The Skeleton Clock

by Justin Richards

  ‘They can’t believe we did this,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Why not? You did.’

  She didn’t argue, just nodded. ‘The Brothers are right behind me. I got a ride over on one of their boats. Said I wanted to light a candle for Mum’s soul.’

  Jake had never heard her mention her mother before. Sarah’s father was the Toymaker – everyone knew him and his shop, Hickson’s. Jake had never even thought about Sarah’s mum, any more than he ever thought about his own. Not any more.

  Sarah turned back to the door and led them out into the passageway beyond. They were only halfway along when they heard the low chant of the returning Brothers. A light appeared at the far end of the passage, dancing ahead of the Brothers carrying the lamps and throwing broken shadows across the walls and floor.

  Sarah, Jake and Geoff turned and ran quickly back towards the gallery.

  ‘They’ll go mad when they see the body,’ Geoff said.

  ‘They’ll call the Watch,’ Sarah agreed.

  There was no way down – the Brothers would be processing up all of the stairways on their way to evensong. Jake had seen them, standing round the gallery in their black, hooded robes, holding lamps and candles and chanting prayers and hymns.

  ‘We have to go up,’ Jake decided. ‘Get up to the Stone Gallery and wait for a chance to slip down again and get out while they’re busy.’

  ‘It’s outside the dome. We could jump from there.’ Geoff was already running for the nearest door leading to an upwards staircase.

  ‘If we’re feeling suicidal,’ Sarah told them.

  ‘It’s a long drop,’ Jake agreed. ‘And if that thing’s still in the water…’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘Tell you later,’ Geoff gasped. ‘It nearly killed us.’

  There were nearly as many steps up to the Stone Gallery than they were from the water to the first gallery. Already they could hear shouts and commotion echoing up from below. Then the sound of running feet – boots on stone. Heading towards them. They raced onwards, as quickly as they could, and burst out of the door at the top of the stairs. They stood in the cold breeze, breathing in deep lungfuls of the humid night air.

  Jumping from the Stone Gallery wasn’t really an option. It was walled in with thick stone pillars.

  ‘Up again?’ Jake said.

  ‘Think we can make it?’ Geoff asked.

  They could hear the brothers close behind them. ‘Think we have a choice?’ Sarah said.

  There was a doorway close to the opening they’d come out of. Up a few steps and through. Inside the outer dome. The inner dome was smaller, at a shallower angle, so there was a gap between the two. Rusting iron stairways snaked back and forth between the outside of the inner dome and the inside of the outer dome, spiralling upwards and connected by metal walkways.

  ‘What do we do when we get to the top?’ Sarah asked as they paused at the base of the last stairway. ‘We can’t jump from there.’

  ‘We come back down,’ Jake told her. ‘There’s another stairway on the other side. Hope we don’t meet the Brothers. We’re making enough noise, so with luck they’ll all be following us up this one.’

  ‘Luck!’ Geoff muttered. ‘We’re going to need it.’

  At last they were outside again. The wind whipped at Jake’s jacket and stung his face. The broken silhouette of The Twisting looked very close. It was one of the few structures that was anything like as tall as Whispers. Edging carefully round the crumbling, narrow gallery, Jake could see the floodlit stone walls and parapets of another – the White Tower. Lower down, there were lights from ferries and boats. All he could hear was the wind.

  ‘Come on.’ Geoff had to shout to be heard.

  They edged round to the door on the other side of the gallery. It didn’t take long. The top of Whispers was so small that the gallery was a tight circle.

  Jake pulled the rotting door closed behind them. There was no bolt or lock. There was no sound from below either.

  ‘We might be all right,’ he said quietly. ‘Come on.’

  Going down was so much easier than climbing the tight spirals of steps. The relief that – for the moment – they seemed to have eluded the Brothers helped too. Soon they were back at the Stone Gallery.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Sarah said.

