Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (5 page)

Children are
undeniably resourceful.

I moved from the
outside stairwell to a balcony on the second floor. There I carefully hopped a
railing, steadied my feet upon two thick boltheads, and wrapped my palms over a
higher pair just within reach. Then, gripping the rusty knobs tightly, I began
to climb, cautiously but quickly to the top. I couldn’t help but smile a
little. This corner of London was a bit crowded, and I knew that it would take
Kitt a considerable amount of time to weave through the tight and cluttered
alleyways that snaked between buildings. Obviously, in doing so, he had hoped
to slow me down long enough that I’d lose his trail, but I couldn’t imagine
that he’d expect me to start hopping roofs for a shortcut.

“Hey Pocket,” Kitt
said, sitting crosslegged on the next roof over, my pilfered bottle resting in
his lap.

Or maybe he would.

I stopped climbing
and gritted my teeth before casting my eyes his way.

“How?” I muttered
dumbly. “How did you get up there?”

“Oh, you know.
Tricks. Don't wanna boast, but I'm pretty good at working these streets.”

“I...can see
that.”

“Thanks. Listen,
Pocket. Do you know why only children climb boltheads?”

“Is this a
riddle?”

“No.”

With a nasty,
scraping sound, I felt my foot scuff and slip off of the bolt under my boot.

“Damn it!” I
swore, quickly shifting my weight.

“It's a size
issue,” Kitt politely pointed out. “These bolts, they get a little smaller the
higher you climb. Biggest ones are at the base. It's a subtle thing. See,
children are small. No problem. Their little feet keep on climbing. But take a
man of your...how old are you, Pocket?”

My other foot
began to slide. “Twenty-seven.”

“Take a
twenty-seven-year-old like you, your feet are going to be considerably bigger,
so it presents a potential problem.”

“What?!?”

“See? You didn’t
even notice, did you? It’s all right. No one really considers size when they
try what you're trying because the bolts at the bottom look so thick and sturdy
and tight.”

As if on cue, I
felt myself slip. I panicked and grabbed at the metal paneling itself for
support. There was a crack between two nearby panels and I jammed my fingers
inside, clutching the metal.

“Kitt! Could you—“

“Wait, are you
going to say something comical right now? Something like, 'if you aren’t
terribly too busy at the moment for a little—‘”

“Just help me off
of here before I fall! And trust me, if the drop doesn’t kill me, I
will
kill you!”

“Oh. So you're not
going to say anything witty?”

“Kitt!”

“It’s just that
you said you were a bard.”

I started to tilt
backward. To my surprise, the metal plating in my grasp started to bend. It
apparently wasn't as thick as I had assumed. “Kitt!
Now!
”

“Okay, okay. You
see that clothesline below?”

“No.”

“Well, there's one
hanging just over the second floor. Push yourself off of the wall and snatch
the line on your way down.”

“Are you an
idiot?!? I can’t catch that! And even if I did, it'd never hold my weight! I'd
be better off hanging on here!”

“Trust me.”

“But—”

“
Trust
me.”

My situation was
becoming increasingly wobbly. I had little choice.

“I promise,” Kitt
said.

“All right.” I
took a deep breath and held it in my lungs. Then, as instructed, I pressed my
heels to the wall, pushed away from the metal, and dropped quickly through the
air. The clothesline. I reached out and miraculously snagged it with my right
palm. I bounced for a moment, then quickly grabbed on and held tight with both
hands, my knuckles clenched. Slowly, my body stopped bobbing and I allowed
myself to exhale. I couldn't believe it. The little thief was right.

“Kitt!” I
announced, dangling in the air. “I…I’ve got it!”

“Well done,
Pocket! Great catch!”

“Thank you. I
think....I think I can start working my way…wait…Kitt, this is only twine,
isn’t—“

Snap. The strings
broke under my weight and I fell one story into the cold snow. A sickly chill
invaded my senses as I collapsed upon the wet cushioning and rolled upon my
back.

A few moments
later, Kitt was hovering over me with a satisfied smile.

“You're welcome,”
he said.

And a few moments
after that, my hands were at his throat.

“What—hey! Let go!
What are you doing?!?” he shouted through a panicked fit of coughs.

“'Trust me,' you
said!”

“You survived the
fall without getting the wind knocked out of you! That wouldn't have happened
if you hadn't bobbed a moment on the clothesline!”

“You knew it was
going to break?!? And you didn't tell me?!?”

“I figured if I
did, you wouldn't listen to me!”

“Of course I
wouldn’t!”

