David Mitchell - The Bone Clocks

“Yes,” I admit, badly not wanting to get into Atemporals now.

“That Dr. Marinus was my grandfather,” Marinus only sort of lies, “on my Chinese side. But Holly did a great service to my mother, Iris, and her friends back in the twenties. Which may preempt another of your questions, Professor. I owe Holly Sykes a debt of honor, and giving her granddaughter the chance of a pre-Endarkenment life is one way to repay it.”

Mo nods at Marinus’s correct guess. “And you’re so up to speed with current events on Sheep’s Head because?”

“We hack into spy satellites.”

Mo nods coolly, but the scientist within inquires: “Whose?”

“The Chinese array is the best, and the Russian satellites work well in clear conditions, but we stream our images from the last functioning American Eyesat. The Pentagon’s given up on security.”

Rafiq’s incredulous. “You can see what’s going on on Sheep’s Head, from space? That’s like … being God. That’s like magic.”

“It’s neither.” Marinus smiles at the boy. “It’s technology. I saw the fox attack on your chickens, the other night, and you ,” he fondles the ears of Zimbra, who clearly trusts this stranger, “you killer.” He looks at me. “Some months ago L’Ohkna, our IT specialist, detected a tab signal from this area that corresponded to recordings of your voice, Holly, and of course I remembered that you’d retired here, but a chain of crises in Newfoundland distracted us. After the Hinkley Point reactor went critical, though, and we learned about the POC’s withdrawal, I acted with greater urgency, and here we are.” Lorelei’s fiddle catches Marinus’s eye. “Who is the musician?”

“I play a bit,” says Lorelei. “It was Dad’s.”

Marinus picks it up and examines it, like an instrument maker, which for all I know he once was. “Beautiful lines.”

I ask, “What are you doing in Iceland, Marinus?” My feet are hurting too, so I join Mo at the table.

“We operate a think tank. L’Ohkna named it — modestly—‘Prescience’ before I arrived. Roho, who kept an eye on Aoife during your Manhattan week twenty years ago, is with us, plus a handful of others. We have to be more interventionist politically than — than my mother used to be. By and large, the president values our advice, even if we occasionally put the military’s nose a little out of joint.” Marinus plucks the strings on Lorelei’s fiddle, one by one, testing its tone. “Only thirty minutes to settle Lorelei’s future, Holly.”

“It’s already settled,” my granddaughter declares. “I can’t leave Gran and Raf. Or Mo.”

“A noble and worthy response, Lorelei. May I play a few bars?”

Taken a bit aback, Lorelei says, “Sure.”

Marinus takes up the bow, puts the fiddle under his chin, and skims through a few bars of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.” “Warm tone. Is the E-string a little … flat? Holly, a possibility is occurring to you.”

I’d forgotten how Marinus knows, or half knows, what you’re thinking. “If Lorelei left with you— if , Lol — she really would be safer?”

“Indubitably, yes.”

“So that ship in the bay is a lifeboat to civilization?”

“Metaphorically, yes.”

“Commander Aronsson said only Lorelei can go?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Could you turn that one space to two spaces? Using your … y’know …” I do a spell-casting gesture with my hands.

Marinus resembles a lawyer whose line of questioning is proceeding as planned. “Well, now. I’d need to enforce a powerful Act of Suasion on the commander and the lieutenant outside, as they wait; then, as the launch approached the Sjálfstæði , I’d need to transverse to the captain and the first mate and enforce the same act upon them, to ensure poor Rafiq wasn’t returned to shore immediately. Then , during the voyage north, I’d have to renew the Act of Suasion continuously until we were past the point of no return, when all the protagonists would be wondering what had got into them. I won’t lie: It would be a tall, tall order. Only a truly adept follower of the Deep Stream could pull off a trick like that …”

I feel mild annoyance, gratitude, and hope. “You can do it, then?”

Marinus puts down the fiddle. “Yes, but only for Lorelei and Rafiq. Many of the Sjálfstæði ’s crew members have children of their own, so they’ll be unconsciously sympathetic, and much easier to keep suasioned. Perhaps Xi Lo or Esther Little could have squeezed you and the professor aboard, but I know my limits, Holly. If I tried it would all come tumbling down. I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter. In Reykjavik, can Lol and Raf stay together?”

“We’ll find a way.” Marinus’s young eyes are big, gray, and as truthful as Iris Fenby’s. “They can stay with me. We’re housed in the old French consulate. It’s roomy.” He tells Lorelei and Rafiq, “Don’t panic. I’m a more experienced guardian than I look.”

The clock ticks. We have only twenty-five minutes now.

“I don’t quite understand, Holly,” says Raf.

“One moment, love. Lol, if you go, Raf can go with you, up to the land of insulin. If you don’t go, sooner or later there’ll be a medical emergency and … nothing to treat him with. Please. Go.”

Upstairs a door bangs shut. The evening sunlight’s a mandarin color. Lorelei’s on the edge of tears, and if she starts, there’ll be no stopping me. “Who’d look after you ?”

“ I’ll look after her!” Mo acts grumpy to stop Lorelei crumpling.

“And the O’Dalys,” I tell her, “the Walshes and the all-new, fortified Sheep’s Head Republic. I’ll get myself elected Minister for Seaweed, so they’ll give me a guard of honor.” Lorelei’s face is unbearable so I look away at the smiling, fading dead, watching me from the mantelpiece from safer worlds, from beyond wooden, plastic, and mother-of-pearl frames. I stand, and press both kids’ heads against my old, aching sides and kiss the tops of their heads. “I promised your mum and dad, Lol, that I’d look after you, and I promised you the same, Raf. Getting you two on that boat, that’s keeping my promise. Nothing will give me more peace or — or,” I swallow, “joy, than knowing you two are safe from all of — all of,” I sweep my hand in the direction of the town, “oh, what happened today. What’s to come. Please . My two treasures. Give me this. If you—” No. If you love me sounds like blackmail. “Be cause you love me,” my throat’s so tight I can hardly say the word, “go.”

OUR LAST MINUTES together were rushed and blurred. Lorelei and Rafiq hurried upstairs to pack for the two-day voyage. Marinus said they’d go shopping in Reykjavik for warmer clothes, as if shops are the most natural thing in the world. I still dream of shops: Harrods in London, Brown Thomas in Cork, even the big Supervalu in Clonakilty. While the kids were still upstairs, Marinus sat in Eilísh’s chair, shut his eyes, and Harry Veracruz’s body and face went still and vacant, while my psychosoteric friend’s soul went outside to implant a strong, false, urgent memory in the minds of the two officers. Mo watched, fascinated, muttering only that I’d have a lot of explaining to do later. Moments later, Marinus’s soul was back in Harry Veracruz’s skull and the two Icelandic officers appeared, saying that the captain had just that minute told them the president was extending his offer of asylum to Lorelei Örvarsdottir’s foster brother, Rafiq Bayati. Both appeared just a trifle dazed as they spoke, like drunk people trying their best to act sober. Harry Veracruz thanked Commander Aronsson and confirmed that both youngsters would be taking up the president’s offer — and would he kindly have the sea chest sent up from the launch at the pier? The officers went and Mo said that she could think of three laws of physics that Marinus had apparently broken but, given time, she was confident of coming up with a few more.