Dark Portal 1/Dark Portal 1.adf/TEXT/The Blue Clock

Text File | 1992-09-02 | 12.0 KB | 251 lines

@"THE BLUE CLOCK" By Andrew Campbell 1993



 "Oh wow," said George Smart. "I thought my bedroom was a mess. Jeez,
doesn't your Dad ever tidy it up when you're at school?"
 Bill Stevenson shook his head. "Nah. It's been like this for about
six months now."
 George ventured into Bill's bedroom the same way an explorer might
take the first few cautious steps into deep, black cave.
 There was a powerful aroma of rotting food, stale urine and never-
been-washed laundry. The wallpaper was ink-blotched and peeling.
Clumps of chewing gum hung like baubles from the roof. Unwashed
jumpers, sour-smelling socks, filthy underpants (yellow at the front,
brown at the back) were scattered everywhere.
 There were filthy plates smeared with grease and chip-ends, empty
crisp packets, untopped biros, wet paper airoplanes, and huge centre-
folds glued to the wallpaper by sneezes.
 Stood in the farthest corner was a graffitti-smothered chest of
drawers, and opposite, an old, wooden wardrobe crammed with junk and
old toys.
 The whole chaotic mess was gloriously illuminated by the afternoon
sun, which was beaming inside through an uncurtained window above
Bill's bed.
 "Jeezus," George breathed. "You don't wanna leave it like this, Bill.
You're bound to catch a Blue Clock."
 Bill swung his legs off his cluttered bed and sat up, spilling
several Beano comics to the floor.
 "George, what're you talkin' about?" he said.
 "My cousin never used to tidy his bedroom," said George softly. "He
found this thing... this disgustin'... insect-kinda-thing, crawlin'
around all over his stuff. And he couldn't get rid of it. My Grandma
told me they're called Blue Clocks. They're like... attracted to
mouldy food and damp stuff. And they make this tickin' sound, like a
clock, you know? That's how you know you've got one."
 There was a silence.
 Bill shattered it with an explosion of laughter. George stared at his
amused friend pitifully, his arms by his sides.
 "Well you won't find a Blue Clock in my room." he declared. "My
room's clean and tidy. Not a thing outa place. Do you know how big
Blue Clocks can grow, Bill?"
 "No!" Bill giggled. "Go on then, tell me."
 George held his arms out as wide as they would go and Bill stopped
laughing for a second... then carried on, this time, hysterically.


 But Bill laid awake that night.
 Oh yes, Bill laid awake for a long time, listening for ticking
sounds. He had no bedside clock, no watch, not a single time-telling
object in his room.
 At night, he always slept in silence.


 Later, Bill woke abruptly to the sound of a clock.
 And realised he'd only been dreaming.


 Woke again.
# Tick, tick, tick, tickety-tick, tickety-tick, tick...
 Don't be silly, Bill, he thought. There's nothing there. Just go back
to sleep.
# Tick, tick, tick...
 It's your imagination. It's gotta be.
# Tickety-tickety-tick, tick-
 Bill sat up alertly. The ticking continued, fast, loud, uneven. The
room was pitch dark. The noise was close.
# Tick, tick, tickety-tickety-tick...
 He breathed out shakily and ruffled his pillows.
# Tick-ti-
 Silence.
 Bill froze, staring fearfully into the blackness. Had it stopped when
he'd made a move? Had it?
 "They're about this big!" George Smart exaggerated with his hands
inside Bill's tumbling mind. Bill shivered fiercely, then listened
again, lips sealed, body rigid.
# Tick... tick-tick... tick, tickety-tick...
 'I don't believe it,' Bill thought, fear swelling up in his stomach
like a heavy, cold balloon. 'There's a Blue Clock in my bedroom.'


