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

Here was
the Power Ranger whose arm had come off
when Elizabeth stepped on it, Toby’s cry of
grief heartbreaking to both of them. They’d
comforted him, given him a chocolate bar,
and Ray had promised to fix it, but never
had. Here was the self-propelling car whose
mechanism had become jammed, and Toby
had cried because it no longer moved on its
own.
It’s dead
, he’d said, and Ray had not fixed
that one, either.
    On the side of the wardrobe, which still
held many of Toby’s little clothes, was a
self-portrait he’d painted in school when he
was five years old. It was the usual childish
splodge of paint; big round pink head, bright
blue eyes, smiling mouth with — much to Ray’s
and Elizabeth’s amusement at the time — two
long vampirish teeth. Since he’d gone, Ray
had not been able to look at it without crying.
It was something more than a photograph,
evidence of Toby’s mind working, his hands
moving, and a sign of the self-awareness he’d
barely had time to explore. But now he looked
at it and smiled, and his dead son smiled back.
At least he’d had a chance. At least he’d spent
some years on this planet, instead of no years
at all. He’d known laughter and joy, and he
had been loved.
    Ray gathered some toys to him and rested
back on the bed, looking around the room with
new eyes and finding in himself an ability to
celebrate — instead of only mourn — Toby’s
life.
    â€œElizabeth,” he said. Something about his
estranged wife’s name had changed. It held
more meaning than it did yesterday, when it
had simply been the first name of the woman
who’d left him. Today it was Toby’s mother,
part of this room, these toys, and part of Toby’s
mind when he’d picked up the fat paintbrush
and painted himself as he believed his mother
and father saw him. “Elizabeth,” Ray said
again. And he knew he had to talk to her.
    His walk through the village was alive with
memories, and Ray wondered whether in his
grief he’d been burying them so deep that they
were as good as forgotten. They came to the
fore now, bright sunlit moments of pushing
Toby’s
pram,
guiding
him
on
unsteady,
unlearned legs, and chasing after him when
he progressed from toddler to little boy. The
most obscure, meaningless recollections hit
home, and Ray realized that no moment is
meaningless. His son’s smile over his shoulder
as he entered the local post office holding his
mother’s hand, skipping along the curbside
with one foot on pavement and one on road,
kneeling down with bread in his hand and a
robin hopping cautiously closer, closer . . .
each of these images was precious, because
they were evidence of his son’s life. Toby was
gone now, but memories could be as rich
and as meaningful as experience. After all,
every instant that passed — every step Ray
took, every beat of his heart — was instantly
consigned to memory.
    He passed the bakery and paused to look
inside, but he could not see Rachel. Perhaps on
the way back he’d call in to see her, after he’d
spoken with Elizabeth and . . .
    â€œWhat am I going to say?” he whispered,
walking on past the bakery and staring at
the ground before him. He couldn’t tell the
truth. That he’d met an old man on the cliffs,
and that the old man was fixing Toby’s toys
and somehow easing Ray’s grief. That was
ridiculous. The very idea lessened their loss,
but much as Ray dwelled on the reality of what
was happening as he walked, he could not
change the way he felt. Something was lifting
from him.
    He
worked
his
way
through
the
winding
streets and onto the road that curved out of
the village. He’d decide what to say when he
got there. Planning these things would never
work, and he’d have to trust himself. They had
such a history, so much love between them, and
he’d always thought of their relationship as
something that had paused