The plan was simple and he knew she would be on her own for long enough to see it through. Her husband, John, went to work at 8.30, leaving Marilyn to take care of the house, look after the dogs. He was afraid of the two rottweilers, hated them, heard the rumours of what they had done to a local petty thief who had entered the house uninvited, so he waited. At 9 a.m. as usual, he heard the excited, barking creatures being shooed into the back garden, knew she would soon be washing the floors and vacuuming up their discarded fur. Way beyond the human ear’s perception, some higher element of the machine’s beating and whirring seemed to drive the dogs wild and he reflected how people seemed similarly oblivious to Marilyn’s beauty - it somehow did not register on their dull senses while it drove him to distraction. He knew he had exactly one hour before she let the dogs back in.

 

* * * * *

 

John loved his job, truly loved it, had always been drawn to wind-up machines. When he was six, he’d taken apart an old clock he’d bought from a jumble sale. The polished pieces, masterfully cut, milled and turned, held incredible beauty for him. Through them, for a brief but dazzling moment, the mysteries of space and time were revealed to him: Saturn’s swirling rings: the Plough’s majestic nightly labours; and the gibbous Moon’s waning into crescent were gloriously explained by the remarkable objects turning in his tiny hands - they too meshed and spun noiselessly and effortlessly, with an almost magical, heavenly purpose. He carefully cleaned then lightly oiled the cogs, inserted them back into their brass sandwich and tightened the nuts that held them there. When he had finished and the battered teak tray of bits and bobs was empty, he noticed daylight was fading. Beyond his bedroom window, the grey air was cool and still, and the serenading birds were snuggling down into feathery silence.

 

* * * * *

 

Tall privet hedges hid the entrance to the house and he knew the neighbours could not see him once he stepped onto the crazed path. He’d rehearsed many times in preparation for today and knew her routine, had noted her comings and goings. With head spinning and heart pounding, he watched the house to make sure she was alone then carefully approached the solid wooden front door. As he climbed the single step into the porch, he almost blacked out, dizzy with anticipation. He bent down, retrieved the brass key she always secreted under the flowerpot of the solitary ornamental shrub and opened the heavy, glossy blue door. Once inside, he quietly removed his shoes then calmed his breathing and listened: silence. An ancient, well-polished grandfather clock stood in the corner of the light and airy hallway, its ornate pendulum stilled. Last week he had come as far as this, stopped the clock and left, barely able to suppress a snigger as he slipped back outside. That was a rehearsal: today was the real thing. From the cover of silence, tiny sounds began to emerge: a swish of cotton; a carpet-muffled footfall… and a desultory line from one of his favourite songs. She was upstairs.

 

 

* * * * *

 

John, the machine and the entire Earth seemed to hold their breath together. A pulse rhythmically poked his temple as he raised a steady index finger and nervously nudged the balance wheel into action. Fitfully, the clock ticked and tocked then it settled down into its natural cycle. Smoothly and joyously it began to enumerate the seconds of his life, not with a cold, mechanical detachment, but with a warm, glowing, grateful involvement. He felt the metal come alive in his hands, watched with wonder as the tiny brass balance wheel swung back and forth. Holding his breath again, he poised his thumb over it then brought time to a standstill with the slightest touch. The ticking died, the world waited and he felt like a god, amazed by the paradoxical fragility and reliability of the tiny machine in his palm. A gentle flick set the wheel in motion and the Earth began to turn again.

* * * * *

 

A fanfare of creaks heralded his ascent, but a soft shroud of singing insulated her from them. He peered onto the landing, his eyes at floor level, praying she didn’t suddenly leave a room and spot him creeping up. He looked around at the virginal white blinds, manicured carpets and clean skirting boards. So this was John’s house: neat, bright and tidy. He’d expected something darker, something more akin to the innards of a cuckoo clock.

 

* * * * *

 

He was suddenly afraid. It was as though he’d started a time bomb. For the first time in his life, as the clock’s spring began to imperceptibly unwind, he realised that his time was finite. At that very moment, his life began in earnest and he determined to gainfully consume every second. A part of him harboured the notion that if the machines around him could be repaired and maintained, then he too would live on. Conversely, he reasoned that when they began to stop, he would begin to die.

