Clock's Ticking

When I set foot out the door, the clock starts ticking. It is nothing, really. I am not in a rush, nor any alarm are set. To be honest, not even a deadline or date is awaiting me. But I do love to keep track of the time to keep my life more upbeat. 

It takes me less than a minute to get downstairs from the second floor where my apartment is. At the bottom of the stairs, Luna Murphy, who lives on the fourth floor, carries a heavy stack of books. The books tilt like an ancient tower, indeed, a tower of knowledge. Behind them hides Luna's pretty little face. She tries to balance the books, and then she sees me. 

“Oh, Jessie. Hi,” She said, preventing the books from falling. “Where are you going?” 

“Central Park. Just walk around and-”

“Oh, great. Will you take the third book back to the library for me, please? I accidentally took it with me and…Oh, be careful with the other books.” 

I pull out the third one from the top. My careless pulling makes her worry and gasp lightly and sharply, like a little birdie. But I got the book out of the pile without causing a landslide. This is a thick book. A novel judged by the delicate, wine-red cover and the golden veins. Yet the title could be barely seen. 

“So, Miss Librarian,” I walk to her side. It is funny to see how she turns her head to look at me like a white-feathered owl. “What’s the trouble? That you have to give this one back…Did you steal it?” 

“No! Of course not.” She smiles and looks away. “I just…don’t need it for now.” 

I toss it up. It's brick-like heavy. But before it could drop back, she says in a hurry, “Make sure it reaches there safely. Please. Give it to Frank. Thank you, Jessie.” 

Then she walks up. Her soft, salmon sundress floats around her legs and wraps around her tiny waist. Her featherly steps lightly drop on the stairs and slowly fade. 

She kept me on pause. Always. 

But now I keep on walking. Through the front gate and into the street. An afternoon tea in the pastry store calls for my presence. It is not yet four o’clock. Then I stop again. Waiting. Just 20 seconds before crossing the street. 

Green light. The people next to me go across too. I hurry in front, pretending I am in a race with old ladies and men with their three-year-olds. 

After a few more steps, I can hear the sound of motors and wheels roaring again behind me. I try to hold the book in a less exhausting way. Under my arm? Over my head? I just can’t find a place to put it. But I hear an arrow of sound-a familiar music-shooting out of my left pocket. It is my phone, ringing like mad. I almost dropped the precious book. It is 04:01 when I turn on the screen. And the call, unimportantly, is anonymous. 

I picked it up and said, “Hello,” in a spooky voice. I don’t even know why. But the person on the other side didn’t seem to care. 

“Hey. I just like…Um…Maybe…Well…So like. I think you should know this.” His voice sounded like a raccoon jumping from log to log over a river. 

“Know what?” I asks. “And who…” 

He cut in, “So like. Stop whatever you are doing. This is like. Bad.” 

“Who are you? Frank? No? A spam?” 

“No, hell, no. I know you. I know who you are.” 

“So a prank?” I certainly don’t know who he is. 

“Nah. This is. Wait a sec.” The other side turned silent. He is probably talking to someone else. I don’t like that. But I want to hear what he has to say. I am not that type of person who sleeps on unfinished sentences. So I watched the time on the screen go second by second. 33. 34. 35. 36. 

“This is serious. Okay? Serious.” He turned his mic back on. 

“Eh, I still don’t know what’s going on. And it sounds bad. But…” I look around. “I’m bored.” 

I can hear a laugh in the background over there. But the guy soon says, “Just go back to your house or whatever. That’s…yeah…that’s.” Another giggle. And some crashing sound. But then he hangs up. Beep. Beep. Beep. 

“Fuck.” I sigh. “Still don’t know what’s goin’ on.” 

It is 04:03, and I am almost at Central Park. It is a deserted part of the city, with gray, haunted buildings where not even the homeless people stay. But it is a shortcut to the Park. And even closer to the Library. 

Unlike other abandoned places, this narrow path is clean, and often smells like fresh soap. 

But not today. Something strange sneaks into my nose. 

I pull the book closer to me. But as I turn at the corner. 

“Shit.” 

I drop the book. It fell off like a dead bird, laying there helplessly, as if it was the one bleeding. 

Indeed. Blood stain. 

And the body is next to the wall. A man who looks like he just got the hang of his job three years ago and is ready to get married. A middle-sized man with his face scribbled by something sharp. His clothes are stained, of course, but almost perfectly worn. His hand clutches to something, yellow-shaded like an old map; drawn with territory of blood. So tempting. A piece of paper the murderer doesn’t want. I don’t want it either. 

I pick up the book and run my hand around it. Nothing wet. That’s a relief. 

Then I look between the walls. It is just enough for two people to walk through side by side. Now there is a body. An anonymous body, no less. Freshly dead. This is not good. I thought. 

Which way should I go? Back? And go to the library another way? It’s 04:14. And by the look of him, close enough to the time he died. The camera on the street has caught me. Maybe I should be more frightened than I already am. Perhaps scream and flee out of the alley. Sounds about right. 

Clock’s ticking. I reminded myself. Listen. It sounds like…A heavy person stomping into an alley? 

There is someone coming in. I can hear the angry footsteps. Steady and strong. 

Then there is only one way. Quite obviously. And seemingly a very intentional excuse not to scream and run out like a chicken. 

Therefore I fasten my pace. Skipping through the trails of blood. Woods and the classic red brick wall covered in waving vines. Soon enough, I am in front of the library. “Four nineteen,” I whisper to myself. Time sure escapes faster than me. And from what exactly? Nothing. 

The door of the library is wide open, and it is way dimmer than usual. No Alice. No Frank Hall. 

I walked in carefully. 

“Frank?” I call. My voice echoed in the hall until it hit a police officer. She walked out from the left side. My sight moves to where she is coming from and sees the poor librarian sitting in front of a police officer, who is taking notes. His hands are together between his thighs; he seems to be handcuffed. 

“He is gone.” The police woman said. This is not a prank. “Who are you?” 

“A friend of his.” 

“Your ID.” 

It would be a lie if I said I don’t have it with me, so I took it out. “I am just here to return a book…for a friend.” 

She took the book I showed her. She looks and flips it. Then she says to the walkie-talkie, “There are some blood samples on this book.” Then to me, “Ms. Jones, you are under arrest.” 

“For murdering?”

“For murdering.” 

“Who?” 

“Frank Murphy. 

Husband of Alice Murphy.”