 Bill thundered up the staircase carrying a large, empty ice-cream
container in one hand, and a yellow spray-can, labeled "Insectakill"
in the other.
 He marched down the landing, arrived at his door, kicked it wide
open and took a deep breath. Then, he progressed cautiously inside.
 Something fell from the roof, something pretty big and white. It
landed just an inch from Bill's trainers. He cried out and stumbled
back into the hallway, holding up the spraycan in one trembling hand.
 It was a ball of peppermint chewing gum. One of the many sticky balls
attatched to the ceiling. Bill lowered his weapon, then, when his
nerves had calmed, resumed carrying out his mission.
 He reached his bed, and there, he kicked both of his pillows onto the
floor. He aimed the nozzle of the spray at the matress.
 Nothing.
 He moved to his vandalised chest of drawers and writhed it all open
with four swift, ready-for-action jerks.
 Nothing.
 Then, he peeked behind his wardrobe. Something moved. He looked again
but couldn't see. So he pulled it away from the wall using both hands.
It was mightily heavy and made the floorboards groan, but he managed,
and when he walked around to see what was there, he gasped.
 The yellowish green mould was perhaps the most revolting find. That,
and the confused, panicking beetles, and the family of woodlice, all
curled up in an attempt to protect themselves.
 With a stifled cry, Bill sprayed them all.
 In fact, he emptied half of the can in disgust. He sprayed the mould
until it rippled and split apart and plopped onto the dusty carpet. He
squirted so much poision over the shrivelled woodlice, they became
white balls of froth and rolled around like tiny marbles. He blasted
and squirted and blasted and squirted, taking no prisoners.
 Then, feeling dizzy from the harmful vapours the spray had created,
he brushed the twitching bodies and the jelly-like mould into his
empty ice-cream container. He secured the lid.
 Downstairs, he put the spray back under the sink, ran outside to the
greenhouse, opened it up, threw the box inside, then closed it again,
leaving the invading monsters to die agonisingly.


# Tick, tick, tick-tickety-tick, tick...
 Bill opened his eyes, wide. He sat up.
 Silence.
 It could sense his movement. Either that, or it could see him. It
could actually see what he was doing.
 But where was it hiding? In the wardrobe? In the walls?
 Perhaps it was a giant spider with long, hairy legs. Or a huge
millipede as long as a draught excluder. Or a giant earwig that
burrowed itself not inside people's ears, but inside their ARSES-
# Tick, tick, tickety-tickety-tick, tick...
 "Oh Jesus Dad..." Bill whispered, his eyes swelling with tears.
 The Blue Clock was no longer a joke. Or even a frightening fairytale.
No, the Blue Clock was real.
 And it was here somewhere...
 Hiding...
 Watching...


 George Smart peeled back the lid of the ice-cream container and let
out a long, throaty moan.
 Bill, who was standing outside the greenhouse and yawning frequently,
said, "I told you it was gross."
 George replaced the lid. "Yeah. It's gross, alright." he said,
getting to his feet.
 There was a tremendous array of gardening equipment stored in the
greenhouse, from buckets and trowels, to compost and bags of cement.
The air was humid and stank of weedkiller.
 A large, forked shovel, resting lazily against a pile of old plant
pots caught George's attention. He picked it up, shook away some
cobwebs, then jabbed it through the air experimentally.
 "Bill, you did good," he said, admiring the fork. "But Blue Clocks
are massive things, and I mean MASSIVE." He turned to Bill, holding
the gardening tool upright, the way an Indian warrior might brandish a
spear. He grinned. "This is what you need for a Blue Clock."
 Bill swallowed, hard.


