Seventy-Seven Clocks Read Free Page B

spluttering and spraying a fine crimson mist from between his teeth. 
    She saw Nicholas reaching for a telephone as she tried to hold the agitated guest down in his seat. 
    ‘Nicholas, come and give me a hand, he’s having some kind of seizure!’ 
    The body beneath her was bucking in the grip of violent convulsions. Jacob’s left foot shot out and cracked her painfully on the shin. Together they fell to the floor, landing hard on their knees just as Nicholas arrived at their side. 
    ‘What’s wrong with him?’ he asked, gingerly attempting to grab an arm. 
    ‘How should I know? He could be an epileptic. Did you get through?’ 
    ‘The house doctor’s line is busy.’ 
    Jacob’s eyes had rolled up in their sockets so that only the whites showed. A glittering knot of blood hung from his chin. Jerry wasn’t sure of the procedure in such a situation. With her knees planted on his twisting shoulders, she grabbed his tie and wadded it into his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue. She felt inside his jacket and pulled out a wallet, flicking it open. 
    ‘What are you doing?’ yelled Nicholas. 
    ‘I’m looking for a card that says he has a medical condition.’ 
    Jacob’s limbs suddenly dropped and he became heavy, sliding flat on to the floor, taking Jerry down with him. There followed a moment of absolute stillness, as if the man’s spirit was wrenching free from his body. With a final bark he emptied the contents of his stomach, flooding the intricately patterned carpet. 
    Jerry looked from the fleshy corpse in her embrace to the benign gold cherubs in the ceiling above. She had felt the man die. As the realization hit her, a wind began to rush in her ears and the room distanced itself, telescoping away as the world fled to darkness.

3 / Vandalism 
    London hides its secrets well. 
    Beneath the damp grey veil of a winter’s afternoon, the city’s interior life unwound as brightly as ever, and the rituals interred within the heavy stone buildings remained as immutable as the bricks themselves. London still bore the stamps of an empire fallen from grace— its trampled grandeur, its obduracy—and, sometimes, its violence. 
    Having survived another day of rummaging through handbags without discovering a single gun, knife, or IRA bomb, the security guards at the entrance to the National Gallery were about to console themselves with a strong cup of tea. 
    George Stokes checked his silver pocket watch, a memento of thirty years’ loyal service, then turned to his colleague. ‘Twenty to six,’ he said. ‘In another ten minutes you can nip up and ring the bell. There won’t be anyone else coming in now.’ 
    ‘Are you sure, George?’ asked the other guard. ‘I make it nearly a quarter to.’ 
    Outside, bitter December rain had begun to bluster around an almost deserted Trafalgar Square. Flumes from the great fountains spattered over the base of the towering Norwegian Christmas pine that had been erected in the piazza’s centre. The tree stood unlit, its uppermost branches twisting in the wind. 
    The roiling, bruised sky distended over the gallery, absorbing all reflected light. The gallery was emptying out, its patrons glancing up through the doors with their umbrellas unfurled, preparing to brave the night. 
    As the two guards compared timepieces, the entrance door was pushed inwards and a figure appeared, carrying in a billow of rain. 
    ‘Pelting down out there,’ said Mr Stokes, addressing the dripping figure. ‘I’m afraid we’re closing in a few minutes, Sir.’ 
    ‘Time enough for what I have in mind.’ 
    The guard shrugged. Office workers sometimes stopped by on their way home to seek solace in a single favourite painting. He took a good look at the man standing before him, and his brow furrowed in suspicion. ‘Do you mind if I check inside your bag?’ he asked. 
    There is a mosaic set in the floor of the National Gallery which highlights many emotional concepts: