The Time of the Clockmaker (7 page)

I smiled in response, looking briefly at the name on my cup.

“Yeah, my name's Samuel, by the way. Sam, if you like.”

“Well, thank you, Sam.”

I reached into my duffel bag and pulled out my wallet. He stopped me.

“Gift card, remember?”

“Are you sure?” I asked, though I knew I didn't have enough cash to pay him back after the expensive taxi fare.

“I'm definitely sure.”

I took a sip of my Frappuccino and drew out the silence.

“So where are you heading?” He looked up at the sign above the gate number. “London?”

I shook my head. “I'm connecting to Madrid.”

“That sounds fun. What are you up to there?”

I wanted to learn about Ponce de León, the discoverer of the Fountain of Youth, and probably a huge part of the reason I was the way I was. After all, Spain was his home country. . . . But I couldn't have told this random man that. I wondered what else I would do once I got to Madrid. It would be a good idea to lie low and remain inconspicuous, for a bit at least.

“Sightseeing . . . the usual things,” I said. “How about you? Are you going to London?”

“No, I'm not.” He pointed to the gate across from the one we were at. “Paris.”

“Sightseeing?” I guessed.

“Nah . . . I wish.” He ran his fingers through his curls and quickly brushed his hair forward again. “I signed up for a course there. I'm studying photography at Tisch and thought I deserved a creative break. I mean—”

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen. This is flight BAW172 from JFK to London, Heathrow. We are now inviting economy-class passengers to begin boarding at this time. Please have your
boarding pass and identification ready. Thank you.”

“That's me,” I said quickly.

I grabbed my duffel bag and turned.

“Could I get your number?”

I sped up, pretending I couldn't hear him.

SIX

THE WOMAN IN
front of me had been praying fervently until a moment before, but now she sat still with her eyes glued shut. Everyone was silent, listening to the engines scream in their ears as the plane descended.

My palms were sweaty as I tried not to think about this hunk of flying metal crashing down onto the ground. We were delayed only twenty minutes, but the other passengers were already making a show of checking their watches. I knew I had to start thinking about finding a place to stay the night. I was so nervous from the day's events and flying that I had sat rigid the entire flight. All I wanted to do was lie down.

I felt the thud as the plane's wheels hit the tarmac.

The other passengers started clapping as if a magic show had just concluded. It didn't make sense to me why they were clapping. Were they not expecting the plane to land? Did they clap after every flight?

“Please make sure that you have all your carry-on items with you as you exit the plane.” A flight attendant with too much red lipstick ushered us out. “Thank you for choosing to fly with us. We hope you enjoyed your flight.”

I got off the plane on unsteady feet. People pushed past me, eager to get their bags and get out of the airport. Some were home, and some were visitors here, just like me.

The air in England smelled different even inside the terminal. It didn't smell of the baked, pockmarked concrete. Rather, I almost smelled notes of Miss Hatfield's perfume in the air—something from older days brought into the rapid-moving present.

I saw a uniform-clad man seated at a desk.

“Do you need some help, ma'am?” he asked.

I wondered if I looked as lost as I felt.

“I have a connecting flight in the morning, and I'm afraid I need a place to stay the night,” I said, and gave him my flight information.

“We can give you a voucher to stay at a nearby hotel, if you would like. There's a free shuttle bus.”

A bed. Finally. With all the excitement of the day and the uncomfortable flight, that was exactly what I needed to forget the fatigue bearing down on my shoulders.

“That would be wonderful.” I wondered if the smile on my face looked strained.

I spent the entire ride to the hotel trying to look out of the window at England. It was black outside, and the road melted into the sky. All I could see was my pale face staring back at me.
Nothing seemed different from New York; it was the same darkness, and the uneasiness had followed me here as well.

With the hotel also in Heathrow, the shuttle bus came to a stop rather quickly. Soon enough, I was dealing with a sour-looking teenage boy, checking me in.

“How many nights?” His mouth seemed to be fixed in a permanent pucker even when he talked.

“Just one. I have a connecting flight in the morning. They gave me this voucher because the flight I was just on was five hours delayed.”

“Room one twenty-five.” He handed me a flimsy plastic key.

“Thanks.”

Room 125 was on the first floor. With yellow wallpaper, a plain window on one side, and not even a single painting, it wasn't much to look at, but I suppose I should have expected that from a last-minute hotel room near the airport that took airline vouchers.

“Well, I guess this is it.” I tossed my bag onto the bed.

You'll be safe here for the time being.

I was so glad I had Henley here with me. In a completely foreign land, I needed him even more.

I held my head in my hands.

How are you feeling?

I shrugged. “So much has happened so quickly. I'm still trying to wrap my head around everything.”

With the murder?

It still felt strange to use that word. “Yeah . . . but also you being here.”

I could understand that.

“Why did it take you so long?” It was a question that I'd held since Henley first talked to me. Why did it take him so long to find me? “I thought you were gone for good.”

When I died . . . I didn't know where I was. I thought I had reached some afterlife, but it wasn't exactly what I thought heaven would be.

“What was it like?”

Like watching various scenes projected onto millions of tiny picture frames.

“Like a control panel with lots of television screens?”

Henley laughed.
I'm not quite up to date on all the technology I've missed the last hundred years.

I ignored that and tried to figure out how to phrase my next question. “And . . . where are you?”

In a dark room watching all this.

I was surprised by how quick and definite his answer sounded.

I don't have a concept of how long it took me, but I started to learn to focus myself into one time and one scene. With everything going on at once, it's all color and noise, but with focus I can make something of it.

“Like you're doing now?”

It took practice to get to this point. It took practice to find you.

“What do you mean?”

