The Bone Clocks

“We raised the subject,” says Martin, “at the last committee meeting. A few o’ the lads and me’re planning a little excursion up Caher Saddle for a spot o’ turf cutting. Ozzy at the forge has made a—what’s the word?—a compressor for molding turf logs, so big.” Martin’s hands are a foot apart. “Now sure it’s not coal, but it’s a sight better than nothing, and if we don’t leave Five Acre Wood alone, it’ll be No Acre Wood in no time, like. Once we’ve the logs dried, I’ll have Fнonn drop down a load each to you and Mo on his next diesel run to Knockroe Farm—whoever you cast your ballot for. Frost doesn’t care about politics, and we need to look after our own.”

“I’m voting for the incumbent,” I assure him.

“Thank you, Holly. Every last vote will count.”

“There’s no serious opposition, is there?”

Fern O’Brien points behind me to the church noticeboard. Over I go to read the new, large hand-drawn poster:

ENDARKENMENT IS GOD’S JUDGMENT

GOD’S FAITHFULL SAY “ENOUGH!”

VOTE FOR THE LORD’S PARTY

MURIEL BOYCE FOR MAYOR

“Muriel Boyce? Mayor?But Muriel Boyce is, I mean …”

“Muriel Boyce is not to be underestimated,” says Aileen Jones, the ex–documentary maker turned lobster fisherwoman, “and thick as thieves with our parish priest, even if they can’t spell ‘faithful.’ There’s a link between bigotry and bad spelling. I’ve met it before.”

I ask, “Father McGahern never did politics in church, did he?”

“Never,” Martin replies. “But Father Brady’s cut from a different cloth. Come Sunday I’ll be sat there in our pew while our priest tells us that God’ll only protect your family if you vote for the Lord’s Party.”

“People aren’t stupid,” I say. “They won’t swallow that.”

Martin looks at me as if I don’t see the whole picture. I get this look a lot these days. “People want a lifeboat and miracles. The Lord’s Party’s offering both. I’m offering peat logs.”

“But the lifeboat isn’t real, and the peat logs are. Don’t give up. You’ve a reputation for sound decisions. People listen to reason.”

“Reason?” Aileen Jones is grimly cheerful. “Like my old doctor friend Greg used to say, if you could reason with religious people, there wouldn’t be any religious people. No offense, Martin.”

“I’m beyond offense at this point, Fern,” says our mayor.