 

* * * * *

 

He despised John’s mechanical, methodical existence, an emotion heightened by the surrounding suburban pristine precision. How good it felt to throw it into chaos. First spanner in the works was the accident, for which he could sadly claim no responsibility, but everything since had been his doing. Several childish pranks followed, but the next - the shed - was much more serious. Now the wife: he’d show her what a real man was capable of, show her real passion. He glanced around again. It seemed that everything he hated the most was worshipped here, but he realised almost instantly that was not true. Marilyn. She was the exception. More singing. The master bedroom.

‘If you’re lost and you look and you will…’

He moved quickly, knowing the line would soon end and leave him exposed in the no man’s land between them.

‘Time after ti… Oh, God! No…’

 

* * * * *

 

Time flew by. He served his apprenticeship with a local jeweller, quickly showing incredible aptitude with all elements of the craft. When he sat at his bench, diagnosing, cleaning, repairing and replacing, he was lost in a world of his own. Boxes and boxes of parts, all meticulously labelled and catalogued, filled a plethora of shelves, while tools of all types – some powered, some not - adorned his bench. People from all over the town and beyond entrusted their timekeeping to him, brought him their heirlooms, their antique finds, their damaged mantelpiece centrepieces and well-worn wrist apparel.

 

* * * * *

 

If you’d asked him what he did, how he kept body and soul together, he couldn’t have given you a straight answer. He was indolent, obtuse, sometimes violent… but although she had not said it in so many words, Marilyn wanted him and that was all that mattered.

 

* * * * *

 

Marilyn had brought in her nurse’s watch for repair and was immediately attracted to his deep blue eyes and quiet, thoughtful voice. She’d returned again and again with all her family’s timepieces before he’d plucked up the nerve to ask her out and, soon afterwards, they became engaged. Marilyn often said he should study medicine.

‘You are great listener in every way, John, a skill that most of the doctors lack. You’d calmly analyse a patient’s rambling opinion of what was wrong… and then one listen of their heart, their breathing – even their farting – and you’d give an accurate diagnosis in seconds…’

Her faith in him made him smile even more.

‘I’d certainly make more money if I were a doctor, that’s for sure, but I don’t have the background for it… and anyway, people drive me mad, love, and well you know it. Give me a clock any hour of the day. Clocks don’t let you down except when they’re broken, whereas people constantly let you down. People have the power to choose and rarely choose the right course, whereas clocks are predictable, dependable. And when a clock is damaged it can be fixed, not like people. Most people are beyond fixing.’

She rolled her green eyes at that, knew the misanthropic, pessimistic exterior was not her fiancé’s true nature, only one he wore as a disguise to cover his painful shyness. Underneath it, he was as generous and loving a person as one could wish to meet, and she loved him dearly for it.

 

* * * * *

 

‘Time after time? I’ll give you time after fucking time!’

Strong arms encircled her from behind, and, as he subdued her, his excited body pressed hard into her back.

‘John! John!’ A firm hand clamped over her mouth then she was pushed face down onto the creamy quilt cover.

‘No good shouting for him, sweetheart, he can’t hear you…’

 

* * * * *

 

They’d been married two years when he first suggested setting up on his own and working from home. It would take organisation and discipline but he promised her he would succeed.

‘Once I enter the shed in a morning, I’m at work and when I leave the shed at six, I leave work… otherwise there’s no dilineation, no cut-off… I’d end up always working. On the other hand, just ‘cos I’m a stone’s throw away, doesn’t mean I can be disturbed - when I’m at work I have to be professional, put the hours in. And I can do that – surely you know me well enough. OK?’ She nodded at that, hugged him and sealed the bargain with a kiss. And he always kept his word. Between repairs, he studied mechanical movements of every type, learnt their histories, their complexities, their strengths and weaknesses. Soon, timepieces of all ages, shapes and sizes held no secrets from him and he became expert at analysing a clock’s tick-tock in order to pinpoint its maintenance needs. Every morning at 8.30, John strode down his garden path with a flask of coffee and a packed lunch, returning to the house at six precisely. When he was in his workshop, he was ‘at work’, a state that required silence and no interruptions. Marilyn never disturbed him and he never walked the 30 yards back up the tarmac path to the house until it was time.

