Gabriel's Clock (6 page)

“Oh, Darriel, you've been so stubborn. Look at what we've had to do to your wings.”

An angel, bound in chains, hung from a hook on the ceiling. Apart from the illumination of a single overhead bulb, all around him was darkness. At his feet lay a pile of blood and feathers.
The angel's head lolled on his chest; his body sagged in exhaustion.

“No pithy retort, no defiant response?” said a chilling voice from outside the narrow circle of light.

The angel mumbled something, the words so mangled and quiet as to be inaudible.

“Speak up, then. Tell me what I want to hear and all this unpleasantness will stop. Where . . . is . . . your son, Jonathan?”

Darriel's lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Please don't make me step in all that mess,” said the voice. “I have new shoes.”

Darriel just moaned.

There was the sound of footsteps on stone, and a figure appeared out of the gloom. A tall, cadaverous man studied the wounded angel through dark, glittering eyes set deep in their sockets. The skin on his face was yellow and thin; it bulged and rippled as if something beneath was trying to claw its way out. He reached out and lifted Darriel's chin.

“I think Rook is tired of beating you to a pulp,” said the man. “Then again, I can just let Crow take over. And when he's finished, there's always Raven.”

Darriel's lips moved, and the man leaned in close enough to hear what the angel was trying to say.

“Sorry . . . Gabriel,” the wounded angel croaked. “Sorry . . . Dad.” Then he closed his eyes and slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

“Well, well,” said the man. “We finally know where the boy is. Pain is such a useful tool for eliciting the truth.”

Rook stepped out of the shadows to stand next to his master. “Where do we find him, Belial?” the demon asked hungrily. “Where have they hidden the boy?”

“They've hidden him in Hobbes End.” Belial grinned. “With this battered carcass's father. How very obvious.”

“But we can't enter Hobbes End,” growled Rook. “We'd be incinerated on the spot. What good does it do us to know where the boy is?”

Belial smiled a truly awful smile. “Actually, I'd been planning on paying our old friend Gabriel a visit anyway, and I have a suspicion I know exactly how to get into Hobbes End. Tell me, Rook,” he said, “how do you fancy a trip to the British Museum?”

Chapter 7

Jonathan awoke to find a wet nose pressed up against his. He gave a start before realizing that he was being closely scrutinized by Elgar.

“Morning,” said the cat.

“Morning,” replied Jonathan. “Your breath is awful.”

“You cut me to the quick,” said Elgar, pretending to be upset. “I'm a cat—what do you expect my breath to smell like? Potpourri?”

Jonathan grinned.

“Can I have one of those sherbet lemons?” asked Elgar, nodding toward the paper bag that sat on Jonathan's bedside table.

“Yeah,” said Jonathan. “It might make you less whiffy.”

The cat deftly hooked out one of the boiled sweets and started sucking on it. “Who gave you these?” he asked.

“They were from Mr. and Mrs. Flynn, a nice old couple who live near Cay, apparently.”

Elgar rolled his eyes. “Yes, I saw that you'd been getting a steady stream of presents sent up from the inhabitants of our charming little village.”

“You're just jealous,” said Jonathan.

“Too right I'm jealous,” said Elgar. “When
I
turned up, all I got was a preowned dog basket and a chew toy. And what do you get? A stack of get-well cards, sweets, three books, a pile of new clothes, and the loan of Professor Morgenstern's second-best laptop so you can surf the Internet until your brain dissolves.”

“Everyone's been really nice,” said Jonathan. “Since I've been stuck in here for two weeks now and my head's all healed, Grimm said I could get up and go for a proper walk today. I can meet the villagers and say thank you for the presents.”

“Good idea,” said Elgar.

“Can I ask you something?” said Jonathan.

“Fire away.”

“How is it that you can talk? You're a cat.”

“Oh, not that again,” said Elgar, heaving a sigh. “It's like I've got an embarrassing skin condition or something. Why can't everyone just let me be myself?” He rubbed a scrunched-up paw in the corner of his eye and pretended to sniffle. He carried on like this for a minute but saw that Jonathan remained unmoved. “You're not going to let this drop, are you?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“Look, if you think me talking is weird, just wait until you find out about Cay's dad's”—Elgar did quote marks with his paws—“condition. I'd tell you myself, but I don't want to spoil the surprise.”

Jonathan smiled at the cat as he tried to take everything in. Knowing he wasn't being lied to made a huge difference.

“Like Cay said,” continued Elgar, “Hobbes End is a haven for people who need somewhere to be safe. Professor Morgenstern's apparently hiding from MI5 and the CIA. Something about a time machine. Then there's Mrs. Silkwood and her unhealthy obsession with that aspidistra she keeps in her front room. No furniture—just the plant in a big ceramic pot. I assume she's hiding from the men in white coats.”

Jonathan snorted with laughter. “You keep telling me about the other villagers. What about you—why are you here?”

“That's a story for another day.” Elgar grinned.

“Well, why are you called Elgar? It's an odd name for a cat. They normally have names like Fluffy or Mittens.”

Elgar pretended to be insulted but then ruined it by grinning again. “The day I arrived in Hobbes End, I wandered into the vicarage living room through the open French windows. Ignatius was playing this really sad piece of music on the piano, and when I jumped up onto the piano stool he said, ‘Hello, what's your name, then?' I looked at the sheet music he was reading from, read the name of the composer, and said ‘Elgar.' Ignatius didn't bat an eyelid, and it's been that way ever since.”

