The Bone Clocks

Sadaqat removes his glasses and wipes them on his corduroy shirt. “Horology is my family. Partner? I am forty-five. I prefer to go to bed with The Daily Showon my slate, or a Lee Child novel and a cup of chamomile tea. Normal life?” He sniffs. “I have your cause, a library to explore, a garden to tend, and my poetry is becoming a little less awful. I swear, Doctor, every day when I shave I tell myself in the mirror, ‘Sadaqat Dastaani, you are the luckiest schizophrenic, middle-aged, balding, British Pakistani in all Manhattan.”

“If you ever,” I strive to sound casual, “think differently …”

“No, Dr. Marinus. My wagon is hitched to Horology’s.”

Careful,Arkady subwarns me, or he’ll smell a guilty rat.

I can’t quite let it go. “The Second Mission, Sadaqat. We can’t guarantee anyone’s safety. Not yours, not ours.”

“If you want me to go from 119A, Doctor, use your magickery-pokery because I won’t jump ship of my own accord. The Anchorites prey on the psychiatrically vulnerable, yes? If I’d had the correct type of”—Sadaqat taps his head—“soul, they might have taken me, yes? So. Horology’s War is my War. Yes, I am only a pawn, but a game of chess may hinge upon the conduct of a single pawn.”

Marinus, our guest’s arriving, Arkady subinforms me.

With a bruised conscience I tell Sadaqat, “You win.”

Our warden smiles. “I am glad, Doctor.”

“Our guest has arrived.” We walk back to the ironwork to look down on Holly in her Jamaican head-wrap. Across the road, Фshima shows his outline in the room we have above the violin maker’s: I’ll watch the street, he subsuggests, in case any interested parties pass by. Holly approaches the door with the green key I gave her yesterday at the Santorini Cafй. The Englishwoman’s having a very strange morning. On a wand of willow very near my shoulder, a puffed-up red-winged blackbird performs a loop of arpeggios.

“Who’s a handsome devil, then?” whispers Sadaqat.

I SPEAK FIRST. “We’ve been expecting you, Ms. Sykes. As they say.”

“Welcome to 119A.” Arkady’s voice has a teenage croaky waver.

“You’re safe, Ms. Sykes,” says Sadaqat. “Don’t be afraid.”

Holly is flushed after her climb, but upon seeing Arkady her eyes widen: “It isyou … you … you … isn’tit?”

“Yes, I have some explaining to do,” agrees Arkady.

Down in an alley, a dog is barking. Holly’s trembling. “I dreamtyou. This morning! You—you’re the same. How did you dothat?”

“The acne, right?” Arkady brushes his cheek. “Unforgettable.”

“My dream! You were at my desk, in my room, in my hotel …”

“Writing this address on the jotter.” Arkady picks up the sequence. “Then I asked you to bring Marinus’s green key here and go in. I said, ‘See you in two hours.’ And here we are.”

Holly looks at me, at Arkady, at Sadaqat, at me.

“Dreamseeding,” I comment, “is one of Arkaday’s mйtiers.”

“My range is lousy,” says my colleague, showing off his modesty. “My room was across the corridor from yours, Ms. Sykes, so I didn’t have far to transverse. Then, when my soul was back in my body, I hurried back here. In a taxi. Dreamseeding of civilians runs counter to our Codex, but you needed some proof of the wild claims made by Marinus the other day, and we’re at war, so I’m afraid we dreamseeded you anyway. Forgive us. Please.”

Holly’s at a nervous loss. “Who areyou?”

“Me? Arkady Thaly, as of this self. Hi.”

Up in the low cloud an airplane drags itself along.

“This is our warden,” I turn to Sadaqat, “Mr. Dastaani.”

“Oh, I’m just a glorified dogsbody, really,” says Sadaqat, “and normal, like you—well, ‘normal,’ eh? Call me Sadaqat. It’s said ‘Sa- dar-cutt’ with the stress on the ‘dar.’ Think of me as an Afpak Alfred.” Holly looks none the wiser. “Alfred? Batman’s butler. I take care of 119A when my employers are away. I cook. You’re vegetarian, I am told? So are the Horologists. It’s the”—he twirls his finger in the air—“body-and-soul thing. Who’s hungry? I’ve mastered eggs Benedict with smoked tofu, a fine breakfast for a disorienting morning. Could I tempt you?”