Julius and the Watchmaker (2 page)

The eyes all blinked simultaneously.

Oh, bloody hellfire.

It was a huddle of street urchins—staring at him, their eyes now still and unblinking. He was marked. An icicle shot down his spine.

He walked, faster this time, scanning the soot-blackened shopfronts and doorways for their numbers. Where was it? Where was Springheel's lodgings? He could hear movement behind him, but he dared not look. He kept walking, trying not to run, looking at the shop doors. Number 24! A second-hand clothiers. That meant 26 must be next. It must.

There! Number 26, in brass letters screwed into the lintel. It was a pawnshop. The street urchins were edging closer, like crabs on the mud flats when a cadaver washes up.

Cripes.
Julius pretended not to notice them—he peered through the window. It was too dark to see inside, and he could hear the urchins moving closer. He pulled out the calling card again.
What does ‘above' 26 mean, for heaven's sake?
He hammered on the door. Feet scampered around him.

He spun around. The urchins had fanned out across the empty street. They froze like demonic statues, crouched low and watching him with their porcelain eyes. They breathed together, like one creature with many lungs. Julius backed away, holding their gaze and feeling his way along the wall and the window ledge as he went. The wall disappeared. His heart leapt as his hand groped the empty space. He looked around to where the wall should have been. An alleyway ran along the side of the shop.

Julius ducked around the corner and was just about to sprint for home when he saw an open doorway a few paces along. He pressed himself into the darkness as small bare feet ran like rats across the cobblestones.

His eyes took a second to adjust. He was at the bottom of a flight of stairs that went up into grey gloom and disappeared around a corner. Julius ran up the steps, came to the corner and looked up. A short, fat man was shambling down towards him. Julius pressed himself against the wall and held his breath as the man's large belly squashed him, squeezing his bruised ribs. Julius opened his mouth to scream but the stale odours of sweat, cigars and brandy punched at his nostrils, making him retch instead.

‘Who's there, damn you?' said the man.

‘Sorry, sir. I'm looking for Mr Springheel, sir.'

‘Be gone, foul wretch or I'll thrash you purple,' he said, as he strained to manoeuvre his bulk past Julius.

Julius pushed himself past and bolted up the stairs clutching the parcel tight.

‘Young rascal,' shouted the man, as he lumbered on down the stairs.

Julius stood in front of the door at the top of the stairs.
This is it. Let the anti-bullying lessons begin, Higgins
. He knocked. He waited. No reply. Had he knocked too quietly? Julius knocked again—too loudly this time. Immediately the door was flung open.

‘Damn you to Hades, what is it now?' shouted Jack Springheel, Esquire.

Julius dropped the parcel.

CHAPTER 2

Monday 3rd July, 1837
8:35 PM

Jack Springheel glared at Julius and then at the brown paper parcel on the floor.

‘Upon my word, what a lightning delivery service,' he said, and his face slid into a smile of welcome.

Julius nearly collapsed with relief as he stooped to pick up the parcel.

‘Forgive me. I thought you were Clements come back to plague me.'

‘No…it's me.'

‘So I see. Come in, come in.'

Springheel stepped to one side and extended his arm in the direction of his chamber. Julius bobbed up and down in a cross between a curtsey and a bow, and he entered the room.

There were clocks everywhere: along the mantelpiece, on every spare space on the walls, and on the large writing desk, as well as the occasional clock lying upside down or on its side on the richly carpeted floor. The combined ticking sounded like a thousand steel-scaled snakes slithering across corrugated iron. Julius's body vibrated under the hum.

A fire crackled in the fireplace, its heat licking hungrily at Julius's face. Jack Springheel flicked his coat tails up and sat down in an over-stuffed armchair.

‘Well, thank you for your promptitude, young man,' he said.

‘Oh, yes. Here you are,' said Julius, handing over the parcel, then rummaging through his pockets for the bill.

Springheel's long fingers untied the string and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal three books. He ran his nose along the top of one of them and sat back, satisfied with the fragrance.

