The Watch on the Post Box - Part I

I never understood why such few people lived in North Sykes. It is, and I don’t say this lightly, the most beautiful village in the country. One glance from the front window of my house reveals immediately the picturesque beauty of the Southern countryside, the sloping hills and fields populated densely with horses chasing each other through the green - one man trying to keep them under control. The village has just a post office, one small shop and, of course, the post box. The last of these landmarks is seconds walk from where I live, occupying a position halfway down my street, its location being the main reason for anyone coming anywhere near to my world.

 

The village itself is surrounded by miles of fields, with no other village, town or city within a reachable distance. It has a different atmosphere, a chill in the air which tickles the back of one’s neck every morning, even in the summer, when we seemed to bypass the season. This was a quiet place, one which I had chosen for exactly that reason, somewhere in which people could retire, or die peacefully, and one where nobody would pry. I had my own connection with the village; it seemed to govern my outlook on life, calming any dreams or wild aspirations I might have, reminding me that the true secret to happiness is withdrawing. I live alone here.

 

 

I first saw the watch on a Sunday morning. The grey, misty fog which surrounded the village, topping the trees and touching the lawns, impaired my sight for almost ten metres in front of me, the cold biting away at my ankles, which I’d double-socked. I went for strolls like that one every Sunday morning; I would wake up, watch the news for thirty minutes, wander out amongst the village, up through the woods and back home again. I went for these walks as early in the morning as possible, so as to avoid coming into contact with anyone else. After that it would be breakfast (two boiled eggs cooked for exactly four minutes, with soldiers, all of which were cut to specific measurements which I made with a small ruler, it tasted all wrong if the timings or measurements were at all off). I would eat outside, even if the morning were as cold as that particular one.

 

It was utterly silent, but for the barking of a dog in the centre of the village, not a particularly loud creature, but one who had strong enough vocal chords to terrorize all of the village’s single-figure population. The noise was extremely annoying, and I entertained briefly the wild idea of taking it upon myself to silence the dog; nothing sinister, maybe just some ‘shoo’ noises and hand gestures.

 

As I walked along I sighed with every step of my right foot, the sole aching with a consistent sting, despite the memory foam layer I had put on the inside floor of the boot. I stopped to stretch my foot a little, twisting it clockwise and anticlockwise in the hope that the pain would subside, though it didn’t.

 

I looked up and noticed that the CCTV camera, which had been attached to a lamppost on the right hand side of the street (to the village’s initial opposition), had been smashed to pieces. That small camera had caused an enormous stir in our small community, and a long-winded campaign had been mounted against it, though this eventually resulted in its construction anyway. The village’s almost non-existent crime rate was cited as the major reason for its being an unnecessary invasion of privacy. Though I initially thought it peculiar, I realised that one of the more activist members of the village had likely taken it upon themselves to destroy it. I thought nothing more of it, and continued with my morning’s activities, enjoying the fresh feel to the air, the one thing my home couldn’t give me.

 

It was at about that point in my wander that I noticed something different in my morning view; a small black object resting on top of the slightly faded, red post box, whose paint seemed to flake with every gush of wind. I sped up very slightly in excitement to see exactly what the object was. The watch had a black leather strap, a white face with silver lining surrounding it, and roman numerals to signal each hour. It had been smashed with force, the glass covering mostly shattered, barring a few shards which sat, unstable, just higher than the number three. The strap had lost a little of its shine, creating more of a faded black colour - though for the watch’s blatant age, it had been kept well to this point. The watch itself was sat stretched out to reveal its full length, and it seemed to stare back at me with some degree of appeal. I first thought to pick it up and give it in at the post office, thinking that it perhaps belonged to the postman himself, who for some reason may have left it there. I decided against it, leaving the watch behind, expecting it to be gone by the time I took my midweek walk, which I did late on Wednesday nights.

