The Skeleton Clock Read online

  After the flood…

  Creatures stir in the watery depths,

  and monsters stalk the night.

  The City was once a thriving capital. Then the water rose and the ground fractured.

  At the ancient cathedral of Whispers, Jake and his friends Sarah and Geoff witness a murder. Hunted by monstrous sea creatures, they don’t realise they have found the key to an ancient mystery.

  Will Jake discover the truth of what they have discovered? Will Sarah escape from the White Tower?

  And who will unleash the awesome power of the Skeleton Clock?

  Everything has its Time

  The Skeleton Clock

  Justin Richards

  This edition published in 2011 by Braxiatek Limited at Smashwords

  All rights reserved

  © Justin Richards, 2011

  The right of Justin Richards to be identified as author of this

  work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Cover Design: Lee Binding @ tea-lady.co.uk

  ISBN 978-1-908265-00-5

  Braxiatek

  www.braxiatek.com

  1

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  Also by Justin Richards

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  There could be only one survivor – and the Captain knew it wasn’t him. The wind tore at the sails and the rain scythed down on the deck. The Captain’s oilskin was ripped and his skin was clammy with a mixture of sweat and sea and rain and fear. Lightning split the darkening sky and thunder roared like cannon fire.

  An hour ago, the sea had been calm. The sky had been clear. After months of sailing, the Captain had been looking forward to reaching their destination before nightfall. But the weather changed so suddenly that the crew was muttering again about the curse.

  The only curse the Captain understood was the changing weather that had brought this storm. He had never seen anything like it. In the last months the Captain had witnessed the most incredible things, but this storm from nowhere competed with them all.

  ‘Get those sails down before they’re ripped apart. What’s left of them,’ the Boatswain was shouting. They all knew it was too late.

  The Spirit of Azuras pitched and rolled. One of the lookouts was thrown from the mast as he scrambled to get back down to the deck. He reached it sooner than he intended. His neck snapped on impact. His body was washed away at once as another massive wave crashed across the ship.

  On the far side, where they thought the Captain couldn’t see, some of the sailors were lowering a boat. As if that could survive the fury of the waters.

  The Boatswain had seen them too. ‘We have to let them go,’ he shouted above the wind and the thunder. ‘We should all abandon the ship.’

  ‘And go where?’

  The Boatswain looked away. He knew as well as the Captain where they were all going.

  ‘We have to try. Give the order, sir.’

  The Captain nodded. There really was no choice. And perhaps – just perhaps – they could survive away from the bucking, breaking ship. She’d been a good vessel, she’d survived other storms. But this one was destroying her. One of the masts was cracking, splitting, breaking. It fell like an old tree, men leaping from the rigging where they’d been trying to untangle the sails. Tumbling into the churning waters and immediately lost to sight.

  ‘It’s not up to me,’ the Captain shouted. ‘You know it’s not up to me.’

  ‘You’re the captain – give the order.’

  ‘We both know who the real captain is.’

  ‘Then tell him,’ the Boatswain yelled. ‘Tell him we have to abandon ship.’

  The Captain slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Find Carlos and Magro. I’ll need them to carry it to a boat.’

  ‘If they’re still here. If they’re still alive.’

  ‘We’re all dead already,’ the Captain said. But his words were swallowed by the storm.

  The cabin lurched. The light from an oil lamp hung from the ceiling flickered and shimmered. The Captain staggered across to the red silk curtain – a splash of colour in the drab surroundings. He stumbled, reaching out to grab for support.

  His hand slid across the wet surface of a pale table. The top was a checkerboard, the sides ornately decorated. But the Captain had no time now to admire the craftsmanship. His hand knocked into a large metal box and sent it skidding off the edge. It crashed to the floor and the top was jarred open, spilling some of the contents – small, intricately carved figures.

  ‘Is that you, Captain?’ The voice from behind the silk curtain was deep and resonant. But it was barely audible above the roar of the sea.

  The Captain took a deep breath. The thing behind the curtain scared him more than the storm – more than the promise of death itself. He drew back the curtain and inclined his head.

  ‘It is I, My Lord.’

  ‘Is the storm abating?’

  ‘No, My Lord. And the ship is breaking. Sinking. We must leave. Now.’ He said it quickly, before he could be interrupted. He only looked up when he had finished.

  There was no change of expression. How could there be? The golden Head was standing on a wooden plinth. It stared back at the Captain through dark, empty eyes. The statue’s lips seemed to quiver as it spoke – a trick of the light from the flickering oil lamp that struggled to stay alight.

  ‘Leave? We cannot leave. We are so nearly there. I must reach London. I must find – ’

  ‘My Lord, the storm is getting worse,’ the Captain insisted. ‘The worst I have ever seen. If we don’t go now, we shall all die.’

