My clock’s burning. I can barely touch it. Joe doesn’t move. Is he dead? I’d like him to stop wiping his feet on my dreams, but I don’t necessarily want him dead. I’m starting to feel frightened now. The sky shimmers with beads of blood. All around us, kids stand like statues. Perhaps I really have killed Joe. Who’d have thought that one day I’d be worried about Joe dying.
I run away, the whole world on my heels as I cross the playground. I climb up the left pillar and clamber on to the school roof. The realisation of what I’ve just done chills me to the bone. My heart produces the same noise as when I first fell in love with the little singer. Up on the roof, I can make out the top of Arthur’s Seat goring the mist. Oh Madeleine, how furious you’d be . . .
A swarm of migrating birds hovers above me, as if stacked on a bank of clouds. I’d like to catch hold of their wings and tear myself away from the earth; if only my heart’s troubles would take flight, nothing else would matter. Please, dear birds, take me to Andalusia, and I’ll find my way from there.
But the birds are out of reach, like chocolate piled high on a shelf, or the alcoholic flasks of tears in the cellar, or my dream of the little singer where I have to climb over Joe in order to get to her. If I’ve killed him, things will be even more complicated. My clock is throbbing. Madeleine, you’ve got your work cut out.
I must try to turn back time. I grab the hour hand that’s still warm with blood, and tug it backwards in one quick stroke.
My gears whine, the pain is unbearable. Nothing happens. I hear shouting, they’re heading this way from the playground. Joe is holding his right eye. I’m almost reassured to hear the injured poodle yelping.
A teacher intervenes and I hear the children denouncing me, all eyes scouring the playground like radar. Panicked, I tumble from the roof and jump into the first tree I see. I scratch my arms on the branches and go crashing to the ground. Adrenalin gives me wings. My legs have never been in such a hurry to get to the top of the mountain.
‘Did you have a nice day at school today?’ Madeleine asks, as she tidies her shopping away into the kitchen cupboard.
‘Yes and no,’ I answer, trembling all over.
She looks at me, sees my twisted hour hand, and fixes me with a disapproving stare.
‘You saw the little singer again, didn’t you? The last time you came home with your heart in such a filthy mess, you’d heard her singing.’
Madeleine talks to me like I’m a schoolboy sloping home with his best shoes ruined after playing football.
As she tries to straighten my clock hand with a crowbar, I start telling her about the fight. But it makes my heart beat faster again.
‘You’ve been very foolish!’
‘Can I turn back time by making my clock hands go backwards?’
‘No, you’ll put pressure on your gears and it’ll be extremely painful. But it won’t make the slightest bit of difference. You can never undo your past actions, not even when you have a clockwork heart.’
I was expecting to be scolded horribly for poking Joe’s eye out. But hard as Madeleine tries to look annoyed, she’s not entirely successful. And if her voice chokes, it’s more with concern than anger. She seems to think it’s less serious to poke out a bully’s eye than to fall in love.
Strains of ‘Oh When the Saints’ suddenly come our way. It’s unusual for Arthur to be paying us a visit at this time of night.
‘Och, a carriage full of police officers is making its way up the hill, and they’re all looking like their wee minds are set, if ye ken what I mean,’ he says, out of breath.
‘I’ve got to go, they’re coming to find me because of Joe’s eye.’
A fistful of different emotions sticks in my throat: the rose-tinted dream of finding the little singer combined with my fear of listening to my heart beating against the bars of a prison cell. But a wave of melancholy drowns everything. No more Arthur, no more Anna, no more Luna and, above all, no more Madeleine.
I will come across a few sad looks in the course of my life, but the one Madeleine gives me right now will always be – along with just one other – the saddest I’ll ever witness.
‘Arthur, go and find Anna and Luna, and try to find a carriage. Jack must leave town as fast as possible. I’ll stay here to greet the police.’
Arthur plunges into the night, limping as fast as he can to reach the bottom of the mountain.
‘I’ll get your things ready. You need to be out of here in less than ten minutes.’
‘What will you tell them?’
‘That you haven’t come home. And in a few days, I’ll say that you’ve disappeared. You’ll be declared dead after a while, and Arthur will help me dig your grave at the foot of your favourite tree, next to Cunnilingus.’
‘What will you put in the coffin?’
‘There won’t be a coffin, just an epitaph carved into the tree. The police won’t run any checks. That’s the advantage of people thinking I’m a witch, they won’t go rummaging through my graves.’
Madeleine prepares me a bag containing several flasks of tears and a few items of clothing. I don’t know how to help her. I could say something meaningful, or fold my underwear, but I’m like a nail stuck in the floorboard.
She hides the second set of keys to my heart by tucking them into my frock coat, so that I can always wind myself up. Then she distributes a few oatcakes wrapped in brown paper among the bag’s contents, and hides some books in my trouser pockets.
‘I can’t carry all that around!’
I’m trying to behave like a grown-up, even if I’m very touched by all this fussing. By way of a response, she flashes me her famous twitch of a smile. No matter what the situation, from the funniest to the most tragic, she always has to make something to eat.
I sit down on my bag, to shut it properly.
