The Bone Clocks

The last house out of the town happens to be Muriel Boyce’s, standing alone after a row of terraced houses. It’s big and blockish, every window has net curtains, and its conservatory is now a greenhouse, like most other conservatories round here. The three houses before Muriel Boyce’s are occupied by three of her four big thumping sons and their wives, who seem to give birth only to boys, so the houses are referred to collectively as “Boyce Row.” I remember Ed saying how in tribal areas of Afghanistan sons mean power; the Endarkenment’s taking us the same way. Crosses are painted over Boyce Row’s windows and doors. Muriel Boyce has always been devout, organizing trips to Lourdes in the old days, but since her husband “was called to the Lord” two years ago—appendicitis—her piety has grown fangs and she’s let the hedge grow tall, though that doesn’t stop her seeing out, somehow. We’ve already passed her house when I hear her call my name. We turn, and she appears at her garden gate. She’s dressed nunnishly and has her lumpish twenty-year-old son, Dуnal, with her. Dуnal wears cutoff shorts and a wife-beater’s vest. “Beautiful evening it’s turned into, Holly. Lorelei, aren’t ye after shooting up tall into a pretty young thing? And hello, Rafiq. What class are ye in at our school up above?”

“Fourth,” says Rafiq, cautiously. “Hello.”

“Lovely day, Lolly,” says Dуnal Boyce, and Lorelei nods and looks away.

Muriel Boyce says, “Ye’re after having fox trouble, I hear?”

“You heard correctly, yes,” I reply.

“Now isn’t that fierce unlucky?” She tuts. “How many birds are you after losing altogether?”

“Four.”

“Four, is it?” She shakes her head. “Any of your best layers?”

“One or two.” I shrug, wanting to move on. “Eggs are eggs.”

“That hound o’ yours got the fox, I gather?”

“He did.” Hoping she’ll ask me to vote for her so I can give a vague reply and go, I say, “I see you’re running for mayor.”

“Well, I didn’t want to, but the Lord insisted so I’m obeying. People’re free to vote as they choose, of course—you won’t catch megiving my friends and neighbors the ‘hard sell.’ ” Father Brady’s doing that for you, I think, and Muriel brushes away a fly. “No, no. It’s about the youngsters,” she smiles at Lorelei and Rafiq, “that I was wanting a word with ye, Holly.”

The kids look puzzled. “I haven’t done anything,” protests Rafiq.

“Nobody’s saying you have,” Muriel Boyce looks at me, “but is it true you’re refusing to let Father Brady speak to them about the Lord’s Good News?”

“Are you talking about the religion class?”

“About Father Brady’s Bible study, yes.”

“We’ve opted out. Which is a private matter.”

Muriel Boyce looks away, sighing over Dunmanus Bay. “The whole parish admired how you’ve rolled up your sleeves, so to speak, when the Lord gave these two to your care—at your point in life. And when one isn’t even your blood! Nobody could fault you.”

“Blood doesn’t come into it.” Now I’m riled. “I didn’t give Rafiq a home because the parish admires me, or because ‘the Lord’ wanted me to—I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

Muriel Boyce’s smile is pained. “Which is ex actly why the parish is so dismayed, now ye’re hell-bent on neglecting their spiritual needs. The Lord’s sodisappointed. Your own angel’s crying, right next to you, right now. Youngsters in these godless times needthe power of prayer more than ever. It’s as if ye’re not feeding them.”

Lorelei and Rafiq look around and see, of course, nothing.

“Oh, I can see all your angels, children.” Muriel Boyce gives a glazed look above our heads, just as prophetesses are supposed to. “Yours is like a bigger sister, Lorelei, but with long golden hair, and Rafiq’s is a man, a darkie but sure so was one o’ the Wise Men, but all three are sad, so sad. Your grandmother’s angel is weeping her blue eyes red, so she is. It breaks my heart. She’s begging ye to—”

“Enough of this, Muriel, f’Chrissakes.”

“Yes, it isfor the sake of Our Lord Jesus Christ that I’m—”

“No no no no no. First off, youare not the parish. Second, I’m afraid the angels you ‘see’ happen to agree with Muriel Boyce too often to be plausible. Third, Lorelei’s parents weren’t churchgoers and Rafiq’s mum was from a Muslim background, so as the children’s guardian I’m respecting their parents’ wishes. We’re done here. Good day to you, Muriel.”

Muriel Boyce’s fingers clutching the top of her gate remind me of talons. “There’s many who were ‘atheists’ when Satan was dazzling them with money, abortions, science, and Sky TV but who’re sorry now they’ve seen what it’s all led to.” With one hand she holds her crucifix towards me as if it’ll awe me into submission. “But the Lord forgives sinners who seek forgiveness. Father Brady’s willing to come and speak with ye—at home. And it’s churches not mosques we have in thispart of the world, thanks be to God.”

Dуnal, I notice, is nakedly eyeing up Lorelei.

I push the pram away and tell the kids, “C’mon.”