A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (28 page)

After the motorcycle disappeared they waited another half-an-hour to see what would happen. They watched Bowden slowly rise and throw what appeared to be a basketball.

“Too late,” murmured Rutter, having seen this sort of thing before. He ordered his men into action, and they were just starting to crank up the rotors of the helicopter when the darkness around the hole evaporated. The night slid back and a clear road confronted them. They could see the people in the green sedan get out and look around in amazement at the sudden day. A hundred yards farther on, the basketball had neatly blocked the tear and now stood trembling slightly in midair as the vortex behind the rip sucked at the ball. Within a minute the tear healed and the basketball dropped harmlessly to the asphalt, bouncing a few times before rolling to the side of the road. The sky was clear and there was no evidence that time wasn't the same as it had always been. But of the Datsun, the motorcyclist and the brightly painted sports car, there was no trace at all.

My car slid on and on. The motorway had been replaced by a swirling mass of light and color that had no meaning to either of us. Occasionally a coherent image would emerge from the
murk and on several occasions we thought we had arrived back in a stable time, but were soon whisked back into the vortex, the typhoon raging in our ears. The first occasion was on a road somewhere in the Home Counties. It looked like winter, and ahead of us a lime-green Austin Allegro estate pulled out from a slip road. I swerved and drove past at great speed, sounding my horn angrily. That image collapsed abruptly and fragmented itself into the dirty hold of a ship. The car was wedged between two packing cases, the closest of which was bound for Shanghai. The howl of the vortex had diminished, but we could hear a new roar, the roar of a storm at sea. The ship wallowed and Bowden and I looked at one another, unsure as to whether this was the end of the journey or not. The roaring sound grew as the dank hold folded back into itself and vanished, only to be replaced by a white hospital ward. The tempest subsided, the car's engine ticking over happily. In the only occupied bed there was a drowsy and confused woman with her arm in a sling. I knew what I had to say.

“Thursday—!” I shouted excitedly.

The woman in the bed frowned. She looked across at Bowden, who waved back cheerily.

“He didn't die!” I continued, saying now what I knew to be the truth. I could hear the tempest starting to howl again. It wouldn't be long before we were taken away.

“The car crash was a blind! Men like Acheron don't die that easily! Take the Litera Tec job in Swindon!”

The woman in the bed just had time to repeat my last word before the ceiling and floor opened up and we plummeted back into the maelstrom. After a dazzling display of colorful noise and loud light, the vortex slid back to be replaced by the parking lot of a motorway services somewhere. The tempest slowed and stopped.

“Is this it?” asked Bowden.

“I don't know.”

It was night and the streetlamps cast an orange glow over the parking lot, the roadway shiny from recent rain. A car pulled in next to us; it was a large Pontiac containing a family. The wife was berating her husband for falling asleep at the wheel and the children were crying. It looked like it had been a near-miss.

“Excuse me!” I yelled. The man wound down his window.

“Yes?”

“What's the date?”

“The date?”

“It's July 8,” replied the man's wife, shooting him and me an annoyed glance.

I thanked her and turned back to Bowden.

“We're three weeks in the past?” he queried.

“Or fifty-six weeks into the future.”

“Or one hundred and eight.”

“I'm going to find out where we are.”

I turned off the ignition and got out. Bowden joined me as we walked toward the cafeteria. Beyond the building we could see the motorway, and beyond that the connecting bridge to the services on the opposite motorway.

Several tow trucks drove past us with empty cars hitched to the back of them.

“Something's not right.”

“I agree,” replied Bowden. “But what?”

Suddenly, the doors to the cafeteria burst open and a woman pushed her way out. She was carrying a gun and pushing a man in front of her, who stumbled as they hurried out. Bowden pulled me behind a parked van. We peered cautiously out and saw that the woman had unwelcome company; several men had appeared seemingly from nowhere and all of them were armed.

“What the?—” I whispered, suddenly realizing what was happening. “That's me!”

And so it was. I looked slightly older but it was definitely me. Bowden had noticed too.

“I'm not sure I like what you've done with your hair.”

“You prefer it long?”

“Of course.”

We watched as one of the three men told the other me to drop her gun. I-me-she said something we couldn't hear and then put her gun down, releasing her hold on the man, who was then grabbed roughly by one of the other men.

