A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (186 page)

“Oh, that's quite all right,” he said. “I was at Tobruk, you know.”

“Really? What was it like?”

“My dear girl, the
noise
—and you couldn't get a decent drink anywhere.”

“So a nail gun is no problem?”

“Nostalgic, my dear—fire away.”

Spike hadn't yet reappeared, so I carried on. “Good. Right, well—Hey, is that
Bedazzled
you're watching?”

“Yes,” he replied, “the Brendan Fraser version—
such
a broad head, but very funny.”

“I met him once,” I said, stalling for time, “at the launch party for the
Eyre Affair
movie. He played the part of—”

“Thursday?”

It was Spike, calling from the kitchen. I smiled and said to Major Pickles, “Would you excuse me for just one moment?”

Pickles nodded politely, and I walked to the kitchen, which was, strangely enough, empty. Not a sign of Spike anywhere. It had two doors, and the only other entrance, the back door, had a broom leaned up against it. I was about to open the fridge to look for him when I heard a voice.

“I'm up here.”

I glanced up. Spike was pinned to the ceiling with thirty or so knives, scissors and other sharp objects, all stuck through the periphery of his clothing and making him look like the victim of an overenthusiastic circus knife thrower.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. “We're supposed to be dealing with the Raum guy.”

“What am I
doing
? Oh, just admiring the view—why, what do you
think
I'm doing?”

I shrugged.

“Thursday,” added Spike in a quiet voice, “I think he's on to us.”

I turned to the door and jumped in fright because Major Pickles had crept up without my realizing. But it wasn't the little old gent I'd a seen a few moments ago; this Pickles had two large horns sticking out of his head, yellow eyes like a cat's, and he was dressed in a loincloth. He was lean and muscular and had shiny, bright red skin—a bit like those ducks that hang in Chinese-restaurant windows. He also smelled strongly of sewage.

“Well,” said Raum in a guttural, rasping voice that sounded like a box of rusty nails, “Thursday Next. What a surprise!” He looked up. “And Mr. Stoker, I presume—believe me, you are
very
unpopular from where I come from!”

I made a move to thump him, but he was too quick, and a moment later I was thrown to the ceiling with a force so hard it cracked the plaster. I didn't drop; I was held, face pointing down, not by any knives or scissors but the action of an unearthly force that felt as if I were being sat upon by a small walrus.

“Thursday,” added Spike in a quiet voice, “I think he's onto us.”

 

“Two unsullied souls,” growled Raum sadly. “To His Infernal Majesty,
worthless.
”

“I'm warning you,” said Spike in a masterful display of misplaced optimism, “give yourself up and I'll not be too hard on you.”

“SILENCE!” roared Raum, so loudly that two of the kitchen windows shattered. He laughed a deep, demonic cackle, then carried on. “Just so this morning hasn't been a complete waste, I am prepared to offer a deal: Either you both die in an exceptionally painful manner and I relinquish all rights to your souls, or one of you gives yourself to me—and I free the other!”

“How about a game of chess?” suggested Spike.

“Oh, no!” said Raum, wagging a reproachful finger. “We don't fall for
that
one anymore. Now, who's it going to be?”

“You can take me,” said Spike.

“No!” I cried, but Raum merely laughed. He laughed long and loud. He laughed again. Then some more. He laughed so long, in fact, that Spike and I looked at each other. But still Raum laughed. The plates and cups smashed on the dresser, and glasses that were upside down on the drainer broke into smithereens. More laughter. Louder, longer, harder, until suddenly and quite without warning he exploded into a million tiny fragments that filled the small kitchen like a red mist. Released from the ceiling, I fell to the floor via the kitchen table, which was luckily a bit frail and had nothing on it. I was slightly dazed but got up to see…the
real
Major Pickles, standing where Raum had been, still holding the steel bayonet that had dispatched the demon back to hell.

“Hah!” said the elderly little gent with an aggressive twinkle in his eye. “They don't like the taste of cold steel up 'em!”

He had several days of stubble and was dressed in torn pajamas and covered in soil.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“He thought he could keep me prisoner in the garden shed,” replied the pensioner resolutely, “but it was only fifteen yards nornoreast under the patio to the geranium bed.”

“You dug your way out?”

“Yes, and would have been quicker, too, if I'd had a soup spoon instead of this.”

He showed me a very worn and bent teaspoon.

“Or a spade?” I ventured.

“Hah!” he snorted contemptuously. “Spades are for losers.” He looked up and noticed Spike. “I say, you there, sir—get off my ceiling this minute.”

