Write It at Six

"A young doctor came, that last summer. He said the whole thing was nonsense from the old days, and the town agreed." Pavel bowed. "He was right, of course. Gift shop on your left."

"One more video," Ema said at noon. "The last day before it's a party room. Me on the bed in room 9, a cord on my finger. Two minutes."

"No."

"I'm 600 off 10,000 followers, Grandpa."

"Say it to my good ear. It still sounds like no."

In the watchman's room, a bell rang. One bright, small ring.

"Gas," Pavel said, and laughed. "Even now."

Ema filmed it. "Okay, chat. This is the watchman's room. It's the size of a wardrobe. One chair. A glass case with the log book in it."

She swung round to the wall. "And the bell board. 12 brass bells in a row, and under each one a tin flag with a number. Flag 9 is down. Bell 9 is still shaking."

"Old metal ticks in the heat."

"The cords were cut in 1955, Grandpa. You tell every tour." She zoomed in. "That's the end of cord 9, coming out of a hole in the wall. About a hand long. Cut clean. It isn't tied to anything."

"Then it's the heat." He pushed flag 9 back up with his thumb. "There. Fixed."

Jana from the town office came at half past twelve.

"The bride wants tables down both walls," she said. "The band goes in here."

"This is the watchman's room."

"From tomorrow it's the band room. And I have to be gone by three, Pavel. My son swims at four. It's his first race, and if I miss it I'm the worst mother at the pool."

Bell 9 rang again. Long, this time, a shiver that did not stop.

"Do you hear that?" Ema asked.

"Hear what?" Jana wrote band on her plan. "Is the bell board staying? The bride's mother thinks it's sweet. I think some drunk uncle pulls it off the wall."

"It's staying," Pavel said. "It was in the deal. That board was my father's whole life."

"Then the band can play under it. I don't care. I care about three o'clock."

Flag 9 was down again.

"I'll do the yard," Jana said, and went.

"She didn't hear it," Ema said. "How did she not hear it? Give me the key to the case."

"What for?"

"I want the book on camera."

"Okay, chat. The log book." Ema used her radio voice. "Green cloth, soft at the corners. My great-grandad's writing. 4 March 1931. Room 2. Six o'clock. Gas. 9 June. Room 5. Six o'clock. Gas."

She turned pages. "Grandpa, they all say six o'clock. Every bell for 25 years rang at six?"

"He wrote up the book at the end of his shift. He was a tidy man."

"Did he like it? Sitting in here all night?"

"He said it was the quietest job in town."

"Room 9, six o'clock, gas. Room 9 again. 1938, room 9. 1947, room 9. 1952. Grandpa, that's 11 times for room 9."

"It's the cold one. It gets the draught."

She flipped to the end. "Last page. 14 August 1955. Room 9. Six o'clock. Gas. This one's in big round letters. Was he ill?"

"He had a fever, that last summer. I sat up with him that night." Pavel smiled. "I was eight. I thought I was the watchman. Best night of my life."

The bell rang a third time. Ema swung the phone round.

"Chat, the cord is moving. The cut end of cord 9. It's going up into the hole, really slowly. Like somebody on the other side is taking it in."

"Gas," Pavel said, but it came out thin.

"Then look through the tube. Look, and tell me it's gas."

"I don't open that cap."

"Why not? It was his job."

"Because I've told that story 2,000 times, Ema, and I don't like standing in front of room 9. Leave it."

"Fine. I'll do it in there," Ema said. "You film the bell. I film the bed. Two minutes. Count for me."

"Ema."

"After tomorrow it's a band room, and nobody even knows he sat here. Let me put him on the internet. Him and his 312 bells."

Pavel looked at the board for a while. "Two minutes," he said. "Not one second more."

"Room 9. Small. Smells of dust and stone. One bare stone bed. A hook in the ceiling with a red cord on it. That's the room end of cord 9. Old and stiff." She looped it round her finger and lay down. "Hi, everyone. I'm lying where the dead waited. My grandpa's counting."

"One minute," Pavel called, his phone up at the board. "You look very dead. Your mother will be thrilled."

"Shh. I'm being spooky. It's actually cold in here. Coolest room in town."

"That was the point of it, love. Almost two. Your followers have all gone to sleep."

The door of room 9 shut.

Bell 9 rang so fast it hummed. The flag slapped down. The stub of cord in the wall snapped tight like a fishing line.

"Grandpa!" Ema's voice was high and close behind the door. "The door! It's pulling my hand!"

"I'm here. The latch is down. I'm lifting it." He heaved. "It won't move. It's not locked. Something's holding it."

"Something has my hand. Grandpa, there's someone in here. Her hand's so cold."

"Push from your side."

"I can't. She won't let go of me."

"I'm going to look. Talk to me. Keep talking." He put his thumbnail to the brass cap. "It won't lift. It's painted shut." He looked down the row. "They're all painted shut. All 12. Not one chip. Nobody ever lifted them."

"What?"

"He never looked. Not one time in 25 years. He had cotton in his ears, Ema. He couldn't hear a thing. He came out at six and read the flags and wrote gas. 312 bells, and nobody ever looked."

"What does that mean?"

"It means whoever rang, nobody came."

"Grandpa, please!"

He dug the key under the cap. The paint cracked like eggshell, and the cap swung up. He put his eye to it.

"I can see you, love. Your eyes are open. Good girl."

Right beside her face, cheek to her cheek, another face looked up the tube at him.

Its eyes were open.

They moved, and found his.

"There's a woman," he said. "Old. Thin. Her hair's in a net. She's talking. I can't hear her." Then, down the brass, as loud as he could: "I see you. I'm here. I'm looking. I'm opening the door now."

The bell stopped.

The door gave. Ema fell out onto the tiles, the cord round her finger. He caught her and sat down hard.

"It's empty," she said, looking back. "The bed's empty. Grandpa, I got it. I got her face, right next to mine."

"Show me later."

"That's a million views. That's the whole channel."

"Then it's yours," he said. "It's your phone."

She looked at it a long time. Then she pressed delete.

"Who was she?" she asked.

"I don't know," Pavel said. "A name nobody wrote down."

Jana leaned in, shaking her tape. "What was all that shouting?"

"Gas," said Pavel.

Ema pulled the cord off her finger. It left a red ring.

"She held my hand the whole time," she said. "She kept asking me something."

"What?"

"Is it six yet. Over and over. Like a little kid in a car."

"Are you going to tell the tours?"

"There are no more tours, love. It's a band room."

"Then tell me."

The book lay open on the chair in the watchman's room.

"Big round letters," he said. "Pressed in hard. That's how a boy writes when he wants it neat."

"Grandpa."

"I had a fat black pen. There was a lamp on the board. Your great-grandad was asleep in this chair with the fever on him, and cotton in both ears. He said if a bell rang, it was gas. He said, wait, and write it at six."

"Did it ring?"

"All night." He put his hand flat on the page. "I sat on my hands, the way you do when you're eight and good. I watched flag 9 drop, and drop, and drop."

14 August 1955. Room 9. Six o'clock. Gas.

"At six o'clock," Pavel said, "it stopped."