A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (11 page)

Miltons were, on the whole, the most enthusiastic poet followers. A flick through the London telephone directory would yield about four thousand John Miltons, two thousand William Blakes, a thousand or so Samuel Coleridges, five hundred Percy Shelleys, the same of Wordsworth and Keats, and a handful of Drydens. Such mass name-changing could have problems in law enforcement. Following an incident in a pub where the assailant, victim, witness, landlord, arresting officer and judge had all been called Alfred Tennyson, a law had been passed compelling each namesake to carry a registration number tattooed behind the ear. It hadn't been well received—few really practical law-enforcement measures ever are.

MILLON DE FLOSS
—
A Short History of the Special Operations Network

I
PULLED
into a parking place in front of the large floodlit building and locked the car. The hotel seemed to be quite busy, and as soon as I walked into the lobby I could see why. At least two dozen men and women were milling about dressed in large white baggy shirts and breeches. My heart sank. A large notice near reception welcomed all comers to the 112th Annual John Milton Convention. I took a deep breath and fought my way to
the reception desk. A middle-aged receptionist with oversize earrings gave me her best welcoming smile.

“Good evening, madam, welcome to the Finis, the last word in comfort and style. We are a four-star hotel with many modern features and services. Our sincere wish is to make
your
stay a happy one!”

She recited it like a mantra. I could see her working at SmileyBurger just as easily.

“The name's Next. I have a reservation.”

The receptionist nodded and flicked through the reservation cards.

“Let's see. Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Next, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton. No, sorry. It doesn't look like we have a booking for you.”

“Could you check again?”

She looked again and found it.

“Here it is. Someone had put it with the Miltons by accident. I'll need an imprint of a major credit card. We take: Babbage, Goliath, Newton, Pascal, Breakfast Club and Jam Roly-Poly.”

“Jam Roly-Poly?”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, “wrong list. That's the choice of puddings tonight.” She smiled again as I passed over my Babbage charge card.

“You're in room 8128,” she said, handing me my key attached to a key ring so large I could barely lift it. “All our rooms are fully air-conditioned and are equipped with minibar and tea-making equipment. Did you park your car in our spacious three-hundred-place self-draining car park?”

I hid a smile.

“Thank you, I did. Do you have any pet facilities?”

“Of course. All Finis hotels have full kennel facilities. What sort of pet?”

“A dodo.”

“How sweet! My cousin Arnold had a great auk once called Beany—he was Version 1.4 so didn't live long. I understand they're a lot better these days. I'll reserve your little friend a place. Enjoy your stay. I hope you have an interest in seventeenth-century lyrical poets.”

“Only professionally.”

“Lecturer?”

“Litera Tec.”

“Ah.”

The receptionist leaned closer and lowered her voice.

“To tell you the truth, Miss Next, I
hate
Milton. His early stuff is okay, I suppose, but he disappeared up his own arse after Charlie got his head lopped off. Goes to show what too much republicanism does for you.”

“Quite.”

“I almost forgot. These are for you.”

She produced a bunch of flowers from under the desk as if in a conjuring trick.

“From a Mr. Landen Parke-Laine—”

Blast. Rumbled.

“—and there are two gentlemen waiting in the Cheshire Cat for you.”

“The Cheshire Cat?”

“It's our fully stocked and lively bar. Tended to by professional and helpful bar staff, it is a warm and welcoming area in which to relax.”

“Who are they?”

“The bar staff?”

“No, the two gentlemen.”

“They didn't give any names.”

“Thank you, Miss?—”

“Barrett-Browning,” said the receptionist, “Liz Barrett-Browning.”

“Well, Liz, keep the flowers. Make your boyfriend jealous. If Mr. Parke-Laine calls again, tell him I died of hemorrhagic fever or something.”

I pushed my way through the throng of Miltons and onto the Cheshire Cat. It was easy to find. Above the door was a large red neon cat on a green neon tree. Every couple of minutes the red neon flickered and went out, leaving the cat's grin on its own in the tree. The sound of a jazz band reached my ears from the bar as I walked across the lobby, and a smile crossed my lips as I heard the unmistakable piano of Holroyd Wilson. He was a Swindon man, born and bred. He could have played any bar in Europe with one phone call, but he had chosen to remain in Swindon. The bar was busy but not packed, the clientele mostly Miltons, who were sitting around drinking and joking, lamenting the Restoration and referring to each other as John.

I went up to the bar. It was happy hour in the Cheshire Cat, any drink for 52.5 p.

“Good evening,” said the barman. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Because Poe wrote on both?”

“Very good.” He laughed. “What's it to be?”

“A half of Vorpal's special, please. The name's Next. Anyone waiting for me?”

The barman, who was dressed like a hatter, indicated a booth on the other side of the room in which two men were sitting, partially obscured by shadows. I took my drink and walked over. The room was too full for anyone to start any trouble. As I drew closer I could see the two men more clearly.

The elder of the two was a gray-haired gentleman in his
mid-seventies. He had large mutton-chop sideburns and was dressed in a neat tweed suit with a silk bow tie. His hands were holding a pair of brown gloves on top of his walking stick and I could see a deerstalker hat on the seat next to him. His face had a ruddy appearance, and as I approached he threw back his head and laughed like a seal at something the younger man had said.

The man opposite him was aged about thirty. He sat on the front of his seat in a slightly nervous manner. He sipped at a tonic water and wore a pinstripe suit that was expensive but had seen better days. I knew I had seen him before somewhere but couldn't think where.

“You gentlemen looking for me?”

They both got up together. The elder of the two spoke first.

“Miss Next? Delighted to make your acquaintance. The name's Analogy. Victor Analogy. Head of Swindon LiteraTecs. We spoke on the phone.”

