The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart

last. And then Anna, Luna and Arthur would join us, peppering the discussion with tales by turns tragic and outlandish.

‘What’s with the sad face . . . ?’ enquires Melies, pushing open the door.

‘Come on, little one, let me show you my belles!’

The pretty girls keeping him company are a tall giggly blonde, and a plump brunette who drags on her cigarette holder like it’s an oxygen bottle.

‘Ladies, this is my travelling companion,’ Melies introduces me, ‘my most loyal ally, and the friend who saved me from a broken heart.’

I’m touched. The girls applaud as they bat their tantalising eyelashes.

‘Sorry,’ Melies adds for my benefit, ‘but I have to retire to my bedchamber for a restorative siesta that may last a few centuries.’

‘And your voyage to the moon?’

‘Everything in its own time, don’t you think? We have to learn to “unwind” every so often. Lying low is all part of the creative process!’

I’d like to talk to him about Joe, to have him look at the state of my gears, to ask him more questions about living with a shooting star, but it’s clearly not the right moment. His birds are already clucking in boiling water, shrouded in cigarette smoke. I’d better leave him to enjoy his sensual bath.

‘Miss Acacia might come by to see me tonight, if that’s all right with you . . .’

‘Of course it is, this is your home too.’

I return to the Ghost Train to pick up the rest of my belongings. The thought of leaving this place for good is another blow to my clock. The Ghost Train is haunted by wonderful memories of Miss Acacia. I was even starting to enjoy the way people found my performances funny.

A large poster featuring Joe has been stuck up over mine. The bedroom is locked. The belongings I couldn’t squeeze into my suitcase are waiting for me in the corridor, piled up on my roller-board. I’ve turned into a bloody ghost! I’m still useless at frightening anyone, nobody laughs when I pass by, nobody sees me. I’m invisible, even to Brigitte Heim’s pragmatic gaze. It’s as if I no longer exist.

A boy calls out from the queue.

‘Excuse me, Senor, but aren’t you the clock-man?’

‘Who, me?’

‘Yes, you! I recognise that noise your heart makes. So . . . are you coming back to the Ghost Train?’

‘No, I’m just leaving, as it happens.’

‘But you’ve got to come back, Senor! It’s not the same without you . . .’

I wasn’t expecting this; something starts vibrating under my gears.

‘I kissed a girl for the first time on this Ghost Train, you see. But she won’t set foot here any more, now we’ve got Big Joe. She’s scared. Don’t leave us to Big Joe, sir!’

‘Yes, we used to have fun here!’ calls out a second kid.

‘Come back,’ another follows up.

While I’m greeting this small gathering and thanking them for their warm words, my cuckoo starts up. Three of the boys clap and a few adults join in timidly.

I climb on to my roller-board and head down the main avenue that flanks the Alhambra, cheered on by a section of the crowd:

‘Come back! Come back!’

All of a sudden, a deep gravelly voice booms: ‘Go away!’

I turn around. Behind me, Joe flashes his winner’s smile. If a Tyrannosaurus could produce a grin, it would look like Joe’s. Rare and terrifying.

‘I’m just leaving, but I’m warning you, I’ll be back. You’ve won the battle for the Ghost Train, but I’m king of the heart that belongs to you-know-who.’

The crowd starts to egg us on, like at a cockfight.

‘So, you haven’t noticed anything?’

‘What?’

‘You don’t think Miss Acacia’s behaviour has changed towards you?’

‘Let’s settle this matter in private, Joe. Don’t mention names in public.’

‘You’re the ones I heard arguing in the bathroom last night . . .’

‘Because you’re trying to make her believe terrible things about me.’

‘I simply told her you punched my eye out for no reason. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?’

One part of the queue is leaning towards Joe; the other, in the minority, is on my side.