‘Don’t forget, as soon as you’ve settled down somewhere, you need to make contact with a clockmaker.’
‘You mean a doctor!’
‘Absolutely not! Never go to a doctor if there’s something wrong with your heart. No doctor would understand. You’ll need to find a clockmaker to sort it out.’
I want to tell her how much I love her and how grateful I am, there are so many words jostling on my tongue, but they refuse to cross my lips. All that’s left are my arms, so I hug Madeleine tight.
‘Careful, you’ll hurt your clock if we hug too hard!’ she says, in a voice that’s gentle and ravaged. ‘You must go now, I don’t want them to find you here.’
We pull apart and Madeleine opens the door. I’m still inside the house but I’m already feeling cold.
I get through a whole flask of tears as I run down the familiar path. It lightens my load, but not my heart. I wolf down the oatcakes to soak up the alcohol and my tummy swells up like a pregnant woman’s.
On the other side of Arthur’s Seat, I can see the police officers. Joe and his mother are with them. I tremble with a mixture of fear and euphoria.
A carriage is waiting for us at the foot of the mountain. In the glare of the street lamps, it stands out like a piece of the night. Anna, Luna and Arthur clamber in quickly. The coachman, with his moustache stretching all the way to his eyebrows, shouts at his horses in his deep voice. With my cheek pressed against the window, I watch Edinburgh disappearing into the mist.
The lochs extend from hill to hill, measuring out the distance I’m committed to putting behind me. Arthur snores like a steam engine. Anna and Luna dangle their heads; they look like Siamese twins. The tick-tock of my clock echoes in the silence of the night. I realise that this little world of people will set off again without me.
At daybreak, the twisted tune of ‘Oh When the Saints’ wakes me up. I’d never heard it sung so slowly. The carriage has come to a stop.
‘We’re here!’ says Anna.
Luna puts an old birdcage on my knees.
‘This is a carrier pigeon that a romantic customer gave me a few years back. It’s a very well trained bird. Write to
us with your news. Roll your letters around his left claw, and he’ll deliver the message to us. We’ll be able to stay in touch that way, he’ll find you again wherever you are, even in Andalusia, the land where women look you straight in the eye. Good luck, pequeñito,’ she adds, hugging me tightly.
CHAPTER FIVE
In which Little Jack tries to find a decent clock-doctor in Paris
As the train pulls out of the station, it snorts loudly making a haunting din. The locomotive’s syncopated rhythms set me on edge and my heart might as well be made of popcorn – I’ll have to learn to travel better. When I panic, my clockwork heart is like a steam engine turning a bend with its wheels coming unstuck. I’m travelling over the rails of my own fear. What am I frightened of? Of you, Madeleine, or rather, of me without you.
The steam and my own clockwork panic seep under the rails. I want to turn back time, put my old rattletrap of a heart in your arms, Madeleine. Our last hug is still warm, but I’m already as frozen as when I first met you on the coldest day on earth. Oh Madeleine, I hadn’t even left the shadows of Edinburgh behind before drinking all your tears. I promise that at the next stop I’ll consult a clockmaker. You’ll see, I’ll come back to you in fine condition, or rather just out of kilter enough for you to exercise your mending talents over me once more.
The more time that goes by, the more this train frightens me, its puffing, rattling heart seems as dilapidated as my own. It must be terrifically in love with its engine. Unless, like me, it’s suffering from the sadness of what it’s left behind.
I feel alone in my compartment. Madeleine’s tears have installed a revolving door inside my head. I’ll be sick if I don’t speak to somebody. I notice a tall man leaning against the window, writing something. From a distance, he looks like Arthur, but that impression disappears the closer I get. Apart from the shadows he casts, there’s nobody near him. Tipsy on loneliness, I launch right in:
‘What are you writing, sir?’
The man gives a start and hides his face under his left arm.
‘Did I frighten you?’
‘You surprised me, it’s not the same.’
He continues writing, concentrating as hard as if he was painting a picture. The turnstile in my brain starts to pick up speed.
‘What do you want, little one?’
‘I want to go and win the heart of a woman in Andalusia, but I don’t know anything about love. The women I knew never wanted to teach me anything on the subject and I’m feeling all alone in this train . . . I thought perhaps you might be able to help me.’
‘You’ve landed on the wrong person, my boy. I’m not very gifted when it comes to love . . . not with living people, at any rate. No, it never really worked out for me with living people.’
I start to shudder. I’m reading over his shoulder, which seems to annoy him.
‘That red ink . . .’
‘It’s blood! Go away now, little one, go away!’
He’s copying out the same phrase, methodically, on several pieces of paper: ‘Your humble servant, Jack the Ripper.’
‘We’ve got the same first name, do you think that’s a good sign?’
He shrugs, vexed I’m not more in awe of him. The engine whistles itself hoarse in the distance, the fog creeps through the windows. I’m shivering.
‘Go away, little one!’
He strikes the floor with his left heel, the way he might scare a cat. Not that I am one, but it does have a certain effect on me. The sound of his boot competes with that of the train. He turns towards me, his features razor sharp.
‘Go away now!’
The fury in his eyes reminds me of Joe. It’s like a remote control that switches my legs to tremble mode. He heads towards me.