“Nothing I'd like better.”

So we got Spike down and explained as best we could to the sprightly nonagenarian just who Raum was, something that he seemed to have very little trouble understanding.

“Good Lord, man!” he said at last. “You mean I killed a demon? There's a notch for the cricket bat, and no mistake.”

“Sadly, no,” replied Spike. “You just relegated him to the second sphere—he'll not reappear on earth for a decade or two and will get a serious lashing from the Dark One into the bargain.”

“Better than he deserves,” replied Major Pickles, checking the cookie jar. “The rotten blighter has pigged all my Jaffa cakes.”

“Spike,” I said, pointing at a desk diary I'd found on the counter, “we're not the only people who have had an appointment this morning.”

He and Major Pickles bent over to have a look, and there it was. This morning was the first of three days of soul entrapment that Raum had planned for the house-call professionals of Swindon, and we had been the third potential damnees. The first, an electrician, Raum had crossed out and made a note: “sickeningly pleasant.” The next, however, was for a new washing machine, and Raum had made three checks next to the name of the company: Wessex Kitchens. I rummaged through the papers on the counter-top and found a job sheet—the workman had been someone called Hans Towwel.

“Blast!” said Spike. “I
hate
it when Satan obtains a soul. Don't get me wrong, some people deserve to be tortured for all eternity, but damnation without the possibility of salvation—it's like a three-strike life sentence without the possibility of parole.”

I nodded in agreement. Obscene though the crime was, eternal damnation was several punishments too far.

“All this defeatist claptrap is making me sick to the craw,” growled Major Pickles. “No one is going to hell on my account—what happens if we get the money back?”

Spike snapped his fingers.

“Pickles, you're a genius! Mr. Towwel doesn't join the legion of the damned until he actually makes use of his ill-gotten gains. Thursday, call Wessex Kitchens and find out where he is—we need to get to him before he spends any of the cash.”

 

Ten minutes later we were heading at high speed toward the Greasy Monk, a popular medieval-themed eatery not far from the rebuilt cathedral of St. Zvlkx. I had tried to call Towwel's cell phone, but it was switched off, and when I explained that there was a substantial sum of money missing from Major Pickles's house, the boss of Wessex Kitchens said he was horrified—and promised to meet us there.

The restaurant was filled to capacity, as the cathedral of St. Zvlkx had just been nominated as the first GSD drop-around-if-you-want-but-hey-no-one's-forcing-you place of worship/contemplation/meditation, and the many followers/adherents/vaguely interested parties of the single unified faith were having lunch and discussing ways in which they could best use the new multi-faith for overwhelming good.

As soon as we pushed open the doors Spike yelled, “Hans Towwel?” in his most commanding voice, and in the silence that followed, a man in a navy blue coverall signaled to us from behind a wooden plate of bread and dripping.

“Problems?” he said as we walked up.

“Could be,” said Spike. “Did you pay for that meal with the money you pinched from Major Pickles?”

“Did I what?”

“You heard him,” I said. “Did you pay for that meal with the money you stole from Major Pickles?”

“Ballocks to you!” he said, getting up. Spike, who was pretty strong, pushed the man hard back down into his seat.

“Listen,” said Spike in a quiet voice, “we're not cops, and we don't give a shit about the money, and we don't give a shit about you—but we do give a shit about your
soul.
Now, just tell us: Have you spent any of the cash or not?”

“That's well sweet, isn't it?” growled Towwel. “Some cash is missing so you blame the workingman.”

“Towwel?” said a crumpled and untidy-looking man in a crumpled and untidy-looking suit, who had just arrived. “Is what they say true?”

“Who are you?” asked Spike.

“Mr. Hedge Moulting of Wessex Kitchens,” said the untidy man, offering us a business card. “I must say I am shocked and appalled by our employee's behavior—how much was taken?”

“Now, look here!” said Towwel, growing angrier by the second, which caused Mr. Moulting of Wessex Kitchens to flinch and hide behind Spike. “I don't steal from people. Not from customers, not from pensioners, not from you, not from
anyone
!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” said Moulting, still half hidden behind Spike. “You're
fired
—and don't expect a reference.”

“How do we know
you
didn't take it?” demanded Towwel.

“Me?” exclaimed Moulting. “How dare you!”

“
you
made a random inspection of my work this morning, and you're a sleazy piece of crap—I say
you
took it.”

“An outrageous accusation!” yelled Moulting, waving a threatening finger in Towwel's direction. “You'll never install a washing machine in this town again, and what's more I will make it my duty—nay, pleasure—to see you convicted of this heinous crime. A thousand pounds? From a
war veteran
? You deserve all you're going to get!”