 Even though Bill's Dad was out when they got home that evening, they
hid the gardening fork under Bill's bed - just in case he returned
unexpectedly.
 They raided the fridge, collapsed on the sofa, and watched one of
George's 18-rated horror films. The movie was particularly good,
because it had a lot of naked women in it.
 After the film had finished (and they'd rewinded the dirty bits a few
times to take a better look), they decided to go and see if the Blue
Clock had begun to tick.
 They thundered up the stairs, turned on the landing light, then tip-
-toed upto Bill's bedroom door, to which George placed his ear.
 "Can't hear anythin'." he reported.
 "Hey, d'you wanna watch that film again?" Bill said diversively,
biting his nails. He was scared stiff.
 "After we've looked," George said softly, then turned the handle. The
door swung inwards with a tiny squeal. The bedroom was tinted amber
from the shine of the streetlights outside the uncurtained window.
 Bill stopped fidgeting and peered over George's shoulder. "See
anythin'?" he whispered anxiously.
 George groped for the light switch. He found it. The bulb on the roof
blinked three times then illuminated. The room was trashed, but that
was normal. The air smelt bad - that was nothing new either.
 No gigantic Blue Clock.
 No ticking.
 George turned out the light and closed the door again.


 When George left at half past ten, Bill went upstairs to collect his
pyjama's. He was going to kip out on the sofa tonight, just to be on
the safe side.
 Bill paused outside the door of his bedroom. He put his ear against
it, as George had done, and listened.
 Not a sound.
 He turned the handle, pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
The light came on after six blinks. Bill looked up at the faulty bulb.
Two pieces of chewing gum had somehow attatched themselves to it.
 He looked around for his pyjama's. They weren't in sight. He crouched
and looked under the bed. He could see the gardening fork, but only
just. He reached under the bed and took hold of the handle.
 Someone ran a hairy brush over his palm. A brush with cold, rubbery
bristles. Bill froze, his arm buried under the bed, right up to the
shoulder joint.
# Tick, tick, tick-tickety-tickety-tick...
 Bill screamed, jerked back, toppled and crashed into his wardrobe.
The gardening fork sprang vertically in the air and shattered the
overhead bulb, plunging the room into a ticking darkness.
 The Blue Clock crawled upward through the gap between Bill's bed and
the farthest wall. First came it's gigantic, worm-like feelers, waving
slowly like fishing rods.
 Then came the head ; an elongated, oily football, attatched to a
snake of tennis-ball-sized ligaments, each alive with tiny legs that
danced and waved like grass in a morning breeze.
 The revolting terror slithered across Bill's matress like a squeezed
tube of black toothpaste. When at last it's final end slid up onto the
bed, Bill discovered with a shiver of fright that he could see the
source of the ticking noise ; a huge, horseshoe-shaped claw, snapping
rapidly open, shut, open, shut, like a pair of automated pliars.
 Using the garden fork for support, Bill rose to his feet. His knees
were malfuctional and he was crying for his dad to come back.
 He took the first side-step in the direction of the door, taking the
fork with him.
 The Blue Clock did not react.
 Six soft, silent footsteps later, Bill's back hit the bedroom door.
It snapped closed behind him and he jumped, accidently letting the
gardening fork fall out of his hands.
 The handle collided with his bed. The prongs however, hit the Blue
Clock with such a crack, Bill winced.
 The creature's reaction was hostile and immediate. It produced a
nightmarish hissing sound and reared up like a cobra from Bill's bed,
making monstrous shadows explode across the room.
 "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!" Bill screamed, then turned, yanked open
the door, and ran from the bedroom as fast as he could. Outside in the
landing, he came to a halt, swung around, and slammed the door closed
again, narrowly missing a pursuing demonic head.
 A black feeler slid under the door. It wrapped itself around Bill's
ankle and squeezed so hard blood began to flow. Bill screamed and
kicked himself loose. The little black worm whipped around a few more
times, then licked out of sight.
 "This can't be..." Bill whimpered. His face was damp with sweat and
tears and his hair was on end.
 'You won't find a Blue Clock in my room.' George had told him. 'My
room's clean and tidy. Not a thing outa place.'
 Bill placed his ear to the door.
 Not a sound.
 He went inside. The bed was a mess. The bulb was smashed. Everything
was very dark. But the Blue Clock was definitely gone.
 Bill set to work.


 He finished tidying his bedroom at eleven o'clock the following day.
He slept for a while on the couch downstairs (but only after he'd
removed all the clocks from the room).


 He dreamt of feather dusters.