  Water poured into the cabin as he spoke. It was over the Captain’s boots. The metal box was washed against his leg. He picked it up, snapping the lid shut and holding it up for the Head to see.

  ‘We must leave now. The boats are being lowered. I am not asking your permission, My Lord. I am telling you.’

  ‘We must take the box. And the table.’

  ‘Of course, My Lord. I’ve sent for men to carry them to the boats.’

  With a splintering crash, a section of the roof caved in. The sea rushed through, knocking the Captain off his feet. The wooden plinth was hurled sideways, the Head falling into the water with a startled cry.

  Two large sailors stumbled down the steps into the cabin.

  ‘Captain!’ one of them shouted. ‘The boats are leaving. We’re going now!’

  ‘Help me with the Head, Magro,’ the Capt
ain shouted back.

  The two men exchanged looks. The larger of them shook his head.

  ‘Leave it. It’s nothing but trouble.’

  ‘A curse!’ the other sailor agreed.

  ‘Now, Captain, sir. We have to go now.’

  The water was pouring in. The sailors forced their way back up the steps and out of the cabin. The water was rising rapidly – up to the Captain’s waist now. He hugged the metal box to him and waded across the cabin. The table washed against the far wall, and he ignored it. There was no sign of the figures that had spilled from the box when it fell.

  The Captain paused for a moment, and looked back. The Head was a glint of gold in the white of the rushing water. Too far to reach. Too heavy to lift alone.

  ‘I’m sorry, My Lord,’ the Captain murmured. Then he hauled himself out of the cabin and back on to the deck.

  The moment he stepped out from the shelter of the doorway, a wave crashed over him. The Captain cried out, letting go of the box. It tumbled away, lost immediately in the raging sea. Then the Captain was falling after it, washed overboard. His head cracked against broken wood. His mouth was stinging with the taste of salt and blood.

  Icy water closed over his head. Bubbles streamed past him – rising upwards as he sank into the darkness. The only glimmer of light from below was the glint of gold. The last thing he saw was a life-size, carved, human head falling into the silent depths.

  Chapter 1

  It was a warm October evening when death came to Whispers.

  The sun had long since dipped below the waterline and only a few buildings showed any light. Away across the water, the bent and broken metal skeleton of The Twisting still held some cracked panes of glass. They caught and reflected the faint light which played across the dark rippling water. It had once been an office, or so someone had told Jake. But that must have been long ago, when this was still called London. Now it was just the City, and The Twisting was an inhospitable home for squatters and scavengers and waterlarks.

  Much closer, shafts of light escaped from inside the dark dome of Whispers, jutting up proud and resolute from the water in front of Jake and Geoff. Flickering, uneven light that Jake knew came from the hundreds of candles the Brotherhood of St Pauls kept burning through the night.

  Geoff had an old wooden rowing boat he used to ferry people across the City and earn a few extra pennies. Jake helped Geoff tie it to a crumbling stone stanchion at the side of the ancient dome. He and Geoff listened carefully as they stood in the undulating boat, the frayed rope grazing the stone post.

  ‘Can’t hear them singing,’ Geoff said. The shimmering light caught his toothy smile and unruly fair hair.

  ‘Evensong’s over. Nothing now till late Mass,’ Jake replied. ‘They’ll be down at St Martin in the Floods for another hour or more.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ Geoff said. He didn’t sound worried. The Brotherhood didn’t mind visitors. But they preferred the devout and the penitent over waterlarks.

  ‘What are you keeping from today?’ Jake asked as they jumped across from the boat to the narrow stone walkway.

  ‘Bit of coal,’ Geoff told him.

  Jake laughed. ‘Why you keeping that? Old Simpson’s got a generator out on the floating gardens. He’d pay for it.’

  ‘Waiting till I’ve got more,’ Geoff said. ‘If I save up all the coal I find till I’ve got lots, I can get more for it. What about you?’

  They were at the North Window, a large rectangular opening framed with stone that was slick with algae. One of the Brothers had told Jake that it used to be a real window, not a door. But that must have been long ago, when Whispers stood on ground and not in water, when you could get to the doors and floors deep below.

  ‘I found an old coin,’ Jake said. He paused on the threshold and shook his head to get the water out of his mass of curly black hair. It sprayed across Geoff.

  ‘Get off,’ Geoff told him.

  ‘Shhh,’ Jake hissed back. He pressed his hands together, imitating the Brotherhood at prayer. ‘This is a place of worship, not a playground for waterlarks,’ he said in a high-pitched, cracked voice

  Geoff laughed. ‘Got much in your stash?’ he asked.

  ‘Show you, if you like,’ Jake said.

  Soon the two boys were in a narrow stone passageway. Metal bowls fixed to the wall glowed with burning oil, sending shadows dancing eerily across the flaking, damp walls. The oil gave a more even, less smoky light than the cheaper fat most people burned.

