A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (139 page)

After an hour they said I could leave, so I plonked Friday into his buggy and pushed him rapidly up to Landen's place. I arrived a bit puffed and had to stop and regain my breath and my thoughts. The house was back to how I remembered it. The tub of
Tickia orologica
on the porch had vanished, along with the pogo stick. Beyond the more tasteful curtains, I could see movement within. I straightened my shirt, attempted to smooth Friday's hair, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell. My palms felt hot and sweaty, and I couldn't control a stupid grin that had spread all over my face. I was carrying Friday for greater dramatic effect and moved him to the other hip, as he was a bit of a lump. After what seemed like several hours but was, I suspect, less than ten seconds, the door opened to reveal . . .
Landen,
every bit as tall and handsome and as large as life as I had wished to see him all these past years. He wasn't as I remembered him—he was way better than that. My love, my life, the father of my son—made
human.
I felt the tears start to well up in my eyes and tried to say something, but all that came out was a stupid snorty cough. He stared at me, and I stared at him, and then he stared at me some more, and I stared at
him
some more, and then I thought perhaps he didn't recognize me with the short hair, so I tried to think of something really funny and pithy and clever but couldn't, so I shifted Friday to the other hip, as he was becoming even more of a lump with every passing second, and said, rather stupidly:

“It's Thursday.”

“I know who it is,” he said unkindly. “You've got a bloody nerve, haven't you?”

And he shut the door in my face.

 

I was stunned for a moment and had to recover my thoughts before I rang the doorbell again. There was another pause that seemed to last an hour but I suspect was only fractionally longer—thirteen seconds, tops—and the door opened again.

“Well,” said Landen, “if it isn't Thursday Next.”

“And Friday,” I replied, “your son.”

“My son,” replied Landen, deliberately not looking at him, “right.”

“What's the matter?” I asked, tears starting to well up again in my eyes. “I thought you'd be pleased to see me!”

He let out a long breath and rubbed his forehead. “It's difficult—”

“What's difficult? How can anything be difficult?”

“Well,” he began, “you disappear from my life two and a half years ago. I haven't seen hide nor hair of you. Not a postcard, not a letter, not a phone call—nothing. And then you just turn up at my doorstep as though nothing has happened and I should be pleased to see you!”

I sort of breathed a sigh of relief. Sort of. Somehow I'd always imagined Landen's being uneradicated as just a simple sort of meeting each other after a long absence. I hadn't ever thought that Landen wouldn't
know
he had been eradicated. When he was gone, no one had known he had ever existed, and now that he was back, no one knew he had gone. Not even him.

“Ever heard of an eradication?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I took a deep breath. “Well, two and a half years ago, a chronupt member of SO-12 had you killed at the age of two in an accident. It was a blackmail attempt by a Goliath Corporation member called Brik Schitt-Hawse.”

“I remember him.”

“Right. And he wanted me to get his half brother out of ‘The Raven,' where Bowden and I had trapped him.”

“I remember that, too.”

“O-kay. So all of a sudden you didn't exist. Everything we had done together hadn't happened. I tried to get you back by going with my father to your accident in 1947, was thwarted and chose to live inside fiction while little Friday was born and return when I was ready. Which was now. End of story.”

We stared at each other for another long moment that might also have been an hour but was probably only twenty seconds. I moved Friday to the other hip again, and then finally he said, “The trouble is, Thursday, that things are different now. You vanished from my life. Gone. I've had to carry on.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly feeling very uneasy.

“Well, the thing is,” he went on slowly, “I didn't think you were coming back.
So I married Daisy Mutlar.
”

 

 

 

 

 

Y
ou did
what?
”

“Well, you did vanish without a trace—what was I meant to do?”

I couldn't believe it. The little scumbag had sought solace in the arms of a miserable cow who wasn't good enough to carry his bag, let alone be his wife. I stared at him, speechless. I think my mouth might even have dropped open at that point, and I was just wondering whether I should burst into tears, kill him with my bare hands, slam the door, scream, swear or all of the above at the same time when I noticed that Landen was doing that thing he does when he's trying not to laugh.

“You one-legged piece of crap,” I said at last, smiling with relief, “you did no such thing!”

“Had you going though, didn't I?” He grinned.

Now I
was
angry.

“What do you want to go and do that stupid joke for? You know I'm armed and unstable!”

“It's no more stupid than your dopey yarn about me being eradicated!”

“It's
not
a dopey yarn.”

“It
is.
If I
had
been eradicated, then there wouldn't be any little boy. . . .”

His voice trailed off, and suddenly all our remonstrations vanished as Friday became the center of attention. Landen looked at Friday, and Friday looked at Landen. I looked at both of them in turn. Then, taking his fingers out of his mouth, Friday said:

“Bum.”

“What did he say?”

“I'm not sure. Sounds like a word he picked up from St. Zvlkx.”

Landen pressed Friday's nose. “Beep,” said Landen.

“Bubbies,” said Friday.

“Eradicated, eh?”

“Yes.”

“That must be the most preposterous story I have ever heard in my life.”

“I have no argument with that.”