“Why didn't you just give him your real name?” asked Jonathan.

“Because I don't like it. I have an awful feeling my parents wanted a girl.”

Jonathan laughed so hard, it made his head hurt. “Okay, then, cat. I'll get dressed and see you in the kitchen in a bit.”

“Cool,” said Elgar. “I'm starving. Don't be long.” He jumped to the floor and padded silently from the room.

Jonathan got out of bed, showered, changed into new clothes that Grimm had procured for him, and opened the curtains. He waved at the gargoyles, and as they waved back Jonathan realized that it didn't seem weird anymore. If anything, it felt oddly normal.

This didn't stop him from thinking about his parents constantly. Grimm had told him that he had visited the destroyed cottage but had found no sign of Jonathan's father or the things that had attacked them. This reassured Jonathan but raised more questions: Where were his parents now? What were those things that had attacked them? And why? Jonathan hoped he wouldn't have to wait too long for the answers.

Leaving his bedroom, he walked down the stairs and past portraits of the previous vicars of Hobbes End. Some looked stern, some looked kind, but all looked as though they were someone to be reckoned with.

Reaching the main hallway, Jonathan was almost deafened by the thunderous cry of
“Tea up!”
He gently pushed open the kitchen door. Over by the butler sink, Grimm was placing a teapot and mugs on a tray. He turned and beamed at Jonathan.

“Guess,” he said, holding up the teapot.

“Um . . .” said Jonathan.

“He wants you to guess what tea it is,” mumbled Elgar, face-down in a bowl of kippers. “Grimm's got hundreds of different ones, all in little tins in the pantry. Some of them are lovely, but others could strip paint. Very odd hobby for a grown man, I must say.”

“Philistine,” growled Grimm, flicking one of Elgar's ears with a finger the size of a small banana.

“Ow!” hissed Elgar.

A copy of the
Times
was lowered to reveal the raised eyebrows of Ignatius. “Let the lad sit down, gentlemen, please,” he said. He smiled at Jonathan and pulled a chair out for him. “Elgar and Grimm like each other really; they just have a funny way of showing it.”

Grimm sighed, plunked the tray of crockery on the table, then went outside to wash his car. If there was one thing Grimm liked more than making tea, gardening, cooking, or cricket, it was washing his prized car—an old Daimler.

Jonathan sat down, and Ignatius poured him a mug of what turned out to be nothing more offensive than Earl Grey.

“How're you feeling?” the vicar asked. “This is your first proper day up and about, so don't overdo it.”

“I feel a bit dizzy, but I'm okay, thanks.”

Ignatius nodded. “You will remember what I said, won't you? Until your parents turn up, you must treat the village as your home.”

Jonathan grinned and nodded. He liked Ignatius; there was something reassuring about him, something kind.

“You mustn't think you're a burden,” Ignatius continued. “This is what we do here in Hobbes End; we look after people.”

“That's what Cay and Elgar keep telling me,” said Jonathan, sipping his tea. “Do you think that's why I'm here?”

“I don't know yet,” Ignatius lied. “But you mustn't worry.”

“I'll try not to,” said Jonathan. “But it's difficult. I just keep seeing those . . . things attacking us, and then the ceiling caving in. Do you think they were really monsters, or did I imagine it because of my head injury?”

“I think you saw something, Jonathan, and that it scared both you and your parents.”

“I guess. Perhaps they were foreign spies or something. Dad would never say what he did when I asked him. He'd just say that it was better I didn't know. If Dad worked for the government, then maybe somebody would want to kidnap him for secret information, or something?”

“It's possible,” said Ignatius.

“But how did Mom know how to bring me here?”

Ignatius shook his head. “Again, I don't know, Jonathan. But now you are here, you're not in any danger.”

“Thanks. I don't understand why I'm not more frightened than I actually am.”

Ignatius fixed his flint gray eyes on Jonathan. “Perhaps it's just because you're very brave?”

Jonathan smiled. It was then that he noticed an article splashed on the front page of that day's paper. “What's that?” he asked.

Ignatius spread the
Times
out so they could read it clearly:

 

P
UDDING
L
ANE
M
ETEORITE
S
TOLEN FROM
B
RITISH
M
USEUM

 

Whilst the theory that the Great Fire of London was started by a meteorite as opposed to a careless baker is a contentious one, Abelard Flagg, head curator of the British Museum, had been confident that the meteorite would indeed prove to have ignited the fire that destroyed much of London in September 1666. Mr. Flagg is said to be deeply upset following last night's break-in and subsequent theft of the object. Scotland Yard is investigating but has yet to release a statement.

 

“Tch!” tutted Ignatius. “Is nothing sacred?” Finishing his tea, the vicar of Hobbes End stood up and stretched, his gangly frame towering over the kitchen table. “Right,” he said, “I've got some things I need to do. Cay's waiting for you over at her parents' shop. She's so excited about having someone new to introduce to the other villagers, she may just explode. Elgar wants to go too, so have fun and I'll see you later.”

Patting Jonathan tenderly on the shoulder, the vicar of Hobbes End walked out of the kitchen. He'd left the paper on the table, and Jonathan couldn't help but look at the article about the stolen meteorite. There was something odd about it, but he couldn't quite figure out what.

His pondering was interrupted when a grinning Elgar jumped up onto the table.

“Well, Johnny-boy,” he said, “I have officially finished my breakfast kipper. Ready to meet the neighbors?”