The Bone Clocks (39 page)

What?
An exhibition space, opening up deeper and wider and higher even as I marvel that the Maritime Hotel could possibly contain this vastness extending—surely—under the foundations of the neighboring buildings, under the promenade, if not the English Channel. Thousands are perusing the rows and avenues of booths and stalls, and the noise is oceanic. Some are dressed in normal clothes but a majority are costumed: Supermen, Batmen, Watchmen; Doctor Spocks, Doctor Whos, Doctor Evils; a trio of C-3POs, a pair of Klingons, a lizardy Silurian; a file of female Chinese Harry Potters, a stubbly Catwoman adjusting his bra strap and a brace of apes from
The Planet of;
a posse of Agent Smiths from
The Matrix
, a walking Tardis, a blasted Schwarzenegger with bits of T-800 endoskeleton
showing through; banter, laughter, earnest discussion.
What if Aoife fell into this reservoir of weirdos, geeks, and fantasists? How would she ever get out? How will
I
get out?
Through the big doors on the far side, of course, under a banner—
BRIGHTON PLANET CON 2004
. I hurry through the slow flow of browsers of manga, of Tribbles, of T-shirts bragging
TREKKIES DO IT UP YOUR TURBO-SHAFT
, self-assembly
USS Enterprises
, metal die-cast
Battlestar Galacticas
; I pass a Dalek blasting out the lines “Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust”; I dodge an Invisible Man, swerve behind a Ming the Merciless, squeeze between some Uruk-hai, and now I’ve lost the way out, I’ve lost Aoife, I’ve lost my north, south, east, and west, so I ask Yoda which way’s the way and he answers, “Next to the bogs, pal,” and points, and at last I’m in the lobby, and I come between a cub reporter and Judge Dredd.

Out I plunge …

… into the Ready Salted afternoon, froggering between the traffic to the promenade. Horns beep but today I am exempt. The warm weather’s brought out a hellish
Where’s Wally?
of seaside humanity, of families who haven’t lost their six-year-old girl through carelessness, through neglect, and I’d swap my soul for the chance to go back to our room an hour ago and I’d handle Aoife better, and I’d say, “Maybe I was a bit grumpy earlier, sorry, let’s go and see Mr. Silverwind together,” and if only I could have Aoife back I’d give the mystical old bastard my ATM card
and
wipe his arse for a year and a day. Or if I could jump forward an hour in time, after Aoife’s turned up safe and sound, the first thing I’d do is to call Olive Sun and say, “Sorry, Olive, send Hari to interview Dufresne, send Jen.” God, God, God: Let Aoife run through the crowd and jump into my arms. Let no stranger be bundling her into a van—
Don’t go there, just don’t go there
. A jostling river of people flows on and off the pier, I jog upstream, then slow down; mustn’t miss her if she’s walking back this way, looking for Daddy … Keep sweeping the faces, side to side, scan the faces for Aoife’s; don’t think about the headlines reading
DAUGHTER OF WAR REPORTER
DISAPPEARS
or the tearful TV appeals, or the solicitor’s statements on behalf of the Sykeses, the Sykeses, who lived this nightmare once before, the very same one—
TRAGEDY STRIKES TWICE FOR FAMILY OF JACKO SYKES
; those weeks in 1984 when the Captain Marlow was shut “due to Family Circumstances,” read the note on the locked door; the papers reported a few false sightings of a boy who could’ve been Jacko, but never was; and Kath’d say, “Sorry, Ed, she’s not up to seeing anyone today”; in the end I didn’t go Inter-Railing but worked at a garden center on the A2 roundabout all summer. I felt responsible, too: If I’d talked Holly into going home that Saturday evening, instead of picking the lock of that church, Jacko might not’ve gone walkabout; but I fancied her and hoped something might happen; and my phone trills—
Please, God, end this now;
it’s Holly, tough-as-boots Holly, and I’m praying,
Please God Please God let it be good news
, and I say, “Any news?”

“Mum and Dad haven’t seen her, no. You?”

“I’m still walking down the pier.”

“I told the hotel manager. They’ve made an announcement on the PA, and Brendan’s watching Reception. They say the police won’t send anyone for a while, but Ruth’s onto them.”

“Call you as soon as I’m at the fortune-teller’s.”

“Okay.” End call. I’m nearly at the Amusement Arcade—look look look look
look
! A little black-haired girl in a zebra T-shirt and green leggings slips inside the propped-open doors. Christ, that’s her, it’s got to be, and a hand grenade of hope goes off in my guts and I shout, “AOIFE!”

