Lovely to see you again. Shall I put the kettle on? Milk, two sugars? I know you have lots to tell me, but before you do, can I just run this by you? Sure? Thanks... Ginger biscuit? It's okay - don't worry about the crumbs...
After compiling my anthologies of erotic short stories for publication, I realised I had a few that didn't really fit anywhere. 'The clockmender' was one of these. I wrote it with two interwoven points of view, one in italics for differentiation, and wasn't sure if it actually worked. It's been posted on a few story sites - always with positive feedback - but again, I wasn't wholly convinced. At around 5k words, it is neither a snippet nor flash fiction, and I considered a serialisation. However, I believe the momentum of it belies its length, draws you in and steals your time in the manner of the most artful dodger. Here it is then, though not in its entirety, as it now appears in my most recent anthology, 'The big bag of sexy allsorts'. Please let me know what you think. Your comments will be most appreciated.
The clockmender and his wife
The plan was simple and he knew she would be on her own for long enough to see it through. Her husband, John, went to work at 8.30, leaving Marilyn to take care of the house, look after the dogs. He was afraid of the two rottweilers, hated them, heard the rumours of what they had done to a local petty thief who had entered the house uninvited, so he waited. At 9 a.m. as usual, he heard the excited, barking creatures being shooed into the back garden, knew she would soon be washing the floors and vacuuming up their discarded fur. Way beyond the human ear's perception, some higher element of the machine's beating and whirring seemed to drive the dogs wild and he reflected how people seemed similarly oblivious to Marilyn's beauty - it somehow did not register on their dull senses while it drove him to distraction. He knew he had exactly one hour before she let the dogs back in.
*
John loved his job, truly loved it, had always been drawn to wind-up machines. When he was six, he'd taken apart an old clock he'd bought from a jumble sale. The polished pieces, masterfully cut, milled and turned, held incredible beauty for him. Through them, for a brief but dazzling moment, the mysteries of space and time were revealed to him: Saturn's swirling rings: the Plough's majestic nightly labours; and the gibbous Moon's waning into crescent were gloriously explained by the remarkable objects turning in his tiny hands - they too meshed and spun noiselessly and effortlessly, with an almost magical, heavenly purpose. He carefully cleaned then lightly oiled the cogs, inserted them back into their brass sandwich and tightened the nuts that held them there. When he had finished and the battered teak tray of bits and bobs was empty, he noticed daylight was fading. Beyond his bedroom window, the grey air was cool and still, and the serenading birds were snuggling down into feathery silence.
*
Tall privet hedges hid the entrance to the house and he knew the neighbours could not see him once he stepped onto the crazed path. He'd rehearsed many times in preparation for today and knew her routine, had noted her comings and goings. With head spinning and heart pounding, he watched the house to make sure she was alone then carefully approached the solid wooden front door. As he climbed the single step into the porch, he almost blacked out, was dizzy with anticipation. He bent down, retrieved the brass key she always secreted under the terracotta flowerpot of the solitary ornamental shrub and opened the heavy, glossy blue door. Once inside, he quietly removed his shoes then calmed his breathing and listened: silence. An ancient, well-polished grandfather clock stood in the corner of the light and airy hallway, its ornate pendulum stilled. Last week he had come as far as this, stopped the clock and left, barely able to suppress a snigger as he slipped back outside. That was a rehearsal: today was the real thing. From the cover of silence, tiny sounds began to emerge: a swish of cotton; a carpet-muffled footfall... and a desultory line from one of his favourite songs. She was upstairs.
*
John, the machine and the entire Earth seemed to hold their breath together. A pulse rhythmically poked his temple as he raised a steady index finger and nervously nudged the balance wheel into action. Fitfully, the clock ticked and tocked then it settled down into its natural cycle. Smoothly and joyously it began to enumerate the seconds of his life, not with a cold, mechanical detachment, but with a warm, glowing, grateful involvement. He felt the metal come alive in his hands, watched with wonder as the tiny brass balance wheel swung back and forth. Holding his breath again, he poised his thumb over it then brought time to a standstill with the slightest touch. The ticking died, the world waited and he felt like a god, amazed by the paradoxical fragility and reliability of the tiny machine in his palm. A gentle flick set the wheel in motion and the Earth began to turn again.
*
A fanfare of creaks heralded his ascent, but a soft shroud of singing insulated her from them. He peered onto the landing, his eyes at floor level, praying she didn't suddenly leave a room and spot him creeping up. He looked around at the virginal white blinds, manicured carpets and clean skirting boards. So this was John's house: neat, bright and tidy. He'd expected something darker, something more akin to the innards of a cuckoo clock.
*
He was suddenly afraid. It was as though he'd started a time bomb. For the first time in his life, as the clock's spring began to imperceptibly unwind, he realised that his time was finite. At that very moment, his life began in earnest and he determined to gainfully consume every second. A part of him harboured the notion that if the machines around him could be repaired and maintained, then he too would live on. Conversely, he reasoned that when they began to stop, he would begin to die.
*
He despised John's mechanical, methodical existence, an emotion heightened by the surrounding suburban pristine precision. How good it felt to throw it into chaos. First spanner in the works was the accident, for which he could sadly claim no responsibility, but everything since had been his doing. Several childish pranks followed, but the next - the shed - was much more serious. Now the wife: he'd show her what a real man was capable of, show her real passion. He glanced around again. It seemed that everything he hated the most was worshipped here, but he realised almost instantly that was not true. Marilyn. She was the exception. More singing. The master bedroom.
‘If you're lost and you look and you will...'
He moved quickly, knowing the line would soon end and leave him exposed in the no man's land between them.
‘Time after ti... Oh, God! No...'
Continue reading this story in 'The big bag of sexy allsorts', now available on Amazon.
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