He chuckled.
Miss Rebecca, you're a hard one to find, and you don't even know it.
Henley paused.
It's like watching what you would call a video. Two people would be having a conversation, but where one of them should be standing is just blank
space. It's as if someone cut you out of a video. A Rebecca-shaped hole. I can hear you, and I can see your outline if I concentrate, but otherwise, it's as if you're not there in any time.

I guess we were almost even, save for the fact that I couldn't see Henley at all.

It took me a while to learn how to reach out to you.

“The typing on my computer?”

And not just that.

“Y-you moved my ring that morning. The ring that you gave me.”

I learned many things, including that I shouldn't talk when people are around, because people could hear me when I focused my voice into one place.
Henley laughed darkly.
I scared many a person that way. Who knew ghost tales could be made true?

I had wondered if it was just me that could hear him.

Then I started trying to push—to touch things. It was hard trying to manipulate things without falling through them. . . . It still is.

I knew things were hard for Henley, but he had to understand that things were hard for me as well.

I stood up, inspecting the walls.

They were a peculiar yellow; I couldn't tell if they had always been that way or if they had turned that sickly color from age and sun. No matter. I was here only a night, and since it was already dark out, I figured I would get some sleep. It wasn't that late by New York time, but I was exhausted by the day's events. Coupled with the fact that I was too nervous to sleep on the flight since it had been my first time on a plane, I was worn out. I didn't want to stay awake thinking of anything anymore.

I shut the curtains, taking care to make sure the window was closed, and then unzipped my bag to check that the clock was still intact after being jostled on our journey. Surprisingly, even after being tossed around, the glass didn't have a single scratch on it.

There were footsteps from the floor above and the sounds of doors opening and closing in rhythm with the whirring of plane engines flying overhead.

I took the clock and set it on the left bedside table. The dim lights of the room reflected against its golden rim, and that sight was comforting to me. It was one small thing that hadn't changed, even after Miss Hatfield had died.

Thinking about the past?

Henley's voice still startled me, though I knew I should be getting used to it.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “There's a lot to get used to.”

Realizing I didn't have anything to change into, I turned off the light and slipped between the covers clothed.

Despite how tired I thought I was, sleep didn't come easily. The yellow of the room was replaced with darkest black, but I still saw shadows behind my eyelids. When the shadows morphed into crazed patterns, a suffocating dream began.

It didn't make sense. There was no story or plot. Just images. Faces. Miss Hatfield's blanched skin. The hotel clerk's scrunched-up mouth. Henley's furrowed brow.

I wasn't aware of tossing in my sleep, but when I woke, the sheets were twisted and my clothes were plastered against my body.

Cool air touched my face and I felt the sweat gathered on
my upper lip. I felt a chill and looked toward the source of the breeze. The window was open.

Frowning, I got up to shut it again. There was a satisfying click, but I thought I had heard that same sound when I had closed it before . . . if I had closed it before.

Just as I was getting back into bed, I heard a noise. That is, I thought I heard a noise. I froze but, not hearing anything else in the dark save for the drunken shouts of a man making his way up from the hotel bar, I lay down again.

It was probably just my paranoia mixed up with how tired I was. A lot had happened in only a couple of days, and I knew I needed time to digest it all.

There was a crash and I shot up in bed. My fist clenched at the sheets as I tried to get away from whatever was in the room with me. I groped around for the light, but I didn't remember which wall the main switch was on.

With the curtains shut and the lights out, all I could tell was that the sound seemed to come from somewhere on my left.

Rebecca, get away from the bed!

I followed Henley's direction, but instead of getting away from the intruder I blindly launched my body toward the left side of the room and the source of the noise. The clock was somewhere on the bedside table, and that was the only thing that mattered now.

I felt the solid wood of the table; its corners dug into my skin. I felt the cold metal of the clock, but I also felt a stranger's hard body somehow reaching over me.

There were voices outside, of other hotel guests too preoccupied and loud to guess or probably even hear what was
happening in a room just a few doors down.

I tried to hit him. There was nothing methodical about it. I grabbed and struck him where I could, but he was strong and shoved me toward the wall.

I heard the sound of breaking glass before I felt the sharp pain on my forearm. I realized the glass face of the clock must have broken.

There was something wet and sticky on my arm, but I didn't have time to think about that as I mindlessly groped around in the dark for the clock.

Again there was a pang of pain as the intruder stepped on my hand. I cried out and as he stumbled, unbalanced, I was able to push him over.

I think he fell, but I was too disoriented to be sure. There were still more crashes, and I think Henley must have been yelling. No one in the hotel seemed to think anything was amiss. I wondered if they thought it was the drunken man I had heard earlier yelling and knocking over a few glasses.

I picked myself up and tried to run after the intruder, but I had no idea where he was. All of a sudden the ground felt harder and colder than it had been a few minutes ago. I heard a thud on the far side of the room and I figured that was the intruder jumping out the window. He had gotten away.

I made to shove the curtains aside, but in the scuffle the curtains had probably been knocked down. Outside was as dark as the room. I tried to find the light switch, but I still couldn't remember where it was.

Not thinking straight, crawling on my hands, I searched the floor for the clock. I went over every corner of the room. And I
still couldn't find it. It was lost.

For the first time since Miss Hatfield had turned into dust before me, I heard my heart. It was deafening and my head thrummed with its beats. I just wished it would stop.

Without the clock, I was stuck. I wouldn't turn into dust, but I would suffer far more than that. I would slowly watch myself go insane, all the while knowing it was happening.

I shivered from the suddenly piercing cold. I wanted to call out. To call for Miss Hatfield, or Henley. But my voice was trapped inside my throat and all I could do was gasp.