OLD TOM'S CLOCK

Is there any point in going to the trouble of winding a clock for Wednesday if that's a day you'll never see?

Old Tom stood by his ancient wall clock and watched the pendulum swinging left and right, left and right, almost hypnotising him as it kept to its perfect arc.

He loved that clock, that swing and more than that he loved its absolute precision give or take the odd few minutes now and again.

"Sunday morning," he sighed.

He opened the front of the clock and picked up the key from where he kept it, on the dusty floor of the walnut cabinet that housed its everything.

It was old, was that key, tarnished metal with the suggestion of rust here and there where his weekly fingers rarely touched as they did their seven-day wind.

"Another week," he sighed, and pushed the key into the winding hole, and turned.

"One," he said as he twisted, and smiled to himself. "Monday."

Then he turned again.

"Two,"he said, "Tuesday."

The doorbell rang with the sort of insistence that clocks don't have.

"Damn!" he swore, and he put the tarnished key back on the clock floor, and fought against a failing heart and old age towards the door.

The bell rang again. Loud, brash, modern, offensive.

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door, almost quivering with rage that his day had been disturbed by something as trivial as a doorbell.

Outside stood a man dressed entirely in black with a huge hood over his head and, strangely, he was carrying a scythe over one shoulder.

"I know you,"said Tom, irritably. "And you've come to the wrong door," he added.

The man nodded slowly.

Inside the house the clock was ticking proudly and it warmed Tom's old heart to hear it.

"I came to warn you,"said the black-clad stranger. "I came to advise you against winding that clock of yours any more. It would be a waste of time, and none of us has too much of that!"

"I wind it seven turns every Sunday,"said Tom. "I wind it for the week."

"I know,"said the stranger. "I watch you, sometimes, when I've got the time."

"And I've only wound till Tuesday,"added Tom, frowning.

"I know,"said the stranger. "That's enough,"he added. "That's quite enough."

"But why?"asked Tom, frowning.

"I'll be calling on Tuesday,"murmured the stranger. "I'll be calling then, as a friend, as a dear, dear friend."

"As a friend?" asked Tom. "Shall I have the kettle on?"

"If you like,"said the stranger. “We can sit awhile on Tuesday, waiting."

"Waiting?"asked Tom, uncomfortably.

The stranger nodded. "Yes," he said with the merest suggestion of a smile lost in the shadows under his hood. "For the clock to stop," he added.

"My clock," whispered Tom.

"Yes: your clock," said the stranger, darkly. "I've got lots to do what with wars here, there and everywhere, so I'll be going now. See you on Tuesday."

He turned and went. Tom shut the door.

"Sod you,"he muttered. "I'll wind it for Wednesday. Just you see what you make of that!"

And he went back to his clock and reached for the key.

Somehow, it was missing.