“Then…I…” he
gagged. “I accept your apology. Pocket—cough—could you please let go of my
throat?”

I obliged. I think
because he said “please.” Manners are in a steep decline.

“Where's my
bottle?” I asked, sitting up rigidly.

“Right here, right
here.” He held it up, playing with the shine of the moon once more.

“Fine. Give it to
me.”

“You said I could
borrow it.”

“I said, upon my
funeral, you could borrow it.”

“Oh,” Kitt said,
scratching his hair under his cap. “I thought you were joking.”

“Well, I wasn't.”

“Oh.”

“Right.”

“Can I borrow it
anyway?”

I was tired of
arguing, so I sighed. Then I realized that I was just as tired of sighing.

“How long would
you need it?” I asked, succumbing to exhaustion.

“Just a moment,
Pocket. We're already here.”

Ignoring every
piece of logic and better judgment that filled my rattled form, I picked myself
up and dragged my feet to the end of the building. Behind it was a clearing,
and beyond that, the largest timepiece I have ever seen.

“So what, Pocket,
you let the fox get a grab on your bottle
again?”

“Afraid so. Heh,
listen to me, Alan. I'm trying to paint myself here as protagonist, but it
seems that this story's quickly forming with me as its fool.”

“There are worse
roles than the fool. God knows that this life’s in dire need of comedy.”

“I suppose. If
only...”

“If only what?”

“If only what I
found within the walls behind that giant’s clock didn't rob me of my ability to
clown.”

“Ah-ha! Now we are
getting places! What did you find? Some unspeakable terror?”

“No terror, Alan.
Only beauty.”

“Ah, beauty...even
more troublesome.”

“You don't know
the half of it.”

Kitt slapped my
shoulder as I stood there, staring at the giant advert, the oversized paper
clock face that was propped against the side of the building.

“Just a moment,”
he said. “I promise you.”

I walked up to the
front door of the establishment and found boards nailed excessively across it.
I couldn't even get a firm grip on the doorknob or read the entire nameplate
below its peephole.

“Mister
Ro...something, something,” I mumbled, squinting at the letters before me.
“Licensed....something…tchmaker.”

“Watchmaker,” Kitt
pointed out. “It's a watch shop.”

That would, I
suppose, explain the giant timepiece.

“A watch shop?” I
repeated. “What do you care about a watch shop? And look, it's boarded up.”

“Yeah, that's the
idea.”

“Eh?”

“Come on, Pocket.
Think a little.”

I did and soon
found Kitt’s implication. I also found anger and only slightly suppressed it.

“You mean to
rob
this place?!?”

“A little, yes,”
he nodded, inhumanly casual. “What's the problem?”

“What's the
problem?!?
Are you serious?”

“I told you I was
a thief.”

“I know.”

“You kept bringing
it up.”

“I know, but...I
figured you were picking money off of people on the street for food or whatnot.
Essentials.”

“That’s exactly
what I do. Nab a few pounds here or there. Essentials.”

“Well, picking
pockets is slightly different from this.”

“How?”

“How is it
different from breaking into a place of business and cleaning out its
valuables?”

“Yeah.”

“It's
very
different.”

“Oh. Well, I'm not
sure that I agree.”

Call me vain, but
I have often thought that this world would turn just a little more smoothly if
people refrained from arguing so often with me and instead took comfort in the
assumption that my opinion is more than likely the correct one.

“Is that so? So
you're a pillar of ultimate wisdom now?”

“No, Alan. Not a
pillar of ultimate wisdom. But not a pillar of complete stupidity.”

“Forgive my
doubt.”

“Done. Shall I
forgive your sarcasm as well?”
“No. I'm pretty proud of that.”

I was having a
hard time convincing Kitt of my point of view, which made me nervous as he
still had his hands on my bottle.

“The way I see
it,” Kitt began. “Breaking into a watch shop is by far the lesser sin.”

“How do you
figure?”

“It's abandoned,
right? That means whatever was left inside was left behind. There's no one
around to miss it. I feel much guiltier about the money I take from living
people.”

“I don't know.
What makes you so sure there's anything in there worth snatching? Even if you
don't get caught, it's just a closed-up watch shop.”

“Heh. You don't
read the papers, do you?”

“Not often.”

“Well, I do.
Quite
often. Usually the day after, when they throw out the unsold editions.
Keeps my interest. Politics, humor. I'm especially fond of the obituaries.”

“So?”

