’t
long before he stopped and turned around.
    The man stood where he’d left him, in
exactly the same position. He waved Ray on.
Ray, feeling like a schoolchild, continued on
his way, but stopped again after twenty paces.
This time, the man was gone.
    His hand suddenly very cold, as if it had
never held that jeep at all, Ray ran back up
the slippery path. He reached the place where
he and the old man had stood and there was
no sign that he had ever been there — no boot
prints in the mud, no scent of old clothes on
the air. He stood on tiptoes to look toward
the cliff edge, trying to make out the mound
of undergrowth that marked the location of
the old stone building. There was something
. . . an intimation of regularity, though he
could not quite see the stone itself. He tried
pushing through the undergrowth — gorse,
bracken, ferns fading away to winter — but
they snagged at his clothing and pricked his
skin. There was no clear path through, and the
old man could never have forced his way past
this quickly.
    Ray looked up the cliff path, and it was
empty as far as he could see. He supposed the
old man might have run and reached the place
where it turned out of sight. He might have.
But he’d have had to run very quickly.
    He pushed some more, stretching, tugging
branches and clumps of gorse aside and
pricking his fingers in the process. A dozen
blood droplets formed on his hands, smearing
as he tried to haul himself close to the cliff’s
edge. But he was held back, and eventually he
retreated to the path. He was panting from
exertion, heart racing from something more.
    â€œDamn it,” Ray said, looking around for the
man, seeing the place where that old stone
hut just might be. Then he turned and walked
slowly back down to the village.
    Later, as he sat waiting on his doorstep, he
watched the