People turn around to spot the madman, but not Aoife.

I dodge between sunburned forearms, ice creams, and Slush Puppies.

The dark interior scrambles my senses. “Aoife!”

The chainsaw roars of Formula racing cars and
ackackackackack
of twenty-second-century laser blasters and the rubbled thunder of bombed-up buildings and—

There she is! Aoife!
Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you
. She’s gazing up at an older girl with a cutoff top and bangles
on a Dance Dance Revolution gamefloor, and I lurch over, kneel at her side: “
Aoife, sweetheart, you mustn’t wander off like this!
Me and Mum’ve had a heart attack! Come on.” I put my hand on her arm. “Aoife, let’s go back now.”

But Aoife turns to me and she’s got the wrong eyes, wrong nose, and a wrong face, and I’m pulled away by a powerful hand, by a well-built man in his fifties wearing a nasty acrylic shirt, and “What the
fuck
d’you think you’re doing with my daughter?”

It just got worse, it really got worse. “I—I—I thought she was my daughter, I lost her, she was … But she—she …”

The guy’s considering dismembering me. “Well, this isn’t her—and you wanna watch it, mate. People get the wrong idea, or even the right idea—know what I’m sayin’?”

“I’m sorry, I—I—I …” I hurtle into the sunshine outside the arcade, like Jonah puked out of a smoky, chip-greasy whale.

This is your punishment for Aziz and Nasser
.

Dwight Silverwind’s my only hope. Sixty seconds away.

He wouldn’t dare interfere with her here. Too public.

Maybe he’ll tell her to wait till Daddy comes along.

Aoife’ll be sitting there, like it’s all a funny joke.

Does Aoife know Holly’s mobile number? Don’t know.

Past a burger stand; a netted basketball booth.

Past a giant teddy bear with a guy inside sweating buckets.

There’s a little girl, gazing down at the lullabying sea.

Dwight Silverwind’s jerks closer and closer, Brighton Pier sways, my ribs curl in, a woman’s knitting outside the Sanctum, and a sign saying
READING IN PROGRESS
hangs on the door. I burst into the dark little cavern with one table, two upholstered chairs, three candles, incense, Tarot cards spread out, a surprised Dwight Silverwind and a black lady in a shell suit—and no Aoife. No Aoife. “
Er
—do you mind if we finish?” says the customer.

I ask Silverwind: “Has my daughter been here?”

The woman stands. “You can’t barge in here like this!”

Silverwind’s frowning. “I remember you. Aoife’s dad.”

“She’s run off. From my hotel, the Maritime. I—I—I thought she …” They look at me like I’m a nutter. I need to vomit. “… might’ve come here.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Brubeck,” Dwight Silverwind’s saying, as if she’s passed away, “but we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of her.”

I grip my skull to stop it exploding, the floor tilts through forty-five degrees, and if the woman hadn’t caught me and sat me in the chair I’d’ve brained myself on the floor. “Let’s get ahold of the situation,” she says, in a Birmingham accent. “We’ve a missing child here, am I right?”

“Yes,” I answer in a wafer-thin voice.
Missing
.

A no-nonsense manner: “Name and age?”

Missing
. “Edmund Brubeck, I’m, uh, thirty-five.”

“No, Edmund. The name and age
of the child
.”

“Oh. Aoife Brubeck. She’s six. Only six!”

“Okay, okay. And what’s Aoife wearing?”

“T-shirt with a zebra on it. Leggings. Sandals.”

“Okay, rapid response is the name of the game, so I’ll call pier security, and ask for the duty guys to watch out for your daughter. You write your number here.” She hands me a pen and a name-card and I scribble my number down. “Dwight, you take Ed back down the pier, combing the crowds. I’ll stay here. If you don’t find her on the pier, go back to the Maritime Hotel and we’ll have another confab. Ed, if Aoife shows up here, I’ll call you. Now go. Go go go go!”

Back outside, my phone goes: Holly, asking, “Is she there?”

My unwillingness to answer gives it away: “No.”

“All right. Sharon’s texting all the wedding guests to search the hotel. Head back here. I’ll be in the lobby with Brendan.”

“Okay: I’ll be right ba—” But she’s ended the call.

Fairground music strobes from the funfair. Might Aoife be there? “They don’t let kids under ten past the turnstyles without an adult’s with them.” Dwight Silverwind’s still wearing his gem-encrusted waistcoat. “C’mon, let’s sweep the pier. Miss Nichols in there”—he nods at his sanctum—“she’ll hold the fort. She’s a traffic warden.”

“What about your”—I gesture at the booth—“you’re working.”

