I slept in Guillam’s bed; it was the only one in the house. It was awful, he had these two great big curtains, too long for the window, which dragged on the floor. And, of course, in the dark of night, with the moonlight shining through, what did they look like?
It was a terrible night; every time I woke up I thought there was someone there. Some great cloaked figure, standing at the end of my bed. I’d jump up from the under the sheets – but of course it was nothing.
I barely slept a wink. And you know what it’s like when you’re unsettled. Every creak of the floorboards, every clank of the pipes, every… bird on the roof; the slightest of sounds makes you startled.
But the most frightening thing, the thing that really shook me up, was that at one point everything was calm; calm, quiet and silent – no sound at all. There was no ticking under the floorboards, no creepy-crawly sounds in the walls. The clocks had stopped again.
I leapt out of bed, I rushed to the door; I swung it open…
…And everything was fine. The rustling rumble of the incessant timepieces was going again, just as usual. Had I imagined it? I don’t know. I didn’t know what time it was, because I couldn’t see in the dark.
The next day I resolved to keep myself away from the shop as much as possible. I journeyed up to Windsor Park, to see the Red Indian Totem Pole up there; Iris was supposed to have taken me to see it. I deliberately travelled near places I thought she might be, in the hope that I would catch her. I wasn’t so lucky. I took a packed lunch, bought with the remainder of the money Guillam left me; he hadn’t given me much, probably hadn’t thought that far ahead. I didn’t know when he was returning. The only money in the shop was the money from Mr Towney in the till, which I didn’t dare touch; everything else was in the safe.
I climbed some trees, explored some rocks – I passed the time as best as a young boy with an imagination and a want to forget his troubles could do. Importantly, I brought a watch with me this time; I was not going to risk being there at the dreaded hour. My only target was to be back at the inn for six, for the serving hour.
It was pie and mash that night – still very much a favourite. Once again, though, I was not allowed to loiter. The landlord specifically said to me when I started eating that I was to go when I was finished. And he waited for me. I gave him a bit of lip about how I was a good customer and he should treat me better. He responded by grabbing me by the ear and throwing me out.
So off I went back to the shop, to do nothing all evening. Guillam had a few old copies of The Strand; I read those and then, well, then I decided I would try a few things from his drinks cabinet. I had a sudden keenness to be ill-behaved. But Guillam being Guillam, it was practically empty – full of dried up decanters and almost-empty bottles. Only the port was full enough for me to be able to thieve a little without my uncle noticing. I had only a little, but it was enough to relax me and help me to settle down to rest. I fell asleep in the chair in the lounge, fire still burning.
At some point I drifted into a dream. It’s difficult to remember how it started, but I know that I was in the dark; there was light, but very little, and I felt heavy, very heavy. I was lying on stone, it was cold and hard but someone forced me onto my feet. I was being weighed down and realised that I was in chains; I was a prisoner. I was exhausted and unwell, but I was poked and prodded on down this corridor. I wasn’t afraid, but I don’t remember feeling very much of anything, except that I was tired and… resigned, I suppose, empty.
I was barefoot, because I could feel cold stone under my feet. And I was forced down this dark corridor, with stone walls into this dim chamber, and there were voices in the background, screams and wails, and these made me anxious and afraid. But I was just too exhausted to feel much of anything. This stone chamber was lit up by oil lamps, but was very gloomy. Then this figure approached me. I was looking down at the floor; lifting my head was too difficult.
And this figure, he stood looking at me for a moment, and then he said something, something I couldn’t understand – it was in a different language. And then I was pulled away, marched away, not the way I came. But I wasn’t scared, I felt relieved. I was being dragged towards light, but before I was pulled away, I found enough strength to lift my head and look at the figure. And just before I awoke, I saw that face, the horrible burnt face again, and once again it smiled at me, grinned at me wickedly.
Then I woke up. I woke with a start, not because of the dream, but because I had heard something. A sound from the shop – a crash; the sound of something breaking. The fire was out, it was dark. I was frozen in the chair. I listened carefully for anything, any noise or sound. The damn clocks made it hard to know, but then I heard the creak of a floorboard, and I knew, I knew that someone was in the shop, that someone was with me.
I was frightened, but I didn’t fear the one-eyed man; the clocks were still ticking.
I lifted myself slowly out of the chair and walked gently into the hall. Just a curtain separated the hall from the shop, but as I crept towards it, I could tell that I had not been mistaken. Someone was in there and they were trying to force open one of the display cabinets.
Carefully I pulled the curtain to one side and slipped my head around. A figure was using a knife to try and force the lock on a tall cabinet near the window. I still couldn’t quite see them and slid behind the counter, taking each step cautiously. The man swore under his breath; I should’ve known straight away – it was Billy. Knowing my uncle was away, he’d come to help himself to some of his stock. He’d already been in the till and taken the money Mr Towney had left.
I was angry, but I didn’t know what to do. He’d broken the glass on the front door and let himself in; I couldn’t get past him that way. I needed to get to the police station, or just somewhere to find help – I didn’t stand a chance against Billy. The back door – I’d go out the back. But as I turned on my heels, the floor creaked under me and I knew instantly that Billy had heard me.
