The Bone Clocks

“You must see some pretty hard-core, full-on stuff, Ed,” says Pete Webber, accountant, keen cyclist, and tomorrow’s groom. Pete’s bat-eared and his hairline’s beating a hasty retreat, but Sharon’s marrying him for love, not hair follicles. “Sharon was saying you’ve covered Bosnia, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Baghdad. Places most people try to get away from.”

“Some journos carve a career in the business pages, others out of the plastic surgery of the stars. I’ve made mine out of war.”

Pete hesitates. “And you’ve never wondered, ‘Why war?’ ”

“Guess I’m immune to the charms of silicone.”

The waitress brings me my Glenfiddich. I look at Pete, Sharon, Brendan and his wife Ruth, Dave, and Kath, Holly’s ever-vigorous Irish mum. They’re still waiting for me to say something profound about my journalistic motives. The Sykeses aren’t without their scars—Holly’s youngest brother, Jacko, went missing in 1984 and his body was never found—but the loss I see, work with, has been on an industrial scale. This makes me different. I doubt this difference is explicable. I doubt even I understand it.

“Do you write to bring the world’s attention to the vulnerable?” asks Pete.

“God no.” I think of Paul White, on my first assignment in Sarajevo, lying dead in a puddle because he wanted to Make a Difference. “The world’s default mode is basic indifference. It’d like to care, but it’s just got too much on at the moment.”

“Then to play the devil’s avocado,” says Brendan, “why risk your neck to write articles that won’t change anything?”

I fabricate a smile for Brendan. “First, I don’t really risk my neck; I’m rigorous about taking precautions. Second, I—”

“What precautions can you take,” Brendan interrupts, “to stop a massive car bomb going off outside your hotel?”

I look at Brendan and blink three times to make him vanish. Damn. Maybe next time. “I’ll be moving into the Green Zone when I go back to Baghdad. Second, if an atrocity isn’t written about, it stops existing when the last witnesses die. That’s what I can’t stand. If a mass shooting, a bomb, a whatever, iswritten about, then at least it’s made a tiny dent in the world’s memory. Someone, somewhere, some time, has a chance of learning what happened. And, just maybe, acting on it. Or not. But at least it’s there.”

“So you’re a sort of archivist for the future,” says Ruth.

“Sounds pretty good, Ruth. I’ll take that.” I rub my eye.

“Are you going to miss it all,” asks Brendan, “after July?”

“After June,” says Holly, cheerfully.

No one sees me squirm. I hope. “When it happens,” I tell Brendan, “I’ll let you know how I feel.”

“So have you got anything lined up, workwise?” asks Dave.

“Ed’s got a lot of strings to his bow, Dad,” says Holly. “Maybe with the print media, or the BBC, and the Internet’s really shaking up the news world. One of Ed’s ex-editors at the FTis lecturing at UCL, now.”

“Well, I think it’s greatyou’ll be settling in London for good, Ed,” says Kath. “We do worry, when you’re away. I’ve seen pictures of this Fallujah place—those bodies they strung up on the bridge! Shocking. And baffling. I thought the Americans won, months ago. I thought the Iraqis hated Saddam. I thought he was a monster.”

“Iraq’s a lot more complicated than the Masters of War realized, Kath. Or wanted to realize.”

Dave claps his hands. “Now we’ve got the chitchat out of the way, let’s get down to the serious stuff: Ed, are you joining us on Pete’s stag do tonight? Kath’ll babysit for Aoife, so you’ve got no excuse.”

Pete tells me, “A few mates from work are meeting me at the Cricketers—a lovely pub, just round the corner. Then—”

“I’d rather stay blissfully ignorant about ‘then,’ ” says Sharon.

“Oh, right,” says Brendan, “as if the hens are going to play Scrabble all evening.” In a stage whisper he tells me, “Male strippers at the Brighton Pavilion followed by a crack den at the end of the pier.”

Ruth play-cuffs him: “You slanderer, Brendan Sykes!”

“Too right,” says Holly. “You wouldn’t catch respectable ladies like us going anywhere near a Scrabble board.”

“Remind me what you’re really up to again,” says Dave.

“A sedate wine tasting,” replies Sharon, “with tapas, at a bar owned by one of Pete’s oldest friends.”

“Wine-tasting session,” scoffs Brendan. “Back in Gravesend they call a piss-up a piss-up. So how about it, Ed?”

Holly’s giving me a go-ahead face, but I’d better start proving what a great father I am while Holly’s still talking to me. “No offense, Pete, but I’m going to wuss out. The jet lag’s catching up with me, and it’ll be nice to spend time with Aoife. Even if she will be fast asleep. That way Kath can join the wine-tasting session, too.”

“Oh, I don’t mind babysitting, pet,” says Kath. “I’ve got to watch my blood pressure, anyway.”

“No, really, Kath.” I finish my Scotch, enjoying the blast-off. “You spend as much time as you can with your relatives from Cork—and I’ll grab an early night, otherwise I’ll be one giant yawn-in-a-suit at the church today. I mean tomorrow. God, see what I mean?”