A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (143 page)

“Haven't a clue.”

He turned off the motorway at Junction 17 and took the entrance ramp back onto the opposite carriageway to do another circuit.

“What did Cindy do before you were married?”

“She was a librarian then, too. She comes from a long line of dedicated Sicilian librarians—her brother is a librarian for the CIA.”

“The CIA?”

“Yes, he spends the time traveling the world—cataloging their books, I presume.”

It seemed as though Cindy was wanting to tell him what she really did but couldn't pluck up the courage. The truth about Cindy might easily shock him, so I thought I'd better plant a few seeds of doubt. If he could figure it all out himself, it would be a great deal less painful.

“Does it pay well, being a librarian?”

“Certainly does!” exclaimed Spike. “Sometimes she is called away to do freelance contract work—emergency card-file indexing or something—and they pay her in used notes, too—in suitcases. Don't know how they manage it, but they do.”

I sighed and gave up.

We drove around twice more. Parks and the rest of the SO-6 spooks had long since got bored and driven off, and I was beginning to get a little tired of this myself.

“How long do we have to do this for?” I asked as we drove onto the Junction 16 roundabout for the seventh time, the sky darkening and small spots of rain appearing on the windshield. Spike turned on the wipers, which squeaked in protest.

“Why, am I keeping you from something?”

“I promised Mum she wouldn't have to look after Friday past five.”

“What are grannies for? Anyway, you're working.”

“Well, that's not the point, is it?” I answered. “If I annoy her, she may decide not to look after him again.”

“She should be grateful for it. My parents love looking after Betty, although Cindy doesn't have any—they were both shot by police marksmen while being librarians.”

“Doesn't that strike you as unusual?”

He shrugged. “In my line of work, it's difficult to know what unusual is.”

“I know the feeling. Are you sure you don't want to play in the SuperHoop?”

“I'd sooner attempt root-canal work on a werewolf.” He pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and weaved around the traffic that was waiting to return to the westbound M4. “I'm bored with all this. Death, drape your sable coat upon us!”

Spike's car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped onto the motorway, so heavy that even with the wipers on full speed, it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the headlights, and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, through the spray of a passing juggernaut, before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.

“Don't you think you'd better slow down?” I yelled, but Spike just grinned maniacally and overtook a car on the inside.

We were going almost a hundred when Spike pointed out the window and yelled, “Look!”

I gazed out my window to the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared, I suddenly glimpsed a sliver of light as faint as a will-o'-the-wisp. It might have been anything, but to Spike's well-practiced eye, it was just what we'd been looking for—a chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.

“Here we go!” yelled Spike, and he pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4 greeted us in a flash, and I had just the barest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as we were airborne, and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn't happen. A moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of night. The rain had stopped, and the inky black sky had no stars. We had arrived.

 

 

 

 

 

 

W
e motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby's Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.

“Looks like we're still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?”

“Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well—and not looking back has something to do with it.”

“Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: We locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?”

“Wow!” I muttered. “You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn't you?”

“It has the benefit of simplicity.”

Spike looked around at the number of people entering the motorway services building. “This gateway isn't just for road accidents,” he muttered, opening the boot of the car and taking out a pump-action shotgun. “From the numbers, I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.”

“So what's changed?”

Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun. “The rise of secularism has a hand in it, but mostly it's down to CPR. Death takes a hold—you come here, someone resuscitates you, you leave.”

“Right. So what's the President doing here?”

Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster. “An accident. He's not meant to be here at all—like us. Are you packing?”

I nodded.

“Then let's see what's going on. And act dead—we don't want to attract any attention.”

We strode slowly down the parking lot towards the motorway services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.

 

We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring a Royal Automobile Club man who tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit, airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big difference. Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the burden of life was pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that although many people were walking
in
the main entrance, not so many people were walking
out.

We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the canteen, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking softly, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.

“Are all these people dead?” I asked.

“Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.” Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us—the Southside services—to the other side, the Northside. I looked out the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge that stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.

“No one comes back, do they?”

“ ‘The undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveler returns, ' ” replied Spike. “It's the last journey we ever make.”

The waitress called out a number. “Thirty-two?”

“Here!” said a couple quite near us.

“Thank you, the Northside is ready for you now.”

“Northside?” echoed the woman. “I think there's been some sort of mistake. We ordered fish, chips and peas for two.”

“You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!”

