The Bone Clocks

I say, “Brubeck, Gwyn, Gwyn, Brubeck,” and they nod at each other before Brubeck turns back to me.

“Something’s happened.”

Gwyn gets up. “See you in the penthouse suite.” She gives me a go-for-it-girl look and waltzes off.

I turn back to Brubeck, a bit annoyed. “I heard.”

He looks uncertain. “Then why are you here?”

“It’s on Radio Kent. The three murders. At that Iwade place.”

“Not that.” Brubeck bites his lip. “Is Jacko here? Your brother?”

“Jacko? Course not. Why would he be here?”

Sheba comes running up, barking at Brubeck, who’s hesitating, like someone who’s got abysmal news. “Jacko’s gone missing.”

My head spins as it sinks in. Brubeck tells Sheba, “Shut up!” and Sheba obeys.

I ask feebly, “When?”

“Between Saturday night and Sunday morning.”

“Jacko?” I must’ve heard it wrong, over the noise. “Missing? But … I mean, he can’t be. The pub’s locked at night.”

“The police were at school earlier, and Mr. Nixon came into the exam hall to ask if anyone had information about where you were. I almost spoke up but I’m here instead. Sykes? Can you hear me?”

I’ve got that nasty floaty feeling you get in a lift when you can’t trust the floor. “But I haven’t seen Jacko since Saturday morning …”

“ Iknow, but the cops don’t. They probably think that you and Jacko cooked something up between you.”

“But that’s rubbish, Brubeck—you know it is.”

“Yes, I doknow it is, but you have to tell them that, otherwise they won’t start searching for Jacko as hard as they should.”

My mind zigzags from trains to London, to police frogmen dredging the Thames, to a murderer in the hedgerows. “But Jacko doesn’t even know where I am!” I’m shaking and the sky’s slipped and my head’s splitting. “He’s not a normal kid and—and—and—”

“Listen, listen.” Brubeck’s caught me and is holding my head like a boy about to kiss me, but he’s not. “ Listen. Grab your bag. We’re going back to Gravesend. On my bike, then on the train. I’ll get you through this, Holly. I promise. Let’s go. Now.”

December 13

“B OOMIER FROM THE TENORS,” commands the choirmaster. “Get our firm diaphragms wobbling, boys! Wibble-wobble, wibble-wobble. Trebles, le sss sssybilanccce on the e sss—we aren’t a troupe of Gollums, now, are we?—and tap ou tthose ts. Adrian B—if you can nail the top C in ‘Weep You No More Sad Fountains,’ you can nail it here. Once more with more welly! A-o ne, a-t wo, and a—” King’s College Choir’s sixteen bat-eared choristers, bereft of hairstyles, and fourteen choral scholars exhale in unison …

Of one that is so fair and bright,

Velut maris stella …

Benjamin Britten’s “Hymn to the Virgin” launches, chasing its echoey tail around the sumptuous ceiling before dive-bombing the scattering of winter tourists and students sitting there in the chancel in our damp coats. For me, Britten’s a hit-and-miss composer; prolix on occasion but, when pumped and primed, the old queen binds your quivering soul to the mast and lashes it with fiery sublimity …

Brighter than the day is light,

Parens et puella …

In my idler moments, I do wonder what music I’ll hear as I lie dying, surrounded by a bevy of hot nurses. Nothing more exultant than “Hymn to the Virgin” occurs to me, but I worry that when the big moment arrives DJ Unconscious will launch me off on the back of that “Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight)” and for once in my life I’ll have no redress. World, shut yer mouth, for one of the canon’s most glorious musical orgasms, on the “Cry”:

I cry to thee, thou see to me,

Lady pray thy Son for me …

The hairs on my neck prickle, as if blown on. By her, for example, sitting across the aisle. She wasn’t there when I last looked. Her eyes are closed to drink in the music so I drink her in. Late thirties … vanilla hair, creamy-skinned, beaujolais lips, cheekbones you’d slice your thumb on. Slim beneath a midnight-blue winter coat. A defected Russian opera singer, waiting to meet her handler. You never know, this is Cambridge. A true, rare ten …

Tam pia,

That I might come to thee …

Maria.