“So, every so
often, they'll announce the closing or abandoning of a home or business as a
result of an occupant's death.” He pointed up at the giant clock face.
“Understand? The old man who owned this shop recently passed. Paper said he
lived in the upper quarters of the buildings, barely left the place. And since
he had no living relatives or friends to speak of, not even a business partner
or apprentice, the shop naturally shut down when he did. The King himself
orders the doors sealed with the deceased’s personal effects inside. Sort of a
watchmaker's tomb. Sad.”

“The
King?
That doesn’t make sense. What does he care about a dead old man and his corner
shop?”

“I don't know.
Probably some political tactic.”

“Tactic?”

“Sure. Build
morale and win over some of the more persistent doubters among his people. You
know, put on a bit of a show of compassion over some forgotten merchant that
nobody never really noticed, cement that ever-fragile image of the People's
King, the man who cares for all.”

“You have a lively
imagination. Do you know that?”

“And all the while,
the city’s left with a neatly undisturbed collection of possible treasures, and
I intend to make good use of them. Get it?”

“Almost. One
question.”

“What?”

“Why do you need
my bottle?”

Kitt grinned.

“To do this.”

He took a running
start around the front of the building and threw my bottle into the air. The
spherical lump of corked glass hooked and arched and punched through a glass
window that stood on the higher floor. The shattering clash of the windowpane
shook the quiet night for a moment with its clatter before returning the scene
again to a chilled silence.

I was boiling.

Glaring wildly at
Kitt, I instinctively made a fist.

“What?” he said
innocently. “You're mad again.”

“What the hell did
you do
that
for?!?”

“Oh. See, that's
why I needed it.”

“Because you
wanted a
projectile?!?
”

“I couldn't find a
big enough rock. I have this sorta wrench thing tucked away in my jacket, but I
wasn’t sure it was solid enough to break the glass.”

“You could’ve
tried!”

“Anyhow, your
bottle felt sturdy. It's probably okay up there.”

I couldn't find
the words. I just couldn't. I think Kitt took this as an opportunity because he
quickly started moving again.

“Wha...where are
you going now?” I demanded to know.

“Hold on a
moment!”

He began tearing
at a pile of discarded debris that was sitting on one side of the watch shop.
Mostly rotting, wooden crates. Garbage. He quickly pulled and pushed, moved and
stacked. Before I knew it, he had constructed a teetering tower against the
front of the building, and I could guess his motivations.

“You'll kill
yourself on that pile,” I said. Kitt chewed on his cheek and put his hands to
the base crate. He pushed and punched against it. The makeshift ladder of trash
wobbled but remained intact. Kitt seemed satisfied at this and smiled. With
gusto, he lifted his foot and ascended the first box.

“Watch this,” he
said.

“Look, is this
really necessary? You could be arrested.”

Worse than that,
I
could. Accessory to a crime.

“You want your
bottle back, don't you?” Kitt said, climbing to the next crate.

“It's still
pointless,” I said, crossing my arms and watching him cling to the stack. “This
mess isn't even tall enough to reach that window. Not by a long shot.”

Kitt snickered and
kept climbing. When he reached the top, he stood and centered his balance. To
his immediate right stood the giant advert. Gently, he reached out and clutched
the oversized minute hand.

“You don't mean to
climb that, do you?” I called out to him.

“Can't think of a
better way,” he called back.

“But it's paper.”

“Reinforced paper.”

“You'll go through
it like a stone.”

“Re-in-forced.”

“Fine. By all
means, run the clock. I'm interested to see how fast you'll fall.”

He ignored this
and leaned his weight toward the minute hand. The paper clock was set to 9:35,
meaning that in order to scale its face, Kitt would have to inch his way up the
slanted minute hand then walk right-to-left across the hour hand. At the end of
the hand, he'd have to make a solid jump into the broken window. A single
misfire and he'd most likely be sent falling to the earth. I began to feel a
twinge of concern.

“Hey, fox,” I
called up.

“Yes?”

“You don't need to
do this.”

“I don't? Well,
thanks for letting me know.”

He hopped from the
pile of trash onto the minute hand and clutched on tight. As he jumped, his left
heel kicked back against the rickety top crate and the pile came tumbling down.
I frowned, but Kitt just looked down at the debris and smiled at me.

“Point of no
return!” he announced.

As I’ve said, the
fox is a headache.

Kitt slowly
gripped the sides of the minute hand and moved upward, slowly but playfully.
When he reached the center of the clock face, he twisted his body and threw a
leg over the hour hand like a child reaching a tree branch. He pulled himself
up and was soon standing on the hand. He gave a triumphant wave down to me.

Headache.

