Gabriel's Clock

by Hilton Pashley

  Wrinkling her nose at the smell wafting from her clothes, Cay decided to go home and change before pursuing her investigations. The gargoyles chuckled as she ran past, and Stubbs took great delight in shouting out, “Whiffy, whiffy, cat-sick girl,” much to Montgomery’s amusement.

  Some ten minutes later, a freshly laundered Cay emerged from her house and sprinted back toward the vicarage, only to see Gabriel walking just ahead of her.

  “Gabriel, Gabriel!” she shouted. “Wait up!”

  The angel turned to look at her, a smile on his face. “Good morning, Miss Forrester,” he said. “And why are you in such a hurry?”

  “It’s a conspiracy!” she pouted.

  “What is?”

  “I know there’s a boy at the vicarage, as I saw Grimm carrying him there last night, but Monty and Stubbs refuse to say anything, and Elgar threw up down my back. It’s not been a good morning so far.”

  Gabriel sniffed. “Yes, you do carry the faint aroma of kippers, and since it seems pointless to say otherwise, yes, there is a boy at the vicarage. I found him in the churchyard last night. He had a head injury and was unconscious, so I asked Grimm and Ignatius to tend to his wounds and look after him. I also asked the gargoyles and Elgar not to say anything, as I’d rather nobody made a fuss. Does that shoot down your conspiracy theory?”

  “Crashed and burned,” said Cay. “Still, it is very exciting. Perhaps I can teach him how to fly my kite?”

  “I’m sure when he wakes up he would like a new friend,” said Gabriel.

  “When will that be?” asked Cay.

  “Not for a few days yet, I should think. He did look badly hurt, but he has Grimm looking after him, so he’s in very good hands.”

  Cay beamed, then changed the subject. “Oh, Gabriel, you haven’t forgotten my birthday, have you? I’m going to be eleven, you know!”

  “Your birthday’s not for three weeks,” Gabriel reminded her.

  “It’s close enough. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten,” chuckled Gabriel. “There’s something special for you on my workbench.”

  Cay clapped her hands together. “Brilliant. What is it?”

  “I’m old, Cay, not daft.” He put an arm round her shoulders. “Come on, then, let’s show you our new arrival or you’ll end up exploding with curiosity.”

  Cay looked at Jonathan as he lay, pale and still, tucked up in bed in the vicarage guest room. Behind his right ear, a wad of gauze held in place with a bandage covered what Grimm had called “a nasty scalp wound.”

  “I wonder who he is,” said Cay.

  “Dunno,” said Elgar, perching on the end of the bed near Jonathan’s feet. “Turning up in the churchyard in the middle of the night. All very mysterious, I must say.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Elgar.

  “Well, people usually come to Hobbes End because they need help, to be somewhere safe, yeah?”

  The cat nodded.

  “So why is he here? What help does he need?”

  “We can ask him when he wakes up,” said Elgar.

  “Do you think it’s going to freak him out?” asked Cay.

  “What, me? I’m a talking cat. What’s not to like?”

  Cay raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think they have talking cats anywhere else. Or angels, or gargoyles like Monty and Stubbs, or villages with minds of their own.”

  “Or werewolves?” Elgar stared at Cay.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to open with that one,” said Cay a touch defensively. “I thought I might start off with ‘Hello, my name’s Cay, what’s yours?’”

  “Probably a good idea,” said Elgar. “I have a feeling that whoever he is, he’s in for an interesting stay. Right, then, cup of tea?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Cay. She followed Elgar to the door but stopped and gave the new arrival a backward glance. “Wake up soon, strange boy,” she said quietly. “I’m lonely.”

  The only reply she received was the gentle susurration of Jonathan’s shallow breathing.

  Chapter 4

  FEVER DREAMS

  Jonathan slowly opened his eyes, the pain in his head ebbing and flowing like waves on a beach. He was soaked in sweat, his whole body trembling, and he was lying in a strange bed in a strange room, with moonlight filtering through a crack in the curtains.

