A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (127 page)

“Fine. Isn't that Lydia Startright?”

I was pointing at a well-dressed female reporter readying herself for a broadcast.

“She's about to interview me. How do I look?”

“Very . . . ecclesiastical.”

“Good. Excuse me.”

He straightened his dog collar and walked over to join Lydia. She was standing next to her producer, a small and curiously unappealing man who was so unoriginal of thought that he still considered it cool and desirable for people in the media to wear black.

“What time is old Zvlkxy due to appear?” the producer asked Joffy.

“In about five minutes.”

“Good. Lyds, we better go live.”

Lydia composed herself, took one more look at her notes, awaited the count-in of the producer, gave a welcoming smile and began.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is Lydia Startright for Toad News Network, reporting live from Swindon. In under five minutes, St. Zvlkx, the obscure and sometimes controversial thirteenth-century saint, is due to be resurrected here, live on regional TV.”

She turned to indicate the weathered pieces of stone, previously ignored by thousands of shoppers but now the center of attention.

“On this spot once stood the towering Cathedral of Swindon, founded by St. Zvlkx in the thirteenth century. Where the wet fish counter now stands was where St. Zvlkx penned his Book of Revealments containing seven sets of prophecies, five of which have already come true. To help us through the quagmire of claims and counterclaims I have with me the Very Irreverent Joffy Next, head of the church of the Global Standard Deity here in Swindon, speaker at the the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx and something of an expert in things Zvlkxian. Hello, Joffy, welcome to the show.”

“Thank you, Lydia,” said Joffy. “We're all big fans of yours at the GSD.”

“Thank you. So tell me, what exactly are the revealments?”

“Well,” he began, “details are understandably vague, but St. Zvlkx wrote a number of predictions in a small book before he vanished in a ‘cleansing fire' in 1292. An incomplete copy of the revealments is in the Swindon City Library, but unlike the work of most of the other seers, who make vague and sweeping generalizations that are open to interpretation, St. Zvlkx's predictions are refreshingly specific.”

“Perhaps you could give us an example?”

“Of course. Part of Zvlkx's Revealment the First tells us that ‘a lowly butcher's son from the town of Ipswich will rise to be Lord Chancellor. His name shall be Tommy Wolsey, and he will be inaugurated the day before Christmas, and shall get only one present, not two, as should be his right. . . .' ”

“That's uncannily accurate!” breathed Lydia.

“Indeed—existing letters from Cardinal Wolsey indicate most strongly that he was ‘vexed and annoyed' at having to make do with only one present, something which he often spoke about and might have contributed, many years later, to his failure to persuade the Pope to grant Henry VIII an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.”

“Remarkable,” said Lydia. “What else?”

“Well,” continued Joffy, “Zvlkx's Revealment the Second told us that ‘it shall be known as the “Sail of the Century”—an armada of over a hundred ships smelling of paella shall cross the Channel. Fire and wind will conspire to destroy them, England shall remain free.' ”

“Not
quite
so good,” said Lydia.

“I agree,” replied Joffy. “Paella wasn't invented until
after
the Spanish Armada. There are the odd mistakes, but even so, his accuracy is astonishing. Not only do his revealments include names and dates but also, on one occasion, a reliable phone number for a good time in Leeds. By the end of the sixteenth century, St. Zvlkx had been afforded that rare hallmark of unbridled Elizabethan success—the commemorative plate. By the time of his next revealment a century and a half later, his supporters and followers had dwindled to only a handful. But when it arrived, this Revealment the Third catapulted Zvlkx back into the world's headlines: ‘In seventeen hundred and seventy-six, a George King numbered three will lose his mind, his largest colony, and his socks. The colony would grow to be the greatest power in the world, but his mind and his socks will stay lost.' ”

“And the fourth?”

“ ‘A man named after a form of waterproof shoe shall trounce a short Frenchman in Belgium.' ”

“Clearly Waterloo—and the fifth?”