 

That evening the brief nap which I had been taking in front of the fire was interrupted by a sudden flash of red light from the relatively small, chunky and outdated television set which sat in the corner of my lounge, diagonally from the sofa which I was sprawled out on. I awoke to find a spasm of pain darting down my left arm, presumably caused by the position I had slept in. One eye followed the other, and before I knew it I was glued to the 10 o’clock news’ latest flash. I had been watching a documentary on summertime weather patterns before falling into a light unconscious state, but the loud blare of the breaking news reel was enough to wrestle me out of this. It was a typical breaking news headline; a 14-year old boy had gone missing in a Northern seaside town, with an appeal from his Mother asking for anyone who knew anything to come forward. The police had nothing to go on, other than that he was last seen on Saturday night by someone in their town, with the token senior officer giving only a description of the boy’s appearance and height in the brief interview he gave to the BBC cameras, with the stories following this one the usual collection of foreign conflicts, ministerial announcements and religious controversies. I resumed my slumber.

 

Wednesday was much warmer and brighter than Sunday had been. The weather had, regrettably, cheered up a little, and the almost bronze sun gave out an overcast screen across my village. I locked the door behind me, battling with the stiff lock as I did so, before strolling out, down that same street, in just a t-shirt and light jeans. The silence was there again, as was the dog’s bark, but it was quieter this time, as though the very thing which he had wanted to alert to his owner, had vanished.

 

To my surprise, I saw a figure in the distance, walking along the same street that I did, approaching me with a fairly slow pace. As he grew nearer, I spotted the long coat and square-framed glasses of my neighbour, Jim, who smiled as he walked past me, asking how I was.

 

‘Fine.’ I replied. I continued walking, a little annoyed that somebody had interrupted my private time, and considered changing when I walked at on a Wednesday - perhaps I was coming out at a time that everyone else did - and that would be a disaster.

 

The sun cast its beams down into my eyes, lauding its pleasant rays right in front of me. I got a sort of sick pleasure from the weather not being what everyone else hoped it would be, almost as though I didn’t want them to enjoy themselves if I couldn’t.

 

The world had not been very kind to me. I had never met my father, and my mother had been killed in an accident several days after my fourth birthday, though I preferred not to think about it. Thinking about it would only trigger a wave of emotions which I had successfully hidden among my person, hopefully until the day I died.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that same small, black object; the watch was still there. The large crack which the smashed face left in the middle of it had accumulated a small pool of water, which seemed to have spilled out onto the leather, rubbing the colour away very slightly. The watch was still an incredible piece of craftmanship, and I reasoned that it had been there for at least four days, to which nobody had reacted or been alerted. I didn’t enjoy the idea of such a clearly important and sentimental thing remaining out there to absorb all of the North Sykes weather for the foreseeable future, and decided that I would take it to the post office, where I expected someone to have checked if it had been handed in. Glancing at the time on my own watch, I knew that the post office would be shut by this point, and so put the timepiece carefully into the pocket of my jeans, and continued on my walk. I would find a safe place to keep it until the morning. At that point, of course, I didn’t know just how significant that watch was.

 

I don’t have a job. I am, for want of a better word, unemployed. This is not because I’m unskilled, or because I don’t want to work, it is because I was made redundant from my job at Devon Council three months ago. Now my days are spent thinking, and because I think so much, I worry plenty too. I worried quite a bit about that watch, sitting there on the coffee table at the heart of my lounge, almost speaking to me, wanting to tell me what I should do with him. I never did take it to the post office, realising that the postman couldn’t have owned or lost it - he came to that very spot twice a day, and would clearly have retrieved it had he wished to. No - this was different, the watch had been placed carefully on top of that post box for some reason. Perhaps someone had found it in the grass lying to the side of it and decided to put it somewhere safe pending the owner’s return. I decided that this was the most likely explanation, and tried to forget about my responsibilities toward the watch, ditching the mild anxiety it now forced in me.

 

I kept it for the next few days, occasionally taking it out to study in greater detail, feeling the cold of the leather and the prick of the face as I ran my fingers over the architecture. He was a stunning timepiece, and one I and many others would surely have felt privileged to own. He seemed to have a military air, and had perhaps once belonged to a soldier or ex-marine, judging by the weight and design of the wristwear.

 

I was once again interrupted by the bright lights and loud action-movie music of the breaking news headlines. The police continued to struggle in their search for this young boy, with the face of his mother breaking even my own heart, her cheeks red-stained with tears, her body visibly shaking with terror, and perhaps, grief. He had been missing now for 6 days, since last Saturday night.