 

* * * * *

 

‘Oh, God… oh God… please…’ The sound of rending material ripped through the house.

‘Don’t fucking move… Fucking hell, I’ve waited so long for this. So fucking long!’ Stiffness strained in his underwear as blood thrashed in frenzied torrents around his body, propelled by his racing heart. Her flowered cotton dress was torn from neck to hem, revealing her pink, plump naked back and buttocks. She was face down on the bed, frozen and shaking and he sank to his knees, pushed his nostrils between her arse cheeks, breathing in her pungent aroma, all the while sensing her fear. The knickers weren’t sexy, as he’d imagined they would be; they were big, plain, white cotton and tore as easily as the dress.

 

* * * * *

 

After his accident, he wished more than ever that humans and clocks were more alike. One day he was fine, maintaining regular and precise movements; the next he was damaged beyond repair. No jewel, spring, wheel or pinion could replace what he had lost. The car that threw him, sent him spinning through space, didn’t even stop long enough to hear him strike the ground. His hands, once steady and dextrous were now clumsy and shaky, while once-keen eyes were now blurry. Worse than all that, years of experience were dashed from his brain: he could barely remember how to open the cases; common parts that he’d routinely ordered and fitted were simply mysterious ornate scrap metal; his ears had even forgotten how a healthy clock should sound. That was his greatest loss.

 

* * * * *

 

Marilyn’s breath came in sobs as he revealed her intimate parts, parts only one man had ever seen. Her legs were forced open and he tongued her. It had been such a long time since he’d felt like this, such a long time since he’d seen such a beautiful sight. Dark, whorled cunt lips peeled open, like the petals of a blossoming flower and he tasted her nectar as it started to ooze from her. With a grunt, she pushed her arse into the air so he could reach her swollen clit and she began to moan, began to encourage him. Her sudden compliance and cries of pleasure had him almost cumming in his pants.

‘Oh, yes. Fucking Jesus. Lick my clitty. Tongue-fuck me… deeper… oh… oh!’

 

* * * * *

 

The little workshop, once dust-free, organised and pristine, was becoming a jumbled mess. He was confused, disorientated, depressed and… forgetful. Hours would pass and leave no trace in his memory. Things would vanish, sometimes to reappear elsewhere with no explanation, sometimes never to be seen again. The doctor said he would probably never return to work, though he also commented on how the mind is unlike a machine: occasionally, miraculously, it finds another way to function, makes some semblance of a recovery. Spurred on by that and aided by regular physiotherapy, John spent the long days picking up half-remembered objects, turning them over in his long slender fingers, trying to jog his memory. Sometimes a thought would begin to take shape, start to solidify and offer a glimpse of hope before cowering and bolting once again into the shadows. Despite the frustration they both felt, these brief epiphanies kept John and Marilyn optimistic. At first, each new day was an adventure for them and it seemed that John was making steady progress; after a while it became clear, to Marilyn at least, that her John was never coming back and she clung to every brief glimpse of him with increasing desperation.

 

* * * * *

 

‘Stop! Stop! I’ll cum if you keep that up… fuck…please stop!’ The squelching, guzzling noises ceased and he got to his feet. Unbuckling his belt, he pulled down and removed his trousers. Marilyn rolled slowly onto her front, cast aside the remnants of her dress and knickers, unclipped and discarded her bra then sighed with pleasure as she saw him free the head of his erection from his pants. He saw the glint in her eye and knew what she was about to do, but it thrilled him enormously to order her to do it.

‘Suck this!’

 

* * * * *

 

Improvement was painfully slow, impalpable as the uncoiling of a regulated mainspring. John would spend a desperate morning trying to fit disparate mechanisms together, now often throwing them down in anger and frustration. Afternoons were spent frantically winding every timepiece in the building, transmuting the chemical energy of his muscles into the potential energy of springs, trying to store all he could while he still had the wits, the strength and the will. The tall clock in the hallway stopped without apparent reason and he had trouble sleeping without its constant, warm, woody and hollow counting. Its restoration had been his finest achievement, so he dare not even open it up in his present state, lest he clumsily wrought further damage. His greatest wish was that someday he would regain his skills and set about reviving its sonorous lilting voice.