He was extraordinarily quick. As I looked around to see if he had noticed me, he was already lunging towards the counter. He tried to throw himself over it to grab me. I hesitated in fear and only just managed to get away. But in avoiding Billy’s grasp, I leapt towards the door to the museum and away from my obvious route of escape!
Surrounded again by the ticking clocks, I went instantly to hide. There were four shelf stacks standing parallel in the centre of the museum; if I could give Billy the runaround, get past behind him and into the shop, there was a chance I could escape through the front door – he wouldn’t follow me into the street for all to see. The back door would be locked and I didn’t have the key to hand; the front door was my only chance. I crouched behind the very last stack, behind some thick box-like clocks.
Billy came in slowly; he must’ve been taken aback a little by what he’d found. Amongst the ticking din I heard him say “Where are you?”
I should’ve been ready to make a run for it, but I was paralysed with fear. I tried to peer over the tops of the clocks and through the shelves. I could just about see Billy moving; his shape was just behind the second stack. He was moving slowly – he knew I was there, somewhere, but at that moment he was probably admiring the things he might steal.
But just when I thought things couldn’t become more terrifying, the clocks began to ring in the half-hour. I looked at the heavy box-shaped clocks in front of me and they were showing the time – four-thirty – and ringing it in. And sure enough, ringing shrilly above all other sounds was the black clock.
“Where are you?” Billy hissed again, he’d moved from around the front of the second stack to between the second and third, not so far from me. I wondered if he could see me. My eyes were fixed on him; could I make it past him to safety?
And then the clocks stopped – just as they had before. It was all quiet – almost. Only the black clock rang, and Billy noticed it.
Puzzled, Billy was wondering what on earth was going on. I watched him as he took a few slow s
teps towards the clock until suddenly my view was obscured.
He passed before the stack I was hiding behind: the figure in black with the scorched face. I saw only his clothes; I was crouched too low to see anything else. He moved swiftly, barely making a sound. He vanished for a moment. He must’ve passed around the end of the stack and gone to the aisle where Billy was standing.
Once again I could just about see Billy, standing at the end of the aisle, facing the black clock. He must’ve heard the floorboards creak, because he turned around and said in a terrified tone: “Who the hell—”
That’s all he could manage – I saw something pass through the air, whoosh through it – too fast to see what it was – but it struck Billy hard with a vicious smack and he let out an almighty cry of pain.
He fell to the floor – I heard him land. I was so terrified that I turned away and buried my head between my knees, clamped my hands hard over my ears and closed my eyes as tightly shut as I could.
But I could still hear everything – the clocks did not tick, there was no other sound now. The air was cut in two again and the crack of the whip – it could be nothing else – struck Billy and he screamed in agony. Again and again. He must’ve been hit eight, nine times. The sound was unbearable; he cried tears of pain and begged for mercy: “Please no! Please! Don’t, don’t—”
He was shown no mercy; he was thrashed over and over. I was weeping in terror, fixed to the spot in fear for I don’t know how long. I only remember lifting my hands from my ears when the screaming stopped.
The clocks were ticking, but ticking only faintly – in the background, as if they were far away. It all felt so unreal; I looked again through the stacks and I could see no one.
I could hear Billy though; wailing, squealing in pain. Shakily, I started to move forward, very slowly. I could hear him breathing through his heavy sobbing. Carefully, I approached him; he was on all fours trying to raise himself up.
His shirt was soaked in blood, in great red streaks across his back. He noticed I was there and lifted his head. His mouth dripped with blood, the whip had caught him across the face, a great red mark stretched from one cheek to another – the corner of his lip was split open.
He reached out to me. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t; he was in too much pain.
Then I saw – well, I couldn’t have seen it, I must’ve sensed it – the whip moving once more through the air. There was nothing there, nothing I could see, but it made its violent hiss and it smacked again against Billy’s back. He screamed and I saw blood spring from his back, through his clothes, a horrible crimson arc exploding into the air.
That was too much for me – I ran and I ran and I ran. I didn’t know where to, I just ran. I darted through the shop into the street, giving it all I could. I think I crashed into a policeman; it was only because I literally ran into someone that I was stopped.
The rest is something of a blur – he took me I think to the police station, because I sounded like I had gone crazy. Eventually they got enough out of me to realise that there was a man possibly bleeding to death at the clock shop. I refused to go back in, but the police constable went in there only a few moments before he came back out and demanded that an ambulance be sent for.
Billy was brought out on a stretcher, unconscious, but still alive. Unsurprisingly they thought I’d gone mad, but they knew I couldn’t have done that to him. I spent some time with a local nurse who tried to calm me down – I really don’t remember much, it’s all a bit of a blur. Fortunately, Guillam returned home the lunch time of that day. I remember him looking very grave, and him not quite knowing what to do with me.
When I told him the story, there was not the look of disbelief that I had faced from the police. He listened to my every word and took it in slowly. And that wasn’t like him; I was used to him being distracted and preoccupied, mumbling, muttering and talking to himself. But he listened intently and carefully. And when I finished the story, he made no comment, asked no questions. He simply nodded and said I had better get some rest. The more I think back to that day, the more I think he believed me. That he found something out when he was doing his research, and knew something strange about that clock. But he never said, so I can only guess and assume.
