The Timekeeper

  “Is this your husband, Sylvia?” asked Doc Morrissey, adjusting his spectacles.

   “Yes, that’s Austin,” she said, turning her head into Doc’s shoulder and away from the harsh smell of bleach. Doc put his arm around her shoulder, unperturbed, as she clung onto his jacket. Not given to easy sentiment, his gesture was precautionary as much as consoling. Sylvia’s white knuckles matched her pallor in the radiant glow of the morgue’s fluorescent lighting.

   “It’s time to go,” he whispered. 

   Sylvia glanced at the gurney and clenched her jaw. 

   “He was right.” She sniffed. “Austin knew when his time was up.”

   “Don’t, Sylvia…” Doc bit his lip. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words. 

He nodded at the mortician, who replaced the thin cotton sheet over Austin’s face. 

* * *

It all started as a kid, watching his mother’s clockwork egg timer in the kitchen.

   “Remember, Austin,” she’d say, lowering the eggs into the boiling water and reducing the heat. “Five minutes for a perfect yolk.”

   “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he’d say, setting the timer on the worktop.

   Tick, tick, tick. 

Austin would stare at the rotating plastic dial, trying to detect its movements as it nudged to zero in nervous increments. 

   Tick, tick, tick. 

He’d narrow his eyes to a raptor’s gaze as it counted down and raise his hand to anticipate the alarm. 

   Bzzzt! Thwack!

   “Never mind.” His mother would smile. “You’ll get it next time, love.”

   “It’s all in the timing, lad,” his father would say, shaking his head. 

* * *

Austin’s father prepared everything in advance. He set the breakfast table during each evening meal and lay the cutlery out for supper as soon as they finished breakfast. 

   “Why does he do that every day?” Austin asked his mother. 

   “Well…” she said. “Your father’s saving time, dear.”

   “But what does he do with it?”

   “I don’t know, love,” she said, frowning.

   Austin reckoned his father must store all the time he’d saved. Maybe he was keeping it for an emergency? 

   Years later, when he enquired about his father’s daily time saving strategy, the old man said, “You never can tell when it’ll come in handy.”

   “Handy for what, though?” asked Austin.

   “You just never know.”

* * *

It was no great surprise Austin forged a successful career in accountancy. He always had a head for numbers at school. At fourteen, he ran a book for weekend sports fixtures and supplemented his meagre pocket money by exploiting his classmates’ fondness for a flutter. 

   Mister Bramley was a former prize boxer and Methodist lay-preacher before becoming headmaster at King Edward’s Grammar School. He didn’t approve of gambling on the premises and warned Austin about his dodgy activities. 

   “I’ve got my beady eye on you, boy,” said the pugilist. “The clock’s fast running down on your game, and woe betides you when it stops.”

   However, Austin had established a thriving business with attractive odds, and his profits soared after Old Bramley cautioned the school against participating. 

   Mr Bramley’s imaginary stopwatch was ticking somewhere in the ether when he thrashed Austin on two further occasions. It was only a matter of time before he expelled him. 

   Austin’s experience at King Edward’s taught him that most money-making pursuits flourish before they wither or get thwarted by a vengeful authority. He gained and honed a sense of when to quit and call time on a racket. In future years, he furnished his office with an elaborate collection of bespoke clocks. Austin allocated each of his many financial schemes a timepiece and an appropriate lifespan calibrated in days, hours, and minutes. Austin primed each device accordingly and allowed them to run down to zero. At which point, their alarm call would remind him the optimum time was over; he’d then liquidate his assets and reinvest. It was a unique method for calibrating his existence, however that’s how he measured his life; in descending units of time that spiralled through space to a finite moment. 

*  *  *

Affable enough on a first encounter, Doc realised Austin was short of something to do. Under-employed and the wrong side of forty-five; Austin was self-obsessed and neurotic about his health. He’d maintained a successful career for over two decades and retired twenty years too early.

   Austin had first visited Doc Morrissey’s practice ten years ago, but more often of late, because of his sudden health scares and a dwindling constitution. Rita, Doc’s receptionist, arranged Austin’s appointments twice a week. He’d call the surgery and relate the details about his latest ailment. Her heart would sink when she heard his voice bleating for Britain and made her views known to her employer. 

   “He should pull his socks up before it’s too late,” she said, tutting.

   “Well, certainly…” said Doc, considering Austin’s plight. “He’s preoccupied with his woes and woefully unoccupied.”

   “He needs a job is what,” said Rita. “Simple as that.”

   At every appointment, Austin wrestled with his cuff-links before rolling up his sleeve to accommodate Doc’s blood pressure machine. During his visit, Austin would present the daily records he kept of all his vital signs and discuss his observations; subtle hourly changes and tell-take signs of his impending demise. Austin knew all the numbers by heart and rattled them off with little prompting. 

   “Systolic 150, Diastolic 110, Pulse 105, Weight 210, Waist 36, Feet U.K. 10.5 …”

   You name it, he’d measured, compared and calculated them in relation to his calorific intake and metabolic performance. Over the last year, his blood pressure rose to an alarming level, his pulse raced as if he was cantering down the home stretch and he was 40 pounds overweight.

   As Doc noted the results, Austin would elaborate further, often claiming his time was up and he wasn’t long for this world. Afterwards, Doc watched him grapple with his lucky cuff-links, knowing, like a stopped clock, Austin would soon be right. 

*  *  *

   Austin wasn’t like that a year ago. His health changed after a romantic weekend break at the seaside. The couple had gone for the sea air and returned with a health scare. Despite his undoubted fortune, Austin was cautious with money and careful with his diet. He avoided all the deep-fried delicacies along the promenade and dodged the sugary pink candyfloss offered from roadside vendors. 