 

* * * * *

 

She sucked like she was starved, sucked like her life depended on the 10cc of fluid that promised to spurt from his shaft, and her hands joined in, wanking, squeezing, massaging. She was frantic for his climax and every squealed breath gave away her excitement, her frustration and her lust. The thick, fleshy rod sank between her voluptuous breasts and she fucked him there, bowing her head to take the purple tip between her lips as she did so. The intensity of the first contractions shocked him and then, without further warning, he was rocketed to the peak of an incredibly intense orgasm that blinded all his senses. A geyser of hot cum erupted into her mouth. She coughed, choked then gulped it down, sucking so aggressively it hurt him.

‘Shove it up me while you’re still hard – it won’t take long to make me cum. Fuck me…’

 

* * * * *

 

One particularly cold, depressing day, a newly-wound watch ceased to tick, refused to start, despite his violent shaking. Its hands gave him a five to one ‘V’ sign that mocked his every effort and drove him into a rage. The glass shattered with a pop as he powered the handle of the vice, the twisted innards protruded as the metal casing cracked and crumpled. After unscrewing the metal jaws, he’d held the watch’s remains in his upturned hands just long enough to be certain that his actions had been real and not simply a bad dream. John had destroyed what he could no longer fix, put the watch out of its misery with a fury he didn’t know he possessed. Mirroring the way he’d hidden the crushed fragments of watch in the dustbin, he buried the shameful event deep in his shattered mind then cried like he’d never cried in his life. John had been capable of repairing any watch or clock before the accident. Sometimes it wasn’t good economics to fix them, sometimes the owners had decided on newer models and discarded them, but he’d known he could have always got them going again if he’d set his mind to it. Now the machines were starting to fail and he was rendered helpless by another’s anonymous and criminally careless stupidity. Soon his world would wind down and stop and he was powerless to prevent it. A sea of depression swirled over him and consumed him.

 

* * * * *

 

Her hairy cunt was dripping and he slid easily up her and started, with just a little discomfort, to fuck her. Two slender, perfectly manicured fingers found her clit, the red nail varnish blurring as they rubbed to and fro. Big, brown nipples found his hands and he pulled them and forcefully wound them up as she wrapped her legs around him. He licked his lips, found himself still intoxicated by the smell and taste of her and a wave of renewed ardour swept through him. His cock swelled then solidified inside her: a squishy overripe banana that magically metamorphosed into a smooth, steely piston. Excitement took his breath and he realised he could very easily and quickly cum again. Marilyn’s voice grew louder; her exhortations became a frenzied animalistic growl.

‘Deeper, deeper…nnnggg… fucking deeper…Don’t stop fucking me…fucking me…fuck… fuck… nnnggg… nnnggg…’ Her cries echoed around the house, slowly dying away into a series of irregular sobs and quiet whimpers. At last they were still and he held her close, felt his discharged and shrinking member sliding from her as they lay together. He dressed, then bent and picked up the torn knickers and stuffed them in his pocket. Reaching up from her prone position, she pulled him to her, kissed his mouth. ‘I’m confused…not sure what happened here, but it was the most erotic thing I’ve ever done. I want to do it again – and soon. Don’t warn me, surprise me. Be rough, be loving…be anything…’ She looked down, suppressed a tear, then gazed back up into his face. ‘Thank you for making me live again’. Her hoarse, broken whisper caressed his ear then she sank sleepily back onto the bed and closed her smiling, satisfied eyes.

 

 

* * * * *

 

‘You look different… done something with your hair?’

‘You know I have! You…’ Her brow wrinkled and she looked confused by his blank expression.

‘Make-up too…’

‘Just a hint. Thought you’d like it.’

‘You’ve not bothered before… well, not since the accident… Have you been out somewhere?’ Tears filled her eyes and she turned away from him.

‘No, love. I haven’t been out.’

‘You’ll have me thinking you’re getting a fella in when I’m at work, if you’re dressed like that when I come home.’ He could remember little intimacy between them since the accident, yet knew what a sensual woman she had always been. A shadow of doubt drifted across his face, but he somehow forced a laugh. Marilyn’s face remained serious.