“What's going on?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

“We've got to go!” replied Bowden.

“And leave me like this?”

“Look.”

He pointed at the car. It was shaking slightly as a localized gust of wind seemed to batter it.

“I can't leave her—me—in this predicament!”

But Bowden was pulling me toward the car, which was rocking more violently and starting to fade.

“Wait!”

I struggled free, pulled out my automatic and hid it behind one of the wheels of the nearest car, then ran after Bowden and leaped into the back of the Speedster. I was just in time. There was a bright flash and a peal of thunder and then silence. I opened an eye. It was daylight. I looked at Bowden, who had made it into the driver's seat. The motorway services car park had vanished and in its place was a quiet country lane. The journey was over.

“You all right?” I asked.

Bowden felt the three-day stubble that had inexplicably grown on his chin.

“I think so. How about you?”

“As well as can be expected.”

I checked my shoulder holster. It was empty.

“I'm bursting for a pee, though. I feel like I haven't gone for a week.”

Bowden made a pained expression and nodded.

“I think I could say the same.”

I nipped behind a wall. Bowden walked stiffly across to the other side of the road and relieved himself in the hedge.

“Where do you suppose we are?” I shouted to Bowden from behind the wall. “Or more to the point, when?”

“Car twenty-eight,” crackled the wireless, “come in please.”

“Who knows?” called out Bowden over his shoulder. “But if you want to try that again you can do it with someone else.”

Much relieved, we reconvened at the car. It was a beautiful day, dry and quite warm. The smell of haymaking was in the air, and in the distance we could hear a tractor lumbering across a field.

“What was all that motorway services thing about?” asked Bowden. “Last Thursday or next Thursday?”

I shrugged.

“Don't ask me to explain. I just hope I got out of that jam. Those guys didn't look as though they were out collecting for the church fund.”

“You'll find out.”

“I guess. I wonder who that man was I was trying to protect?”

“Search me.”

I sat on the hood and donned a pair of dark glasses. Bowden walked to a gate and looked over. In a dip in the valley was a village built of gray stone, and in the field a herd of cows was grazing peacefully.

Bowden pointed to a milestone he had found.

“That's a spot of luck.”

The milestone told him we were six miles from Haworth.

I wasn't listening to him. I was now puzzling over seeing
myself in the hospital bed. If I hadn't seen myself I wouldn't have gone to Swindon and if I hadn't gone to Swindon I wouldn't have been able to warn myself to go there. Doubtless it would make complete sense to my father, but I might well go nuts trying to figure it out.

“Car twenty-eight,” said the wireless, “come in please.”

I stopped thinking about it and checked the position of the sun.

“It's about midday, I'd say.”

Bowden nodded agreement.

“Aren't
we
car twenty-eight?” he asked, frowning slightly. I picked up the mike.

“Car twenty-eight, go ahead.”

“At last!” sounded a relieved voice over the speaker. “I have Colonel Rutter of the ChronoGuard who wants to speak to you.”

Bowden walked over so he could hear better. We looked at each other, unsure of what was going to happen next; a chastisement or a heap of congratulations, or, as it turned out, both.

“Officers Next and Cable. Can you hear me?” said a deep voice over the wireless.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Where are you?”

“About six miles from Haworth.”

“All the way up there, eh?” he guffawed. “Jolly good.” He cleared his throat. We could sense it coming.

“Unofficially, that was one of the bravest acts I've ever seen. You saved a great number of lives and stopped the event from becoming a matter of some consequence. You can both be very proud of your actions and I would be honored to have two fine officers like you serving under me.”

“Thank you, sir, I—”

“I'm still talking!” he snapped, causing us both to jump. “
Officially,
though, you broke every rule in the book. And I
should have both your butts nailed to the wall for not following procedure. If you ever try anything like this again, I most certainly will. Understand?”

“Understood, sir.”

I looked at Bowden. There was only one question we wanted to ask.

“How long have we been gone?”

“The year is now 2016,” said Rutter.
“You've been gone thirty-one years!!”

Some would say the ChronoGuard have a terrific sense of humor. I would say they were just plain annoying. I had heard that they used to bundle up new recruits in gravity suits and pop them a week into the future just for fun. The game was banned when one recruit vanished outside the cone. Theoretically he is still there, just outside our time, unable to return and unable to communicate. It is calculated we will catch up with him about fourteen thousand years from now—sadly, he will have aged only twelve minutes. Some joke.

