Free The Thief of Broken Toys by Tim Lebbon

rather than ended.
There had
been
no ending; no shouting, arguing,
or severing of ties. Elizabeth had simply moved
out and on, but perhaps their past was not yet
beyond reach.
    â€œWe could have another,” Ray whispered,
and his breath caught in his throat. He stood
frozen by the roadside, trying to imagine
Toby with a brother or sister. The idea was a
shocking acknowledgement of there being a
future.
    The day moved on, and when he reached the
Smugglers’ Inn, he sat on a bench in the small
beer garden, feeling damp soaking through
his trousers, staring at the façade, wondering
where Elizabeth was now and which room was
hers. It was approaching midday, and a family
of tourists was perusing the menu board,
father silent, mother distracted, two kids
laughing and joking. Ray thought of the old
smuggling tunnel the landlord Tony Fox had
shown him an age ago, and wondered why he
never made more use of it with the tourists.
Maybe some things were too private.
    The
pub
door
opened
and
Elizabeth
emerged. Ray caught his breath. She carried
several ashtrays and started laying them on
the tables, and she actually passed him by
before pausing, turning back, and realizing
who he was.
    â€œRay,” she said, and her eyes filled up.
I remind her of him
, he thought. “What are
you . . . ?”
    â€œI came to see you,” he said.
    â€œWhy?” She could not quite look at him;
her eyes flickered from side to side, as if in the
sudden presence of her estranged husband she
sought her son’s ghost.
    â€œBecause . . . there’s life beyond. We don’t
have to let it beat us. Destroy us. Toby wouldn’t
have wanted — ”
    â€œDon’t say his name,” she breathed, staring
right at him for the first time.
    â€œToby?”
    â€œDon’t.” A plea.
    â€œDon’t be afraid of his memory, Liz.” He
stood and walked toward her, hands coming
up to hold her arms. She backed away.
    â€œI can’t . . . I can’t even . . .” She shook
her head, and Ray thought she was going to
crumple. He prepared to catch her, ease her
onto a bench where they could sit and talk.
But then she started shouting. “Just leave me
alone! You have no idea! You just don’t know.
How can you even . . .
smile
?”
    Was I smiling?
Ray thought, but he frowned
and backed away. Elizabeth was not crying.
Her face was red, and her hands worked by her
side, clawing.
    â€œIt’s something we have to come to terms
with,” he said. “Smiling isn’t forgetting him.
We can move on, without dishonouring his
memory. He was our little boy, Liz, and the
last thing he’d want — ”
    â€œHe’s dead!” she shouted, as if believing
he’d forgotten all they’d gone through.
    There’s a man up on the cliffs
, he thought, but
there was no way he could say that, not even
now.
    â€œCan’t we just talk?” he asked.
    â€œYou know we can’t,” she said. She glanced
sidelong at the parents who’d been perusing
the menu board. They were leading their
children
away,
trying
to
distract
their
fascinated kids from the shouting woman. “I
just can’t, not with you. You remind me of him
so much.”
    â€œThat’s a bad thing?” he asked.
    â€œYeah.” He thought she’d shout her reply,
scream it, but it was little more than a gasp.
    â€œAnd Jason?”
    Elizabeth stared at him then, and it was the
first time she’d looked at him like that since
leaving. She wore the old Elizabeth behind
her expression, not the grief-stricken shell
she had become, and for a second he allowed
himself hope.
    And then she shot it down.
    â€œJason helps me forget.” She turned and
went back into the pub, shutting him out. He
sat down, clasped his hands on the wet bench,
and stared down at them for a long time.
    From above, we follow him down below. He
walks along the road like something defeated,
but as he nears the harbour