The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell

Author:David Mitchell [Mitchell, David]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction, Thriller, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9780812994735
Google: -v3fAgAAQBAJ
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 20875923
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2014-09-02T04:00:00+00:00

MANY COCKTAILS LATER, I’m helping a royally bladdered Richard Cheeseman into the lift and back to his room. “I’m fine, Crisp, I look drunkier than I am, really.” The lift doors open and we step inside. He staggers like a drugged camel in storm-force winds. “Jussamo, I f’got m’room number, I’ll just”—Cheeseman takes out his wallet and drops it—“oh, bumplops’n’pissflaps.”

“Allow me.” I pick up Cheeseman’s wallet and take out the swipe-card in its sleeve—405—before returning it. “There you go, squire.”

Cheeseman nods his thanks and mumbles, “If th’numbers in y’room number add up to nine, Hersh, you’ll never die in it.”

I press 4. “First stop, your room.”

“I’m fine. Icanfindmy—my—my way home.”

“But I’m duty-bound to see you safe to your door, Richard. Don’t worry, my intentions are entirely honorable.”

Cheeseman snonks: “Y’not my type, y’too white’n’too saggy.”

I see my reflection in the mirrored wall, and recall a wise man telling me that the secret of happiness is to ignore your reflection in mirrors once you’re over forty. This year I’ll be fifty. The door goes ping and we step out, passing a lean and tanned white-haired couple. “This place usedt’be a nunnery,” Cheeseman tells them, “fullo’virgins,” and croons an early hit by Madonna. We shuffle along a corridor half open to the Caribbean night. A crooked corner, then 405. I swipe Cheeseman’s card through the lock and the handle yields. “ ’Snottalot,” says Cheeseman, “burra callit home.”

Cheeseman’s room’s lit by the bedside lamp, and the destroyer of my comeback novel staggers over to his bed, trips over his suitcase, and belly-flops onto the mattress. “Notteverynight,” flobbers monsieur le critique, as he succumbs to an onslaught of giggles, “I get escorted home by the Wild Child of British Letters.”

I tell him, Yes, that’s hilarious, and sweet dreams, and if he’s not up by eleven, I’ll call up from Reception. “Ammabs’lutely fine,” he drawls, “I truly, madly, deeply, truly, really am. Really.”

Arms outspread, the critic Richard Cheeseman passes out.

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