The Bone Clocks

“Debt’s debt, Jonny. Toad believes you owe him this money, and I’m afraid I do too, and if you refuse to honor your debt, I’m afraid the gloves would come off. He wouldn’t put a horse’s head in your bed, but he’d involve your family and Humber College, which, by the by, would take a dim view of its good name being dragged through the gutter press.”

Penhaligon hears his future, and it sounds like a bottle-bank heaved off the roof of a multistory car park. “Oh, shit. Shit. Shit.”

“One possibility doesoccur to me—but, no, forget it.”

“Right now, I’d consider anything. Anything.”

“No, forget it. I already know what the answer would be.”

“Spit it out, Hugo.”

Persuasion is not about force; it’s about showing a person a door, and making him or her desperate to open it. “That old sports car of yours, Jonny. An Alfa Romeo, is it?”

“It’s a 1969 vintage Aston Martin Coda, but—sell it?”

“Unthinkable, I know. Better just to grovel at your mother’s feet.”

“But … the car was Dad’s. He left it to me. Ilove it. How could I explain away a missing Aston Martin?”

“You’re an inventive man, Jonny. Tell your family you’d prefer to liquidate your assets and put them in a steady offshore bond issue than tear up and down Devon and Cornwall in a sports car, even if it was your father’s. Look—this just occurs to me now—there’s a dealer in vintage cars here in Richmond. Verydiscreet. I couldpop round before he closes for Christmas, and ask what sort of numbers we’re talking.”

A shuddered sigh from the chilblained toe of England.

“I guess that’s a no,” I say. “Sorry, Jonny, I wish I could—”

“No, okay. Okay. Go and see him. Please.”

“And do you want to tell Toad what’s happening or—”

“Could you call him? I—I don’t think I … I don’t …”

“Leave everything to me. A friend in need.”

I DIAL TOAD’S number from memory. His answering machine clicks on after a single ring. “Pirate’s selling. I’m off to the Alps after Boxing Day, but see you in Cambridge in January. Merry Christmas.” I hang up and let my eye travel over the bespoke bookshelves, the TV, Dad’s drinks cabinet, Mum’s blown-glass light fittings, the old map of Richmond-upon-Thames, the photographs of Brian, Alice, Alex, Hugo, and Nigel Lamb at a range of ages and stages. Their chatter reaches me like voices echoing down speaking tubes from another world.

“All fine and dandy, Hugo?” Dad appears in the doorway. “Welcome back, by the way.”

“Hi, Dad. That was Jonny, a friend from Humber. Wanted to check next term’s reading list for economics.”

“Commendably organized. Well, I left a bottle of cognac in the boot of the car, so I’m just popping out to—”

“Don’t, Dad—it’s freezingout and you’ve still got a bit of a cold. My coat’s there on the peg, let me fetch it.”

“HERE WE ARE again,” says a man, who appears as I shut the rear door of Dad’s BMW, “in the bleak midwinter.” I damn nearly drop the cognac. He’s bundled in an anorak, and shadow from his hood, thrown by the streetlight, is covering his face. He’s only a few paces from the pavement, but definitely on our drive.

“Can I help you?” I’d meant to sound firmer.

“We wonder.” He lowers his hood and when I recognize the begging Yeti from Piccadilly Circus, the bottle of cognac slips from my grip and thumps onto my foot.

All I say is, “ You?I …” My breath hangs white.

All he says is, “So it seems.”

My voice is a croak. “Why—why did you follow me?”

He looks up at my parents’ house, like a potential buyer. The Yeti’s hands are in his pockets. There’s room for a knife.

“I’ve got no more money to give you, if that’s what—”

“I didn’t come all this way for banknotes, Hugo.”

I think back; I’m sure I didn’t tell him my name. Why would I have done? “How do you know my name?”

“We’ve known it for a couple of years, now.” His underclass accent’s vanished without trace, I notice, and his diction’s clear.

I peer at his face. An ex-classmate? “Who are you?”

The Yeti scratches his greasy head; he’s got gloves with the fingerends snipped off. “If you mean ‘Who is the owner of this body?’ then, frankly, who cares? He grew up near Gloucester, has head lice, a heroin addiction, and a topical autoimmune virus. If you mean, ‘With whom am I speaking?’ then the answer is Immaculйe Constantin, with whom you discussed the nature of power not very long ago. I know you remember me.”

I take a step back; Dad’s BMW’s exhaust pipe pokes my calf. The Yeti of Piccadilly couldn’t have even pronounced “Immaculйe Constantin.” “A setup. She prepped you, what to say, but how …”

“How could she have known which homeless beggar you would pay your alms to today? Impossible. And how could she know about Marcus Anyder? Think larger. Redraw what is possible.”

In the next street along a car alarm goes off. “The security services. You’re both—both part of … of …”