The Timekeepers

Chapter one

It was the sort of hot day when ice-cream vans did a roaring trade. One went past and stopped a little way up the road from where Jake Hepton was sitting on the grass verge. He got up, picked up his school bag, and ambled towards the van, which was now surrounded by a dozen or more kids from the local primary school. Halfway there, he stopped abruptly and checked his pockets. He cursed to himself as he remembered the earlier incident at school - the incident which meant he now had no money for ice cream. He glanced enviously at the crowd queuing by the van before crossing the road and heading for home.

It had been one of those days for Jake. A boring day at school, most of which had been spent day-dreaming at the back of the class. His lunch money had been spent long before the lunch break: the two pound coins he had in his pocket exactly matched the sum Patrick Snooge demanded to stop twisting Jake’s arm behind his back.

Jake wasn’t an unpopular boy by any means – he had as many friends as most other 16 year olds, and he was a key player in the school football team – but he was also one of Snooge’s regular victims. If any of them told a teacher about the bullying, the arm-twisting got more painful, and the price of release doubled. Some of his victims had recently started muttering about how they were going to get back at Snooge, so it should only be a matter of time before the counter-plot was hatched.

School was often quite boring for Jake, especially as the exams approached. He was one of those rare pupils with an ability to absorb information effortlessly. Nothing ever needed to be repeated, and any attempt at revision was usually pointless. Nevertheless, he always tried to make out the work was as difficult for him as it was for his classmates, often by asking questions that he already knew the answer to. At least it ensured the others couldn’t tease him.

It was a trick he had learned soon after starting at secondary school, when he had often been teased about being a swot or a teacher’s pet. The teachers, of course, recognised his natural ability, and were happy to play along with the pretence.

Jake turned into Duckworth Close.

The Hepton family lived at number 23, a detached mock Tudor property surrounded by a low, neatly trimmed hedge. The four bedroom house was easily large enough to accommodate Jake, his parents, his younger sister Alice, and his tortoise Speedy (although, strictly speaking, Speedy had his own purpose built hutch in the back garden). Duckworth Close was a quiet cul-de-sac on the edge of town, almost completely surrounded by fields which were now full of barley and wheat. A public footpath led from the end of the road to a copse of trees in the middle of the fields, where Jake had often made a secret den when he was younger. It was still his favourite place, but nowadays he went there just to relax rather than to build dens. Hardly anybody used the footpath, so Jake regarded the copse almost like his own private property.

As he walked down the road, he noticed Mr Walker at number 11 sitting in his garden under a big sun umbrella. Jake had always liked Mr Walker. He was a kind old man, who appeared to be totally content with his life. Even though he must be over eighty, his garden was immaculately maintained. The weed-free flowerbeds brimmed with a dazzling array of colours, and it looked as though he used nail scissors to cut the grass in preference to a lawnmower. An ornate pond, with a small fountain and a large number of goldfish, stood between the patio and the lawn. It was no surprise that Mr Walker had won the local council’s ‘best kept garden’ award for the last three consecutive years. When asked by the local paper how he managed to maintain such a beautiful garden, he would always reply:

“Time is the secret.”

“Hi, Mr Walker,” called Jake cheerily.

“Afternoon, Jakey,” he replied. “Fancy a glass of lemonade?”