Young Writers Society

Tapping Sounds and Strange Reading

Part Two

“It sure is quiet here why don’t you sit your furry little behind on one of those clean old books yeh you pop yourself down nice and comfy me and Timmy we were just passing time you know so how can we help mister?”

Timmy stared at the clock in disbelief. It’s not talking. It’s that awful ticking. Shut up, Timmy punched in the thought.

“Oh but ticking is just what I do Super Timmy I’ll tick and I’ll tick I’ll tick all the way—”

“Stop.” Yet Timmy knew he, she, it, whatever it was, wouldn’t listen. And it wouldn’t stop. The fly arrowed above his head and his lazy eyes followed its flight.

“Now Super Timmy is playing with a dainty little furry fly oh he is desperate to find something to do I can almost taste you Super Timmy taste the big fat juicy excitement.”

The fly hopped from the children section, then to the teen fiction, and finally landed on the history family. It was buzzing something but Timmy didn’t understand. Or maybe Timmy didn’t want to understand. But he would have to. And if he didn’t already know it, he soon would and with a rough edge. Madness will prevail. He heard the clock sing.

“Super Timmy Super Super Super Timmyyy.”

Jack turned from the fly, who was jumping from A to B, then to F. Tap, tap, tap he went. How can something so small, so insignificant, land with such heavy opinions?

“Stop it.”

“Stop what Super Timmy?”

“Singing my name. Stop it. I don’t know yours, and I don’t want you to know mine.”

“Oh it’s a tiny bit too late for that Super Timmy.”

“ Wha—” He stopped himself. He wouldn’t be drawn into this delusional craze. The clock wasn’t talking. It’s a clock. Clocks don’t talk. But what is that fly doing? To Timmy, he was becoming increasingly aware that it was searching for something. His head rumbled with a fuzzy aura, like he was swamped with an oppressive and heady odour. Slumped atop the beach-brown counter, his eyes gazed blank like a drugged ex-heroin robot. And now to add it, his wires had loosened and were sparking in loops and tangles. Next stop Crazy Town.

It spoke again. Its voice was masculine, yet oddly tuneful.

“I know you Super Timmy you know me Super Timmy.”

The fly twitched beside ‘The Great Depression, 1930-33’. Joyful reading, Timmy thought, rolling his eyes back to the clock.

“ Oh oh Timmy Timmy not so super as I thought he doesn’t reeemember you don’t remember Super Timmy?”

Timmy blinked slowly. This was happening wasn’t it? The clock was talking. And Timmy had to answer. Why did he need to answer? ‘To play the game.’ The response seemed to drop from overhead. Not from the clock. This voice was deeper, darker.

“Remember what?”

“HE DOESN’T REMEMBER.”

“Remember what?” He repeated. Although, he heard the words rather than felt them leave the safety of his head. A buzzing smear to Timmy’s right sought attention and found it. It flew up and behind the history section. What is it looking for? Stop it. Timmy, you don’t care. You don’t know. You don’t need to know. You can’t know because it isn’t real. Flies don’t read books. Flies can’t read — full stop and underline. Get back to work, Timmy. Work? Timmy groaned at the idea. This isn’t work. Where is the work here? The talking clock? The reading fly? White-face spoke again. Timmy didn’t know what else to call it — him. Clock no longer sufficed.

“ Oh Mister Fly Mister Fly come back from behind there he really don’t remem— oh forgive me by the chime of the first hour Super Timmy we got ourselves here a lady fly Missus Fly he don’t crazy remember.”

“This is nuts. Shut up. Stop it. You are not real. You’re in my head, part of me, I made you up, I’m bored.” He was growing annoyed at White-Face and it himself, mostly at the job though. But the real reason was he was tired. Not tired of work (what work?) Timmy was tired of everything. The bugging tune of White-Face sang again.

“Oh but I am real Super Timmy and Super Timmy sure as time we have met before.”

A tingle shivered faintly acorns the small width of his lower back — a spider running its race. He tried to ignore it. Yet like an itch at the turn before sleep, it desires attention. It refuses to be ignored. He reached a clumsy hand down and brushed the spider trail — nothing there. As the words tumbled from the production center — boy, did he notice the workers up there were slack today — he realised repetition had found his voice again.

“You’re not real,” he said, “even if you were — which you are not — if I've met you before I would know you name — which I don’t — and I would be able to remember such a thing — which I can’t. You’re as real as a junkie from the big red one.” Timmy finished and like a fool allowed an incorrect confidence to swell. The clock wasn't real. Timmy was simply having fun. He was passing the time…

“Oh but I am and we have certainly met not so long ago in fact and not so strange as you would believe or have come to know here’s a fun game guess who?”

“This game is over.”

“It’s over when they decide it’s over.”

“They?”