  ‘What?’ Jake turned to see what she had found. It was a cupboard, built into the alcove at the base of the stairs. ‘We haven’t got time for scavenging,’ he warned. ‘You’re as bad as Geoff.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m not scavenging,’ Sarah insisted. She was pulling something out of the wooden doorway. ‘I’m getting us out of here.’ Sarah was holding something dark and heavy, and she dumped it into Jake’s arms.

  It took Jake a moment to work out what it was. Then he laughed. ‘We can walk right out of here,’ he realised.

  Geoff was already pulling another of the heavy, dark cloaks over his head. With the hood up, he looked just like one of the Brotherhood.

  ‘Time we were on our way,’ Sarah said from beneath her own dark hood. ‘Brothers.’

  Chapter 3

  Watch Officer Thomas Revelle was being punished. He was sure of it.

  It was late afternoon when he presented himself as he’d been ordered at the main gate of the White Tower. It wasn’t really white, but it was certainly old. A huge, square structure of stone, crumbling under the assault of the acid rain, with a tower at each corner. Despite its age, lit up by huge lights in the gathering gloom of the late autumn afternoon it was impressive – befitting the real seat of government.

  The Council might have its offices over in the Drylands outside the City and beyond the flooding, but everyone knew that it was from the Tower that the real government of the City devolved. Whatever the Council decided, those in charge at the Tower – those who ruled from the shadows – had to endorse and approve it. The Council could do what it liked in the countryside and towns, but here in the City, the Tower watched over everything.

  Seagulls circled and cried out overhead. The Defeaters guarding the main gate watched Revelle all the way from the tunnel exit as he climbed the Tower Hill. They spared his Watch pass a glance before one of them nodded for him to go through the gateway into the huge courtyard beyond.

  ‘Where do I go?’ Revelle asked.

  ‘You’re here for Miss Patterson,’ one of the Defeaters said. Up close, Revelle could see that his scarlet uniform was stained and ragged. His dark cap was threadbare. ‘She’ll see you’re here and send someone.’ He glanced up at the camera high on the wall above the gate.

  ‘Cameras, power, fuel and light. You’ve got it all, haven’t you,’ Revelle said.

  ‘Better believe it.’ The Defeater pointed to a white-coated man who was hurrying across the courtyard. ‘Doctor Stammers. He’ll take you to Miss Patterson.’

  Tall and thin, Stammers made no attempt at conversation. He responded to Revelle’s questions curtly and grudgingly, usually with a single word answer which left Revelle none the wiser.

  ‘This way,’ Stammers said as they went inside. It would be whole sentences next, Revelle thought.

  The interior of the Tower was a maze of stone passages, whitewash flaking from the walls. Eventually they reached a heavy metal door. There was a keypad beside the door and Stammers typed in a code. Revelle smiled as he realised it was the date the Tower had reputedly been built – 1078.

  Beyond this door, things were more modern. The walls were plastered and painted, and the corridor emerged into an open area with a staircase leading both up and down. Stammers gestured for Revelle to go ahead.

  The stairs seemed to go down forever, and the air grew cold and damp as Revelle descended. At the bottom of the stairs he found himself in an area similar to the landing above.

  Through another code-locked door was a wide, empty room with a door at each end. These doors were of dull grey metal, with locking wheels set in them – like the flood gates in the old underground tunnels that
connected the City. The wall opposite Revelle was made of glass. An enormous window, angled so that it afforded a view into the area beyond and below. He was in observation gallery. There was light was coming from the other side of the glass – pale, rippling light.

  Intrigued, Revelle walked across to the window. He could see now the reason the light was of such a strange quality. It was because he was under water.

  ‘We must be right at the base of the White Tower,’ he said. ‘Under the flood water, under the Thames.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Stammers was back to one word answers.

  Huge lights were positioned outside the window, illuminating the silty riverbed. Revelle could make out the gleam of more light leading off into the distance – but leading where, and why?

  He had no time to wonder, and he didn’t bother to ask. Stammers was opening one of the doors at the end of the observation gallery, if that was what it was. He stood aside for Revelle to pass through on to the metal gantry beyond. From here Revelle had a good view down into the vast chamber below.

