Lorimore turned back from the display case. ‘I can’t wait until this evening, you dolt.’ He nodded at the window on the other side of the room. A thin mist was already pressing up against it, filtering the pale winter sunlight. ‘The smog is thickening already. I’m sure your thugs can run fast enough to escape any interference. And in half an hour you’ll barely be able to see your hand in front of your face.’
There were springs and cogwheels and screws and oddly shaped bits of metal all over the table. Eddie watched with interest as George arranged the bits and pieces. He had a magnifying glass mounted on a metal bracket so he could see what he was working on. When Eddie tried to peer through, George pushed him out of the way with a grunt of annoyance.
‘What you making, anyway?’ Eddie demanded for the third time.
‘It’s only a prototype,’ George mumbled.
‘A type of what?’
George sighed and put down the tiny wheel he had been examining. He hunted for another with the tweezers, eventually selecting one that looked to Eddie to be identical to the first.
Liz had left them soon after Sir William Protheroe. That had been hours ago now. Eddie reckoned it must be getting on for lunchtime, but he was fascinated when George got out his collection of tools. They were so tiny — like proper carpenter’s tools, only much smaller. There were screwdrivers, knives, tweezers, clamps, and even a miniature saw.
‘You a jeweller?’ Eddie asked.
‘No,’ George told him. ‘I mend clocks and watches.’
Eddie had quite a collection of pocket watches stashed away. He considered offering them to George, but he might not approve. Anyway, most of them worked, if he bothered to wind them up.
‘I still don’t know what it is,’ Eddie said, watching closely as George started to assemble various components he had built into a single compact unit.
‘It’s for Liz — Miss Oldfield. She wants me to work out a mechanism for sending a silver ashtray flying across the stage.’
‘What stage?’
‘At the theatre. She indulges in amateur dramatics.’
George sat back and inspected his work. The spring was fixed between two metal plates. One kept the whole contraption stable on the top of the table. The other was fixed to the top at an angle. A small key emerged from the side of the device, and George wound it carefully. As he did so, the spring contracted and the top plate, which was slightly indented, lowered and levelled.
‘Pass me that ball bearing, will you?’
Eddie did so. ‘It isn’t an ashtray,’ he pointed out.
‘This is just to test if my design will work.’ George placed the ball bearing on the top plate. The small steel ball sat easily in the middle, where the plate had been hollowed slightly. ‘If it does, I can build a larger version that will catapult the ashtray.’
George turned the device so it was pointing across the room towards the door and reached for a hinged sliver of metal that was protruding from the edge of the device. He hesitated just before his finger reached it. ‘Come here, Eddie. You do it.’
‘Do what?’ Eddie joined George at the table, and George pointed.
‘Press that trigger.’
‘Trigger? You mean, this is like a gun?’
George sighed. ‘Not really. Just push it. Gently, mind, so you don’t jolt the thing.’
‘Like this?’
Eddie gingerly pressed on the bit of metal. It was sharp and bit into the skin on the end of his finger, but it moved easily enough. There was a dull click as the spring suddenly expanded. It forced the top plate rapidly upwards, pivoting it around a metal rod so that the ball bearing was flung off.
The steel ball was hurled across the room like a bullet. It hit the door, embedding itself in the wooden panelling with a splintering crunch.
‘Wow!’ Eddie exclaimed with delight.
George was grinning too. ‘Maybe a bit fierce,’ he noted. ‘We need to angle it so the ashtray is lobbed up in the air rather than shot out like that.’
‘It worked though,’ Eddie said. He was impressed. For the first time he realised that George Archer was maybe not just a boring grown-up who delighted in telling other people what to do.
While George set to work adjusting the spring slightly, Eddie started to tidy away the tools and spare components. George was winding up the device once more when there was a knock at the front door.
‘That might be Liz,’ George said eagerly. ‘Have a look, will you?’
Eddie went to the window and peered out into the street. The fog was thick now, and all he could see was a grey blanket hanging across the world. There were several darker patches that could be people. He leaned forward until his forehead was against the cool glass and tried to make out who it was outside.
‘I meant, answer the door,’ George said irritably.
‘Keep your hair on, I’m going.’
Eddie leaned back from the window. But he did not go to the door. For at that moment, a face loomed out of the mist. Someone was leaning towards the window, trying to look in. The face was contorted, grinning horribly as it saw Eddie on the other side of the glass. It was a face Eddie instantly recognised, even before he saw the pale scar running down one side of it.
‘Cripes!’ Eddie yelled. ‘It’s him — they found us.’
At the same moment, the knocking at the door became a hammering. Then a splintering as the wood around the lock gave way.
‘Come on,’ Eddie shouted at George. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘But this is my home,’ George protested.
Eddie did not wait to argue. He pushed George across the room towards the door.
‘Wait.’ George struggled free of Eddie’s grasp and ran back to the table. He scooped up his device and several ball bearings. Then he was running back across the room and together they tumbled out into the hallway.
The front door was shaking and shuddering as the men outside put their shoulders to it. A strip of wood flew off and spun down the hall, just missing Eddie. The lock had almost broken away. Another few seconds …
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Eddie said. ‘Come on, through the kitchen.’ There was a kitchen door leading to the yard and the alley at the back of the house. Eddie had opened it earlier to let the smoke out.
‘We need to slow them down,’ George shouted back at him as the door finally crashed open and a swirl of fog and dark shapes fell into the hall.
Eddie saw that George had the clockwork device in his hands and was winding it up furiously. He set it down on the hall floor, dropped a handful of ball bearings on to the plate on the top, and then adjusted the angle — aiming it along the length of the hallway.
Three men were advancing slowly, the fog drifting behind them so they were silhouetted against the cloudy grey. One of them was Blade, and he was holding a long knife. The other two men hefted wooden cudgels.
‘Hurry up,’ Eddie urged, bouncing from one foot to the other as he prepared to run for it.
George did not reply. He waited, timing the moment, then gently pressed down on the trigger. As soon as he had done so, as soon as the top plate of the device had whipped upwards, George stuffed the contraption back into his jacket pocket and ran after Eddie.
Eddie was also running. But he had waited just long enough to see the ball bearings smash like shotgun pellets into the approaching men. Blade had been caught on the arm, dropping his knife with a cry of pain. One of the other men seemed to have escaped, perhaps shielded by his fellows. But the third had taken several ball bearings in the face. He collapsed backwards with a shriek of pain. He clutched and clawed at his face, the cudgel he had been carrying clattering to the floor.
‘Gotcha!’ Eddie cried. Then he was gone.
The last thing he heard as he fled was Blade’s laughter.
‘I don’t know what he finds so funny,’ Eddie told George as they slammed the door behind them.