CHUDSTORIES: VENICCIO'S CLOCK

(From the "Miscellaneous" Backspace stories)

Simon McClellan glanced furiously around the auction room, uncomfortably aware of the sticky sweat gathering in the small of his plump back. He loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt, releasing his considerable chins from their cotton prison. The bastard was in here somewhere; he knew it.

“Do I hear £75,000?” the auctioneer asked, his eyes roving over the seated crowd, waiting for a telltale nod or flick of the wrist. Simon nodded as the auctioneer’s gaze turned in his direction.

“Thank you sir, £75,000 it is. Do I hear £80,000?”

Almost immediately the auctioneer nodded towards someone near the back of the auditorium. Simon strained in his seat to see the mystery bidder who, for the last ten minutes, had dragged him into an agonising game of bid and counter bid. He cursed his late arrival. Had he arrived earlier, he could have taken his usual spot on the back row, affording him an advantageous view of the whole auction room. As it was, a pointless argument with a traffic warden, an instant fine, and he had been delayed long enough to leave him stuck in the dead zone of the auction – second row from the front, surrounded by amateurs and daft old women with more money than sense. It was Richardson. He knew it. The shifty little bastard was doing it to spite him. If not him, then one of his cronies, fielding coded instructions via a mobile phone.

Simon relished competition. Or, rather, he enjoyed winning; the feeling of triumphing over someone less deserving gave him immense satisfaction and pleasure. His father had been a self-made property investor, astutely working his way through the fiery aftermath of the war to amass a valuable portfolio of buildings and vacant land across London. When the 1980’s arrived, the money had poured in, as previously overlooked warehouses became expensive flats for a new breed of young, aggressive businessmen. For all his hard work, Simon’s father never got to enjoy the fruits of his labour. One summer evening in 1984, while Simon played lacrosse at his private school in Sussex, a fire put an end to both Roger and Vivian McClellan, and Simon became a millionaire overnight. The fire that tore through the building while his parents were inspecting it for purchase was traced to an old gas main, disturbed by nearby demolition work. There had been rumours of foul play, of course, none of which were true. In the twenty years since, Simon had allowed the myths to fester, secretly enjoying the notoriety it gave him. Since then, he had lived a life of idle leisure; indulging his fantasies at will – the more expensive, the better. His dwindling circle of friends had warned him that money couldn’t buy happiness, but Simon had found that it bought pretty much everything else, and that was more than enough for a man with his appetites.

“…sold to the gentleman at the back for £80,000. That concludes our auction of miscellaneous Victoriana for today. On behalf of Wetherbys, I thank you for your time…”

Shit. Simon cursed his stupidity. He’d been distracted, rattled, and taken his eyes off the game. A beginner’s mistake. It wasn’t that he desperately wanted the lost item, a wee porcelain figurine from some godforsaken stately home, but the thought of losing made his blood boil. He tried to make out his rival amongst the throng of people headed towards the exit, but it was hopeless. Whoever it was had ducked out before the rush. He dabbed at his moist forehead with a handkerchief, and levered himself from the chair.

“Bad luck, sonny. I won a lovely set of plates, you know”.

He turned to see the pinched face of yet another insane old woman. The auction houses were full of them these days, frittering away their savings on knick-knacks and ugly trinkets. She seemed genuinely proud to have bartered her way to three hundred pounds for some dirty old china, so much more exciting than just buying it from a shop.

“Well, what a lucky old bitch you are” snapped Simon, and began to shuffle his way to the centre aisle, immune to the tuts and mutterings he left behind. At the end of the row of seats, he found his path blocked by a short, neatly dressed man. Simon immediately identified him as another of his pet hates - bloody Indians, grown wealthy on chains of corner shops and buying up the relics of the British Empire’s history. The two stared at each other for awkward seconds. Simon had a ripe expletive loaded and ready to fire at the stranger, but before he could let rip, the man spoke.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr McClellan. My name is Ahmad, and I would like to speak with you on a matter I think you will find most interesting”. His voice was like cut crystal, sharp and clear, the result of learning a language afresh, without chewing it into submission from birth. His politeness and air of mystery caught Simon off guard.

