Kian Northcote

freelance writer

Novel intro

CLOCKS

According to the digital clock that hung precariously from the roof of the platform, the time was twelve noon. Barry Monrose knew this was wrong.
He sat on the steel bench, just a few feet from the train track, arms folded, the sleeves of his lime green waterproof jacket hanging limply from chubby child like wrists. Rainwater ran down the front of his mac, gathering in small pools around large plastic buttons on either arm. Single droplets dripped down to the grey mud splattered concrete below.

He stared up at the clock, transfixed by the neon numbers. Big bug like eyes protruding from within a glistening tight fitting hood, concealing the contours of his irregular cone shaped head.
He quickly glanced down at the cheap gold plated watch that his brother, Frank, had given him for a belated 21st birthday present. As usual, Barry’s timing was immaculate. According to the watch, the time is, or in fact was, 11.59 AM. Now it was exactly twelve noon. His eyes darted back to the digital clock. As he suspected, it read 12.01 PM.

A smug self-satisfied smile spread across his round podgy face, revealing deep cavernous dimples on either cheek.

How could he be wrong? He had gone through the same routine as always.
Rising at dawn, he had slipped downstairs and rung the speaking clock. The calm and measured voice on the other end accurate to the second. He synchronised it with his wristwatch. Today promised to be special, and Barry knew that even the slightest mistake could cost him. He had even tuned in to the hourly shipping forecast on Mum’s tiny portable radio. Just to be sure.

After all, only the perfect plan can lead to the perfect day. Or so Frank always said, and he was never wrong. Not like the digital clock.

The train to Amersham would be arriving in precisely three minutes. Exactly six minutes late. Barry relaxed, stretching out across the bench. His brother would be here soon, and then the fun would truly begin.

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