Horten's Miraculous Mechanisms (5 page)
The interior of the station was a construction site. Green wooden panels blocked off most of the concourse, and behind them scaffolding reached as high as the glass roof. A thin film of dust covered everything, and there was a constant whine of power tools.
Every few feet, a poster had been stuck to the boards.
Stuart pressed his eye to a tiny gap between two panels and saw a man in protective goggles cutting a block of stone. A fountain of sparks rose from the circular blade. Close by, another man was scouring the blackened bricks of the wall with a spinning disc. Slowly a rosy color was emerging from beneath the layers of soot.
Suddenly Stuart noticed an odd thing. Near the second man, on a part of the wall that was still dirty, there was one incredibly clean patch. The patch had a definite shape—a tall, thin rectangle topped with a large circle—and it was bright pink against the surrounding black, each brick looking perfectly new. Something must have been standing in front of that wall for a hundred years or more, protecting it from the smoke and dirt.
And he knew that shape.
It was the shape of the weighing machine in the photograph, the one that the little boy had been standing in front of. And he understood, somehow, that he had to find it.
He moved along the panels from one end to the other, squinting carefully through every gap, but there was no sign of the weighing machine. He opened a door marked
NO ACCESS TO THE GENERAL
PUBLIC
and got shouted at by a worker. He ventured cautiously around the fencing sheets that obscured the main entrance and was shouted at by the same worker, who this time threatened to call the police.
It was just after that, as Stuart stood beside the bike rack wondering what to do next, that another man pushing a wheelbarrow full of splintered wood and chunks of plaster walked out of the blocked-off entrance and straight past him. Man and wheelbarrow disappeared behind a plywood screen at the end of the parking lot. There was a brief series of crashes, and then they reappeared. This time the wheelbarrow was empty.
Stuart waited until the parking lot was clear of people, and then ran for the wooden screen. Behind it was a large yellow dumpster, piled high with trash. A wide plank slanted up to it from the ground, and Stuart walked along it and peered over the edge. He saw the weighing machine right away. It was right in the center of the dumpster, leaning at an angle. Cautiously, he picked his way toward it, tiptoeing across broken boards that tipped and swayed beneath his feet.
There were three parts to the machine: a square platform at the bottom, just large enough for one person to stand on; a large round dial at the top, covered in glass; and a rectangular upright part linking the two. The whole thing had once been painted red, but over the years it had been scratched and written on, and the glass over the dial was cracked in several places.
On the base was a small plaque. It read:
Stuart took out a threepenny bit. This time he didn’t hesitate, but pushed it straight in.
Nothing happened.
He looked at the instructions again:
Place coin in slot and stand on platform
. Tentatively he put one foot and then the other on the slanted platform. There was a click, and the long needle swung slowly around the dial and halted beside a number.
79.
And just above the number, scratched onto the red-painted metal of the casing, two words were visible. Stuart craned to read them—craned and stretched and stood on tiptoe—and as he did so, there was an ominous groaning sound. The contents of the dumpster began to shift. All around him were cracking noises. Puffs of plaster dust filled the air. The weighing machine started to sink treacherously beneath his feet and rivulets of grit poured into the hole. Stuart clawed his way upward. For a brief moment he was on the same level as the dial, and the writing was close enough for him to read—it said
GRAVEST FLATE
—and then he had scrambled past it and was almost dancing across the moving surface, arms flailing, grabbing for the plank at the edge. He climbed onto it, breathing heavily, and looked back. Only the very top of the weighing machine was visible; the rest lay buried beneath the rubble.
Stuart sneezed and then sneezed again. He was covered in white dust, he realized, and his heart was beating wildly. He felt almost happy. And more than happy;
excited
.
The first threepence had shown him a book, and the second had given him a message:
GRAVEST FLATE. 79.
And now he just had to work out what on earth it meant.
Stuart hurried home and wrote down the clue before he could forget it, and then he sat and stared at it for nearly half an hour.
GRAVEST FLATE.
79
.
He looked up
gravest
in the dictionary, just to check that it meant “most serious.” It did. He looked up the word
flate
. It wasn’t in there.
He turned the piece of paper the wrong way up and looked at the letters upside down for a while. Then he realized that he was starting to feel hungry. He went to the fridge and made himself a cream-cheese, sliced-pickle, tomato-relish, and salt-and- vinegar potato-chip sandwich, which he ate while pacing around the kitchen.
GRAVEST FLATE
.
“I used to love anagrams at your age,” remarked his father, wandering into the room. “Did you know you can rearrange the letters of
Horten
to make the words
throne
and
hornet
?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Stuart.
“And your own first name,” continued his father, “is an anagram of
Rattus
, which is, of course, the Latin for
rat
. And the word
Beeton
—”
“Why are you talking about anagrams?” asked Stuart.
“That piece of paper you left on the dining-room table,” said his father, “I assumed it must be—”
Stuart was back in the dining room before his father could finish the sentence. If the clue was an anagram, then all he needed to do was rearrange the letters, and—hey, presto! (as Great-Uncle Tony might have said)—he’d have the answer.
He took a pencil, sat down, and began to think.
GRAVEST FLATE
.
He rested his chin on his hands and thought harder. The more intensely he stared at the letters, the larger they seemed to get.
Larger.
LARGE
. All of a sudden he could see the word
LARGE
.
Feverishly, he began to rearrange the remaining letters.
FAV TEST
.
No.
FAST VET
.
No.
FAT VEST
.
For a moment, he hesitated.
LARGE FAT VEST
.
He shook his head. That couldn’t be right. He turned the paper over and started again.
An hour later, he had a headache and six more anagrams:
A FLAG REST VET
A RAFT VET GELS
STAGE FLAT REV
FALTER GAS VET
LARVA FEST GET
and
GAVEL FART SET
.
None of them made any sense at all.
“I think I might go for a moderately lengthy perambulation,” said his father. “Would you care to accompany me?”
“No, thanks,” said Stuart.
He heard his father’s footsteps go out into the hall, stop for a second, and then return.
“An epistle for you,” said his father, placing an envelope on the table.
Stuart frowned.
Typed on the front of the envelope was:
S. HORTEN
.
He waited until his father had left the house before he opened it.
Dear Mr. S. Horten,
The special crime edition of the
Beech Road Guardian
has been causing excitement and discussion the length and breadth of the Beech Road area. “When are you going to write more about this serious and important story?” our readers have been asking us.
In response to popular demand, therefore, we would like to offer you, Mr. S. Horten, the chance to give your side of the story. Was there, in fact, an innocent reason for your attempt to smash your way into 9 Filbert Way?
In return for exclusive rights, we will print a special “Stuart Horten Says He’s Innocent!” edition of the
Beech Road Guardian
, featuring a front-page interview with yourself and a voting slip for our readers to decide whether—
Stuart didn’t bother reading any more. He crammed the letter back into the envelope, grabbed a red felt-tip pen, crossed out his own name, and wrote
NO, NOT IN A MILLION YEARS
in very large letters over the top of it. Then he turned over the envelope and scrawled
LEAVE ME ALONE
across the flap.
Snatching it from the table, he walked out of his house and right to the one next door. He shoved the envelope through the mail slot, retraced his steps, and found that his own front door had clicked shut behind him. He gave it a shove. It stayed shut. He was locked out.
He looked around. The road was empty, his father nowhere to be seen. In the upstairs window of the triplets’ house a curtain moved and three identical faces peered down at him; they appeared to be smirking.
He felt like an idiot, a total idiot, and he wanted to run as far and as fast as possible, but he forced himself to walk calmly and steadily away from the house. He even stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled a little, as if he’d decided on the spur of the moment to go for a stroll. He didn’t think the sisters were fooled.
Once he’d reached the end of the road, he slowed to a dawdle. His father was likely to be away for an hour or more, so there was no point in hurrying. For a while he walked aimlessly, taking alternate lefts and rights, thinking all the time of his old house, his old friends, of all the ease and fun of his life before he’d come to this awful place. It wasn’t until he took a left turn and found himself walking toward a brick wall that he started to pay attention.
It was a dead-end street, lined with old warehouses. A few cars were parked along the curb, but there were no people about. Somewhere a dog was barking, and curled in front of the brick wall at the end was a marmalade-colored cat. Stuart went over to stroke it, but it hissed at him and darted away. He watched it disappear along a narrow alleyway between two of the warehouses.
CRIBB’S PASSAGE,
read a sign at the end of the alleyway,
LEADING FROM POTTERS RD. TO GRAVE ST
.
Stuart blinked, and read it again.
Leading from Potters Rd. to Grave St.
GRAVE STREET.
GRAVEST.
The clue wasn’t an anagram; it was an address! He broke into a run, following the marmalade cat through the shadowy alley between the warehouses and emerged into a street of tall terraced houses. The cat was visible, sitting on the top step of a house with a red front door, and this time, as Stuart approached, it rose to greet him, rubbing its nose across his shins.