  Reaching up, he found a gauze pad attached to the base of his skull with a bandage. Even the memory of his injury, the sensation of shifting bone, made him feel sick. And then he remembered how he had gotten the injury—snatches of memories drifting across his awareness—and he felt sicker still . . .

  He tried to sit up, but the room tilted crazily about him and he slumped back against the pillows. A distant panic began to fill him; all he could think about was getting to the pile of rubble that had poured into the cellar, so he could dig out his father. If he didn’t dig, then his father could die. He had to get back.

  Forcing himself upright, he swung his legs out of bed and placed his bare feet on the floor. He noticed that he was wearing pajamas, but he had no idea where they’d come from. Shuffling to the door, he opened it to reveal a landing with other doors leading off it and stairs leading down. Bracing himself against the wall, he slowly and painfully made his way along the landing, down the stairs, and along a stone-floored hallway to what looked like a front door.

  There was a key in the lock. He turned it, and with a muffled click the bolt slid back into its housing. Jonathan opened the door and edged forward to brace himself on the frame. He didn’t recognize what he saw. A wide lawn was split by a long gravel drive, leading down to a pair of open gates. Beyond the gates he could see something glinting from inside a low-hanging mist, but his vision wouldn’t stay focused long enough for him to figure out what it was.

  Cool night air brushed his skin, and he shivered as the sweat that continued to pour from him turned to pinpricks of ice. A voice at the back of his head told him that this was stupid, that he was hurt, that he had no idea where he was or where he was going, but he ignored it. Every time he shut his eyes he saw his father mouthing go at him before the avalanche of bricks and wood slammed downward.

  “I’m . . . coming . . . Dad,” Jonathan gasped as he took faltering, barefoot steps onto the gravel of the drive. It crunched quietly beneath his feet, but he didn’t hear it. He just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without giving in to the spinning world around him. As he passed through the open gates he thought he heard voices calling out to him from somewhere up above, but he ignored them.

  Looking to his left, he saw a road leading toward a church and a cluster of cottages; to his right, the road disappeared off into a wall of trees. It was this route he chose as he remembered the car driving on leaves and branches, remembered his mother half carrying him through a forest. Where was his mother now? Surely it was this road that would take him home, back to where she’d be waiting for him.

  He staggered onward, the material of his pajamas sticking to his skin. He couldn’t understand how he could feel so hot and so cold at the same time. Just as he passed beneath the trees, he felt sure he could hear voices again, muttering now from somewhere behind him.

  The pain made it difficult to think, but disjointed fragments of his memory slowly pulled themselves closer together to form a coherent and frightening whole. It’s those monsters, he thought to himself with a horrified shudder. The ones in bowler hats. I can’t let them find me.

  He increased his speed, lurching along the unmade road with barely enough control to stay upright. Stones cut his feet, branches reached out to catch his face, but all he could think about was getting home, saving his dad—who would have miraculously avoided the worst of the falling masonry. And his mom would be there too, cooking dinner—he could have fish and chips to make up for the meal he’d had to leave behind.

  Gasping for breath and with his head screaming at him in agony, Jonathan shuff
led round a bend in the road to step into a patch of bright moonlight. In front of him lay a village with a church, a green, a cluster of cottages, and a pond glinting beneath a layer of mist. Jonathan stopped, and with hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him he sank to his knees and keeled over. He’d turned himself round somehow, and he was back where he started.

  Standing in the road not three meters away were the silhouettes of two figures, one burly, one slim. Had he walked right back to the monsters? The huge figure dashed forward, and Jonathan braced himself for the death he felt sure was coming. The pain in his head grew unbearable, and hot tears ran down his face.

  Hands reached for him and he shut his eyes. He barely heard Grimm’s rumbling baritone, asking him if he was all right, before the huge man gently picked him up and cradled him to his chest.

  “Dad?” Jonathan mumbled.

  “No, lad,” said Grimm, an odd catch in his voice. “Not your dad, but you’re safe here, you’re safe. Nobody will hurt you or my name’s not Halcyon Grimm.”

  “Where . . . am . . . I?” begged Jonathan as he clung to Grimm, the ground seeming to fly by beneath him.