“Well…I’m in a hurry. Whatever it is, I’m not interested”, he blustered, uncomfortable in the presence of anyone from outside his parochial sphere of experience. The man made no attempt to move. Simon noticed the man’s shoes were worn and dusty, and his suit old-fashioned, although obviously expensive and expertly pressed.

“I must insist, Mr McClellan. My employer has asked me to approach you, and you alone, with this offer. He has in his possession an item of considerable rarity, and wishes for you to view the item privately”, the man’s tone changed, whispering conspiratorially, “These are hard times, my friend, and my employer is not as wealthy as he once was. He has been forced to sell many of his family heirlooms. This item is extremely special, and he wishes for it to go to someone who will appreciate its beauty and value. This is why I must again extend the invitation to only you, sir”.

Simon’s defensive attitude began to retreat. As with most overweight and wealthy Englishmen, with Simon McClellan flattery could get you anywhere. The truth was that his tastes were clumsy and ill defined. He did not specialise in any particular era or style, choosing instead to collect whatever seemed most expensive and exclusive at the time, gathering the spoils of countless ages around him to bolster his own tiny space in history. In the auctioneer’s social circles he was known as The Magpie because of his mindless attraction to anything shiny and gaudy. Many times, the auction houses had used him to off-load worthless stock in what he thought were preferential secret deals. His home was a garish collision of silver, gold and ornate china, all thrown together in a chaotic manner. Yet as far as Simon was concerned, he was a connoisseur of antiquity, a gentleman of exquisite taste and just the man to evaluate this peculiar foreigner’s family relics.

“Very well”, he said, as the man led him outside to a battered limousine, “I’ll take a look at it, but I’m not promising anything”.

***

The car made its way through the busy streets of London, cutting through the traffic like a hungry shark. Tourists peered intently at the window as they passed, hoping to return home with a celebrity story, but were foiled by the darkened glass. Inside, Simon wriggled on the leather seats, quietly impressed.

“So, what’s this mysterious item you have for me? Not a harem of geisha girls, is it?” he asked, all fake kinship and secret longing. Ahmad merely laughed politely.

“I’m afraid not, Mr McClellan”, he said, “The tradition of the geisha comes from Japan. My employer and I are from a country we used to know as Persia”.

“Persia? That’s what they used to call Iran, isn’t it?” asked Simon, a faint hint of caution clouding his mood. He could never remember which of those countries were enemies and which were friends. Visions of kidnap, terrorism and extortion flashed through his mind. What if they were using him to carry a bomb, or were planning to inject him with some biological virus and set him down in front of Buckingham Palace? You could never trust this lot, he thought, his eyes checking the safety lock on the door. Still unlocked.

“It is a clock, Mr McClellan”, Ahmad’s clipped tones pierced his frantic thoughts, “A clock of immeasurable wonder and design, passed down for many generations into my employer’s care”.

“A clock?” Simon asked, suddenly conscious that he was doing nothing but ask ridiculous questions. He mentally rebuked himself and tried to imagine how Roger Moore, his favourite James Bond, would react to the current situation.

“Yes, a clock, but this is no ordinary timepiece”, Ahmad explained, “This is the Clock of Eternity, originally built for the most High Sultan Jafar Al Nebukenazah in 1105. The great Benito Allasandro Veniccio, an Italian explorer and inventor who took refuge from thieves in the Sultan’s palace, designed the clock as a gift. In exchange for three years of wealth and luxury in the Sultan’s court, Veniccio created a magnificent clock, which counted the minutes tirelessly for every day of the Sultan’s one hundred and five year reign. Legend has it that the clock’s beauty was so pure that the enemies of the Sultan could be held captive by its spell. Sadly, the Sultan’s family were killed and his empire destroyed during the final years of the Church’s crusade against Islam, and responsibility for the clock passed to his most loyal servant, who kept it in perfect condition until his own death, when it was passed to his son, and to his son, and so on through the years”.

“And now your boss wants to sell it? This 800 year old clock?” Simon was incredulous.

“897 years old, to be precise, and no, my employer does not want to sell the clock. He must sell it. He is old and frail, and has no heirs to pass the clock on to. When my employer dies, I must return to my homeland, where the clock would surely be seized by the authorities should I take it with me. It needs a new keeper to appreciate it; someone to watch over it”, As he spoke, Ahmad’s voice grew heavy, as if explaining the situation out loud had brought the finality of it all into sharp focus.

