I think of my plate, full each night.

'But I have plenty to eat.'

'My friend,' he continues, without meeting my gaze, 'I cannot pay your food and lodging as well as my own. I would if I could, I swear to you; but I cannot. Not any longer.'

His voice quakes.

'Oh, Alfred. I did not realise.'

I grasp his shoulder and he allows my hand to rest there briefly, eyes darting left to right. After a moment he springs to his feet.

'I must go. I shall see you later. Find work, Abel.'

I lie there and think about the rightness of his words. It is true; I must find work. I cannot expect Alfred to pay for me. I am ashamed that I did not realise this was happening, and curse myself for being so addle-brained. Any fool should have known that something was amiss when there was always food.

The ceiling extends grubby plaster above me. It is high enough for a man to stand, but not much more. It is stained with tobacco smoke and patches of mould spread their dark continents across its map. I consider what I know of the world beyond this room. Alfred wakes me each day; he goes to work; he returns. Sometimes he goes out drinking and I go with him, and drink also, and we return together and sleep. The next thing I know is Alfred shaking me awake once more.

I wonder how I might go about seeking employment. Minutes pa.s.s. Weak daylight grows stronger through the barred windows high in the wall. Further down the line of pallets a man is stirring, and when he stands up I call out to him.

'Are you going to work?' I ask.

He does not answer, sliding into his jacket and coughing as he does so. I ask again, a little louder.

He turns in my direction. 'Oh, it's you. Are you talking to me?' He coughs again and his lungs rattle.

'Yes.'

'Well, I am, then.'

'Do they need men, where you work?'

'Not likely. More men than jobs. You work with Alf, don't you? Down the slaughter-yards?'

I am surprised by his knowledge, but answer yes quickly enough.

'So you've got work.'

'Not any more.'

'You lost it?'

I nod.

'How?'

I do not want to tell him what happened, but I cannot think of what else I might say.

'You are a fool, then. And with something to hide. Don't want one of them working at my place.'

He hacks, spits and grunts with satisfaction at the black oyster of phlegm on the floor. With no farewell, he leaves the cellar. I watch the rest of the men get up from their beds, one by one, until only the smallest handful of us remain.

I dread the day before me, wondering what I can do to fill up the hours, where I might find employment for my hands, for already they are raging in my jacket pockets, clenching and unclenching, worrying at loose threads in the weave, scratching, pulling, needling. I beg them to let me sleep away the time but they rove over the blanket plucking at lice and crushing them so intently I believe I kill every bug in my bedding. When that is done they trail at my sides, picking at splinters in the floorboards.

My mind wanders as aimlessly as my hands. I could follow someone to his place of employment and ask the gaffers if there is need for another man. If they say no, I can come back. I consider what might happen if they say yes. I know how to kill beeves: I do not know anything else. Will they, too, ask how I lost my job at the slaughter-house? My mind scrambles in search of answers, clattering inside the empty tin of myself until I am exhausted.

At last I fall into a drowse and am suddenly in a small room which sparkles with colour and p.r.i.c.kles my nose with the scent of oil. Although it is not the place I sleep, it is very familiar. I feel a rippling run down my spine, and look down at my body, convinced I will discover some change, but I am the same. The walls are lined with clocks of all sizes and types: beehive, carriage, crystal regulator, Vienna regulator, drop trunk, lantern, long case, ogee, skeleton. I know the name of each one, and it fills me with the same pride I felt when I was One-Blow Abel.

I walk amongst them, stroking each cool face of gla.s.s, listening to its particular music. There is other music from the street outside: the voices of pa.s.sers-by sing greetings to each other for such a delightful morning, and I understand each alien word as soon as it is uttered. There is the creaking of great wooden carts, air deliciously soft with the clean scent of horse dung, and further off the smell of a broad river, aching towards the sea.

I am entranced by these distractions but a moment, for a table appears before me, a common wooden thing spread with a smooth black cloth, and upon it lies a selection of wonderful objects: small wheels of bra.s.s, tiny golden cogs, miniature spindles and springs, and each thing sparkling in the sunlight which glances through the window.

I hunch over these treasures and place a gla.s.s lens over my eye, squinting my brow so that it does not fall. The objects leap into clear view, transformed into giants, such is the marvellous power of the eyepiece through which I peer.

My hands hover over the scattered pieces, tweezers poised. There is no anxiety, only an ache to be started. Begin, says the voice of my mind, and they fly to their work. I watch in amazement as they dart this way and that, full of deft comprehension. A wonderful machine forms itself on the table. I know the name of every part I place in its correct setting: engine, fusee, spring, pivot, curb, detent, verge-escapement; and in what seems to be a few moments the watch lies finished upon the tablecloth.

A gentle stroke and it begins to tick, a sound as musical as the voice of an angel. My mouth widens into a smile; my hands dance with pleasure, and the golden workings dance in turn. I need no other to admire my work, to partake in this pleasure.

I see the universe in miniature spin its...o...b..ts: as above, so below. A happiness soars within my breast: I taste delight, peace, understanding, and in it I find myself complete. It is brief, however. The eyegla.s.s drops on to the table and I return to my habitual blank calmness. I sit thus a few moments longer, and then it occurs to me that I must be dreaming; but if so, why do I not awaken? I consider this, looking at the tobacco-stained walls, the chair in the corner which I do not favour because it rocks on the back leg; and it strikes me that this is no dream. I wonder what it might be.

It is a memory, speaks the voice. Like everything else.

A hand shakes me; I turn and am returned to the cellar.

'Alfred?' I say, for there is only one man who does this, and I delight in my cleverness in recalling his name so readily.

'No, it's b.l.o.o.d.y not. Shut your racket, s.h.i.t-head. Going on with yourself like that. I've been slaving all night. Some of us want to sleep.'

