My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time by Liz Jensen Read Free Book Online Page B

for years, but none
will buy it, for it is said to be haunted.’
    â€˜What “things" went on?’ I asked, a shudder running through me as I recalled Gudrun Olsen’s talk of demonic machinery & sewer
rats. But he did not answer me directly.
    â€˜I was acquainted with Professor Krak,’ he said. I did not recognize the expression that came over his face, for I had never
encountered it before; studying him closely, I remarked he looked uncomfortable, as though remembering something he would
rather not.
    â€˜And what business had you with him, if I may ask?’
    Herr Bang looked around him, as though to confirm that I was the only customer in the shop, which I was, then took out a stepladder
& reached for a jar of liquid from a high shelf, which he proceeded to stir furiously with a small metal whisk. ‘Dark business,’
he said finally, as though that were the end of it. But I would not let him escape.
    â€˜But of what nature, pray? You cannot just say “dark business", sir, & then leave it hanging!’
    He sighed, clearly excruciated, & whisked ever more energetically, so that the liquid began to froth quite alarmingly, & generate
little underwater sparks.
    â€˜I would not like my wife to hear of this,’ he said. ‘For she prefers me not to dwell on my unhappy past, knowing how much
it pains me. But here it is. You see, I was married before, & my first wife caught tuberculosis & died, & so did our young
baby, only six months old,’ he said, still mixing vigorously.
    Then he stopped & looked at me, & I saw tears in his eyes. ‘It is a cruel disease.’ We both surveyed the jar for a moment,
in which the liquid – a pale green – was still swirling around, the little sparking particles glittering luminously within.
    â€˜I am sorry, Herr Bang,’ I said softly. ‘I did not know of this.’
    â€˜I was a very unhappy man &, to be honest, all I wanted was oblivion. I had heard on the grapevine that Professor Krak was
known to offer … certain discreet services. To which, I will confess, I felt very much drawn at the time, in my distress. I felt so helpless without my wife & son, & would never have believed that only two years later I would meet my present darling wife & have three more children, & be as contented as I am. I thought my life was at an end.’
    â€˜What services?’ I asked, picturing an unhappy brothel – until I remembered Gudrun Olsen speculating about séances. ‘Did he put you in touch with the dead?’
    â€˜In a manner of speaking, yes,’ he said cryptically. ‘But let me just say that they were not joyful services he offered. They were for the desperate among us, & I was one of their number then. He offered what he called journeys to the Great Beyond.’
    â€˜The Great Beyond? What & where is that?’
    â€˜I never discovered. Let me just say that I looked into the abyss down in the basement, my dear – but I feared what I saw, & pulled away.’ His face had taken on a different cast, both wistful & full of pain. I knew better than to break the spell of his mournful reverie & so I waited. ‘He was a likeable man, for all his oddness & eccentricity. I got the impression he was on a kind of mission. He spoke of those who used his services as “pioneers”.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll never forget all those clocks he had everywhere,’ he said, then paused in his whisking process to survey the jar of liquid, which had now turned a much lighter hue. ‘Hundreds of them, all telling a different time, according to what capital city they represented.’
    â€˜What clocks?’ I asked sharply, feeling a sudden chill, for I could picture not a single timepiece in the whole house.
    â€˜Ah. She’ll have got rid of them then,’ he said, nodding slowly. Then he squinted at the window. ‘Did you see that man in
the balaclava peering in just