Lazlo's Clock

The Clock

Two puppets smiled disarmingly from the cushions on the “nest” in the corner, a facility placed there by the man’s wife for their granddaughter. He welcomed the normality of it all; not to some perhaps, for the house was overtaken with toys and activities, and he had had to put all of his beloved clocks out of reach, lest she poke her tiny, inquisitive but uncoordinated fingers into the carefully cultured mechanics. But such was their home and to all and sundry, Lazlo Bloom was an ordinary gentleman who tended his garden, walked the mile to the store and back again every day for a paper, to socialise and exercise, but generally minded his own business.

He had been a manager at a small engineering business, amongst other things, but now officially retired; his granddaughter and his clocks were his passions. But he found himself to be a man living in a digital and disposable world that he was increasingly losing patience with. For patience had been at the forefront of a successful career, and certainly for their intricate workings of the analogue devices with which he had become so competent a fixer. And still, he remained fascinated with the physical heartbeat of ticking gears; the clocks’ inner workings and the interconnection of the spring and weights, the wheels and pinions, the pallets, crutch and all the Lilliputian workings that made up the heart of the clock. It soothed his quickened heart, relaxed his overworked brain and gave him peace.  

     “Whad dis?” his granddaughter appealed one day, furtively crawling under her grandparent’s bed. She had come across a mahogany box which she opened and pulled out a velvet bag. The box had looked like treasure to her, was something new and the polished wood, although of a vintage era that she could never have known, and her curiosity and lack of boundaries had led her straight to the prize.

     “That’s not for you, darling,” Bloom told her, reaching out to take it from her. That was his first mistake, as she instantly cried out and snatched it back from his large but delicate hands.

     “Me want!” she insisted, clutching the little bag to her chest, and stood up, backing away from him, already tearful from the rebuttal. Bloom was already by her side, and reached to retrieve the bag again.

     “I will show you what is inside,” he offered, “then we can go and get ice cream,” and so temporarily pacified, she watched as he emptied the bag on to the floor, to show a collection of tools that she could never have recognised. He stared lovingly at the collection of precision screwdrivers, tweezers, chain hook movement holder and other tools that were at the core of his hobby.

     “Ice cream” she announced, now satisfied, and headed back to the still open door, and Bloom hastily, but carefully returned the precious accoutrements to their bag and back to the box before returning them to their home under the bed. Lucky that he had caught her with them, he pondered, for the slightest damage could have meant that he was not able to continue with the clock. And there was too much at stake.

High on a shelf in the spare room, away from prying eyes and fingers, hidden by a row of old science books, was the clock that he was working on. Oh his wife knew, alright. Knew that he still had an old clock that kept him out of her hair, kept him cheerful and kept his mind and fingers busy. She wasn’t that interested, so had no desire to investigate, to rummage through the room, step gingerly over the piles of assorted paraphernalia that had never found a home. No investment in moving piles of old books, even had she known they were there, and so he was left to tinker at will. He was relieved, for had she known the value of the clock, she wouldn’t have left it alone and would have seen it for what it was, a beautiful expensive heirloom.  But its real value wasn’t in the early serial number, the special edition shape, or its original papers and box, although his wife would no doubt have researched this and become goggle eyed at its monetary significance. This was a perpetual motion Atmos clock, which in theory should run for years without any human interference and was powered by air pressure using hermetically sealed metal bellows as its primary power source.  He knew that at each move, he must carefully lock the pendulum before carrying it with enormous deference to the bench at which he worked, using a tiny high powered LED light attached to his glasses which beamed straight on to the work at hand and luckily, as his eyes and nimble fingers betrayed his age, he still had steady, almost microscopic focus. Enough for him to work on clock gears so tiny that no one would have guessed their significance. He shifted the books and reached to the back of the deep shelf, cradling the metal tin carefully and resting the clock on the bench.

     “Lazlo!” his wife’s voice, shrill but familiar and comforting, beckoned him from his preoccupation. The child was downstairs with her grandmother and ready for her next set of adventures. She wanted to go back upstairs to play and so Lazlo had returned to the kitchen, then followed her, cheerfully indulging her as she cried “carry” and he lifted her to take her up the stairs. Once dropped on to the landing she demanded that he play hide and seek with her and so indulging her, he counted to ten, then followed her squeals and chattering, finding her again rummaging under the bed and holding the bag of tools in her hand.

     “I want the treasure! Grandpa Bloom I want the treasure!” she protested, stamping her little foot petulantly and again he was locked in a negotiation with a two year old to move her away.  But this time she was quicker than he, and more nimble, escaping his clutches, squealing with delight as she darted into the spare room and stopped, noticing the clock on the bench.

     “That’s not for you” he ordered, already alarmed and annoyed that he had moved away from the clock and left it vulnerable.  

     “What is it?” she asked, curious and focused, immediately losing interest in the previous treasure that she now discarded to the floor. Bloom knew from experience that the more he hid things from her, the more her curiosity would be aroused, and so scooping up the discarded tools in one hand, and the child in the other, he entered the room to show her. He sat behind the bench and pulled her up to sit on his knee. She looked at the clock, then back at him.

     “Can I touch?” she asked, endearing him with her smile and charm.

     “No it’s not to touch,” he explained. “It’s a magic clock and touching it can turn the magic off!”

     “You touched it!” she had noticed as he had sat and pushed it slightly out of reach. The child was bright, he knew.

     “Yes, but I am a clock wizard,” he humoured her, “and a clock wizard has special powers with a clock that no one else has, so I can touch it without turning the magic off.”

     “Touch it” she commanded, and he acquiesced, causing her to giggle and reach out.

     “No,” he warned, as she attempted to brush the side of the clock with her finger.

     “Yes!” she chuckled, and attempted to push her finger inside of the workings of the clock. Bloom panicked, for if caught in the wrong place, the worse could happen, and he wasn’t ready. It had all been too important, too dangerous and too long. He pulled the child away a little more sharply that he intended and shouted for his wife to come and fetch her. It couldn’t go wrong now……

Bloom steadied the table that he had caught in moving the child out of the way. He sat cautiously in front of it, and emptied the tool bag on to the bench at the side of the clock. Pinning the light back on to his glasses, he peered into the mechanics, holding his breath as he did so. He breathed out a deep sigh of relief as the transmitter remained working as it should. He had not heard from the Agency since they had installed the receiver at the global tech company, but he feared retribution for what it was that they were doing. The pulse that the clock would emit would wipe out their communications, and every tech app for miles and beyond would be crippled, putting lives at risk but destroying a corrupt expanding conglomerate that threatened the modern world and the security of every faction of modern life. He had hesitated at first, when the Agency had approached him, but it was right, he knew. The weight and frequency of those gears, the minute induction coil he had installed, the motion of the pendulum; he had obsessed over every detail for months and now it was only a case of a countdown. The wheels were in motion.

And later, when it was time, he visited his granddaughter as she lay sleeping in the little room that they had assigned as her bedroom. He kissed her forehead gently for the last time and paused to drink in her baby features and golden hair, and caught himself hesitating. He was working for a safer and better world, he reminded himself, for her future, and this was the only way. He had locked the pendulum on the clock and placed it carefully into an inconspicuous holdall, holding it close to his chest and carrying it carefully with both hands.He told his wife that he was running an errand

      “I love you,” he said, glancing one more time at his wife and then closing the door behind him, and she frowned. Bloom didn’t look back as he climbed into his car, set off to the tech company to meet his calling. He was ready to activate.