‘I love the smell of a good book, don't you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Especially books about watchmaking. My favourite subject in all the world.'

Julius found the bill, and his fumbling fingers unfolded it. Springheel's eyes fell on the piece of paper. He sniffed, as if dismissing an offence.

‘Do you have the time?' said Springheel, his dark eyes looking far away into the fire.

Julius was not sure if he had heard correctly. He looked around the room at all the clocks. Without exception, they showed the same time, 8:37, even the second hands were synchronised.

‘It's eight and thirty-seven, if you please, sir.'

‘So late,' said Springheel with a sigh. ‘Where has the time gone?'

Julius waited. Springheel appeared to be daydreaming. The time ticked on.

‘Take the bill to Clements,' said Springheel, waking suddenly. ‘He will pay.'

‘Clements, sir?'

‘Yes, Clements. He runs the tatty jerryshop downstairs. He and I are business partners, you see. He takes care of any tawdry complications.'

‘Oh, I see…but…I really do need to be paid this evening, sir.'

‘And so you shall, my young friend, so you shall. But Clements must pay.'

Julius folded and unfolded the bill a couple of times to help him think. If he returned without the money he would have to put up with his grandfather's disappointment over the porridge in the morning.
Drats, and blooming double dead rats.
Julius decided to put the payment question to one side for the moment and come to the real reason for his visit.

‘I was wondering, sir…' he said, stuffing the bill into his pocket.

Springheel placed the tips of his fingers together, forming a pyramid.

‘Yes?'

Cripes.

‘I was wondering…how you did it, sir?'

‘Did what?'

Julius felt as if ivy were coming up through the floor entwining his legs.

‘That…with Crimper. It was amazing. You really put the wind up them.'

‘Oh, that. Yes, it was fun, wasn't it? Friends of yours?'

‘No.'

‘I didn't think so. I can't abide a bully.'

‘How do you…how do you make people fear you? It wasn't just the blade, it was something else…something about
you
.'

‘Want to know, do you, young…?'

‘Julius, sir. Julius Higgins…well, Julius
Caesar
Higgins, to be precise, that is. That's what I was christened. Everyone calls me Julius or just Higgins except for my grandfather. He insists on using my middle name as well…rather embarrassing…especially in company, I mean—'
Shut up, shut up, shut up
—‘“Caesar's what I christened you and Caesar's what I'll call you,” he says…ha, ha.'
Stop talking, Higgins, for pity's sake.

‘Really?' said Springheel, raising an eyebrow. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes…there's not much to it. It's simply a matter of convincing your adversary that you are mad enough, bad enough or stupid enough to carry out your threat.'

‘Oh, I see,' said Julius, not really seeing.

‘Julius, life is a game, and games have rules. The rule in this game is power. If you have power over another you can bend him to your will. And how do you gain power over another?'

‘Umm.'

‘Fear, boy. Fear,' said Jack Springheel, leaping from his chair and looming over Julius like a cobra ready to strike. The fire flared, filling the room with an orange glow. Julius yelped and fell backwards, shielding his face with his arm. He cowered, waiting for the cane sword to slice through the air and run him through.

Instead, Springheel offered his hand. ‘Pardon the melodramatics, Julius,' he said, pulling him to his feet. ‘Only trying to illustrate my point.'

Springheel sat back down and placed his fingertips together. Julius swallowed hard. The fire retreated, and the clocks ticked.

‘You see, Julius, I allow people to presume that I am completely without goodness, full to the brim with badness. People think that I will do anything to get what I want, without the least regard for harm or consequences.'

‘And, and would you, sir?'

‘Would I what?'

‘Do anything?'

Springheel smiled wearily. ‘Of course.'

The words stabbed at Julius's innards like a blade of ice.

Bloody hellfire.

Julius found himself short of breath, as if the blazing fire were sucking the oxygen from the room.
Does he want me to leave now? He still hasn't paid
. Time seemed to stretch and distort—or was he just becoming lightheaded? Julius swayed. Springheel's fingers beat time like the ticking of a clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Julius wanted to run, but his legs were still rooted to the spot. Then, suddenly, there was silence.