“All right,” I
said to him. “Enough showing off. Just tiptoe your way over and...”

Kitt took a
running sprint down the thin black line, making the paper shape bounce under
his feet. As he reached the end he took a diver's leap headfirst into the air
and into the broken window. As he vanished, I heard a loud crash.

“Kitt?” I shouted
up. “You okay in there?”

He didn't hear me
so I frowned and pushed my back against the front door. I was cold and had
little to do now except wait. And I hate waiting.

Minutes rolled by
and I became impatient. With luck, I was able to eventually pry the nailed
boards off of the front door. Little good it did me, for the door behind was
solid and wouldn't budge.

“Kitt, are you
back there?” I shouted into the door. Nothing. I should have left, just bid my
bottle of essence goodbye and take off for someplace warmer. Let the little
thief enjoy his dusty watch shop.

I should have
melted off into the night somewhere.

Instead, I began
banging a rather angry symphony on the front door, a stupid move considering
what happened next.

“Evening, son,”
said a man in blue, coming up the way.

“Oh!” I replied,
pivoting quickly around. “Evening...constable...”

The front door
started to open behind me. I put my heel to it and forced it shut before the
officer could notice.

“Can I help you?”
I asked, a picture of innocence with a boot to the door.

“It’s late out,”
the man said, coming within arm's length.

“Yes. It is.
Very.”

“Very,” he
repeated. “And this place, this—”

“Watch shop.”

“Yes, thank you,
this watch shop, it's very closed.”

“Certainly seems
to be.”

“But you were
knocking.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were
knocking.”

“Was I?”

“You were.”

“Oh, right, sure.
No, not knocking. Merely drumming my fingers. Trying to beat a little warmth
into them in this cold. I've worn the tips of my gloves down to holes, you
see.”

I showed him my
bare fingers. He rubbed his chin for a moment then made a quiet sound I didn't
like at all.

“What's your name,
son?” he asked, raising his eyes.

“Will...well...uh,
that is....”

“I'm sorry?”

“Christopher,” I
said. No point in dragging out the proper monikers at this time of the night.
It was far too late for introductions and even farther for telling the truth.

“Christopher
what?”

“What?”

“Christopher
what?
”

“Christopher
what...watt....yes.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Watt. Christopher
Watt. W-A-T-T.”

“Watt?”

“I am. Nice to
meet you.”

“Of course,” he
said in a dry tone. “Mister Watt, do you realize that you are knocking on a
condemned building?”

“Oh? I suppose
that explains all the boarded doors and windows.”

“Yes...”

“Well, you know,
like I said, just trying to keep my fingers warm.”

“Right...Mister
Watt, in the future may I suggest you knock your fingers on a street lamp?
Abandoned buildings attract thieves and bums. You wouldn’t want one of those on
your heels.”

“No, I certainly
wouldn't.”

“Right, well, good
evening then, Mister Watt...Watt...tell me, are you by any chance related to
the Scot?”

“The Scot, sir?”

“James Watt, son.
The inventor. Steam engine.”

“Yes! Yes, I...I
am...James is, um, my father.”

“Is he?”

“That's right...my
father...the...Scot.”

And to my
surprise, the officer chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder.

“Good man, your
papa,” he said. “Went and birthed the bloodline of this city, you know?”

“Suppose he did.”

“Sound a little
prouder. Must feel like your very own city, boy.”

.“At times.”

Another laugh.
“Well then, Christopher, son of James, you have a safe night.”

“And you sir.”

Go away, I
remember shouting in my head at the man in blue. For God's sake, go away
before—

“Let me guess,
Pocket. Something fantastic happened.”

“No, not at all.
He tipped his hat at me and went about his way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah...well...not
every bit of the story can be fantastical.”

“Mmm...quick
thinking with that Christopher talk though.”

“Not really. It's
my middle name.”

“Mmm...”

“Hang on. It gets
more interesting.”

“You've told me
that before.”

I felt myself go
weak and I crumpled against the building, my heartbeat a punching drum. There
was another push at the door. In a moment it was open, swinging on his hinges.
Kitt strolled out.

“There we go!” he
grinned. “Up and back and not a scratch on me. Hey, was that the police?”

Snow began to fall
again.

“Kid's a pain,
isn’t he?”

“He's a good
enough sort, Alan. He's just...”

“Inconvenient?”

“Heh. Perpetually
so.”

Kitt quickly ran
back into the building as I stood blanketed in snowflakes. I caught the front
door before it closed again and whistled at him. He stopped in his tracks and
came back over.