   No, it was the gentle tinkle of a glass bead curtain that caught his attention as they strolled along the seafront. A weathered hand beckoned him within a darkened alcove that fateful summer’s evening. The sign outside the clairvoyant’s premises read, “Genuine foresight,” and “Life-changing prophecies.” The mysterious proprietress advertised her business with photographs of herself pictured with various T.V. celebrities; all grinning and waving at the camera. 

   “She looks like fun,” said Sylvia. “What d’ya think, love?”

   Austin had inherited many of his father’s qualities and mapped out his existence to within a few precise moments. So, when Sylvia squeezed his forearm and nudged him through that glistening veil, he entered with a closed mind. However, ten minutes after his encounter with Madam Minerva, Austin’s plans lay in tatters. 

   The clairvoyant furrowed her brow and cursed under her breath whilst examining the lifeline on his palm. The nervous couple turned to face each other as Minerva shook her head and insisted on confirming her findings. Austin agreed to a crystal ball reading, which only reaffirmed her prophecy. Austin’s health was in dire jeopardy. 

   “But…” His voice trembled. “How long do I have?”

   “A specific time period is a luxury few can afford,” she said, laying five cards face-down between them. Sylvia pursed her lips and stood up, as if to depart. 

   Austin had to know. His life couldn’t be unpredictable. He had plans and needed to work with certainties. 

   Madam Minerva’s wizened fingers circled above the cards like a bird of prey until Austin parted with his money. After stuffing the crisp notes down her grubby bra, she lowered her gaze and leaned forward. Austin held his breath as she turned the cards one by one and then, muttering, raised her inscrutable face. 

   “My dear,” she whispered. “You’ve one year to live.” 

   Austin staggered out of Minerva’s grotto with thoughts of his impending mortality and collided with a burly holiday maker in a “kiss-me-quick” hat. If it hadn’t been for Sylvia’s obvious charms, Austin might have wasted his money and met his maker that evening. 

*  *  *

The encounter with Madam Minerva had a profound effect on poor Austin. He had to know his fate and when he found out, reacted as he knew best. He purchased one final clock to install in his office and primed it to count down his time. 

   Sylvia said he’d wasted his money and only agreed to the purchase to humour him. She scowled when he set the timepiece for one year and rolled her eyes when he attempted to justify his reasoning. 

   “I’m not convinced about the deadline, love,” he’d said. “I just want to be sure.”

   “Is that through cynicism or for peace of mind?” 

   “If I’m honest,” he said. “It’s both.”

*  *  *

The couple’s household underwent a sea change over the next eleven months as Austin wound down all his projects and silenced their timepieces. A gentle blanket of silence descended on the tangled fabric of their lives. Sylvia relished the new found peace and ignored Austin’s one remaining clock. 

   Tick, tick, tick. 

   Austin’s timepiece continued for now. However, it only had a year’s lifespan and most of that time had elapsed. The days and hours had oozed away like dirty bath water down a pipe outside a Victorian tenement building; unseen and ignored apart from the odd irreverent gurgle.

   Tick, tick, tick. 

   According to the prophecy, it was a matter of days before it stopped forever. 

Come what may, it was Austin’s destiny.

   Tick, tick, tick. 

   Sylvia imagined what life would be like after Austin’s clock stopped, too. Not that he was difficult to live with, but she felt calmer without the constant ticking of a hundred clocks in his office. She could get used to the gentle ambiance that now permeated their marital home. When Austin’s death happened, it was most unexpected, despite his frenzied self-diagnoses.

*  *  *

   After fifty-three weeks, Austin was a bundle of jangled nerves and jittery delusions that’d make a crackhead in recovery look calm and resourceful. With little else to do, Austin Googled his new symptoms every day and tried to persuade Doc Morrissey he had innumerable health issues. Austin wasn’t happy unless he left Doc’s surgery with a prescription for tablets, which would then require a follow up appointment and the discovery of further associated symptoms.

   It was a relentless nightmare for Doc Morrissey, but he tolerated his patient’s constant mithering, and worried if Austin was ever late for his appointments. He knew Austin’s heart was under severe strain and, being aware of the clairvoyant’s prophecy, thought a stroke was possible. However, the day Austin’s clock stopped, it was the untimely nature of his death that took everyone by surprise. Not even the seaside psychic had forecast Austin’s exit to occur with such brutal immediacy.

   Austin was obsessed with his pulse and carried his blood pressure monitor at all times, checking it in the most unlikely places. After he left Doc’s office on that last occasion, struggling to detach his cuff-links, Austin caused a fuss in the crowded reception area and asked Rita for help. 

   “Do it yourself!” she said. 

   “But it’ll only take a moment---”

   “Life’s too short for your nonsense,” she said, glaring at him.

   In Rita’s police statement, she said, “He was still fiddling with those wretched cuff-links when he left the surgery because there was another kerfuffle in the doorway.” She suspected Austin had continued adjusting his attire as he passed between the two parked cars outside, blundering into the path of the oncoming truck, still preoccupied and oblivious to the ensuing collision. 

   “He’d too much time to worry about his life to enjoy his existence,” Doc said, off the record. “Better to be nonchalant about death and full of life than scared to death and afraid to live,” he said in private to his wife.

*  *  *

Sylvia hoped her husband didn’t see the careering vehicle and died without suffering. However, at the funeral, she wondered if Minerva had warned him about a traffic accident, whether it might’ve eased his mind. Would Austin have been more careful crossing the road? Would it have afforded him more time or put off the inevitable? Alone at night, she imagined Austin’s father having the last word on the matter. The two men disagreed about the best use of time, and often he’d berate Austin for failing to save it. It’s just a damn shame he didn’t advise him how to reclaim it when needed. 

The End