All the clocks had stopped.

‘Good night, Julius,' said Springheel, his voice filling the room like the roar of a steam train in a tunnel.

Julius bolted for the door. He wrestled with the handle. Jack Springheel's laughter boxed his ears, following him out onto the landing.
You knew this was a mistake, Higgins.
Julius missed the second step and tumbled head first down the stairs and into the wall at the corner. He leapt to his feet and took the rest of the steps three at a time. At the bottom he wedged himself into the dark corner to catch his breath and tally his injuries.

Nothing appeared broken, in fact Julius was not aware of any pain at all.
He mesmerised you, Higgins, that's what he did. I've read about that sort of thing. He's some sort of parlour magician.

After a minute Julius felt composed enough for his next move. The street urchins had dispersed or were hiding, waiting to ambush him. Leastways they were nowhere to be seen. Taking a resolute breath, he ran to Clements' pawnshop and hammered on the door.

‘Go away, we're closed,' bellowed a voice from within.

Julius banged on the door again, as loud and as fast as the pulse pounding in his ears. Angry footsteps approached and an indignant red face appeared at the window. It was the man he had passed on the stairs, he was sure of it.

‘Go away, I said. We're closed.'

Julius stepped back out of the doorway and looked up and down the street—no sign of the urchins regrouping yet. He frantically straightened out the crumpled bill and slammed it against the glass. Clements' bloodshot eyes scanned the words and he realised what it was.

‘You've got the wrong door. Springheel lodges upstairs. Kindly trouble him for your money.'

Julius leaned in closer to the glass and as loudly as he dared he said, ‘He sent me to get the money from you, sir.'

‘Oh…well…in that case, come back next week. Now run along, like a good boy.'

Julius looked up and down the street again. Only the dread of his grandfather's disappointment at breakfast stopped him from running home there and then.

A rodent-like movement in a shop doorway caught his eye.
Double blooming bloody cripes.
The street urchins were waiting for him. They were probably staked out at intervals along the street and in the alleyway. His only hope was to get the money from Clements, slip out the back door and sprint for home like a derby winner with a tail wind.

‘Open this door or I'll get Mr Springheel down here to make you,' hissed Julius, holding his face close to the windowpane. Terror gave him courage.

To his complete surprise, his words had the desired effect. Clements fidgeted. ‘Steady on, now. There's no need for threats.'

‘Open up, open up,' hissed Julius again, baring his teeth and clenching his eyebrows.

Bolts rasped open and a key turned, and before Julius knew it he was inside. Clements made for the counter. Julius secured one of the many bolts across the door and followed Clements past the heaps of junk on tables and hanging from hooks like dried-out insects in a spider's parlour.

‘How much, damn you?' said Clements, fumbling to light a candle.

‘Five pounds.'

‘What? For a few tatty books?'

‘They're rare first editions. Hard to find and…and highly sought after,' said Julius, repeating the phrases his grandfather used in the shop.

‘Oh, very well, very well,' said Clements.

He grunted with exertion as he dipped down out of sight behind the counter. The sounds of a safe being unlocked and locked again followed before Clements emerged and tossed five sovereigns on the counter.

‘There you are. Now be off with you.'

Julius pocketed the money, dropped the bill on the counter and was about to ask to be let out the back when Clements caught him by the lapel.

‘Was one of the books Harrison's diary?'

‘No.'

‘No?'

‘That's right.'

‘But you're looking for it, aren't you? Making enquiries and all that?' he said, shaking Julius roughly as though to rattle the answer out of him.

‘Yes. Let me go, I have to get home.'

Clements relaxed his grip and Julius wrenched himself free, knocking over a stuffed weasel with his elbow in the process. He ran to the door and pulled the bolt.

‘I say, you will be able to find it, the diary, I mean?'

‘It's hard to say. These things take time,' said Julius, as he stuck his head out of the door to look up and down the street. The sky was still light grey, but the street was growing darker: twilight—the predators' time.