Seventy-Seven Clocks Read Free Page A

carpet towards her was tall, broad, and black. His skin seemed an extension of his bronzed leather jacket. Dreadlocks fell in tightly woven strands between his shoulderblades, knotted in complex patterns, like the mane of a lion. She had seen Afros, but nothing like this. Standing amid a jumble of well-traveled bags, he looked like a particularly confrontational piece of modern sculpture. He’s overdoing the rock-opera look , she thought, vaguely irritated. 
    ‘Hullo, I’m checking in—Joseph Herrick.’ The voice was softly seasoned with an American accent. As she confirmed the new guest’s reservation and assigned him one of the larger suites she averted her eyes, performing the prime Savoy hospitality function of never appearing surprised. She was, though. 
    The elderly Spanish women stared at the newcomer’s heavy motorcycle boots in distaste, lowering their gaze to the ground and up again as if expecting someone to come and remove him. 
    Jerry felt like coming to Mr Herrick’s defence. After accepting his registration form she found herself speaking with rather more volume than necessary. ‘Here is your suite key, Sir. If I can do anything to make your stay more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to call me.’ 
    ‘The personal touch, I like that,’ he replied with a broad grin. ‘Good evening, ladies.’ He smiled politely at the disapproving couple and clattered across the lobby in time to pull the first of his cases back from the porter. ‘I hate to take your job, man, but you’d better let me have those.’ He was loud and friendly as he began hefting the bag straps on to his arms. ‘There’s stuff in here I don’t trust to anyone else, no disrespect to you, Sir.’ 
    His cheerful attitude made her smile. The English crept into smart hotels as if entering cathedrals. They queried their bills in whispers, slinking to their rooms like criminals. Handsome young black men didn’t stay at the Savoy. It was a time when England was still running The Black And White Minstrel Show on prime-time TV. Liberation remained on album covers and onstage at Hair . 
    ‘You’d better check the validity of his reservation,’ Nicholas told her. ‘I mean, this is the Savoy. The other guests don’t want to see . . .’ he searched for the right phrase ‘. . . people like him . . . hanging around our lobby.’ 
    ‘I don’t see how you can judge someone so quickly.’ 
    ‘He’s probably in that awful rock musical,’ Nicholas sniffed. ‘Swaggering about in bright clothes just shows a lack of breeding.’ 
    ‘Funny, I always thought that about the gold-covered white women one sees in Knightsbridge,’ she replied. Before the weekend, Nicholas had kept his prejudices hidden. ‘I’m running late. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ 
    She was returning from the staff room in her Afghan coat when she noticed the sleeping man again. He’d been sprawled in a corner of the lobby with a Daily Telegraph over his face for quite a while now. As she passed Nicholas, she pointed at the recumbent figure. ‘You’d better wake him up.’ 
    ‘You’re nearer. You do it.’ 
    ‘I already told you, I’m late.’ 
    Sighing, she crossed to the chair and gently removed the newspaper from their guest. The unveiled face was florid and middle-aged. A flap of grey hair leaned back from the man’s head like a raised gull’s wing. She recognized the sleeper as a guest who had checked into the hotel on Friday. She tapped him gently on the shoulder. Overhead, the lights in the central chandelier flickered, momentarily dimming the room. 
    ‘Mr Jacob, time to wake up . . .’ 
    Jacob’s lips rattled out a furious blast of air and he sat sharply upright. 
    ‘What the devil—?’ His eyes bulged, his throat distending as he lurched forward in his seat. For a moment Jerry thought she had startled the guest in the middle of a dream. Now she saw that he was choking. Before she could take any action, he jack-knifed forward,