  The window of the observation gallery continued as a grey metal wall. At the bottom of the wall was a huge circular doorway, with heavy locking wheel and thick portholes set into it. But back the other way, under the White Tower, the chamber extended almost as far as Revelle could see.

  Massive stone pillars supported the ceiling, and the weight of the building above. Strips of electric light hung in pairs from the roof, bathing everything in their harsh brightness. Men and woman in white lab coats were busy at workbenches and operating various pieces of equipment, or sitting at computer terminals. Several armed Defeaters stood on guard. There must have been about twenty people in all.

  In the centre of the chamber was a pile of all sorts of things. Revelle could see pieces of wood, sheets of metal, rocks and stones. There were broken bits of pottery and china, an old wooden chest, a rusted bicycle. He saw frayed ends of rope and broken sections of fishing net. Sea weed and shells, pewter plates and old broken glass…

  ‘What is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Miss Patterson will explain.’ Doctor Stammers led the way down the metal steps from the gantry, and past the pile of detritus.

  There were wet footprints across the floor. They mingled and merged, leading to or from the circular metal door. From what he had seen in the gallery above, the door must open out under the water. An air lock.

  Stammers was leading him in the opposite direction. Down a wide corridor, round a corner, and then Stammers opened a very ordinary door and waved Revelle through. He didn’t follow.

  Revelle found himself in a conference room dominated by a large wooden table surrounded by upright chairs. At the end of the table was a white board. The woman standing in front of it was tall and slim with long, flame-red hair that cascaded over the shoulders of her dark jacket.

  ‘Officer Revelle, I assume?’ Her voice oozed confidence and efficiency.

  Revelle nodded. ‘Miss Patterson, I take it.’

  ‘Don’t sit down. You won’t be staying.’

  ‘Then why bring me here?’

  She smiled icily. ‘Why do you think? You are a detective, after all.’

  Revelle made a point of sitting down anyway. ‘You want something. Whatever you’re up to down here under the Tower, under the water, with your scientists and doctors and piles of flotsam and jetsam, you want something. That’s why I’m, here.’

  The smile didn’t waver, but her whole demeanour seemed suddenly cooler. ‘Everyone wants something,’ she said. ‘Are you interested in science, Officer Revelle?’

  ‘Only forensic science. Unless you count gardening, but arguably that’s an art.’

  ‘And which is detection – art or science?’

  ‘Something of both.’

  ‘And you are good at it.’

  Revelle shrugged. ‘Some days I’m better than others.’

  ‘It wasn’t a question,’ Miss Patterson told him. ‘I told Albright to send his best detective. He sent you.’

  ‘Just because I’m the best he has, doesn’t mean I’m any good,’ Revelle replied. ‘The rate officers are resigning right now and getting better paid jobs in the Drylands…’

  ‘Well, you will just have to do,’ she snapped impatiently.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Solve a mystery. Come with me.’

  She strode from the room without looking back, and Revelle had to hurry to keep up. She crossed the wide corridor and opened another door. Revelle followed her inside.

  The room beyond was plain, with bare walls. The only thing in it was a stone pillar, as high as Revelle’s shoulder. Resting on the top of the pillar was a head.

  The Head’s dark eyes seemed to follow Revelle as he walked slowly over to the plain white plinth.

  ‘Pa si pu se…’ the Head murmured in a low monotone.

  It was made of gold. A life-sized man’s head, but the eyes seemed almost real. Dark irises watched Revelle as he stood in front of it, he was sure. The lips seemed to quiver as the Head kept up a constant, meaningless muttering. But Revelle knew they could not really be moving. The Head was cast or carved from unforgiving metal. It looked like gold.

  ‘Te ne ce gu…’ the Head continued.

  Revelle walked round the plinth. There was no sign of a way to open the head, no indication of any internal mechanism.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s it saying?’