  “You’re home,” said Ignatius, his face taut with worry as he strode along next to them. “You’re home.”

  “Home . . .” Jonathan sighed. Then he blacked out again.

  Chapter 5

  FAR FROM ORDINARY

  The sound of church bells gradually filtered through Jonathan’s fuzzy head. Sunlight brushed his face, and he could feel something cold and metallic being pressed against his chest. Slowly opening his eyes, he saw a huge man with a bald head and a stethoscope plugged into his ears.

  Jonathan froze.

  Grimm looked down to see a frightened Jonathan staring at him. “I wondered why your heart suddenly went into overdrive,” he said, unclipping the stethoscope and placing it carefully in an old leather doctor’s bag. “Don’t be afraid. My name’s Grimm, and I’ve been keeping a very close eye on you since you arrived. Now, I know you’re probably scared and you’re not going to believe anything I say, but you’re safe, and you’re among friends, truly.”

  Jonathan tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his head. He fell back against the pillows and bit his lip against the dull, red ache that spread behind his eyes.

  “Whoa! Don’t move your head so quickly. You’re recovering from a fractured skull. If we hadn’t found you when we did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Where am I?” Jonathan asked through gritted teeth.

  “You’re in the village of Hobbes End,” said Grimm. “Specifically, you’re in one of the spare bedrooms of the vicarage in the village of Hobbes End. Those bells you can hear are from the church next door. St. Michael’s. If you listen closely, you can tell that the bell ringers need substantial practice if they’re to stop sounding like an explosion in a saucepan factory.”

  Jonathan couldn’t help but give Grimm a weak smile.

  “What’s your name, son?” asked Grimm.

  “It’s Jonathan.”

  “Then I’m pleased to meet you, Jonathan,” said Grimm, smiling broadly to reveal a set of even white teeth, quite out of keeping with the battered condition of the rest of his face. “Do you know how you got here?”

  Jonathan frowned as he tried to make sense of what had happened. But the man had said he was safe . . . Perhaps he could help Dad, too?

  “The cottage! Dad! Those . . . things! Mom pulled me out, and we got into the car and . . .” Jonathan put his hand to his forehead. Everything after that was mostly a blur. But he knew he had one important question. “Is Mom here?” he asked, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill down his face.

  Grimm shook his head. “You’ve been here a week, lad. We found you in the churchyard. You were unconscious and sporting a nasty head wound. There was nobody else about.”

  “But Mom put me in the car . . . Why would she just leave me here?” Jonathan cried. “I need to go find out what happened to Dad, too. He could be hurt.” Unable to lock it away any longer, he put his head in his hands and sobbed. A week? How could his dad have survived a week in all that rubble?

  Grimm placed a huge, reassuring hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and let him cry. With tears filling his eyes, Jonathan was unable to see the look of anguish on Grimm’s face—the big man was distraught as a result of lying to the new arrival.

  “Look, Jonathan,” he said at last, “we’re going to help you, it’s what we do here. Hobbes End is a safe place, and I guess your mother must have known that—it must be why she brought you here. You mentioned something about a cottage and your dad?”

  Jonathan nodded, and Grimm handed him a tissue to wipe his eyes and nose.

  “Well,” said Grimm. “I can help with that. You aren’t going anywhere farther than the bathroom for another week, so how about you give me the address you were living at, and I’ll go and take a look for you?”

  Jonathan gave Grimm a sad smile. “Thank you,” he said, relieved that someone seemed to believe him and was going to help.

  “Right,” said Grimm. “I’m going to get you a mug of tea first. Ignatius will be back from Sunday service in a bit, so you can sit and have a chat with him.”

  “Who’s Ignatius?” asked Jonathan.

  “He’s the vicar of Hobbes End,” said Grimm. “You’ll like him. Now just relax and try not to wave your head about. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Jonathan nodded and watched Grimm leave the room, then turned his head to look at the open window. Sunlight poured in, and a gentle breeze ruffled the curtains. He could hear the sounds of people from outside: murmurs, the odd car engine, and a girl’s laughter. Suddenly feeling horribly alone, he decided to disobey Grimm and take a look at the world outside. He sat up, swung his legs out of bed, waited for the room to stop spinning, and tottered to the window.