“Your daughter sought me out for a reason this morning, and I believe this is it.” We walk back down the pier, checking every face, even in the arcade. No good. Where the pier ends, or begins, I manage to thank Dwight Silverwind for his help, but he says, “No, no; I sense I’m scripted to stay with you until the end.”

I ask him, “What script?” but now we’re crossing the road and entering the coolness of the Maritime Hotel, where all I have to show for my mad rush down the pier is this wizened druid in fancy dress, who doesn’t even look that weird in this fantasy crowd. Behind the concierge’s desk an operations center’s been set up. A hassled manager, with a phone in the crook of his shoulder, is surrounded by Sykeses and Webbers who all look up at the shite father who caused this unraveling nightmare: Sharon and Peter, Ruth and Brendan, Dave and Kath, even Pauline and Austin. “She’s not on the pier,” I report, redundantly.

Ruth tells me, “Amanda’s up in your room, in case she makes her way back there.”

Pauline says, “Don’t worry now, she’ll show up any minute,” and Austin nods at her side, telling me that Lee’s taken his friends to the beach in case she took it into her head to go for a paddle. Dave and Kath look like they’ve gone through an age-accelerator and Holly scarcely notices I’m back.

The manager tells her, “Would you speak with the officer, Mrs. Brubeck?”

Holly takes the phone. “Hello … Yes. My daughter … Yes—yes, I
know
it’s been less than an hour, but she’s only six, and I want an all-service emergency call to go out now … Then
make
an exception, Officer!… No,
you
listen: My partner’s a journalist at a national newspaper, and if Aoife’s
not
found safe and sound, you are going to regret very, very, very badly if you don’t put that 108 out now … 
Thank
you. Six years old … Dark hair, shoulder length … A zebra T-shirt … No, not stripes, a T-shirt with a zebra on it … Pink trousers. Sandals … I don’t know, wait a moment.”
Holly looks at me, her face ashen. “Was her scrunchie gone from the room?”

I look dumbly. Her what?

“The silver spangly thing she ties her hair back with?”

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. But before Holly can respond, her head lolls back at a weird angle and her face begins to shut down. What’s happening now? Once I saw a diabetic colleague go into what he called a hypo and this looks a lot like that. Sharon says, “Grab her!” and I lurch forwards, but Brendan and Kath have Holly and stop her falling.

The manager’s saying, “Through here, bring her through here,” and Holly is half dragged, half supported into a back office.

Her breathing is now ferocious in-out-in-out and Kath, who took a nursing course in Cork years ago, tells everyone, “Space! Back back back!” as she and Brendan lower her onto a hastily cleared sofa. “Slow your breathing, darling,” Kath tells her daughter. “Nice, slow breaths for me now …” I ought to be next to her but there are too many Sykeses in the way and the office is tiny, and, anyway, whose fault is all of this? I’m close enough to see Holly’s eyes, though, and the pupils shrinking away to almost nothing. Pauline Webber says, “Why’re her eyes doing that?”—and Peter’s shoulder gets in the way—and Holly’s face spasms—and Dave says, “Kath, shouldn’t we call for a doctor?”—and Holly’s face shuts down like she’s lost consciousness altogether—and Brendan asks, “Is it some sort of attack, Mam?”—and Kath says, “Her pulse is going fierce fast now”—and the manager says, “I’m calling an ambulance”—but then Holly’s lips and jaws begin to flex and she speaks the word
“Ten …”
blurrily, like a person profoundly deaf from birth, but huskier and tortuously slow, like a recording at the wrong speed, enunciating the syllable in drawn-out slow motion.

Kath looks at Dave and Dave shrugs: “Ten
what
, Holly?”

“She’s saying something else, Kath,” says Ruth.

Holly forms a second:
“Fiffffff …”

Peter Webber whispers, “Is that English?”

“Holly darling,” says Dave, “what’re you telling us?”

Holly’s shaking slightly, so her voice does too:
“Tee-ee-ee-een …”

I feel I ought to take charge, somehow. I mean, I am her partner, but I’ve never seen her—or anyone—like this.

Peter puts it together: “Ten-fifteen?”

Dave asks his daughter, “Love, what’s happening at ten-fifteen?”

“It won’t mean anything,” says Brendan. “She’s having an attack of some sort.” The pendant with Jacko’s last labyrinth on it slides off the edge of the sofa and swings there. Then Holly touches her head and winces with pain but her eyes are back to normal, and she blinks up at the array of faces frowning down. “Oh, f’Chrissakes. Don’t tell me I fainted?”

Nobody’s quite sure what to say at first.