The Bone Clocks

The chainsaw roars of Formula racing cars and ackackackackackof 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 fuckd’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.”