He offered his hand and I shook it.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“This is Operative Bowden Cable. You'll be working together.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” said Bowden quite grandly, slightly awkwardly and very stiffly.

“Have we met before?” I asked, shaking his outstretched hand.

“No,” said Bowden firmly. “I would have remembered.”

Victor offered me a seat next to Bowden, who shuffled up making polite noises. I took a sip of my drink. It tasted like old horse blankets soaked in urine. I coughed explosively. Bowden offered me his handkerchief.

“Vorpal's special?” said Victor, raising an eyebrow. “Brave girl.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Welcome to Swindon,” continued Victor. “First of all I'd
like to say how sorry we were to hear about your little incident. By all accounts Hades was a monster. I'm not sorry he died. I hope you are quite recovered?”

“I am, but others were not so fortunate.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, but you are very welcome here. No one of your caliber has ever bothered to join us in this backwater before.”

I looked at Analogy and was slightly puzzled.

“I'm not sure I understand what you're driving at.”

“What I mean—not to put too fine a point on it—is all of us in the office are more academics than typical SpecOp agents. Your post was held by Jim Crometty. He was shot dead in the old town during a bookbuy that went wrong. He was Bowden's partner. Jim was a very special friend to us all; he had a wife, three kids. I want . . . no, I want
very badly
the person who took Crometty from us.”

I stared at their earnest faces with some confusion until the penny dropped. They thought I was a full and pukka SO-5 operative on a rest-and-recuperation assignment. It wasn't unusual. Back at SO-27 we used to get worn-out characters from SO-9 and SO-7 all the time. Without exception they had all been mad as pants.

“You've read my file?” I asked slowly.

“They wouldn't release it,” replied Analogy. “It's not often we get an operative moving to our little band from the dizzy heights of SpecOps-5. We needed a replacement with good field experience but also someone who can . . . well, how shall I put it?—”

Analogy paused, apparently at a loss for words. Bowden answered for him.

“We need someone who isn't frightened to use
extreme force
if deemed necessary.”

I looked at them both, wondering whether it would be better to come clean; after all, the only thing I had shot recently
was my own car and a seemingly bullet-proof master criminal. I was officially SO-27, not SO-5. But with the strong possibility of Acheron still being around, and revenge still high on my agenda, perhaps it would be better to play along.

Analogy shuffled nervously.

“Crometty's murder is being looked after by Homicide, of course. Unofficially we can't do a great deal, but SpecOps has always prided itself on a certain
independence
. If we uncovered any evidence in the pursuit of other inquiries, it would not be frowned upon. Do you understand?”

“Sure. Do you have any idea who killed Crometty?”

“Someone said that they had something for him to see, to buy. A rare Dickens manuscript. He went to see it and . . . well, he wasn't armed, you know.”

“Few LiteraTecs in Swindon even know how to use a firearm,” added Bowden, “and training for many of them is out of the question. Literary detection and firearms don't really go hand in hand; pen mightier than the sword and so forth.”

“Words are all very well,” I replied coolly, suddenly enjoying the SO-5 woman-of-mystery stuff, “but a nine-millimeter really gets to the root of the problem.”

They stared at me in silence for a second or two. Victor drew out a photograph from a buff envelope and placed it on the table in front of me.

“We'd like your opinion on this. It was taken yesterday.”

I looked at the photo. I knew the face well enough.

“Jack Schitt.”

“And what do you know about him?”

“Not much. He's head of Goliath's Internal Security Service. He wanted to know what Hades had planned to do with the
Chuzzlewit
manuscript.”

“I'll let you into a secret. You're right that Schitt's Goliath but he's
not
Internal Security.”

“What, then?”

“Advanced Weapons Division. Eight billion annual budget and it all goes through him.”

“Eight billion?”

“
And
loose change. Rumor has it they even went over
that
budget to develop the plasma rifle. He's intelligent, ambitious and quite inflexible. He came here two weeks ago. He wouldn't be in Swindon at all unless there was something here that Goliath found of great interest; we think Crometty went to see the original manuscript of
Chuzzlewit
and if that is so—”

“—Schitt is here because I am,” I announced suddenly. “He thought it suspicious that I should want an SO-27 job in Swindon of all places—no offense meant.”

“None taken,” replied Analogy. “But Schitt being here makes me think that Hades is still about—or at the very least Goliath
think
so.”

“I know,” I replied. “Worrying, isn't it?”

Analogy and Cable looked at one another. They had made the points they wanted to make: I was welcome here, they were keen to avenge Crometty's death and they didn't like Jack Schitt. They wished me a pleasant evening, donned their hats and coats and were gone.

The jazz number came to an end. I joined in the applause as Holroyd got shakily to his feet and waved at the crowd before leaving. The bar thinned out rapidly once the music had finished, leaving me almost alone. I looked to my right, where two Miltons were busy making eyes at one another, and then at the bar, where several suited business reps were drinking as much as they could on their overnight allowance. I walked over to the piano and sat down. I struck a few chords, testing my arm at first, then becoming more adventurous as I played the lower half of a duet I remembered. I looked at the barman to order another
drink but he was busy drying a glass. As the intro for the top part of the duet came around for the third time, a man's hand reached in and played the first note of the upper part exactly on time. I closed my eyes; I knew who it was instantly, but I wasn't going to look up. I could smell his aftershave and noticed the scar on his left hand. The hair on the back of my neck bristled slightly and I felt a flush rise within me. I instinctively moved to the left and let him sit down. His fingers drifted across the keys with mine, the two of us playing together almost flawlessly. The barman looked on approvingly, and even the suited salesmen stopped talking and looked around to see who was playing. Still I did not look up. As my hands grew more accustomed to that long-unplayed tune I grew confident and played faster. My unwatched partner kept up the tempo to match me.