Julius and the Watchmaker by Tim Hehir Read Free Book Online Page A

They’re not following, Higgins. You’ve given them the slip.
    He took out the diary and tapped its spine against his fingers as he tried to decide what to do. He had Crimper McCready and his own grandfather for enemies now. The professor was an exceedingly odd fish with a lot to hide and that Irish bruiser he had with him looked capable of anything, especially breaking tender young bones.
    Julius looked at the diary, lifting it a little to let the moon shine weakly on it. What is so special about you, my friend? he thought. His fingers flicked through the pages. There were crudely drawn diagrams of watch mechanisms and page after page of notes in tiny neat writing.
    Julius walked slowly back to Warwick Lane. By the time he got there the sun was coming up. He hammered on the shop door as the dawn chill descended. After a few minutes Clements appeared, tying up his nightgown and scowling.
    â€˜Why can’t you use the back door? That’s what the key’s for, you scoundrel,’ said Clements.
    Julius barged through the door and into the shop. He wanted to be alone in his room, to lie down and lose himself in sleep.
    Clements followed him to the counter with a candle in his hand. ‘Well? Did you get it?’
    Julius took the diary from under his jacket and threw it on the counter. Clements gasped and lunged for it as if it was about to disappear in a puff of smoke. Then he sniffed the air.
    â€˜What’s that smell.’
    â€˜It’s rotten fish,’ said Julius.
    â€˜Rotten fish?’
    Julius stooped and pulled off his stinking boots. He flung them behind the counter with a violence that made Clements jump, and he stumbled through the curtain into the kitchen. With courage drawn from sheer exhaustion, misery and anger, Julius called back, ‘Don’t disturb me, I’ll be sleeping all day.’
    â€˜Very well, very well,’ said Clements. ‘Off you go then.’
    Julius used his last ounce of strength to haul himself up the narrow steps. He could hear Clements running out of the shop, bounding up Jack Springheel’s staircase and banging on his door. Julius pushed his door open and fell onto the bed, praying for sleep but dreading waking up again.

    The hours came and went in Julius’s room. A faint grey shaft of daylight hung from the skylight and faded to nothing as evening approached. Julius twisted and turned, never really knowing if he was awake or asleep. His mind was full of nightmarish images: hungry ghosts prowling through his grandfather’s shop; Jack Springheel and Clements in devilish conference over the kitchen table; large men with broken noses battling in dark alleyways. He could hear the sounds of bones snapping and teeth breaking in time with the ticking of a clock. And all the time his grandfather’s accusing words bad blood, bad blood jabbing at him like punches and making his head ache.

    He woke with a start. Someone was knocking on his door.
    â€˜Higgins, Higgins, wake up. It’s time for supper,’ called out Clements before lumbering down the stairs without waiting for a reply. Julius was covered in sweat and tangled up in his musty bed sheets. He stood, for what seemed like a very long time, looking down the stairs wondering what his life would be like at the bottom.
    In the kitchen, Springheel and Clements sat at the rickety table which was strewn with plates and cutlery. Springheel did not turn to greet his lodger. Clements however seemed pleased to see him. ‘Sit there,’ said the pawnbroker, pointing a fat finger at the only remaining chair at the table. ‘You hungry, lad?’
    â€˜Yes,’ replied Julius, realising how hungry he was. He sat down sheepishly and looked at his empty plate. Springheel’s eyes remained fixed on the mantel.
    Clements bustled and fussed around the small range at the fireplace. He opened the door with a rag and plucked out a baked potato. It was too hot for him to hold