“What’s my name?”

“I’m not playing.”

“Oh I believe you will.”

The fly whizzed in front like bait being yanked along a string. It sat on the desk and looked up. All kaleidoscope eyes fixed on Timmy’s weary features. To the fly it was a mirage of half-way oysters smudged with a dark underline. He returned the fly with a scowl. Lifting his eyes, he found White-face once again. The clock ticked. Timmy wondered when his shift ended; when the time was up? Would it ever end? Had it already ended? Maybe if he played along?

“What’s your name?” he asked. Curiosity didn't kill the cat: foolishness did.

“Oh oh that really is tooo easy Super Timmy Beee the first letter is Be.”

He shifted. Unease had grabbed him. The memory struck as clear and definite as a chord being strung. He knew the name. Clear as da — by the chime of the first hour, he remembered now. As if licking the anxious drips lying in wait along Timmy’s brow and in the palms of his damp hands, White-Face knew. White-Face had always known. The way: is to play.

“He remembers oh Missus Fly Super Timmy remembers and he remembers well say it boy.”

The lost boy behind the desk remained silent. He held a bad hand and White-face was the pig-nosed rotten dealer. A thoughtful pause came and went.

“I don’t know.” He was buying time for something. But he didn't know what. He was stalling through fear. Yet, time was his worst enemy right now; and here there was a harsh abundance of it.

The somewhat fun, yet malevolent, voice explored the room again. Each wall shimmered with his sound. It reminded Timmy of the fun times at the cinema.

Timmy, Jack white and Dave Trummel all together in a large, black room, number four, sounds of explosions and action vibrating off every wall. For an hour and half they lost themselves. It was brilliant. Timmy and Jack raced to the top, nabbed the two most central seats and to add to the beauty, the row was empty. They waited for clumsy Dave Trummel to stagger up the steps towards them, looking for them, half blind, half stupid. Each hand held a mountain of overpriced food, popcorn— large, hot dog and Pepsi — large. When he reached them, face gleaming with something childlike, chest heaving with exertion, Jack slipped his leg out and down Dave went. The result was carnage. Jack had laughed, Dave had gradually begun to giggle, and even Timmy may have slipped a grin or a chuckle.

Those days had stretched too far back now and the cord had snapped. Fun only loitered at the back of Timmy’s mind now, crouched head in hands in the darkness.

There was nothing fun about this, nothing playful about White-Face. Timmy knew — felt — there was something wrong. This fun was a bad dog. If he’d written the word out now, engraved it right onto the desk, it would leak streams of black. And there’d be spots of blood, thick with iron, dotted among the blackness — and they’d be laughing. Bobbing red heads playing in the dark.

“ How amusing how playful how fun this is someone might say Super Timmy knows the door's open wide open free why hasn't Super Timmy left ME ME ME pick me I know Super Timmy remembers now and now he mustn't leave.”

The walls were closing. The corners folded in. In the corner Timmy went. A swaying ship moved. Swishy, swishy, swishy his stomach wobbled like a bucket heavy with water. Timmy needed to crawl his way out of the dark box now. When faced with a wall, you bring it all the way down. Timmy would play along for the time being.

He spoke with confidence and unfamiliar fluency. “Bill Hands. You’re Bill Hands.” The room shifted as if hit by a snap of thunder. Everything changed direction and clicked into place. The air sizzled with understanding. The Fly, Timmy, and Bill Hands, together they knew.

“Yes it sure is Super Timmy it sure sure is.”

Outside, the first crowd of droplets tapped on the shop windows. A flicker later, ‘Great Reads’ was barraged with a flowing rattle. A wet, grey storm had emerged from a window in the summer sky. It was as if someone had climbed through the glass-frame and forgot to close the window behind them.

“I know where we’ve met before today,” Timmy said in that same slow, assured fluency. The big hand ticked. Bill Hands read: eleven minutes past three. The chime of the first hour, thought Timmy. The phrase moved around inside his creation center as clear as transparency,

“Go on,” Bill Hands said, ticking with a carnal anticipation. He was like a wolf licking for dinner. Timmy was the sheep. Timmy was wandering closer. Its jaws were open now. Its thick-needles, dripping with saliva, were grinning.

The Fly whizzed past Bill Hands and tapped flat against the window pane of the entrance door.

Timmy chewed the memory one last time. It had happened. It was all true. But that Fly? Something doesn’t fit. A jagged piece was still left. The puzzle was incomplete. The Fly? What about the Fly? He didn’t know. It wasn’t right.

Bill hands waited. Timmy fed him what he wanted. The memory sped out of the gates, green light ahead. His lips moved. “It was the 1990, June, 21st. The first hour —”

The door rattled open in a bellowing clash of rain and eager brute force. Timmy gawped.