The Bone Clocks

“Either she went to find you, or to your mum and dad’s room, or … or she’s gone to the fortune-teller down the pier. You go to your parents’ room. And tell Reception not to let a six-year-old girl in a—in a”— fuck, what was she wearing?—“a zebra T-shirt out of the building on her own. I’ll check the pier.” I ram my feet into my shoes, and as I leave the room Holly calls out, “Have you got your phone?” and I check and call back, “Yeah,” then hurry into the corridor, down to the lifts where two old ladies from Agatha Christie in flowery frocks are waiting by an aspidistra of prehistoric size in a vast bronze pot and I punch the Down button, but no lift comes, and I punch it and realize I’ve been mumbling, “Shit shit shit shit shit,” and the ladies are glaring, and finally it arrives, opens, and a Darth Vader points upwards with his light sabre and says, “Going up?” in a Belfast accent, and I’m walloped in the nuts by an image of Aoife up on the roof, so I get in. Miss Marple says, “We’re going down, but I must say your costume’s splendid.” No, what am I thinking? Any door onto the roof’d be locked, that’s stupid. Health and Safety. And, anyway, Aoife’s on the pier. I get out, just as the doors close, and bark my shin, making the doors open again and Darth Vader says, “Make your mind up, pal.” To the stairs. I follow the arrow marked STAIRS to another arrow marked STAIRS and follow that arrow to another and another and another. The carpet muffles my footfalls. Up ahead the two old ladies are getting into the lift so I shout, “HOLD THAT LIFT FOR ME!” and spring, like Michael Jordan, but trip over my undone laces and slide ten yards, friction-burning my Adam’s apple and the doors rumble shut, and maybe the Agatha Christies could’ve held the lift for me and maybe they couldn’t but they didn’t, the bitches, and I hammer the button with my thumb but the bastard thing’s gone and my trusting, innocent daughter’s getting closer to that man on the pier, with his own lockable booth, who probably doesn’t even bother with underpants underneath his Merlin robes. I do up my laces, and step back, and the lift stops at “7,” and about a decade later it moves down to “6,” and stays there another decade, and a scream’s welling up, and then I notice stairs through a glass door, behind the aspidistra. For fuck’s sake! Down the echoey stairwell I pound, like an action hero with dodgy knees, but what sort of action hero nods off while he’s minding his only daughter, his only lovely, funny, perfect, fragile daughter? Down I run, floor after floor, on my Journey to the Center of the Earth, the smell of paint getting fumier, and past a decorator on stepladders: “Bloody hell take it easy mate or yer’ll slip and dash yer brains out!” I reach a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT with a grimy little window and a view of an underground loading bay, so it’s the back of the building when I need the front, and the door’s locked anyway, and why didn’t I just wait for the bloody lift? I hurtle along a service passage, skidding past a sign marked LEVEL ZERO ACCESS, and what’s this prodding certainty that I’m in a labyrinth not only of turnings and doors but decisions and priorities, that I’ve been in it not just a minute or two but ages, years, and that I took some bad turns many years ago that I can’t get back to, and I slam against a door marked ACCESS and turn the handle and pull but it doesn’t open—that’s because you’re supposed to push so I push—