“ ‘The evil yet nattily dressed aggressors known as Nasis, whose fear has polarized the nation, will be ejected from these islands by—and I know this sounds really weird—the colony that was mentioned in prediction three. And Denis Compton will score 3,816 runs for Middlesex in a single season.' ”

“Uncanny,” murmured Lydia. “How would a thirteenth-century monk know that Compton batted for Middlesex?”

“He was, and indeed might be again, the greatest of seers,” replied Joffy.

“We know that his Revealment the Sixth was a prediction of his own second coming, but it is the sports fans of Swindon who will really be bowled over by his Revealment the Seventh.”

“Exactly so,” replied Joffy. “According to the incomplete Codex Zvlkxus, it shall be ‘There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of . . .' There is more, but it's been lost. We can ask him about it when he reappears.”

“Fascinating stuff, Irrev. Next! Just one question. Where is he?”

I looked at my watch as Friday stood on my lap and stared that unnerving sort of two-year-old stare at the couple behind us. St. Zvlkx was already three minutes late, and I saw Joffy bite his lip nervously. They had made much of the Great Man's predictions, and for him not to turn up would be just plain embarrassing—not to mention costly. Joffy had spent a great deal of Mum's savings learning Old English at the local adult-education center.

“Tell me, Irrev. Next,” continued Lydia, trying to pad out the interview. “I understand that the Toast Marketing Board has secured a sponsorship deal with St. Zvlkx?”

“Indeed,” replied Joffy. “We at the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx have secured on his behalf a very favorable deal with Toast, who wanted to have exclusive rights to his likeness and wisdom, if he has any.”

“Nevertheless, I understand that the Goliath Corporation was also said to be interested?”

“Not really. Goliath has been less than enthusiastic since their sportswear division paid over two hundred fifty thousand pounds for an exclusive sponsorship deal with St. Bernadette of Lincoln. But since her return six months ago, she has done nothing except brick herself up in a room and pray in silent retrospection, something that doesn't lend itself to selling running shoes. The Toast Marketing Board, on the other hand, made no such demands—they are happy just to see what Zvlkx himself would like to do for them.”

Lydia turned back to the camera. “Astonishing. If you've just joined us, I'm speaking from the live telecast of the second coming of the thirteenth-century saint Thomas Zvlkx.”

I looked at my watch again. Zvlkx was now five minutes late. Lydia carried on her live broadcast, interviewing several other people to soak up time. The crowd grew slightly impatient, and a low murmuring started to arise from the expectant silence. Lydia had just asked a style guru about the sort of clothes they might be expecting Zvlkx to be wearing when she was interrupted by a shout. Something was happening just outside Tesco's between the child's coin-in-the-slot flying-elephant ride and the letterbox. Joffy vaulted over the press enclosure and ran towards where a column of smoke was rising from a crack that had opened up in the mother-and-child parking area. The sky grew dark, birds stopped singing and shoppers coming out of the revolving doors stared in astonishment as a bolt of lightning struck the weathered stone arch and split it asunder. There was a collective cry of alarm as a wind sprang up from nowhere. Pennants advertising new Saver product lines that were hanging limply on the flagpoles opened with a crack, and a whirling mass of dust and wastepaper spread across the car park, making several people cough.

Within a few moments, it was all over. Sitting on the ground and dressed in a rough habit tied with a rope at the waist was a grubby man with a scraggy beard and exceptionally bad teeth. He blinked and looked curiously around at his new surroundings.

“Welcome,” said Joffy, the first on the scene. “I represent the Idolatry Friends of St. Zulkx and offer you protection and guidance.”

The thirteenth-century monk looked at Joffy with his dark eyes, then at the crowds who had gathered closer to him, all of them talking and pointing and asking him if they could have their pictures taken with him.

“Your accent is not bad,” replied St. Zvlkx slowly. “Is this 1988?”

“It is, sir. I'ue brokered a sponsorship deal for you with the Toast Marketing Board.”

“Cash?”

Joffy nodded.

“Thank ?*&£@ for that,” said Zvlkx. “Has the ale improued since I'ue been away?”

“Not much. But the choice is better.”

