Chaos Clock by Gill Arbuthnott

John. It’s a remarkable thing, isn’t it,” he continued, “that something as large as this could lie undiscovered somewhere as busy as Cramond for all that time.”
    Gordon regarded the lion. “Makes you wonder what else is lying around undiscovered, certainly.”
    “It does, doesn’t it? A lot of the things here,” – he waved his hand around to indicate the whole floor of the museum – “must have just looked like muddyrocks when they were found. I’m sure people find it hard to believe that they’ve found something out of the ordinary, or that something extraordinary could happen to them.”
    Gordon had to try hard to take that as a chance remark.
    “I came down here to look at the Duddingston Hoard, but I can’t quite remember where it is, I’m afraid.”
    “Well, that’s certainly something I can help you with. It’s just down here.” Gordon led Mr Flowerdew to the short corridor that sloped down to the circular chamber, warded by its wooden figure. “Just round here.”
    They stood together at the display case, which held the hoard of broken weapons.
    “I wonder what they were like, the people who made these?” mused Gordon. “I often think about all the people who made the things we have, the glass and the steam engines and the swords and the furniture.”
    “Probably they were very much like us, if you discount the differences that clothes and language make. People don’t change very much at heart.”
    “I suppose not.”
    They stood in silent contemplation of the drowned hoard from the loch. After a few seconds, Gordon looked up sharply, frowning.
    “Is something wrong?”
    “No,” he said uncertainly, looking up at the ceiling. “Do you hear that?”
    “Hear what?” asked Mr Flowerdew, glancing about.
    Gordon began to walk round the chamber, still looking up. “There must be something wrong with theair-conditioning.” He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “What an awful noise. That’s never the air-conditioning .”
    Mr Flowerdew stood quite still in the centre of the room as Gordon moved around the edge, pale and looking more distressed by the second.
    “Can you hear that? Can you hear them, the voices? What’s happening?” He was backed up against the curved wall now, eyes wide, sweating.
    Mr Flowerdew looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes.
    The noise stopped.
    Gordon licked his lips and swallowed, breathing hard. “What on earth was that?”
    “There are things you need to know, but not here.” He glanced round. “We should leave this place now.”
    Gordon walked on shaky legs back into the main corridor, faintly surprised to find that everything looked normal.
    “You finish in what … two hours?” Gordon nodded dumbly. “I know that strange things have been happening to you. I can explain what is going on. Will you meet me in the Elephant House Café when you finish work?”
    “All right,” Gordon sighed.
    At twenty past six, Gordon pushed open the door of the Elephant House. He’d spent most of the previous two hours trying to decide whether to come or not, and he wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice. He had no idea what had happened in the round room, but he couldn’t deny that something had. Put that togetherwith the other recent goings on and you had a puzzle that needed to be solved.
    He walked through the busy café to the quieter area at the rear, with its big wooden tables. John Flowerdew sat alone at one of them, doing
The Scotsman
crossword. He looked up as Gordon approached, folded the paper away and rose, smiling. ‘Gordon, thank you for coming. Sit down. What will you have?”
    “A coffee please.” He took his jacket off, suddenly conscious of the museum uniform beneath it, and sat looking round at the other customers while he waited.
    Mr Flowerdew returned after a surprisingly short time with two mugs of coffee and a plate of shortbread. “They let me jump the queue,” he said. “I come in here a lot.”
    Gordon