The Hunt

I got out on the wrong side of bed today. Luckily, I keep that side lined with cushions in case of just such an eventuality. Unfortunately, the cushions had been taken away for cleaning. Luckily, the cushion-cleaning place does a great job.

Unfortunately, the absence of the cushions revealed there were poisoned spikes and snakes on the wrong side of the bed. Luckily, the snakes were soft, and shielded me from the spikes.

Unfortunately, they started hissing snide comments that undermined my confidence.

"Call that a hip?" said one, referring to my left hip. "I've seen better hips than that on a Lego horse."

The irony of a snake (a notoriously hipless animal) criticising my hips was not lost on me.

Luckily, I made it into work on time. Unfortunately, I made it into work on time.

The clock is moving slowly. Luckily, this will enable me to capture it. I've put together a search party. We have dogs and everything. We've given them the scent of time.

One of our group is an expert tracker. He can see the imprint of every tick and every tock. Judging by the ticks, he says, the clock has a limp. It must have been injured.

I was hoping we'd find it by lunchtime; that it would have given up the ghost (its only hostage). But time waits for no man. Or woman, apparently.

To raise our spirits, we've built a campfire. It breaches several office safety regulations, but the acrid smoke seems to have obscured the security cameras.

The nights are cold out here, especially during the day. Especially during the day.

***

About half an hour ago, we found a severed second-hand. Ricardo (the tracker) thinks the clock gnawed off the injured limb to increase its mobility. The poor bastard.

Ricardo has given it only two or three hours to live. I haven't the heart to tell him it was a digital clock.

We're being played for chumps. Especially Ricardo. He keeps sharpening his knife - a real tough guy.

***

Since writing the above, we managed to capture the clock. We lured it into a snare with a packet of Quavers (and a Bass Clef). It is caught in a large pit.

Ricardo (who has proved his worth at last) has asked us to ensure our celebrations are muted, so that the levity of our demeanours won't imbue the clock with the power of flight.

I don't know what I feel now: a mixture of hunger, fear, satisfaction and guilt. The clock paces. It carries an expression of utmost dignity on its face.

Sometimes the distinction between predator and prey is the thickness of a razorblade.

***

The clock is now vomiting up numbers. Mostly fours. But I'm sure I saw a couple of sixes. We're waiting for the army to arrive. They have special facilities.

I threw a semi-quaver into the pit. The clock sniffed it suspiciously and nibbled the edges, watching me out of the corner of its eye (a small dial).

When I was a boy, I kept clocks in a coop on the roof of our building. I named them all after French monarchs.

Sometimes, half in a dream, I still expect Louis IX (a small carriage clock), to flutter to my window for a small treat. But of course, he never does. It was years ago.

***

The army have taken the clock away in an armoured truck. They say it's going to a special prison. But I'm fully aware that it's already dead.

I didn't tell any of the others, but I named the clock Louis XIV. Le Roi Soleil.

For a short spell he brightened my world, and briefly illuminated the innocence of childhood.