The Bone Clocks

WE FOLLOW THE shore to Knockroe Farm, past the rocks where I harvest carrageen sea moss and kelp, and across the O’Dalys’ lower grazing pasture. Their small herd of Jerseys approaches us, wanting to be milked; not a good sign. The farmyard’s ominously quiet too, and Lorelei points out that the solar panels on the old stables are gone. Izzy said earlier that Declan and the eldest son, Max, went into the village this morning, but Tom or Izzy or their mum, Branna, should be around. No sign of the farm sheepdog, Schull, either, or English Phil the shepherd. The kitchen door’s banging in the wind and I find Lorelei’s hand in mine. The door was kicked in. We pass the manure pile, cross the yard, and my voice is trembling as I call into the kitchen, “Hello? Anyone home?”

No reply. The wind trundles a can along.

Branna’s wind chime’s chiming by the half-open window.

Lorelei shouts as loud as she dares: “IZZY! IT’S US!”

I’m afraid to go farther into the house.

The breakfast plates are still in the sink.

“Gran?” Lorelei’s as scared as me. “Do you think …”

“I don’t know, love,” I tell her. “You wait outside, I’ll—”

“Lol? Lol!” It’s Izzy, with Branna and Tom following, crossing the yard behind us. Tom and Izzy look unhurt but shaken, but Branna O’Daly, a black-haired no-nonsense woman of fifty, has blood all over her overalls. I almost shriek, “Branna! Are you hurt?” Branna’s as puzzled as I am horrified, then realizes: “Oh, Mother of Jesus, Holly, no no no, it’s not a gunshot wound, it’s one of our cows, calving. The Connollys’ bull got into the paddock last spring, and she went into labor earlier. Timing, eh? She didn’t know that the Cordon’d fallen and gangs of outlaws were roaming the countryside taking solar panels at gunpoint. A messy breech birth, too. Still, she gave birth to a female, so one more milker.”

“They took your panels, Branna,” says Lorelei.

“I know, pet. Nothing I could do to stop them. Did they pay a courtesy call down Dooneen track, I wonder?”

“They stole Mo’s panels off her roof too,” I say, “but when they heard the explosion they left, before they took mine.”

“Yes, our crew cleared off at the same time.”

I ask Branna, “What about Declan and Max?” and she shrugs and shakes her head.

“They’re not back from the village,” says Tom, adding disgustedly, “Mam won’t let me go and find them.”

“Two out of three O’Daly males in a war zone is enough.” Branna’s worried sick. “Da told you to defend the home front.”

“You made me hide,” Tom’s sixteen-year-old voice cracks, “in the fecking hay loft with Izzy! That’s not defending.”

“I made you hide in the what?” says Branna, icily.

Tom scowls, just as icily. “In the loft with Izzy. But why—”

“Eight bandits with the latest Chinese automatics,” Izzy tells him, “versus one teenager with a thirty-year-old rifle. Guess the score, Tom. Anyway: I believe I hear a bicycle. Speak of the devil?”

Tom has only just time to say, “What?” before Schull starts barking at the farm gate, wagging his tail, and round the corner—on a mountain bike—comes Tom’s brother Max.

He skids to a halt a few yards away. He’s got a nasty gash across one cheekbone and wild eyes. Something terrible’s happened.

“Max!” Branna looks appalled. “Where’s Da? What’s happened?”

“Dad’s—Dad’s,” Max’s voice wobbles, “alive. Are you all all right?”

“Yes, thanks be to God—but your eye, boy!”

“It’s fine, Ma, just a bit of stone from a … The fuel depot got blown to feckereens and—”

His mum’s hugging Max too tight for him to speak. “What’s with all the cussing in this house?” says Branna, over his shoulder. “Your father and I didn’t raise you to speak like a gang o’ feckin’ gurriers, did we? Now tell us what happened.”