 

‘Please. Whoever you are, I won’t do anything to you. I just need my son ba-’ Her sentence was cut short as she broke down, landing her face in her hands, breathing very quickly, a police officer’s arm uselessly curled around her.

 

I was surprised to feel the moisture of my own tears running down my face, and my head becoming suddenly heavier, my whole body feeling like a bottle filled beyond capacity, bursting. I hadn’t grown up with my parents, and this boy had lost his father too. His mother had not just lost her husband, but now her son as well. It was at times like that that I reaffirmed my atheism - how could a God do this to his creations?

 

I hadn’t cried like this in so long, and it came out loudly and aggressively, sweeping papers off tables, holding my wet face in my hands and laying out across the carpeted floor, thinking of my own parents; a picture I had seen of my Father and the few memories I held of my Mother. I screamed question after question about my own childhood, gesticulating at the unfairness of my life. Why should any boy have to grow up without his Father? It was wrong for this ever to happen, and I had known this all my life, but never wanted to bring up these feelings again. Every boy should have his Father.

 

Around an hour later, the red flashes and loud music announced yet another development in the case of the abducted boy. A picture of a young man was brought up, covering the full screen. It wasn’t quite a mug shot, but it appeared almost as though he had been preparing to have one taken, judging by the pose which he pulled in this family photo, a christmas tree in the background, arching above him. Cropped out of the larger photo, which was also shown, were the young boy and his Mother, and before the newsreader revealed who he was, I had already made an educated guess. This was the boy’s older brother.

 

‘He’s thought to have been jealous of the bond between James and Tim. Following Tim’s death, David was angry at being pushed out from organizing the funeral and caring for their Mother, feeling that James was blocking him off from them’ detailed a young female correspondent, with short, blonde hair, stood outside of the family home, the famous seaside tower landmark visible in the background. ‘Last night he disappeared from their family home behind me, and hasn’t been sighted since. The police are treating him now as a suspect, and have made a plea for him to come forward.’ I sighed a little at the stupidity of the police in telling a fugitive that he was a suspect -  this was unlikely to encourage anyone to cooperate with them, or to come forward for that matter.

 

I didn’t sleep that night, turning over and over again in my head the images of the separated family. The Father leaving behind the bereft Mother and young boy - who shouldn’t have to deal with grief at such an age. My sheets were drenched with sweat, something which I had probably caused through my own choice to sleep in such thick pajamas.

 

I couldn’t pass the night there any longer, so went downstairs and sat watching the 24-hour news channel, in the hope that an international banking crisis would take my mind off the world’s true horror. I walked into the kitchen, taking out a small mug, the pot of hot chocolate, and the kettle, burning the tip of my finger with the boiling water which I used to make the hot drink, ignoring my already high body temperature. It felt like a home comfort, perhaps even as though my Mother had made it for me.

 

The suited male newsreader seemed to have a smirk on his face, or at least a slight smile at the edges of his mouth, as he told of economic problems in Eastern Europe, but he sullied this immediately, as the story of the young boy was again discussed. A new interview with his mother was being broadcast the following day, as she opened up about her son in a bid to see if anyone could use the information she gave to make any connections they might be able to. With the Northern grey skies behind her, and a blustery wind blowing her hair across her face as she spoke, this evening’s news offered a short preview of what she was to say.

 

‘He and his Dad were very close. They used to go on long adventure walks together, and I’d never know how long they’d be or what time they’d be home, but that made it more of a treat when they eventually did return. I wish nothing more than those two turning up on our doorstep to tell me that they’ve just been on an adventure together, but that they’re home now, back to me.’ She couldn’t cry anymore; her body seemed to make the chest movements to do so but the emotion had been washed entirely from her. ‘They came home one day and James came bounding in; he was so excited about what his Dad had given him. That was three days before Tim went off on service - their last walk together. He came in, proudly holding his wrist up to me, his Dad’s watch not fitting it properly, but that wouldn’t stop him wearing it. It was a beautiful little watch, with a black leather strap and a silver-’