THURSDAY NEXT
—
A Life in SpecOps

W
E WERE
both victims of the ChronoGuard's bizarre sense of humor. It was just past noon the following day. We had been gone only seven hours. We both reset our watches and drove slowly into Haworth, each sobered by the experience.

At Haworth House a full media circus was in progress. I had hoped to arrive before this sort of thing really gained a toehold, but the hole in the M1 had put paid to that. Lydia Startright from the Toad News Network had arrived and was recording for the lunchtime bulletin. She stood outside the steps of Haworth
House with a microphone and composed herself before beginning. She signaled to her cameraman to roll, adopted one of her most serious expressions, and began.

“. . . As the sun rose over Haworth House this morning the police began to investigate a bold theft and double murder. Some time last night a security guard was shot dead by an unknown assailant as he attempted to stop him stealing the original manuscript of
Jane Eyre
. Police have been at the crime scene since early morning and have as yet given no comment. It is fairly certain that parallels must be drawn with the theft of the
Martin Chuzzlewit
manuscript, which, despite continued police and SpecOps efforts, has so far not come to light. Following Mr. Quaverley's extraction and murder, it can only be surmised that a similar fate is in store for Rochester or Jane. The Goliath Corporation, whose presence this morning was an unusual development, have no comment to make—as usual.”

“And—
cut
! That was
very
good, darling,” declared Lydia's producer. “Can we do it once more without the reference to Goliath? You know they'll only cut it out!”

“Then let them.”

“Lyds, baby—! Who pays the bills? I like free speech as much as the next man, but on someone else's airtime, hmm?”

She ignored him and looked around as a car arrived. Her face lit up and she walked briskly across, gesturing for her cameraman to follow.

A lean officer of about forty with silver hair and bags under his eyes looked to heaven as she approached, cracking his unfriendly face into a smile. He waited patiently for her to make a brief introduction.

“I have with me Detective Inspector Oswald Mandias, Yorkshire CID. Tell me, Inspector, do you think this crime is in any way connected to the
Chuzzlewit
theft?”

He smiled benignly, fully aware that he would be on thirty million television screens by the evening.

“It's far too early to say anything; a full press release will be issued in due course.”

“Isn't this a case for the Yorkshire Litera Tecs, sir?
Jane Eyre
is one of this county's most valued treasures.”

Mandias stopped to face her.

“Unlike other SpecOps departments, the Yorkshire LiteraTecs rely on evidence supplied by the regular police. Litera Tecs are
not
police and have no place in a police environment.”

“Why do you suppose the Goliath Corporation made an appearance this morning?”

“No more questions!” called out Mandias's deputy as a throng of other news crews started to converge. Goliath had been and gone but no one was going to learn anymore about it. The police pushed their way past and Lydia stopped to have a snack; she had been reporting live since before breakfast. A few minutes later Bowden and I drove up in the Speedster.

“Well, well,” I muttered as I got out of the car, “Startright keeps herself busy. Morning, Lyds!”

Lydia almost choked on her SmileyBurger and quickly threw it aside. She picked up her microphone and chased after me.

“Although the Yorkshire Litera Tecs and Goliath are claimed not to be present,” muttered Lydia as she tried to keep up, “events have taken an interesting turn with the arrival of Thursday Next of SO-27. In a departure from normal procedure, the Litera Tecs have come out from behind their desks and are visiting the crime scene in person.”

I stopped to have some fun. Lydia composed herself and started the interview.

“Miss Next, tell me, what are you doing so far out of your jurisdiction?”

“Hi, Lydia. You have mayonnaise on your upper lip from that SmileyBurger. It has a lot of salt in it and you really shouldn't eat them. As for the case, I'm afraid it's the same old shit: ‘You will understand that anything we may discover will have to remain a blah-de-blah-de-blah.' How's that?”

Lydia hid a smile.

“Do you think the two thefts are linked?”

“My brother Joffy is a big fan of yours, Lyds; can you let me have a signed picture? ‘Joffy' with two Fs. Excuse me.”

“Thanks for nothing, Thursday!” called out Startright. “I'll be seeing you!”

We walked up to the police line and showed our IDs to the constable on duty. He looked at the badges, then at the two of us. We could see he was not impressed. He spoke to Mandias.