‘There’s no… no… fella, love,’ and she lay a placating palm on the back of his rough, veined hand. There was a pause while she carefully framed her next question. ‘So… you say you’ve been… at work today?’ Her question was softly spoken, gently put.

‘Course I bloody have! Where’d you think I’ve been?’

‘I know… you go down to the workshop as you always did, but I know how hard it’s been lately, sweetheart.’ Her concerned tone quickly shifted to upbeat as she tried to lighten the moment. ‘But, oh, John, I didn’t realise you were working again… oh, that’s marvellous.’ She knew that he couldn’t be, had seen him try and fail to use a screwdriver just the day before, but she didn’t want to upset him. Skilled at protecting his brittle moods, she often suspended disbelief in order to keep his spirits up. ‘What are you working on… anything… is it really getting easier, better?’

This time he turned away, the already uncertain world suddenly smeared by a veil of tears.

‘I’m going back down there… job to finish - don’t wait up.’

 

* * * * *

 

Exhilaration widened his eyes, flared his nostrils and drove him down the stairs two at a time, his only thought now: to leave the house without being detected. He paused in the hallway while trying to force on his shoes - they were, rather annoyingly, still tied. Like a pistol shot, a dog’s bark suddenly shook the air, then another and he could sense he was their target. In horror, he looked down the hallway, across the kitchen and saw the back door swinging slowly open on the breeze. From the garden beyond sprang one then two solid, bulky black shapes that pounded towards the house. The door swung back violently, hammered against the wall and claws clattered on the tiled floor. As the leading beast leapt for him, he aimed a kick at its face, threw his arm out in front to protect himself.

 

* * * * *

 

John’s breath formed clouds in the air that were lit by the beam of light that arrowed from the workshop window. The lumbering steps with which he approached the small wooden building slowed then stopped as his bleary eyes filled with disbelief. More tears welled up which quickly boiled away with anger. He dashed inside his workshop refuge, shouting, cursing, pushing past the splintered door. Heartbreak and outrage greeted him. Broken clocks were strewn everywhere - piles of them - though not the type of breakages he had spent a lifetime learning to mend. Wooden cases were smashed and the glass fragments that littered the floor crunched beneath his feet. Thousands of crushed and jumbled brass and steel parts covered every surface in random swirls. It was mindless, wanton, criminal destruction.

 

* * * * *

 

The monster hit him hard. His kick was totally ineffectual and his arms crumpled with the impact. Dog two was upon him also and he screamed then whimpered, preparing to die a terrible death as his back slammed into the front door. Badly winded, he slid down onto his backside, completely submissive, the fight knocked from him.

 

* * * * *

 

‘And you say the dogs didn’t bark, weren’t disturbed by anything?’

‘I’ve bloody told you! I’ve told you! No!’

‘Calm down, sweetheart, please… John, the constable’s only doing her job, aren’t you love?’

The young uniformed woman tilted her head, a surfeit of understanding and empathy making her pretty eyes glow.

‘Have you any idea who might have done this, broken in and caused so much damage?’

‘There’s somebody out to get me… No, I’ve no idea… who would do such a thing to me? What have I ever done to anybody? First I’m knocked over, nearly killed… end up like… like this! My life’s work is wrecked…I’ll never… ever…’ and he held his head and cried and cried till the policewoman gently squeezed his arm. She stood, nodded sympathetically to Marilyn before carefully retreating into the cold night air, her hollow yet sincere parting words falling silently onto the thick-pile carpet like snowflakes into the sea.

‘We’ll be in touch, sir. Please don’t worry, we’ll do our best to get them.’

 

* * * * *

 

After an indeterminate blackness, he opened his eyes to find the dogs panting happily and nuzzling him. They licked his hands, face and forearms, seemingly pleased to see him. Crying with relief, he patted their huge, solid heads while slowly, painfully getting to his feet. Without turning his back on them, he carefully opened the door and slipped out into the porch.

 

* * * * *

 

John woke from his daydream and stared around the interior of his workshop. Police had dusted for fingerprints but the only ones they’d found were his own. He continued to sweep up the mess, emptying each full dustpan into black bin-liners, but suddenly found he couldn’t go on. The futility of it all squeezed him like a vice. Everything in the shed was meaningless, redundant. The twisted springs, the broken hearts of the clocks, were the most poignant objects; cold and dead, damaged beyond repair, forever inanimate. That sudden insight tore at his own heart with such stupefying force that he fell dejectedly to his knees and wept. He suddenly had to see his wife, the one person in his life that he could depend on for consolation, his first and only love. His spirits lifted as he recalled her oft-spoken words.