  Miss Patterson regarded him with something close to contempt. ‘You’re the detective. You tell me.’

  ‘You want me to tell you about this… this statue?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Forgive me, but you need a sculptor,’ Revelle said. He paused, listening to the muttering, trying to make sense of the meaningless words. ‘Or an engineer.’

  ‘I have a detective.’ She waited a few moments, then went on: ‘Let me tell you what we do know. Then you can go away and do your detecting and come back when you have answers for me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This Head seems to be made of gold. It is very heavy. It has no obvious means of opening, no mechanism. X-rays…’ She paused. ‘You know what x-rays are?’

  Revelle nodded. ‘Enough.’

  ‘Then you may know that x-rays cannot penetrate the gold, not in any meaningful way. The Head was found on the bed of the Thames, deep under the flood water.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘I can’t say, exactly. It was brought up in a fisherman’s net. The Revenue confiscated it and here it is. It talks, as you can hear. In fact, it talks,’ she said with a hint of irritation, ‘all the time. And I want to know why. I want to know what it is saying. And I want to know where it comes from, and what mechanism keeps it going. Is that clear?’

  ‘The questions are clear. The answers, so far, are not.’

  ‘Then I shall leave you to achieve clarity. Tell the Defeater on duty outside the door when you are finished.’

  *

  In the event, Miss Patterson came for Revelle before he was finished. He spent an hour watching the Head, examining it, thinking about it. And getting irritated by its constant apparently meaningless muttering. He didn’t need to try the door to know it would be locked.

  ‘You have to go,’ she said when she returned. ‘Chief Inspector of the Watch Albright is at the main gate. It seems you are needed elsewhere. But tell Albright that I don’t expect you to be distracted. Tell him I want results. Tell him, I hope his family is well. You may go.’

  ‘I shall need to come back,’ Revelle told her.

  ‘Of course. You will make an appointment. I shall require several hours notice.’

  Revelle smiled. ‘Not acceptable,’ he said calmly – as much as anything to see her reaction.

  Her eyes narrowed, but otherwise her expression did not change. ‘Those are my conditions.’

  ‘Then I shall have to decline your kind invitation to investigate this matter.’

  ‘Not accept
able,’ she snapped, echoing his own words.

  ‘I must be able to see the Head whenever I choose, without prior notice. I may wish to bring others – experts, colleagues – to examine it.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Those are my conditions.’

  She hesitated only for a moment. ‘Very well. I shall have the Head moved to a secure room in the main Tower where you can inspect it as you wish.’

  ‘Ta sa pi su,’ the Head murmured obliviously.

  He had learned one thing at least – Miss Patterson didn’t mind him seeing the Head at all. It was the chambers beneath the Tower that she was actually concerned about. Whatever was really going on here, she needed several hours to hide it away before allowing visitors.

  But that was none of his business, he thought as he followed a Defeater back along the wide corridor and through the laboratory. He waited in the observation gallery as the Defeater closed and locked the door.

  Turning away, Revelle glanced one last time at the huge window. He saw the lights receding into the murky distance. The silty particles in the water caught in the light as they twisted and fell. And from the other side of the glass, another face stared back at him.

  He saw it for just a second, as he turned. The face was a parody of a man’s – huge, pale, bulbous eyes either side of a bump of a nose. Revelle turned back at once, but the face was gone. If it had ever been there – was it a trick of the light? His own distorted reflection?

  ‘Officer – this way,’ the Defeater prompted.

  *

  Chief Inspector Jackson Albright was waiting at the main gate. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and overweight. His once-dark hair was greying and thinning. He had the sort of face that always looked disappointed.

  Just now, Revelle thought he was probably disappointed he had to stand out in the cold of the evening waiting for his subordinate.

  ‘I trust you’ve been behaving yourself,’ Albright said sarcastically when Revelle reached him. ‘Miss Patterson has a lot of influence. Most of the edicts that come from the Tower are issued by her office.’

  ‘I’m taking my punishment like a good little boy,’ Revelle assured him.