A VERY DARK ANGEL Book One; See No Evil

She awoke with a throb in her head, and she grimaced. The throb was annoying and a little painful, because it was like the Hunchback of Notre Dame was ringing his damn bell inside her skull, the clang reverberating and rattling through her delicate membranes.

She felt sluggish and drowsy, and her throat felt as if her saliva had turned into sand. Extremely uncomfortable, she gulped, hoping to encourage moisture to dampen her parched throat, although the gulp had the effect of increasing the intensity of the throb in her head. In pain, uncomfortable pain, a moment ticked by and her pain was briefly replaced by a swirl of confusion, as she became aware of a tick, or a tock.

She opened her eyes, and she saw the clock on the wall in front of her, the second-hand ticking over with mechanical precision, and strangely, or pleasantly, the throb in her head seemed to be running in synch with the staccato rhythm. The clock showed 1.23, although she didn’t know whether it was 1.23am or… ohhh, wait … the minute hand had made a barely discernible move, and it was now 1.24.

1.24 in the day or night? she wondered.

Confused and unsettled, she bit her bottom lip as she gazed around. She was in a room, a dark, gloomy room, a single light bulb offering dull light, and the light allowed her to see that it was now 1.25.

She saw that the wall clock was round in shape, as most wall clocks were; and it featured black numerals on a white background. The numerals were in English, which was good. She didn’t like some of the modern clocks that featured Roman numerals, because while she understood the Roman numerals, a few social activists from California wouldn’t understand them, and other social activists from New York would be offended by them. She could imagine a social activist from California asking, Hey, what time is it? And another social activist would look at the round wall clock with Roman numerals, and reply, It’s XI past IV. In New York, a social activist would ask, Hey, what time is it? And another social activist would reply, I am offended by this clock, because the Roman Empire was indicative of Establishment Authoritarianism Imperialism, so I refuse to acknowledge this clock.

She liked clocks in English numerals, because it helped social activists know what time it was, or maybe for social activists from California and New York, digital clocks were the best and easiest to understand option. She especially liked the old-style round wall clocks in English numerals that had the four little strokes between the English numerals, and except maybe for social activists from California and New York, most people could figure out the exact time. Recently, she saw a triangle wall clock, and while it did have English numerals, they were pink numerals, and the background was red, and alarmingly, all the numerals were squashed into the right hand corner of the clock, while the left hand side of the clock was blank. While she understood that some designers needed to let their creative sides run free, they should let their creative side run free with anything bar wall clocks. If a social activist from California had of been looking at that strange triangle clock with her, and if that activist had asked her, Hey, what time is it? She would have shook her head in bemusement and replied, Golly jingles, I’m not sure. She liked the wall clock in this gloomy room though, because it was a good old-fashioned, easy to read, round wall clock. Centred below the middle of the clock, and above the numeral 6, was the word Swisse, and she wondered whether all clocks were made in Switzerland. Surely other countries could make clocks too. Some countries can make nuclear bombs, and some countries can make rocket-ships that flew to the moon, so surely Switzerland wasn’t the only country who could make round wall clocks with evenly spaced, black English numerals on a white background. She looked at the clock and wondered, if it is 1.25 in New York, what time would it be in Switzerland? Although she understood that it probably wasn’t important. Except to Swiss people. And Swiss clock-makers.

She decided that when the minute hand made the barely discernible move to 1.26, she would then count the ticks from the clock, because she wanted to confirm that there were actually sixty ticks to the minute. It should be easy to do she considered, because the throb in her head had fallen into perfect synch with the ticks.

Although something was strange. She didn’t recognise the clock that had been made in Swisse, and she didn’t recognise this room, and even stranger was the fact that she seemed to be lying down. She lifted her head, and a quick double throb rattled in her brain, although at 1.27, it was confirmed, she was lying down. On a table.

A funny kind of table.

Sherested her head back and waited for the throbs to re-synch with the ticks, and then she slowly processed what she had seen.

The table she was lying on was wooden, maybe six feet in length and four feet wide, and the lower half of the table had been cut away, leaving only a six-inch panel on each side. Funnily, although not really funnily, more strangely, or worryingly; she noticed that the six-inch panels were where her ankles had been tied with rope. A cursory glance to her left, then right, confirmed that her wrists were also tied to the table. If a social activist from New York had of asked her, Hey, what time is it? She would have replied abruptly, Don’t worry about what time it is, because I seem to be tied down on this funny table! Although she did notice that it was 1.28. And, she assumed, she was at Point A.

Squeezing down on another grimace, she had a more thorough look around, and during the thorough look, she saw … him.