The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves but got up nonetheless and walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched, their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the motorway. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living, heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God's name was I doing here?

I was interrupted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and pointed. On the far side of the canteen was a frail old man who was sitting by himself at a table. I'd seen President Formby once or twice before, but not for about a decade. According to Dad, he would die of natural causes in six days, and it wouldn't be unkind to say that he looked it. He was painfully thin, and his eyes seemed sunken into his sockets. His teeth, so much a trademark, more protruding than ever. A lifetime's entertaining can be punishing, a half lifetime in politics doubly so. He was hanging on to keep Kaine from power, and by the look of it, he was losing and knew it.

I moved to get up but Spike murmured:

“We might be too late. Look at his table.”

There was a “Number 33” sign in front of him. I felt Spike tense and lower his shoulders, as though he had seen someone he recognized but didn't want them to see him.

“Thursday,” he whispered, “get the President to my car by whatever means you can before the waitress comes back. I have to take care of something. I'll see you outside.”

“What? Hey, Spike!”

But he was away, moving slowly amongst the lost souls milling around the newsagent until he was gone from sight. I took a deep breath, got up and crossed to Formby's table.

“Hullo, young lady!” said the President. “Where are me bodyguards?”

“I've no time to explain, Mr. President, but you need to come with me.”

“Oh, well,” he said agreeably, “if you say so—but I've just ordered pie and chips. Could eat a horse and probably will, too!” He grinned and laughed weakly.

“We must go,” I urged. “I will explain everything, I promise!”

“But I've already paid—”

“Table 33?” said the waitress, who had crept up behind me.

“That's us,” replied the President cheerfully.

“There's been a problem with your order. You're going to have to leave for the moment, but we'll keep it hot for you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't meant to be dead, and the staff knew it.

“Now can we go?”

“I'm not leaving until I get a refund,” he said stubbornly.

“Your life is in danger, Mr. President.”

“Been in danger many times, young lady, but I'm not leaving till I get my ten bob back.”

“
I
will pay it,” I replied. “Now, let's get out of here.”

I heaved him to his feet and walked him to the exit. As we pushed open the doors and stumbled out, three disreputable-looking men appeared from the shadows. They were all armed.

“Well, well!” said the first man, who was dressed in a very tired and battered SpecOps uniform. He had stubble, oily hair and was pale to the point of cadaverousness. With one hand he held an aged SpecOps-issue revolver, and the other was planted firmly on the top of his head. “Looks like we've got some live ones here!”

“Drop your gun,” said the second.

“You'll live to regret this,” I told him, but realized the stupidity of the comment as soon as I had said it.

“Way too late for that!” he replied. “Your gun, if you please.”

I complied, and he grabbed Formby and took him back inside while the first man picked up my gun and put it in his pocket.

“Now you,” said the first man again, “inside. We've got a little trading to do, and time is fleeting.”

I didn't know where Spike was, but he had sensed the danger, that much was certain. I supposed he had a plan, and if I delayed, perhaps it would help.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing much,” laughed the man who had his hand pressed firmly on his head, “just . . . your
soul.
”

“Looks like a good one, too,” said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and was pointing it in my direction. “
Lots
of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run—we won't get much for that.”

I didn't like the sound of this, not one little bit.

“Move,” said the first man, indicating the doors.

“Where to?”

“Northside.”

“Over my dead body.”

“That's the poi—”

The third man didn't finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelt of moldy vegetables. The first man whirled around and fired in the direction of the cafeteria, but I seized the opportunity and ran back into the car park to take cover behind a car. After a few moments, I peered out cautiously. Spike was inside, trading shots with the first man, who was pinned behind the presidential Bentley, still with his hand on his head. I cursed myself for giving up my weapon, but as I stared at the scene—the nighttime, the motorway services—a strong sense of déjà vu welled up inside me. No, it was stronger than that—I
had
been here before—during a leap through time nearly three years ago. I had witnessed the jeopardy I was in and left a gun for myself. I looked around. Behind me a man and a woman—Bowden and myself, in point of fact—were jumping into a Speedster—
my
Speedster. I smiled and dropped to my knees, feeling under the car tire for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover amongst the milling crowds, who scattered, terrified. I cautiously entered the now seemingly deserted services and rejoined Spike just inside the doorway of the shop. We had a commanding position of the stairs to the connecting bridge; no one was going Northside without passing us. I dropped the magazine out of my automatic and reloaded.