  A narrow window looked out across the water outside. Jake could hear the shout of a ferryman calling for business, the lapping of the water lower down the main dome, the distant throb of a Watch boat’s engine.

  ‘Something must be up if they’re burning fuel,’ Jake said.

  ‘Big oil bust going down. One of the ’larks dossing at The Twisting said there’s a gang stockpiling over past Minster.’

  ‘I heard they were hoarding fresh water,’ Jake said.

  The two boys crept past a doorway set in the side of the next staircase. From inside the room beyond they could hear the murmurings of one of the Brotherhood. As soon as they were out of earshot, they clattered rapidly up the last steps and into the short corridor that led to the gallery.

  It always impressed Jake, no matter how often he came here. But now it was dark, and the huge painted dome was invisible high above them – so high that the light from the guttering candles could not reach it. He could barely make out the shapes of the statues that stood above the gallery, just below the dome itself.

  There were eight figures, he had counted them so many times. Below each figure was a door. Some gave on to the stairways that led either down to the water or up to the outer gallery over a hundred steps further up. Others opened on to dark passageways that Jake and Geoff had not explored.

  The view down from the gallery was clearer. As well as the candles in metal holders attached to the gallery railing, lights burned in the cathedral below. There was a lower level, a network of narrow walkways round the walls, rooms hidden in amongst the stone pillars and vaulting. Leaning over the high railing, Jake could see himself reflected distantly in the water. Ripples distorted his face and the candles flickered eerily round him.

  The narrow walkway round the gallery was worn into a hollow. Some sections had been replaced with wood that creaked and shivered when you stood on it. There was a stone bench running round the wall. In places it had broken away, and pieces were missing.

  Jake felt under the bench at exactly the right point, his fingers scrabbling for the loose stone. He found it, gripped it, eased it away from the wall and reached into the cavity behind.

  ‘I can see you,’ a voice whispered close to Jake’s ear. He gave a startled cry and pulled his hand away quickly, turning round.

  There was no one there.

  ‘Gets you every time,’ the voice whispered again. It sounded as if Geoff was standing right beside him. But Jake knew better. He peered into the gloom, looking out across the railing to the opposite side of the dome – to Geoff grinning back at him.

  Jake turned away, whispering to the wall. ‘Thanks, Geoff. You scared the life out of me. Again.’

  It only worked if you whispered. And it only worked if you were facing the wall. Somehow the shape of the dome above them echoed it across the divide, making it sound like whoever was whispering was right there. It was a good trick, which the boys had discovered by accident – scaring themselves almost to death at first. One of the Brothers had seen them, and explained that this was how the place got its name. But even so hardly anyone knew about the whispers…

  Jake went back to his stash. He pulled out the small frayed linen sack. From his pocket he took a coin, worn almost flat with age, and pushed it into the bag with his other small treasures. He didn’t have much. But it was more than Geoff. For all his talk about hoarding coal, Geoff sold on anything he found almost at once. Geoff would rather have the money, rather eat well – if only for a day. Maybe
get Sarah the Toymaker’s daughter a pretty necklace or a bread roll…

  Unlike Geoff, Jake liked to keep things. Interesting things, beautiful things. Things that made him feel he had some existence, some life beyond scavenging at the edge of the water or diving into the shallower areas to hunt for wrecks. He twisted the neck of the bag, and pushed it back into place, out of sight beneath the stone bench.

  As he straightened up, he heard something else. Not Geoff’s whispers, nor the sound of his friend walking back round the gallery. It was a deliberate, methodical thump of feet coming from the open door to the stairs. It didn’t sound like the reverent tread of one of the Brotherhood of St Pauls.

  Jake ran quickly and quietly round the walkway to join Geoff.

  ‘What is it?’ Geoff whispered. Facing away from the curved outer wall, his voice was lost almost immediately.

  ‘Someone coming,’ Jake breathed back. He blew out the candle closest to them, and the two boys crouched down in the shadows.

  ‘We could leg it,’ Geoff murmured in Jake’s ear. There was a doorway right behind them. ‘Up to the next level. Right up to the top if need be.’

  Jake shook his head. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Just a Brother. Or a worshipper. Or…’ Geoff’s vague silhouette shrugged in the gloom. ‘Who cares?’

  The figure had stepped out of the doorway on the opposite side of the dome and was standing closer to one of the candles. A tall, slightly stooped figure smothered in a grey, hooded cloak.

  ‘He’s not one of the Brotherhood,’ Jake said quietly. ‘The cloak’s the wrong colour. Anyway they’re all down at St Martin’s. Most of them.’

  The figure opposite turned towards the railing, looking across towards where Jake and Geoff were crouching. They didn’t move, hardly breathing. The pale light flickered on the figure’s cloak, but the face remained shadowed and shrouded in utter darkness.