Watching The Clock

WATCHING THE CLOCK

By David Neill

Al sat in his armchair, staring at the cuckoo clock and listening to
the bird tolling the
hour as the two ornate black hands pointed to the sky. He liked the
sound of the
cuckoo clock; it brought back happy memories and normally cheered him,
but his
memories had been forever tainted and at that moment nothing, not even
the cuckoo
clock, could cheer him.

He had bought the clock on a trip to Europe thirty-four years before,
as a gift to his
wife Sophie, who had seen it in a shop window and thought it was
exquisite. They had
travelled around Europe for a month on their honeymoon, two young
newlyweds who
held hands and gazed lovingly at each other, swept away by the romance
of foreign
lands.

Not long after their return they discovered that Sophie was pregnant
and several
months later their son Craig was born.

It was the happiest time of Al's life. He had a beautiful loving wife,
a decent home
and now a bouncing baby boy for them to love and cherish.

He remembered Craig as a boy, spirited and so full of life. Everything
Craig done was
at a frantic pace, always running, never walking, and he chattered at
the same rate,
constantly play acting or making observations or more often than not
asking
questions.

Al would take him to the local park where they would play ball or take
long walks in
the woods near their home where they would explore until it was almost
dark.

He enjoyed their outings and his son's vivacious nature but it was
usually a relief
when Craig finally fell asleep at night, although instead of savouring
the quiet Al was
normally asleep soon after, worn out by his son.

Al now sat alone, bathed in the orange glow from the streetlight
outside, the dark
house around him silent, as if holding its breath. He watched the clock
as a minute
passed and the hand snapped to the right with an audible click.

The problems had started when Craig turned sixteen. He was spending
less time at
home and resented his parents the way all teenagers do. He would stay
out until well
after midnight and then would try to quietly stagger back in through
the door,
smelling of alcohol.

Al tried as best he could to discipline the boy but it was useless,
Craig had developed
a complete disregard for his authority. If Al shouted at him, Craig
would shout back,
if Al grounded him, he would sneak out of the house.

This continued for a couple of years until Craig started coming home
with half closed
eyes and an apparent inability to form complete sentences, and it was
clear that he had
moved on from alcohol.

Al and Sophie despaired as they watched their son drift away from them.
He had all
but moved out of the house and when he was at home he either lay on his
bed like a
zombie or barely uttered a word to either of them.

Craig's first arrest was shortly after his twenty first birthday when
he was caught
fleeing the scene after stealing a car that he'd crashed into a brick
wall.

Luckily, as it was his first offence, he escaped a prison sentence and
returned home.
Al attempted to talk to him and persuade him to see the error of his
ways but Craig
was in no mood to listen. The discussion escalated into a full-blown
argument, which
culminated in Craig storming out of the house yelling that he never
wanted to see him
again.

By this time Al's patience with his son was at an end and he felt the
same way.

Sophie pleaded with Al to speak to Craig and mend the rift between
them, explaining
that Craig needed their support and not their condemnation, but Al was
angry and
stubborn, so refused. Craig was lost to them, he'd told her. He was not
the boy they
had raised. The drugs were the only family he had now.

Two months later Al and Sophie had returned from a visit with her
sister to find the
house had been burgled. The television and stereo were gone, along with
all of the
jewellery, and the house had been turned upside down, seemingly more
for the sake of
vandalism than searching for valuables. However there was no sign of
any break in.
The burglar had used a key.

Sophie sat on the couch weeping after her pleas to Al not to call the
police fell on deaf
ears. She was still crying an hour later as Al handed a photo of Craig
to the police.

Sophie was no longer the vibrant, youthful woman she once was. Her
concerns about
her son had taken a toll on her and when Craig was arrested three weeks
later for a
separate incident the strain finally proved too much.

Craig had accosted a man on the street, then dragged him into an alley,
robbed him
and stabbed him in the heart, killing him instantly.

The last time Al saw his son was at Sophie's funeral, a week after
Craig's arrest. Al
had found her dead in the bathroom where she had suffered a heart
attack hours after
hearing the news about Craig. He'd wept as he watched her casket being
lowered into
the ground while Craig stood opposite him, sobbing.

Al avoided his son during the funeral but Craig approached him after
the service
saying only the word, "Dad," in a cracked, strained voice.

Al raised his eyes to his son and took one last look into his once
familiar eyes then he
shook his head and walked away.

He saw in the papers that Craig was implicated in two more murders,
that he was tried
for and eventually found guilty. He was sentenced to death. The
judgement meant
little to Al. As far as he was concerned his son was dead
already.

Years had passed while Craig sat on death row and Al got on with his
now lonely life.

Then he received a letter from Craig saying that he was due to be
executed and that he
would like to meet with his father to talk before his death.

Al had thought of Sophie, the woman he had loved for the greater part
of his life. The
woman he'd kissed, danced with, made love to, set up a home with. The
woman he'd
devoted his life to and who had been driven to an early grave by her
son.

Al balled up the letter and tossed it into the trash.

So now he sat in his armchair and watched as the large hand of the
clock jerked to the
right once more as another minute passed.

Two minutes past midnight.

Craig was dying.

At that moment, needles that would administer a fatal dose of poison
were being
pushed into his arms. Drugs had ruined his life, now they would take
it.

Once again Al remembered the boy Craig had been, the once bright loving
centre of
Al and Sophie's universe. He saw snapshots in his mind of his boy
growing up: his
first smile, his first steps, riding his tricycle, starting school and
then he remembered
the letter he had sent.

Craig had reached out his hand and Al had slapped it away. In a little
over twenty
years Craig had grown from a pure, innocent child into a drunken
teenage delinquent
and then into a murdering junkie. Could his final years in prison have
affected just as
big a change? Could he have cleaned up and repented, reaching out to
his father for
forgiveness? He would probably never know.

Al buried his face in his hands as he thought of his son dying, alone
and rejected, and
for the first time in many years he wept for his son.