Bollocks, thought Simon, but his unerring sense for personal gain kept his emotions securely hidden.

“OK. Supposing I’m interested, how much does your boss want for this clock?” Simon asked, bullish now he had steered the conversation back to familiar territory.

“If the clock meets with your approval, we will take whatever you have to offer”, Ahmad replied, bowing his head slightly.

A buzzing from the driver’s intercom interrupted their conversation. The limo had made its way south of the Thames and into the back streets near Battersea Park. Evening was drawing in, and a bitter wind made its way down the streets from the river, chilling their bones as they exited the car. Simon’s social life had been gradually eroded by years of excess and his own abrasive personality. He confined himself to very specific pockets of the city, and certainly never ventured south of the river unless he had to. The street was narrow and run-down. Boards covered many of the windows, and litter swirled in circles around their feet. Surely people didn’t actually live around here?

“Come”, Ahmad said as he motioned for Simon to follow him into what appeared to be a derelict tobacco shop. Simon hesitated, visions of terrorist plots and ransom demands returning to his thoughts, but he pushed them back down. These people were desperate, he reassured himself, and had seen him at the auction. They were impressed by his taste and knowledge. Whatever stupid religious affection they had for this clock might allow him to knock the price down even further. His palms began to perspire with anticipation as he ducked into the doorway. The hunt was on.

Inside, Ahmad was waiting. Alongside him stood a man, dressed in what had once been colourful Islamic robes, but now looked like nothing more than a faded dressing gown. In the half-light of the shop the man looked younger than Ahmad had described him, maybe in his early sixties, but there was no doubt that he was close to death. His skeletal hands clutched at two polished canes, although even with their support, he still appeared unsteady on his feet. Painfully, he tilted his head towards Ahmad and whispered something in a voice as dry as paper.

“My employer is pleased you have come, Mr McClellan”, Ahmad translated, “Would you like to see the clock?”

Simon nodded, muttering a clumsy confirmation. Despite his fragile appearance, the old man gave off an aura of great calm and power, making Simon feel both anxious and strangely relaxed at the same time. Even though he was clearly in discomfort, the man’s eyes were bright and unfaltering in their gaze. Ahmad smiled and pushed aside a heavy ornate curtain at the rear of the shop, beckoning for Simon to join him. Behind the curtain was a wooden door, decorated with intricate Arabic script, daubed in golden paint. As Ahmad opened the door, Simon caught a glimpse of something shining in the room beyond, something golden and wonderful. Without thought, he found his legs carrying him forwards, like a moth to a flame. As he passed the old man, he felt bony hands brush his arm. The touch had a further calming effect, leaving Simon feeling slightly drunk. He stopped. In front of him stood the clock.

***

He had been expecting something smaller, more ordinary, less astonishing. The room was undecorated, with bare walls and floors. A small table and chair were placed in the centre of the room, facing the clock. The clock, that marvellous clock. The shining object set against the back wall seemed to draw the colour from everything around it. It was the same size as a fireplace, coming up to Simon’s chest, with a face the size of a large dinner plate set in the centre. At first, it seemed that the entire clock was made from gold, but as his eyes were drawn closer, Simon realised that there were traces of silver threaded into the design also, impossibly delicate engravings of men on horseback, of palaces with fairy tale towers, and of vast battles fought long ago. Two pillars, each as thick as a man’s leg, stood at either side of the clock. Engraved on one was a star, on the other the crescent moon. The numerals on the clock were made from precious stones, set in the face so that each number seemed to glow as he looked at it. Closer still, he realised that the front of the clock was a maze of hinges, panels and slits, the gaps between the plates too small for even a human hair to intrude.

“It is impressive, is it not?” said Ahmad, from a million miles away.

Simon tore his eyes away from the clock and tried to speak. The words refused to come. He simply shook his head in amazement. Whatever the price, he would have this clock. It was no longer a choice, but a burning need.

“Would you like to have some time alone to study the clock? To satisfy yourself that it is both genuine and in working order?”

Again, the words stalled at the back of his throat. Simon managed a nod, and tried again, forcing saliva into his suddenly dry throat.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much. But I’ll take it, don’t sell it to anyone else, I’ll be happy to take it. I’ll pay anything”.