‘Come on, you mists,’ he drones. ‘Let the doors of haunted trains slam shut! I’ll give you the ghosts of handsome women to carve up in the mist, a twist of blonde or brunette . . .’
His voice becomes a groan.
‘I can rip them open without even frightening them . . . signing off your humble servant, Jack the Ripper! Don’t be afraid, my boy, you’ll soon learn how to survive by frightening others! Don’t be afraid, my boy, you’ll soon learn how to survive by frightening others . . .’
My heart and body are racing out of control, and this time it’s got nothing to do with love. I tear down the train corridors. Nobody. The Ripper chases after me, smashing all the windows with a dagger. A black swarm of birds dives into the compartment, clustering around him. He’s making faster progress by walking than I am running.
New compartment. No one around. The racket of his footsteps gets louder. The birds multiply, emerging from his jacket, coming out of his eyes, hurling themselves at me. I jump up on to the seats to put some distance between us; I turn around, and Jack’s eyes light up the whole train. The birds are catching up, the shadow of Jack the Ripper looms and I’m aiming for the driver’s door at the end of the carriage. Jack’s about to rip out my guts. Oh Madeleine! I can’t even hear my own clock ticking any more, though it’s stinging in my chest. The Ripper grabs my shoulder. He’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me and I won’t have had time to fall in love.
The train slows down. It’s pulling into the station.
‘Don’t be afraid, my boy. You’ll soon learn how to survive by frightening others!’ Jack the Ripper repeats for a last time, as he stows his weapon away.
I’m trembling with terror. Then he steps off the train and disappears into the crowd of passengers waiting on the platform.
Sitting on a bench at King’s Cross station, I begin to come to. The tick-tock of my heart is slowing down, but my clock’s wooden casing is still scorching hot. Falling in love can’t be as terrifying as finding yourself alone on some ghost train with Jack the Ripper. I thought he was going to kill me. How could a songbird of a girl damage my clock any more than a Ripper? With the tantalising mischief of her eyes? Her army of extra-long eyelashes? The formidable curve of her breasts? Impossible. It can’t be as dangerous as what I’ve just lived through.
A sparrow lands on my minute hand, and I’m startled. Little idiot, he scared me! His feathers gently caress my dial. I’ll just wait for him to fly off, then I’ll set about leaving Great Britain.
The cross-Channel ferry is less full of nasty surprises than the train to London. Apart from a few elderly ladies who look like faded flowers, nobody seems particularly scary. That said, it takes a while for the mists of melancholy to dissolve. I wind up my heart again with the key, and I feel like I’m turning back time. Or at least turning back my memories. It’s the first time in my life I’ve leant on memories in this way. I only left the house yesterday, but I feel as if I’ve been away for ages.
In Paris, I have lunch by the Seine, in a restaurant steaming with the kind of vegetable soups I always love the smell of but hate eating. Plump waitresses smile at me the way people do at babies. Charming old folks chat in hushed voices. I listen to the clatter of saucepan lids and forks. This warm atmosphere reminds me of Dr Madeleine’s old house. I wonder what she’s doing on top of the mountain. I decide to write to her:
Dear Madeleine,
Everything is going well, I’m in Paris at the moment. I hope Joe and the police have left you in peace. Don’t forget to put the flowers on my grave while you’re waiting for me to come back!
I miss you, and the house too.
I’m taking good care of my clock. I’m going to find a clockmaker to help me recover from all these emotions, just as you told me to. Kiss Arthur, Luna and Anna for me.
‘Little Jack’
I keep my letter deliberately short, so Luna’s pigeon can travel light. I’d like to have some news back as quickly as possible. I roll up my words around the bird’s claw and throw him into the Paris sky. He sets off skew-whiff. Luna probably tried to give him an original ‘feather-cut’ for when he was courting. She also shaved the sides of his head and, as a result, he looks like a lavatory brush with wings. Perhaps I should ha
ve used the conventional postal system.
Before going any further, I need to find a good clockmaker. Since I left home, my heart has been grating louder than ever. I’d like it to be fixed before I find the little singer again. I owe Madeleine that at least. I ring on the door of a jeweller on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. An old man appears, dressed to the nines; he wants to know the reason for my visit.
‘To repair my clock . . .’
‘Have you brought it with you?’
‘Yes!’
I unbutton my jacket, then my shirt.
‘I’m not a doctor,’ he says drily.
‘Couldn’t you just look at it, to make sure the gears are in the right place?’
‘I’m not a doctor, I told you, I am not a doctor!’
His tone is haughty, but I try to stay calm. The way he looks at my clock you’d think I was showing him something dirty.
‘I know you’re not a doctor! This is a perfectly normal clock, which just needs adjusting from time to time to make sure it functions properly . . .’
‘Clocks are objects intended to measure time, nothing else. Get away from here with that diabolical apparatus of yours. Go away, or I’ll call the police!’
It’s just like at school, or with the young couples, all over again. It may be horribly familiar, but I’ll never get used to this feeling of injustice. In fact, the older I get, the more painful it becomes. It’s only a bloody wooden clock after all, nothing but gears that allow my heart to beat.