A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (158 page)

I said, “I know what you mean.”

I didn't, having never lost a son, but it seemed the right thing to say.

We sat with her for two hours while the light failed outside and the fluorescents flickered on.

When we had been there another two hours, Mrs. Next said, “I'm going to go now, but I'll be back in the morning. You should try and get some sleep.”

I said, “I know. I'm just going to stay here for another five minutes.”

I stayed there for another hour. A kindly nurse brought me a cup of tea, and I ate some Battenberg. I got home at eleven. Joffy was waiting for me. He told me that he had put Friday to bed and asked me how his sister was.

I said, “It's not looking very good, Joff.”

He patted me on the shoulder, gave me a hug and told me that everyone at the GSD had joined the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx and the Sisters of Eternal Punctuality to pray for her, which was good of him, and them.

I sat on the sofa for a long time, until there was a gentle knock at the kitchen door. I opened it to find a small group of people. A man who introduced himself as Thursday's cousin Eddie but whispered that actually his name was Hamlet said to me, “Is this a bad time? We heard about Thursday and wanted to tell you how sorry we were.”

I tried to be cheery. I really wanted him to sod off, but instead I said, “Thank you. I don't mind at all. Friends of Thursday are friends of mine. Tea and Battenberg?”

“If it's not too much trouble.”

He had three others with him. The first was a short man who looked
exactly
like a Victorian big-game hunter. He wore a pith helmet and safari suit and had a large bushy white mustache.

He gave me his hand to shake and said, “Commander Bradshaw, dontchaknow. Damn fine lady, your wife. Appreciate a girl who knows how to carry herself in a scrap. Did she tell you about the time she and I hunted Morlock in Trollope?”

“No.”

“Shame. I'll tell you all about it one day. This is the memsahib, Mrs. Bradshaw.”

Melanie was large and hairy and looked like a gorilla. In fact, she
was
a gorilla, but she had impeccable manners and curtsied as I shook her large coal black hand, which had the thumb in an odd place, so was difficult to shake properly. Her deep-set eyes were wet with tears, and she said, “Oh, Landen! Can I call you Landen? Thursday used to talk about you all the time when you were eradicated. We all loved her a great deal—I mean, we still do. How is she? How is Friday? You must feel awful!”

I said, “She's not really very well,” which was the truth.

The third member of the party was a tall man dressed in black robes. He had a very large bald head and high arched eyebrows. He put out a finely manicured hand and said, “My name's Zhark, but you can call me Horace. I used to work with Thursday. You have my condolences. If it will help, I would happily slaughter a few thousand Thraals as a tribute to the gods.”

I didn't know what a Thraal was but told him it really wasn't necessary. He said, “It's really no trouble. I've just conquered their planet, and I'm not sure what I should do with them.”

I told him that this really,
really
wasn't necessary and added that I didn't think Thursday would have liked it, then cursed myself for using the past tense. I put on the kettle and said, “Battenberg?”

Hamlet and Zhark answered together. They were obviously quite keen on my mother-in-law's speciality. I smiled for the first time in eight hours and twenty-three minutes and said, “There's plenty for everyone. Mrs. Next keeps on sending it over, and the dodos won't touch it. You can take away a cake each.”

I made the tea, Mrs. Bradshaw poured it, and there was an uncomfortable silence. Zhark asked if I knew where Handley Paige lived, but the big-game hunter gave him a stern look and he was quiet.

They all talked to me about Thursday and what she had done in the fictional BookWorld. The stories were all highly unbelievable, but I didn't think to question any of them—I was glad for the company and happy to hear about what she had been doing over the past two years. Mrs. Bradshaw gave me a rundown of what Friday had been up to as well and even offered to come and look after him whenever I wanted. Zhark was more interested in talking about Handley but still had time to tell me a wholly unbelievable story about how he and Thursday dealt with a Martian who had escaped from
The War of the Worlds
and turned up in
The Wind in the Willows
.

“It's a
W
thing,” he explained, “in the titles, I mean. Wind-War, Worlds-Willows, they are so similar that—”

Bradshaw nudged him to be quiet.

They left two hours later, slightly full of drink and very full of Battenberg. I noticed the tall one in the black cloak had riffled though my address book before he left, and when I looked, he had left it open on Handley's address. I returned to the living room and sat on the sofa until sleep overcame me.

 

I was wakened by Pickwick wanting to be let out, and Alan wanting to be let in. The smaller dodo had some paint spilled on him, smelt of perfume, had a blue ribbon tied around his left foot and was holding a mackerel in his beak. I have no idea to this day what he'd been getting up to. I went upstairs, checked that Friday was sleeping in his cot, then had a long shower and a shave.

 

 

 

 

 

T
able seventeen?”

“Sorry?”

“Table seventeen. You are table seventeen, I take it?”

I looked up at the waitress in a confused manner. A second ago I had been taking a penalty during a SuperHoop—and now I was in a cafeteria somewhere. She was a kindly woman with a friendly manner. I looked at the table marker. I
was
table seventeen.

“Yes?”

“You're to go . . .
Northside.
”

I must have looked confused, because she repeated it and then gave me directions: along the concourse, past the
Coriolanus
WillSpeak machine, up the stairs and across the pedestrian walkway.

I thanked her and got up. I was still dressed in my croquet gear, but without mallet or helmet, and I touched my head gently where I could feel a small hole. I stopped for a moment and looked around. I had been here before, and recently. I was in a motorway services. The same one that I had visited with Spike. But where was Spike? And why couldn't I remember how I got here?