“Excellent”, said Ahmad, his eyes flicking to the old man standing at the door. “You will find a panel on the right hand side, engraved with a symbol of the sun. Pressing that will make you realise just how special this clock really is. As I told you, it is so much more than a mere timepiece”.

Simon nodded, anxious for Ahmad to leave so he could return his eyes to the glittering jewel just out of view. The old man passed a tray to Ahmad, which he set down on the table. On the tray was a bowl of fruit, a jug of iced water and a glass.

“Please, take your time”, Ahmad said, backing out of the room, “The clock is yours now.”

Those words filled Simon with a delight unlike anything he had ever felt. The clock was his. Even if he had to part with every penny he had, this clock was his for all time. He eagerly turned back to the clock, its glorious impact undimmed. Shaking, he ran his hands lightly over its surface, cautiously at first, then firmly – drinking in the smooth solidity of this incredible machine. He caught a trace of scent on the metal, a rich and heady perfume, exotic and mysterious. Even the oil that lubricated the gears was magical. He pressed his ear against the cold metal, just beside the face, and his heart jumped at the deep, rich ticking echoing inside its belly. Steady, rhythmic, hypnotic. He looked at his watch, an expensive luxury in another life, but now a clumsy and grotesque device compared to his new prize. Half past seven. The clock’s hands showed the exact same time. Had this clock really kept perfect time for almost nine hundred years? Simon could not doubt its authenticity now. No modern age could have created something as pure and wonderful as this.

Remembering Ahmad’s words, he moved around to the right hand side of the clock, and peered intently at the fine etchings tattooed across its surface. Sea serpents danced across the bottom, the shimmering lines making them seem alive in the light from the uncovered bulb in the ceiling. Above them, dragons blazed across a golden sky, their eyes glittering with ancient wisdom. And higher still, amongst clouds of untarnished silver, he found a golden sun. Running his fingernails across the surface, he found that the sun sat on a separate panel, fitting into place with barely a breath on either side, like all the other parts of the clock. Holding his breath, he pressed his fingertips against the sun, and the clock came alive.

A faint whirring and clicking sound was the first thing to come to his attention, followed by an intoxicating blast of the sweet fragrance that oiled the machine’s hide. He made his way to the front of the clock again, his eyes darting all over, eager for the next miracle. Pulling up the chair, he sat and watched, like a child waiting for a bedtime story. A panel slid open, soundlessly, on the left of the clock and a tiny mechanical figure walked out. Even from the chair, he could tell this figure was a marvel of engineering, perfect in every way, each joint and limb perfectly rendered in gold and silver. The figure began to walk, or at least walk on the spot, held in mid-air by a thin rod. Behind it, another panel opened and four figures emerged, also perfect in their construction, but with tiny faces twisted by hatred. They began to chase the first figure, panels and slots opening and shutting as scenery moved around the clock face, as graceful and rehearsed as any West End theatre. At the top right of the clock, three panels opened at once, and a miniature palace assembled itself before his eyes. As the first figure entered the palace, Simon remembered Ahmad’s story of the clock’s origin. The inventor had built the story of the clock into its construction, and here he was, finding refuge in the Sultan’s palace. Veniccio’s genius, the wonder of the clock, was not its immaculate time keeping, but it’s sealing of history into a case of pure gold, for all eternity. Had he been able to move, Simon would have clapped and cheered. The story continued to unfold, a cast of characters appearing from panels and plates, re-enacting all the glory and drama of the Sultan’s hundred-year reign. The conception of the Sultan’s children was performed with graphic honesty, the tiny golden figures rutting with a lust unchanged for hundreds of years. To his amazement, even wars and battles were waged across the clock’s surface, with thick, dark oil oozing from imagined wounds, and the smell of smoke from burning villages. As each scene ended, another began, speeding through the Sultan’s reign, leaving him dizzied. He had even given up trying to see where the figures came from, it seemed that clock had an infinite number of hiding places for its mechanical wonders.

As the saga continued, Simon became aware of something gnawing at his consciousness. Annoying at first, like a fly at the window, but becoming more acute and distracting. It started as a fluttering in his chest, but rapidly grew into a stabbing pain that shattered his concentration. In an instant, he felt nauseous and panicked – not because of the pain, but through losing sight of the clock. As soon as he had taken his eyes from it, the clock had ceased its amazing performance, armies and lovers folding back into their golden cages. He became aware of a terrible smell, a sweet putrid stink of rot and mould, and tried to get up. His limbs were stiff, as if a fierce cramp had seized his entire body. Mentally, he felt sluggish; his head filled with wet ash, the disorientation turning his stomach upside down and back again. He looked back at the silent clock. Five minutes past eight. Had the clock’s performance lasted only thirty-five minutes? He forced his aching neck to look at his watch, but he found the hands frozen. He shook his wrist as hard as he could, but the pain in his arm made him stop. His watch had ground to a halt, and the face was clouded and dusty. Horrified, he realised that his watch wasn’t the only thing to have changed. His arm was thin, painfully so, his hands gnarled and withered, leading to gnarled yellow talons. He gave a start, but the pain in his chest forced him to move slowly. His other arm was the same, and his ample stomach had collapsed inwards like a soufflé. Carefully reaching upwards, his fingers found an angular bony face, with long, lank hair cascading down his shoulders. Pale milky spots danced in front of his eyes like fireflies. His breath came shorter now, a feeling like icicles slipping through his ribcage. Clumsily, he tried to get up, using the chair as support, but the effort was too much and he collapsed back into its arms. On the table next to him stood the jug, glass and bowl, left there by Ahmad less than an hour ago. The bowl was filled with dust, the jug and glass covered in cobwebs. As the white lights danced feverishly in front of his eyes, the agony in his chest rose to a fresh crescendo. Behind him, he heard the door open. A voice spoke, and although he couldn’t make out the words through the white noise in his ears, he could tell the speaker was angry.

“My humble apologies, your Majesty”, he heard Ahmad say, “His heart was weak, or he would have lasted more than thirty five years. He seemed ideal at the time. It is harder and harder to find suitable subjects. It may be time to try somewhere else. America again, perhaps?”

The chair was turned around, dragging his legs painfully across the floor. Two figures stood in front of him. One was wrinkled and stooped, yet still recognisable as Ahmad; the other was a stranger, a powerful young man, with a regal face and a burning stare. The stranger looked at him, with familiar piercing eyes. As the fire behind Simon’s ribcage burned out of control, the stranger reached out and touched his chest. The pain flared twice as brightly for a split second, and then faded.

“Now you know the secret of the clock”, said Ahmad, “After the fall of the Sultan’s empire, it was not only the clock which passed into the protection of his faithful servants. I watch over his Majesty, just as my father did, and his father before him. When I die, my eldest son will take my place and so it will continue”.

The Sultan’s head bowed at these words. Despite his rejuvenation, his posture remained slouched and tired.

“Veniccio was no simple inventor”, Ahmad continued, “He was a gifted alchemist, educated in secret practices from across the globe, from the ageless wisdom of China, India and South America. His gift was more than a fanciful trinket. It was the gift of eternal life, of sovereignty and experience without end. His most high Majesty is forever tied to the ticking of the clock. It sustains him, ensuring his blessed reign continues even in these godless times. But as with all worthy things, there is a price to pay. To continue, the clock requires…fuel. That fuel is the bitter taste of human greed and avarice, and one who values wealth above all things must provide it willingly. As the years advanced for you, so his Majesty’s life began afresh. We thank you. Be happy, for you have served your purpose on this world. Go now and join your God”.

The Sultan leaned in closer, bringing with him a faint scent of spices and exotic oils. Beneath his young brow, ancient eyes filled with infinite sadness and fatigue pinned Simon’s desiccated body to his chair. A young man’s arm reached forward, and laid a warm hand on Simon’s yellowing skull.

“I envy you,” said the Sultan, softly.

A soft white cocoon enveloped Simon, and he embraced it happily, lulled to sleep by the far away ticking of a clock.

Dan Whitehead is a writer and magazine editor based in the UK. On top of ten years working in the videogames industry, Dan is the writer of several Star Wars books, including an official UK adaptation of Attack Of The Clones, and once spent six months editing the Rugrats comic. He still has nightmares about it.