stirred sugar into his coffee and accepted a piece of shortbread. “You know things have been happening. You said you could explain them.”
Gordon focused on the old man properly, suddenly seeing him quite differently. The nape of his neck prickled, and he found he had sat up straighter, as though under inspection. The man before him was old, certainly, but no fool, and not one to suffer them either.
“You’ve worked in the museum for some time. You know it well, know what it contains. There are many powerful objects from different times and places. Now there is too much power, and it has begun to seep out. The clock is part of it: it is acting like a lens, focusing this drifting power on the past, allowing it to leak into the present. That is what has been happening. Whenwe were looking at the Duddingston Hoard earlier you heard something that frightened you. You heard the spirits of the Old Ones – the people who made the things in that room. You heard the echoes of a great battle that took place three thousand years ago. You have seen the Nor Loch come back. You know that something moves through the museum at night; not a cat, nor a rat – they don’t leave handprints. It is the spirit of time loose in your building: the monkey from the clock.
“This is only the start of what will happen. It must be stopped or time will fly apart like a shattered plate.”
Gordon burst out laughing, causing people at neighbouring tables to glance up from their own conversations. John Flowerdew did not join in. He gazed at Gordon calmly enough, but in his eyes was a flicker of anger. Gordon’s own laughter spluttered to a halt, and he stared back, angry at himself for getting mixed up with this tomfoolery.
“Whatever’s happening, it isn’t that. Maybe I’m having some sort of breakdown, and that’s why I’ve seen and heard these things. As for what goes on the museum – it’s an old place; I’m prepared – just about – to believe in ghosts, but a wooden monkey coming to life and scampering around leaving hand prints? Come off it.” He pushed his coffee away and stood to put on his jacket. “I don’t know what made me think you could explain anything. It was a mistake coming here. Goodbye.”
As he turned to go, John Flowerdew said, “You came because you already know, deep down. You can only deny the truth for so long.”
***
In Cramond Tower, Andrew Nixon stood in front of his sitting room window staring at the red velvet curtain, as though trying to see through it. It was seven o’clock, already dark outside. He’d been standing here for almost ten minutes now, listening intently for anything that sounded like Latin or the clink of metal on metal, but there had been no sounds other than the normal ones of cars and the sea and a couple of dogs barking as their owners took them for their evening walk.
All he had to do was look out of the window and see everything normal, and the stupid thing would be over.
His hand shook as he took hold of the heavy red velvet. He eased it open a fraction and peered out, unaware that he was holding his breath, and then pulled it all the way back.
Under a clear sky he could make out the empty car park that lay below the tower, and to the right, the jumbled shapes of the building site, patchily illuminated by security lights, and perfectly, blissfully normal.
***
Anger powered Gordon all the way to Princes Street, past the fog-free Gardens – no sign at all of the Nor Loch. It wasn’t until he had to stop and wait to cross the road there that he began to calm down.
The old man must be touched, that was it, no pointin being angry with him. Still, how had he known about what Gordon had seen and heard in the Gardens? And what had gone on in that room this afternoon?
It was all rubbish, that’s what. Maybe he was ill, maybe he should go and see the doctor, but all that nonsense the old man had been spouting about power and time and monkeys –
monkeys, for goodness
Gordon focused on the old man properly, suddenly seeing him quite differently. The nape of his neck prickled, and he found he had sat up straighter, as though under inspection. The man before him was old, certainly, but no fool, and not one to suffer them either.
“You’ve worked in the museum for some time. You know it well, know what it contains. There are many powerful objects from different times and places. Now there is too much power, and it has begun to seep out. The clock is part of it: it is acting like a lens, focusing this drifting power on the past, allowing it to leak into the present. That is what has been happening. Whenwe were looking at the Duddingston Hoard earlier you heard something that frightened you. You heard the spirits of the Old Ones – the people who made the things in that room. You heard the echoes of a great battle that took place three thousand years ago. You have seen the Nor Loch come back. You know that something moves through the museum at night; not a cat, nor a rat – they don’t leave handprints. It is the spirit of time loose in your building: the monkey from the clock.
“This is only the start of what will happen. It must be stopped or time will fly apart like a shattered plate.”
Gordon burst out laughing, causing people at neighbouring tables to glance up from their own conversations. John Flowerdew did not join in. He gazed at Gordon calmly enough, but in his eyes was a flicker of anger. Gordon’s own laughter spluttered to a halt, and he stared back, angry at himself for getting mixed up with this tomfoolery.
“Whatever’s happening, it isn’t that. Maybe I’m having some sort of breakdown, and that’s why I’ve seen and heard these things. As for what goes on the museum – it’s an old place; I’m prepared – just about – to believe in ghosts, but a wooden monkey coming to life and scampering around leaving hand prints? Come off it.” He pushed his coffee away and stood to put on his jacket. “I don’t know what made me think you could explain anything. It was a mistake coming here. Goodbye.”
As he turned to go, John Flowerdew said, “You came because you already know, deep down. You can only deny the truth for so long.”
***
In Cramond Tower, Andrew Nixon stood in front of his sitting room window staring at the red velvet curtain, as though trying to see through it. It was seven o’clock, already dark outside. He’d been standing here for almost ten minutes now, listening intently for anything that sounded like Latin or the clink of metal on metal, but there had been no sounds other than the normal ones of cars and the sea and a couple of dogs barking as their owners took them for their evening walk.
All he had to do was look out of the window and see everything normal, and the stupid thing would be over.
His hand shook as he took hold of the heavy red velvet. He eased it open a fraction and peered out, unaware that he was holding his breath, and then pulled it all the way back.
Under a clear sky he could make out the empty car park that lay below the tower, and to the right, the jumbled shapes of the building site, patchily illuminated by security lights, and perfectly, blissfully normal.
***
Anger powered Gordon all the way to Princes Street, past the fog-free Gardens – no sign at all of the Nor Loch. It wasn’t until he had to stop and wait to cross the road there that he began to calm down.
The old man must be touched, that was it, no pointin being angry with him. Still, how had he known about what Gordon had seen and heard in the Gardens? And what had gone on in that room this afternoon?
It was all rubbish, that’s what. Maybe he was ill, maybe he should go and see the doctor, but all that nonsense the old man had been spouting about power and time and monkeys –
monkeys, for goodness
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