  Shielding his eyes against the sun, he could see gardens surrounded by a high stone wall, and a long gravel drive leading to some open gates—it looked familiar somehow. Beyond the gates lay a village green flanked by thatched cottages, a huge pond, and a forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. People were walking to and fro, and over on the far side of the green, beyond a row of beech trees, was a village shop with a bench of fresh fruit and vegetables propped up outside.

  He heard another shriek of laughter, and Jonathan saw that it came from a girl being chased around the green by a large black cat. The cat kept catching her, jumping up onto her back, and looking as though he was trying to be sick. He’d then jump off and they’d start all over again.

  Jonathan pressed his hand against the glass. It had been such a long time since he’d had any proper friends—he’d moved house so often that he’d never had time really to get to know anyone. He doubted he’d be here long enough to make friends with the girl, whoever she was.

  He was about to climb back into bed when he saw the two gargoyles on the gates turn round and wave at him. Jonathan reached out and shut the curtains before gingerly touching the gauze pad that was taped to the back of his head.

  I’m going nuts, he thought to himself. I’ve got brain damage.

  But he had to look again. He opened the curtains a crack. The gargoyles were still there, smiling and waving. He stifled a hysterical giggle and shuffled backwards to sit on the bed, his mind in a whirl. Just then, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and a tall, thin man in a tweed suit, blue shirt, clerical collar, and wire-rimmed glasses strode into the room, bearing a mug of tea.

  “Hello, Jonathan,” said the man. “I’m Ignatius Crumb, vicar of Hobbes End. Are you all right? You look a bit pale. Did Grimm say it was okay for you to be up and about?”

  Jonathan just stared at Ignatius and pointed toward the window. “Gargoyles” was all he could say.

  “Oh dear,” sighed Ignatius. “I thought we might have more time.” He seemed unsure as to what to do next.

  “Is that tea for me?” asked Jonathan.

  “Oh, yes,” said I
gnatius. “Have a sip; it’ll make you feel much better.”

  Jonathan nodded, took the tea, and proceeded to do just that.

  As Ignatius sat down next to him on the bed, Jonathan noticed that he had a streak of white in his hair, running back from his temple like a scar. The vicar took an unlit pipe from his shirt pocket and toyed with it nervously.

  “It’s like this,” he said, turning to face Jonathan. “Hobbes End is not an ordinary village; in fact, it’s far from ordinary.”

  Jonathan just stared at him.

  “Oh dear,” Ignatius said again. “I’m not very good at this, am I?” He paused. “Tell you what—wait there a minute.”

  Jonathan watched as Ignatius bolted from the room and thundered down the stairs. There was the noise of a door banging open, footsteps on gravel, and a cry of “Cay!” from outside in the garden. There followed some semiaudible mutterings, and then a much lighter set of footsteps came back up the stairs. Jonathan gripped his mug tightly and waited to see who it was going to be.

  A mass of auburn hair peeped round the doorway; beneath it was a pretty, freckled face with hazel eyes and a quirky grin. It was the girl Jonathan had seen being chased by the cat.

  “Hello, strange boy,” she said, her smile making Jonathan beam at her in return. “I’m Cay, and I gather you may have broken your brain.”

  “They’ve been nattering for ages,” said Grimm. “I suppose that’s a good thing?”

  Ignatius nodded. “Cay’s doing a better job than me. I can stand in front of a congregation and relay something topical yet interesting for a sermon, and yet the second I’m asked a question about Monty and Stubbs, I dry up. Why is that?”

  Grimm chuckled to himself. “He caught you on the hop, that’s all. What bothers me is having to lie to him and everyone else about how he came here. He was so upset when he thought his mother had just abandoned him. He told me what he remembered, and I managed to reassure him by saying I’d go and take a look at the cottage and make sure his dad isn’t trapped in the rubble.”