He paused. “Which I guess makes it too weird not to be true.”

We moved towards each other at the same time, and I bumped into his chin with my head. There was a crack as his teeth snapped together, and he yelped in pain—I think he had bitten his tongue. It was as Hamlet said. Nothing is ever slick and simple in the real world. He hated it for that reason—and I loved it.

“What's so funny?” Landen demanded.

“Nothing,” I replied. “It's just something Hamlet said.”

“Hamlet? Here?”

“No—at Mum's. He was having an affair with Emma Hamilton, whose boyfriend, Admiral Nelson, seems to be trying to commit suicide.”

“By what means?”

“The French navy.”

“No . . .
no,
” said Landen, shaking his head. “Let's just stick with one ludicrously preposterous story at a time. Listen, I'm an author and
I
can't think up the sort of cr—I mean,
nonsense
you get yourself into.”

Friday managed to squeeze off one shoe despite the best attention of my double knots and was now tugging at his sock.

“Handsome fellow, isn't he?” said Landen after a pause.

“He takes after his father.”

“Nah—his mother. Is his finger stuck permanently up his nose?”

“Most of the time. It's called ‘The Search.' An amusing little pastime that has kept small children amused since the dawn of time. Enough, Friday.”

He took his finger out with an almost audible
pop
and handed Landen his polar bear.

“Ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip.”

“What did he say?”

“I don't know,” I replied. “It's something called Lorem Ipsum—a sort of quasi Latin that typesetters use to make up blocks of realistic-looking type.”

Landen raised an eyebrow. “You're not joking, are you?”

“They use it a lot in the Well of Lost Plots.”

“The
what?
”

“It's a place where all fiction is—”

“Enough!” said Landen, clapping his hands together. “We can't have you telling ridiculous stories here on the front step. Come on in and tell me them inside.”

I shook my head and stared at him.

“What?”

“My mother said Daisy Mutlar was back in town.”

“She has a job here, apparently.”

“Really?” I asked suspiciously. “How do you know?”

“She works for my publisher.”

“And you haven't been seeing her?”

“Definitely not!”

“Cross your heart, hope to die?”

He held up his hand.

“Scout's honor.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “I believe you.” I tapped my lips. “I don't come inside until I get one right here.”

He smiled and took me in his arms. We kissed very tenderly, and I shivered.

“Consequat est
laborum,
” said Friday, joining in with the hug.

We walked into the house, and I put Friday on the floor. His sharp eyes scanned the house for anything he could pull on top of himself.

“Thursday?”

“Yes?”

“Let's just say for reasons of convenience that I
was
eradicated.”

“Yuh?”

“Then everything that happened since the last time we parted outside the SpecOps Building didn't
really
happen?”

I hugged him tightly.

“It did happen, Land. It shouldn't have had, but it did.”

“Then the pain I felt was real?”

“Yes. I felt it, too.”

“Then I missed you getting bulgy—got any pictures, by the way?”

“I don't think so. But play your cards right and I may show you the stretch marks.”

“I can hardly wait.” He kissed me again and stared at Friday while an inane grin spread across his face.

“Thursday?”

“What?”

“I have a son!”

I decided to correct him.

“No—
we
have a son!”

“Right. Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I suppose you better have some supper. Do you still like fish pie?”

There was a crash as Friday found a vase in the living room to knock over. So I mopped it up while apologizing, and Landen said it was okay but shut the doors of his office anyway. He made us both supper, and I caught up with what he was doing whilst he wasn't eradicated—if that makes any sense at all—and I told him about Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, WordStorms, Melanie and all the rest of it.

“So a grammasite is a parasitic life-form that lives inside books?”

“Pretty much.”

“And if you don't find a cloned Shakespeare, then we lose
Hamlet
?”

“Yup.”

“And the SuperHoop is inextricably linked to the avoidance of a thermonuclear war?”

“It is. Can I move back in?”

“I kept the sock drawer just how you liked it.”

I smiled. “Alphabetically, left to right?”

“No, rainbow. Violet to the right—or was that how Daisy liked—Ah! Just kidding! You have no sense of—Ah! Stop it! Get off! No! Ow!”

But it was too late. I had pinned him to the floor and was attempting to tickle him. Friday sucked his fingers and looked on, disgusted, while Landen managed to get out of my hands, roll around and tickle
me,
which I didn't like at all. After a while we just collapsed into a silly, giggling mess.

“So, Thursday,” he said as he helped me off the floor, “are you going to spend the night?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I'm moving in and staying forever.”

 

We put Friday to bed in the spare room after making up a sort of cot for him. He was quite happy sleeping almost anywhere as long as he had his polar bear with him. He'd stayed over at Melanie's house and once at Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's, which was warm and snug and smelt of moss, sticks and washing powder. He had even slept on
Treasure Island
during a visit there I made last year to sort out the Ben Gunn goat problem—Long John had talked him to sleep, something he was very good at.

 

“Now, then,” said Landen as we went across to our room, “a man's needs are many—”

“Let me guess! You want me to rub your back?”

“Please. Right there in the small where you used to do it so well. I've really missed that.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, nothing. Why, did you have something in mind?”