The only thing he said was that he thought it best that I was sent back to school early. I was only in town one more night, which I spent at the inn because I refused absolutely to go back into the shop. Guillam saw me again in the morning; he was tired and worried-looking and gave me the money for my train ticket.
That was the last I ever saw of him. The next time a holiday came around and my parents were away, I spent it with a wealthy family my father had befriended. When I asked about Uncle Guillam, I was simply told that he was unwell. It was years before they admitted to me that he had died; I didn’t know when.
I tried to forget everything about that day, and my parents never asked about it or discussed it with me. But they knew; they knew something. If I ever mentioned Guillam, the subject was swiftly changed.
Years later I went back to Egham. I was working nearby, so I thought I should have a look. The shop was no longer there, the buildings were all new. I had thought them bombed in the war, and rebuilt – but I revisited the inn where I recognised a few faces, though much older of course. I asked them about the old clock shop, without revealing who I was. They all knew – it had burnt down. A great fire had broken out and spread to several other shops, destroying them all.
The owner had died, apparently the only casualty. They described him as a queer, odd little fellow who had always been a bit strange. Apparently there had been a dreadful accident in there just a few days before – a man was flogged to within an inch of his life and no one knew how it had happened.
So the legend goes. I can only testify to what I saw. And of course that was many, many years ago.
WHEN IT RAINS…
Those were the best days – I was at the top of my game. I had everything a guy could want: money, girls, a new fucking Jag XF. I was living it up. Man, the money was good. 32 and I’d already earned more than my dad had made in his whole lifetime.
It was time to move out of the backwater and get a place in central. I was a team leader now, and the pressure was on; I’d need to be able to get in and out of the city fast as. Work hard, play hard. Got myself a penthouse suite, half-mile from Angel tube. Beautiful – two bedrooms, both ensuite, one with a skylight and a door to the balcony. It had a huge balcony, went all the way around; had them big patio doors – one big window from the living room all the way around to the kitchen. Had this stone table, with little leather stools next to a barbecue – I was going to have amazing parties there, awesome parties.
It was open plan: hall, living room, kitchen. Could’ve been bigger, but you pay for the location, and the location could not have been better. Service on the front door, basement parking for the Jag. And Islington, that was the place to be! Got all my shit moved in; it was all perfect, just perfect.
But there was this one thing. Yeah, this thing: I kept hearing the taps dripping, like, all the time. I’d be asleep, lying in bed – I chose the room with the skylight, obviously – and I’d hear it from the bathroom, this drip, drip, drip.
So I’d go into the bathroom and turn the taps off. Nothing to it. But they didn’t stop. I woke up in the morning and they were still dripping. I went back to the bathroom, turned them extra tight. They stopped.
But then I was in bed the next night and they were dripping again. So I went and turned them taps tight, tight as I could. But after a few more hours, I woke up and I could hear them again. I went back into the bathroom, and the sink was dry. So I went into the kitchen and those taps were dripping now. So I turned them off tight, even though I was sure, dead sure, they weren’t dripping before I went bed.
The next night was Friday I think. Yeah, Friday. The guys at work bailed on me, left for home early. So I was enjoying a few cans at home, still tidying things up and u
npacking my shit, when I heard the taps dripping again. Drip, drip, drip. It was getting on my nerves. I turned them taps so tight – I am telling you – I turned them so tight. And I checked the ones in both bathrooms too, because this was starting to piss me off.
So I went to bed and I lay awake; couldn’t get to sleep because all I could hear was this dripping. It was like a headache, in my head: the sound of drip, drip, drip driving me up the walls. I got up and I checked the bathroom, the kitchen – those taps were not dripping and the sinks were dry. I went into the other bedroom to check the taps in the bathroom there. The sink in there was bone dry. Dry in the shower, dry in the bath. I checked the shower and the bath in my bathroom too – there was no dripping.
I could not find where it was coming from. I went out to the balcony. I looked at all the drains and pipes; couldn’t see any dripping, and it hadn’t rained for days, honestly. I didn’t like this; if it wasn’t dripping from the taps it might be dripping from somewhere in the walls or in the roof. So I went down next day and talked to the man on the door and he said he could call me in a plumber.
So they got this guy in. I was at work; I came home and found a note saying there was nothing wrong, that there was no leak. I thought, what the fuck? I called them up and I told them I could hear dripping; I could hear dripping all the time. They said they’d checked the whole place and had found nothing. He’d the fucking nerve to say that I was making it up, that it was all in my head. I said: “Fuck you, fuck you ass-hole!”
But I admit it, yeah, I did start to doubt myself. There wasn’t any sound of dripping, not for a couple of days. I relaxed the whole thing. Finished my unpacking, decorated the place. Got it looking spic and span.
Thought it was time to flaunt my pad. We had this new girl at the office; new temp, Polish, name was Agatha, or Anouska, or something. And I got to her first. She was fit as…
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