“Sir, these two Wessex LiteraTecs want to get at the crime scene.”

Mandias ambled over painfully slowly. He looked us both up and down and chose his words with care.

“Here in Yorkshire Litera Tecs don't leave their desks.”

“I've read the arrest reports. It shows,” I replied coldly.

Mandias sighed. Keeping what he described as eggheads in check, especially those from another SpecOps region, was obviously not something he was keen to do.

“I have two murders on my hands here and I don't want the crime scene disturbed. Why don't you wait until you get the report and then take your investigation from there?”

“The murders are tragic, obviously,” I replied, “but
Jane Eyre
is the thing here. It is imperative that we get to see the crime scene.
Jane Eyre
is bigger than me and bigger than you. If you refuse I'll send a report to your superior officer complaining of your conduct.”

But Mandias was not a man to listen to threats, idle or otherwise. This was Yorkshire, after all. He stared at me and said softly:

“Do your worst, pen-pusher.”

I took a step forward and he bridled slightly; he wasn't going to give way. A nearby officer moved in behind him to give assistance if needed.

I was about to lose my temper when Bowden spoke up.

“Sir,” he began, “if we could
move slowly
toward a goal we might be able to
burrow
our way out of the predicament we find ourselves
shuffling
into.”

Mandias's attitude abruptly changed and he smiled solemnly.

“If
that
is the case, I am sure we could manage a quick look for you—as long as you promise not to touch anything.”

“On my word,” replied Bowden pointedly, patting his stomach. The two of them shook hands and winked and we were soon escorted into the museum.

“How the hell did you do that?” I hissed.

“Look at his ring.”

I looked. He had a large ring on his middle finger with a curious and distinctive pattern on it.

“What of it?”

“The Most Worshipful Brotherhood of the Wombat.”

I smiled.

“So what have we got?” I asked. “A double murder and a missing script? They just took the manuscript, right? Nothing else?”

“Right,” replied Mandias.

“And the guard was shot with his own gun?”

Mandias stopped and looked sternly at me.

“How did you know that?”

“A lucky guess,” I replied evenly. “What about the videotapes?”

“We're studying them at the moment.”

“There's no one on them, is there?”

Mandias looked at me curiously.

“Do you know who did this?”

I followed him into the room that once held the manuscript. The untouched glass case was sitting forlornly in the middle of the floor. I ran my fingertips across a mottled and uneven patch on the glass.

“Thanks, Mandias, you're a star,” I said, walking back out. Bowden and Mandias looked at one another and hastened after me.

“That's it?” said Mandias. “That's your investigation?”

“I've seen all I need to see.”

“Can you give me anything?” asked Mandias, trotting to keep up. He looked at Bowden. “Brother,
you
can tell me.”

“We should tell the DI what we know, Thursday. We owe him for allowing us in.”

I stopped so suddenly Mandias almost bumped into me.

“Ever hear of a man named Hades?”

Mandias went visibly pale and looked around nervously.

“Don't worry; he's long gone.”

“They say he died in Venezuela.”

“They say he can walk through walls,” I countered. “They also say he gives off colors when he moves. Hades is alive and well and I have to find him before he starts to make use of the manuscript.”

Mandias seemed to have undergone a humbling change as soon as he realized who was behind it all.

“Anything I can do?”

I paused for a moment.

“Pray you never meet him.”

The drive back to Swindon was uneventful, the area on the M1 where all the trouble had been now back to normal.
Victor was waiting for us in the office; he seemed slightly agitated.

“I've had Braxton on the phone all morning bleating on about insurance cover being inoperative if his officers act outside their jurisdiction.”

“Same old shit.”

“That's what I told him. I've got most of the office reading
Jane Eyre
at the moment in case anything unusual happens—all quiet so far.”

“It's only a matter of time.”

“Hmm.”

“Müller mentioned Hades being at Penderyn somewhere,” I said to Victor. “Anything come of that?”

“Nothing that I know of. Schitt said he had looked into it and drawn a blank—there are over three hundred possible Penderyns that Müller might have meant. More worrying, have you seen this morning's paper?”

I hadn't. He showed me the inside front page of
The Mole
. It read:

TROOP MOVEMENTS NEAR WELSH BORDER

I read on with some alarm. Apparently there had been troop movements near Hereford, