The Bone Clocks

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 willI 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 andwipe 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!”