Free Julius and the Watchmaker by Tim Hehir

and they became gradually more solid. Julius, the professor and Mr Flynn progressed towards the wide thoroughfare of Cannon Street. The buildings were just like the London ones but they appeared to be in bad repair and some were leaning at odd angles. Many had extra attics, making a confused and crowded jumble of rooves.
    The London street was fading into the background and the hungry-ghost street was now the more real of the two. Julius noticed vague, spectre-like shadows. As he concentrated on them, he saw that they were creatures similar to the ones he had seen at the Thames and in his room. They were rushing along the street and gazing up at the sky as if they expected it to fall on their heads.
    â€˜Can they see us, Professor?’ said Julius, his words sounding far away to his ears.
    â€˜Not if we keep moving, Julius. We are still vibrating in our own frequency, thanks to my timepiece and the blue light, although we are in their realm now. If we stood still, they would see us as ghostly forms.’
    Julius looked up into the sky. The clouds were even more violently molten and swirling than the London clouds. ‘They must think it’s the end of the world, or something.’
    â€˜No doubt they do, Julius. Now, we must make for the riverbank,’ said the professor. ‘We will be able to get our bearings from there.’
    They turned into a side street and a deep roaring sound grew loud overhead. The sound rattled Julius’s bones. Mr Flynn was shouting something to him, clasping his hands over his ears and hanging onto the rim of his hat at the same time. Julius could not hear what he said but he shielded his ears too, for all the good it did. It was as if he was being consumed by the sound. He could hardly stand up straight, let alone think.
    Julius looked up. A vast shape like a flying whale edged slowly across the sky, casting the street in shadow. There were four propellers as big as waterwheels attached to a cradle slung under the craft. They whistled up a gale in their wake which swirled through the narrow street, slamming doors and windows and pulling a row of shirts from a clothes line. The professor’s hat lifted off his head, slammed against the wall and somersaulted along the cobblestones as if it was running away. Julius was knocked to the ground by the force of the wind and his jacket was almost pulled off his shoulders.
    When the huge craft had passed over them and its drone was fading, Julius got to his feet and examined the dark stain from the cobblestones on the seat of his trousers. Grandfather will have something to say about the state of this , he thought as he tried unsuccessfully to brush it off—then he remembered he was not going home and he stopped trying.
    The professor had retrieved his hat and was likewise trying to brush the greasy soot off the fine grey silk. ‘Totally ruined,’ he tutted to himself and then popped it on his head.
    â€˜What in blue-blazes was that,’ said Julius, trotting to catch up with Mr Flynn and the professor, who were already marching away.
    They passed a hungry ghost creature running back and forth trying to rescue the shirts from windowsills and gutters while at the same time shouting and gesticulating with its fist at the now-empty sky.
    â€˜That, Julius, was a zettmalin. A VC3–62 series, if I am not mistaken,’ said the professor. ‘Invented by and named after Count Grimyll von Zettmalin, one of the finest inventors of the last century.’
    When they arrived at the river, Julius could see the whole molten sky again. He stopped for a moment to take it all in—the silent flashing storm clouds, the flying machine drifting across the river like a whale swimming without a sea. Enormous steel ships with huge wheels on their sides were tied up along the far bank. They had colourful insignias depicting sea monsters painted on their sides and upper decks. Flags as big as a giant’s bed-sheet fluttered