“Well, looky what we have here!” came a voice from behind me. It was Chesney, this time wearing some sort of neck brace, but with a bruise on the side of his head where I had kicked him. Next to him was one of his henchmen, who was minus an arm.

“Chesney,” I muttered, looking around for a weapon, “still in the soul-reclamation business?”

“And how!”

“Touch me and I'll knock your block off.”

“Ooooh!” said Chesney. “Don't flatter yourself, girlie—you've just been called to go Northside, haven't you?”

“So?”

“Well, there's only one reason you go over
there,
” replied Chesney's sidekick with an unkindly laugh.

“You mean . . . ?”

“Right,” said Chesney with a grin. “You're dead.”

“Dead?”

“
Dead.
Join the club, sweetheart.”

“How can I be dead?”

“Remember the assassin at the SuperHoop?”

I touched the hole in my head again. “I was shot.”

“In the head. Get out of that one, Miss Next!”

“Landen must be devastated,” I murmured, “and I have to take Friday for a health checkup on Tuesday.”

“Ain't none of your concern no longer!” sneered Chesney's sidekick, and they walked off, laughing loudly.

I turned to the steps of the pedestrian footbridge that led towards the Northside and looked around. Oddly, I didn't feel any great fear about being dead—I just wished I'd had the chance to say good-bye to the boys. I took the first step on the staircase when I heard a screeching of tires and a loud crash. A car had just pulled outside the services, jumped the curb and collided with a rubbish bin. A large man had leapt out and was running through the doors, looking up and down in desperation until he saw me. It was Spike.

“Thursday!” he gasped. “Thank heavens I got to you before you went across!”

“You're alive?”

“Of course. It took me two days of driving up and down the M4 to get here. Looks like I was just in time.”

“In time? In time for what?”

“I'm taking you home.”

He gave me his car keys.

“That's the ignition, but the engine starter is a pushbutton in the middle of the dash.”

“Middle of the dash, okay. What about you?”

“I've got some unfinished business with Chesney, so I'll see you on the other side.”

He gave me a hug and trotted off towards the newsagents'.

I walked outside and got into Spike's car, grateful that I had a friend like him who knew how to deal with things like this. I'd be seeing Friday and Landen again, and everything would be just hunky-dory. I pressed the starter, reversed off the rubbish bin and drove towards the exit. I wondered if we'd won the SuperHoop. I should have asked Spike.
SPIKE!!!

I stomped on the brakes and reversed rapidly back to the services, jumped out of the car and ran across the footbridge leading to the Northside of the Dauntsey services.

 

Only it wasn't the Northside, of course. It was a large cavern of incalculable age lit by dozens of burning torches. The stalactites and stalagmites had joined, giving the impression of organic Doric columns supporting the high roof, and snaking amongst the columns and the boulder-strewn floor was an orderly queue of departed souls who had lined up ready to cross the river that guarded the entrance to the underworld. The lone ferryman was doing a brisk trade; for an extra shilling, you could be taken on a guided tour on the way. Another entrepreneur was selling guides to the underworld: how best to ensure that the departed soul went to a land of milk of honey and, for the more dubious characters, a few helpful hints on how to square yourself with the Big Guy on Judgment Day.

I ran up the queue and found Spike ten souls from the front.

“
Absolutely
no way, Spike!”

“Shhh!” said someone ahead of us.

“Nuts to you, Thursday. Just look after Betty, would you?”

“You are
not
taking my place, Spike.”

“Let me do this, Thursday. You deserve a long life. You have many wonderful things in front of you.”

“So do you.”

“It's debatable. Battling the undead was never a bowl of cherries. And without Cindy?”

“She's not dead, Spike.”

“If she pulls through they'll never let her out of jail. She was the Windowmaker. No, after the shit I've been through, this actually seems like a good option. I'm staying.”

“You are not.”

“Try and stop me.”

“Shhh!” said the man in front again.

“I won't let you do it, Spike. Think of Betty. Besides, I'm the one that's dead, not you. SECURITY!”

A moldy skeleton holding a lance and dressed in rusty armor clanked up. “What's going on here?”

I stabbed a finger at Spike. “This man's not dead.”

“Not dead?” replied the guard in a shocked tone. The queue of people all turned around to stare as the guard drew a rusty sword and pointed it at Spike, who reluctantly raised his hands and, head shaking sadly, walked back towards the footbridge.

“Tell Landen and Friday I love them!” I yelled at his departing form, suddenly realizing that I should have asked him who'd won the SuperHoop. I turned to the queue behind me that snaked amongst the boulder-strewn cavern and said, “Does anyone know the results of SuperHoop-88?”

“Shhh!” said the man in front again.

“Why don't you poke your ‘shhh' up your—Oh. Hello, Mr. President.”

As soon as he recognized me, Formby gave me a broad toothy grin. “Eeee, Miss Next! Is this that theme park again?”

“Sort of.”

I was glad that the trip across the river led up as well as down. One thing was for sure: unless there had been some sort of dreadful administrative mix-up, Formby was certainly
not
bound for eternal torment within the all-consuming flames of hell.

“So . . . how are you?” I asked, momentarily lost for words when confronted with the biggest—and last—celebrity I would be likely to meet.

“Pretty good, lass. One moment I was giving a concert, next thing I was in the cafeteria ordering pie and chips for one.”

Spike had said he'd driven for two days to get to me, so it must be the twenty-fourth—and, as Dad had predicted, Formby had died as he had been meant to, performing for the Lancaster Regiment Veterans. My heart fell as I realized that the days following Formby's death would mark the beginning of World War III. Still, it was out of my hands now.