There was silence for a moment.

“Mr. Moulting,” said Spike, “we never said how much was stolen. As I said to Mr. Towwel here, we don't give a shit about the money. We're here to save a soul from the torment of eternal damnation. It was a diabolical entrapment from one of Old Scratch's accomplices. If you've got the money and haven't spent any of it, then just drop it in the nearest poor box, and your soul is clear. If you
have
spent some of the cash, then there's nothing anyone can do for you.”

I turned to Mr. Towwel. “Sorry to have accused you unjustly, sir. If you need a job, call me anytime at Acme Carpets.”

And we walked out, bumping aside Moulting as we went. His shaking hand reached for a chair back to steady himself. He had turned pale and was sweating, trembling with the fear of the man who is condemned to eternal hellfire and knows it.

 

We recarpeted Major Pickles's entire house with the finest carpet we had. We also did his shopping, his washing and bought him two dozen packets of Jaffa cakes. After that, the three of us sat down and nattered all afternoon, drinking tea and telling stories. We parted the best of friends and left our phone numbers on his fridge so he could call us if he needed anything. I even suggested he give Polly a call if he wanted some company.

“I never realized carpet laying could be so much fun,” I said as we finally drove away.

“Me neither,” replied Spike. “Do you think Bowden will be pissed off that we've done this one for free and it took us all day?”

“Nah,” I replied with a smile, “I'm sure he'll be just fine about it.”

H
ow was work?” asked Landen when I walked in the door.

“Quite good fun,” I replied. “The floor-covering business is definitely looking up. How are things with you?”

“Good, too—lots of work done.”

“On
The Mews of Doom
?” I asked, still hopeful about Scampton-Tappett and remembering that I had sent a note down to
Bananas for Edward
for him to swap books. He'd cost me a thousand book-guineas, and I was sure as hell going to get my money's worth.

“No. I've been working on Spike's weird-shit self-help book:
Collecting the Undead.
”

Damn and blast again.

I recalled a news item I had overheard on the tram home.

“Hey, do you know what Redmond van de Poste's Address to the Nation is all about?”

“Rumor says it's going to be about the stupidity surplus. Apparently his top advisers have come up with a plan that will deal with the excess in a manner that won't damage economic interests and might actually generate new business opportunities.”

“He'll top the ratings with that one—I only hope he doesn't generate more stupidity. You know how stupidity tends to breed off itself. How are the girls?”

“They're fine. I'm just playing Scrabble with Tuesday. Is it cheating for her to use Nextian Geometry to bridge
two
triple-word scores with a word of only six letters?”

“I suppose. Where's Jenny?”

“She's made a camp in the attic.”

“Again?”

Something niggled in my head once more. Something I was meant to do. “Land?”

“Yuh?”

“Nothing. I'll get it.”

There was someone at the door, and whoever it was had knocked, rather than rung, which is always mildly ominous. I opened the door, and it was Friday, or at least it was the clean-cut, nongrunty version. He wasn't alone either—he had two of his ChronoGuard friends with him, and they all looked a bit serious. Despite the dapper light blue ChronoGuard uniforms, they all looked too young to get drunk or vote, let alone do something as awesomely responsible as surf the timestream. It was like letting a twelve-year-old do your epidural.

“Hello, Sweetpea!” I said. “Are these your friends?”

“They're
colleagues,
” said Friday in a pointed fashion. “We're here on official business.”

“Goodness!” I said, attempting not to patronize him with motherly pride and failing spectacularly. “Would you all like a glass of milk and a cookie or something?”

But Friday, it seemed, wasn't in much of a mood for milk—or a cookie.

“Not now, Mum. There's only forty-eight hours of time left, and we
still
haven't invented time travel.”

“Maybe you can't,” I replied. “Maybe it's impossible.”

“We used the technology to get here,” said Friday with impeccable logic, “so the possibility still exists, no matter how slight. We've got every available agent strung out across the timestream doing a fingertip search of all potential areas of discovery. Now, where is he?”

“Your father?”

“No,
him.
Friday—the other me.”

“Don't you know? Isn't this all ancient history?”

“Time is not as it should be. If it were, we'd have solved it all by now. So where is he?”

“Are you here to replace him?”

“No, we just want to talk.”

“He's out practicing with his band.”

“He is
not
. Would it surprise you to learn that there was no band called the Gobshites?”

“Oh, no!” I said with a shudder. “He didn't call it the Wankers after all, did he?”