“Can't wait. Hubba-hubba! Who's the moppet in the tight blouse?”

“Mr. Next,” interjected Lydia, who had managed to push her way to the front, “perhaps you would be good enough to tell us what Mr. Zvlkx is saying?”

“I . . . um, welcomed him to the twentieth century and said we had much to learn from him as regards beekeeping and the lost art of brewing mead. He . . . um, said just then that he is tired after his journey and wants only world peace, bridges between nations and a good home for orphans, kittens and puppies.”

The crowd suddenly parted to make way for the Mayor of Swindon. St. Zvlkx knew power when he saw it and smiled a greeting to Lord Volescamper, who walked briskly up and shook the monk's grimy hand.

“Look here, welcome to the twentieth century, old salt,” said Volescamper, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. “How are you finding it?”

“Welcome to our age,” translated Joffy. “How are you enjoying your stay?”

“Cushty, me old cocker babe,” replied the saint simply.

“He says, ‘Very well, thank you.' ”

“Tell the worthy saint that we have a welcome pack awaiting him in the presidential suite at the Finis Hotel. Knowing his aversion to comfort, we took the liberty of removing all carpets, drapes, sheets and towels and replaced the bedclothes with hemp sacks stuffed with rocks.”

“What did the old fart say?”

“You don't want to know.”

“What about the incomplete Seventh Revealment?” asked Lydia. “Can St. Zvlkx tell us anything about that?”

Joffy swiftly translated, and St. Zvlkx rummaged in the folds of his blanket and produced a small leatherbound book. The crowd fell silent as he licked a grubby finger, turned to the requisite page and read:

“ ‘There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of this, and
only
in consequence of this, a great tyrant and the company named Goliathe will fall.' ”

All eyes switched to Joffy, who translated. There was a sharp intake of breath and a clamor of questions.

“Mr. Zvlkx,” said a reporter from
The Mole
who up until that moment had been bored out of his skull, “do you mean to say that Goliath will be lost if Swindon wins the SuperHoop?”

“That is exactly what he says,” replied Joffy.

There was a further clamor of questions from the assembled journalists as I carefully tried to figure out the repercussions of this new piece of intelligence. Dad had said that a SuperHoop win for Swindon would avert an Armageddon, and if what Zvlkx was saying came true, a triumph on Saturday would do precisely this. The question was, how? There was no connection as far as I could see. I was still trying to think how a croquet final could unseat a near dictator and destroy one of the most powerful multinationals on the planet, when Lord Volescamper intervened and silenced the noisy crowd of newsmen with a wave of his hand.

“Mr. Next, thank the gracious saint for his words. There is time enough to muse on his revealment, but right now I would like him to meet members of the Swindon Chamber of Commerce, which, I might add, is sponsored by St. Biddulph's
^®
Hundreds and Thousands, the cake decoration of choice. After that we might take some tea and carrot cake. Would he be agreeable to that?”

Joffy translated every word, and Zvlkx smiled happily.

“Look here, St. Zvlkx,” said Volescamper as they walked towards the marquee for tea and scones, “what was the thirteenth century like?”

“The Mayor wants to know what the thirteenth century was like—and no lip, sunshine.”

“Filthy, damp, disease-ridden and pestilential.”

“He said it was like London, Your Grace.”

St. Zvlkx looked at the weathered arch, the only visible evidence of his once great cathedral and asked, “What happened to my cathedral?”

“Burned during the dissolution of the monasteries.”

“Hot damn,” he muttered, eyebrows raised, “should haue seenthat coming.”

 

 

“Duis aute dolor in fugiat nulla pariatur,” murmured Friday, pointing at St. Zvlkx's retreating form, rapidly vanishing in a crowd of well-wishers and newsmen.

“I have no idea, Sweetheart—but I've a feeling things are just beginning to get interesting.”

“Well,” said Lydia to the camera, “a revealment that could spell potential disaster for the Goliath Corporation and—”

Her producer was gesticulating wildly for her not to connect “Tyrant” with “Kaine” live on air.