‘Clocks break, but so what? You can always buy another, while there isn’t another you and me in the whole wide world…’

 

* * * * *

 

Pain vanished in a whirlwind of adrenaline-fuelled agitation as bright daylight struck his eyes. After squinting back at the front door one last time, he fled silently down the path and away, almost unable to believe what had just happened. In every way it had exceeded his wildest fantasies. He felt in his pocket for his sordid souvenir – the torn knickers – for evidence of what had taken place and, giggling manically, he slipped away unnoticed.

* * * * *

 

The house was quiet. The two huge dogs slept contentedly in their baskets in the back room. It felt strange to be in here during the morning. The light was different. It reminded him of the many lazy Sundays they’d spent together in this old house, pottering about, reading the papers, and he smiled as he recollected and silently pondered.

‘It could be like that again… forget the clocks. We still have each other.’ He whispered her name, suddenly feeling like a burglar in his own house, but there was no reply.

‘Marilyn?’ This time, his voice was more urgent, but still there was no answer. Perhaps she was at the shops… He climbed the stairs and called again. Bedsprings creaked, drew him to the open door of their bedroom.

‘Is that you, lover?’ Her sleepy voice was thick syrup, dripping with desire.

The sight that greeted him swept the bitter memories of his terrible accident and the devastated workshop into the realms of triviality. Marilyn was lying naked on the bed, propped up on one elbow, shoulder length blonde hair matted to her face, momentarily covering her eyes. Her other hand toyed between her legs and his gaze dashed there as fingers emerged, covered in what could only be semen. Another man’s semen.

 

His scream echoed through his skull long after he had finished. As he’d stepped forwards, her arms had been open, her eyes full of love, so the first blow caught her totally by surprise. The shock had barely registered on her face when the second savage punch broke her jaw, split her wide mouth wider still. Though the skill had deserted his fingers, the strength had not and they tightened around her neck like spring steel bands. Holding his breath, his thumbs brought the cyclic rasping of her own breathing to a standstill and, totally detached, he wondered at the contrasting fragility and robustness of life. He pinned her to the bed till her body’s oxygen ran out, her struggles ceased and no life remained.

 

Unmoving, John sat on the bed till daylight began to fail and the objects in the room bled into the shadows they cast, just as Marilyn’s battered face had bled into the quilt. A solitary blackbird’s twittering broke his trance and he lifted his head long enough to look at her, to register what he had done. It had all seemed like a daydream, like one of the episodes he was becoming all too familiar with, but this time – as with the crushed watch - it was real. Taking a large, frayed handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped her face, rubbed at the dark blood that his violence had painted on her cheeks and down her chin. He spat on the cloth and rubbed again till her pale features began to resemble those of the loved one he remembered.

 

* * * * *

 

‘God, what a fuck that was… damn! Can’t wait to do it again… oh, Marilyn! I ripped your knickers off… the smell of you… oh… your cunt dripped when I licked it… oh, oh… then you sucked me… swallowed it… oh, God… and I fucked you till I got hard again… fucking hell… Jesus… Oh, Marilyn… I’m cumming again… baby, I’m cumming…’

Standing in the twilight in his private place, trousers around his ankles, palm clenched around his erection, he came down from yet another orgasm, felt his racing heart began to settle into a steady clockwork rhythm. Fragments of glass crunched beneath his feet and mysterious metal objects scattered like beetles as he shuffled across the floor. He leaned against the bench, exhausted. Thick cum had splashed onto his right hand and filled his left palm, but there was nothing he could use as a cloth. Gingerly, he bent to pull up his trousers and took the ripped knickers from his pocket. He inhaled deeply, sucking the air through them, then began to wipe his hands. With puzzled surprise, he peered closely at the frayed patch of white cotton then quickly checked himself for cuts… found none…was amazed he hadn’t noticed the bloodstains till just now.

 

* * * * *