Gabriel's Clock (4 page)

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

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 shuffled 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

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?