“No, no, Mum—
there is no band.
”

“He's definitely doing his band thing,” I assured him, inviting them in and picking the telephone off the hall table. “I'll call Toby's dad. They use their garage for practice. It's the perfect venue—both Toby's parents are partially deaf.”

“Then there's not much point in phoning them, now, is there?” said the cockier of Friday's friends.

“What's your name?”

“Nigel,” said the one who had spoken, a bit sheepishly.

“No one likes a smart-ass, Nigel.”

I stared at him, and he looked away, pretending to find some fluff on his uniform.

“Hi, is that Toby's dad?” I said as the phone connected. “It's Friday's mum here…. No, I'm not like that—it only happens in the book. My question is: Are the boys jamming in your garage?”

I looked at Friday and his friends.

“Not for at least three months? I didn't know that. Thank you. Good night.”

I put the phone down.

“So where is he?” I asked.

“We don't know,” replied the other Friday, “and since he's a free radical whose movements are entirely in de pen dent of the SHE, we have no way of knowing where or when he is. The feckless, dopey, teenage act was a good one and had us all fooled—you especially.”

I narrowed my eyes. This was a surprising development. “What are you saying?”

“We've had some new information, and we think Friday might be actually
causing
the nondiscovery of the technology—conspiring with his future self to overthrow the ChronoGuard!”

“Sounds like a trumped-up bullshit charge for you to replace him,” I said, beginning to get annoyed.

“I'm serious, Mum. Friday is a dangerous historical fundamentalist who will do what ever it takes to achieve his own narrow agenda—to keep time as it was originally meant to run. If we don't stop him, then the whole of history will roll up and there'll be nothing left of any of us!”

“If he's so dangerous,” I said slowly, “then why haven't you eradicated him?”

Friday took a deep breath. “Mum? Like…
duh.
He's a younger version of me and the future director-general. If we get rid of him, we get rid of ourselves. He's clever, I'll grant him that. But if he can stop time travel from being discovered, then he knows how it was invented in the first place. We need to speak to him. Now—where is he?”

“I don't rat out my son, son,” I said in a mildly confusing way.

“
I'm
your son, Mum.”

“And I wouldn't rat you out either, Sweetpea.”

Friday took a step forward and raised his voice a notch. “Mum, this is important. If you have any idea where he is, then you're going to have to tell us—and don't call me Sweetpea in front of my friends.”

“I don't know where he is—Sweetpea—and if you want to talk to me in that tone of voice, you'll go to your room.”

“This is beyond room, Mother.”

“Mum. It's
Mum.
Friday always calls me Mum.”

“I'm Friday, Mum—
your
Friday.”

“No,” I said, “you're
another
Friday—someone he
might
become. And do you know, I think I prefer the one who can barely talk and thinks soap is a type of TV show?”

Friday glared at me angrily. “You've got ten hours to hand him over. Harboring a time terrorist is a serious offense, and the punishment unspeakably unpleasant.”

I wasn't fazed by his threats.

“Are you sure you know what you're doing?” I asked.

“Of course!”

“Then, by definition,
so does he.
Why don't you take your SO-12 buddies and go play in the timestream until dinner?”

Friday made a harrumph noise, turned on his heels and departed, with his friends following quickly behind.

I closed the door and walked through to the hall where Landen was leaning on the newel post staring at me. He'd been listening to every word.

“Pumpkin, just what the hell's going on?”

“I'm not sure myself, darling, but I'm beginning to think that Friday's been making monkeys out of the pair of us.”

“Which Friday?”

“The hairy one that grunts a lot. He's not a dozy slacker after all—he's working undercover as some sort of historical fundamentalist. We need some answers, and I think I know where to find them. Friday may have tricked his parents, the SHE and half the ChronoGuard, but there's one person no teenage boy ever managed to fool.”

“And that is?”

“His younger sister.”

 

“I can't believe it took you so long to figure out,” said Tuesday, who agreed to spill the beans on her brother for the bargain price of a new bicycle, a thirty-pound gift card to MathWorld and lasagna three nights in a row. “He didn't stomp on Barney Plotz either—he forged the letters and the phone call. He needed the time to conduct what he called his…investigations. I don't know what they were, but he was at the public library a lot—and over at Gran's.”

“Gran's? Why Gran's? He
likes
his food.”

“I don't know,” said Tuesday, thinking long and hard about it. “He said it was something to do with Mycroft and a chronuption of staggering proportions.”

“That boy,” I muttered grimly, “has got some serious explaining to do.”