I do not recognise the angry face pushed into mine; I sorely wish to return to the quiet room where I was happy and my hands knew what they were doing.

'I am sorry,' I say.

'All right,' he mutters, his anger spent. 'Just keep it down.'

A clever thought comes to me. 'What was I saying?'

'Don't know,' he shrugs. 'Wasn't English. Thought you were English.'

'I am,' I say, and wonder if I am lying. 'I have been to many places.'

This seems a safer answer.

'Haven't we all,' he snorts. He returns to his mattress and is snoring within minutes.

Once more I am reduced to staring at the crackled plaster of the ceiling. Men come and go: the fellow who shook me out of my reverie leaves some time later with a comradely grunt in my direction; others return and sit about smoking, talking and sleeping. I wait for Alfred, full of excitement at the news about myself that I itch to tell him. At last he returns, his boots smelling of meat.

'I am glad to see you,' I say.

He smiles. 'You seem happy: have you found work?'

'No.'

'Oh.' The grin drifts from his face. 'What have you done all day?'

'I have been thinking.'

'Thinking? Christ, Abel, you need money, not thoughts.'

'But I have discovered something. It will bring money.'

He sighs. 'What?'

'Give me your watch.'

'What? It has not worked for years.'

'I want to look at it,' I lie, and turn my face away.

'h.e.l.l's teeth, Abel,' he moans, digging into his shirt and pulling out the battered creature.

He tosses the watch into my lap. It is not a costly piece, but it is the thing Alfred values most, and he keeps it close by him always. I prise it open, unscrew the plate with my fingernail and spill the parts on to my knees.

'Abel!' he shouts. 'What in Christ's name have you done? You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. It was my-'

His voice breaks off. I look at the confusing ma.s.s of metal pieces and feel a fearsome bafflement. What was I thinking? How can a slaughter-man understand the workings of a timepiece? All I have done is make my friend angry.

Then my hands stir, moving so fast I can barely make out what they are doing. I try to shove them into my pockets, but they will not obey me. I watch in amazement as I begin to put the pieces back together; blowing away dust, plucking a stiff straw from the pallia.s.se beneath me and poking it into the little machine. I tell myself I must be making a mess of Alfred's watch, and he is already furious. After a short while my fingers cease their movement, and before me lies Alfred's watch, rea.s.sembled and ticking.

'I believe it is working again.'

He stares at it. 'I believe it is. d.a.m.n you, Abel, where did you learn this?'

'I do not remember.'

'This is a great skill. I always knew you for a clever man.'

He does not ask me any more difficult questions; he simply smiles.

'Abel, I've got an idea. Let us begin straightway.' He clears his throat and shouts. 'Does any man here have a broken watch?'

Most of them laugh, and remark how it would be a fine thing to own such a treasure, broken or not; but one of them approaches us.

'It has never worked,' he says, turning the object over in his hand. 'And the man I got it from told me it never worked for him, neither.'

He rolls it over again, rubbing the scratched and cloudy gla.s.s with his thumb.

'Do you wish to see a fine thing?' says Alfred. 'Give me the watch.'

The man is reluctant.

'Come,' Alfred encourages him. 'There is no harm in it. I shall not spirit it away.'

The man gives up the watch, and Alfred pa.s.ses it to me.

'What?' he exclaims. 'You didn't say anything about him touching it.'

'Trust me.'

'You, Alfred, I trust. That friend of yours ... well, that is a different matter.'

'I have seen him do this.'

Alfred places the watch in my hand. My fingers take this as permission and spring forth, pressing themselves about the silver case, finding straight away how to open it, tapping and coaxing and stroking the tiny bra.s.s wheels.

Once again, I watch my hands at work, moving with such confident facility that my eyes can scarcely follow. At one flick of my fingernail the wheels recommence their miniature revolutions. Alfred and the man gasp, for they have both been holding their breath. A crowd of men have gathered around, and one of them whistles. I cradle the machine a moment, for I am filled with an affection that is entirely familiar; it is a few moments before I can bear to close the case and return the watch.

'It's working!' its owner exclaims. 'I am sorry for doubting you.'

'Thank you.'

'I wouldn't of thought it.'

'It's worth something now,' says Alfred.

'I'd best sell it then, before one of you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds pinches it.' He laughs, and we all laugh with him.

Alfred is cheerful for the rest of the evening. He stands at my side as I pay sixpence for my next night's lodging: the fourpence the man gave me for mending his watch, and the twopence made up of the farthings other men in the cellar gave me 'for the entertainment', as they put it. He goes out to bring in a jug of beer to celebrate my new-found skill. 'And a special gift,' he says. While he is gone, a stranger seats himself beside me, on Alfred's mattress. He pushes out his hand, and I take it. He speaks in a language that I do not know.

'Hoe gaat het?' he says.

'Alles goed?' I reply, without thinking.

'At last!' he declares in his rolling tongue. 'We are countrymen.'

'Perhaps,' I say, for it is best to agree with strangers for as long as is possible. 'What makes you think so?'

'I heard you talking in your sleep today. And now you greet me, and we are speaking. Where do you hail from?' he continues.

The word appears in my mouth as soon as he asks the question. 'Nijmegen,' I say.

'Ah, so beautiful,' he sighs. 'I have an aunt there: she married well.'

'Ah,' I agree, and nod. 'Good luck to a woman who goes east.' The proverb comes easily to my lips, though it is the first time I have heard it.

He laughs, wiping his eyes. 'Good G.o.d, I've not heard that in years.'

'Ah,' I say again, with a lift of my eyebrows that I hope appears clever rather than confused.

My mind is tumbling. I am speaking a language I do not remember learning, and claiming to be a native of a foreign town I have never visited.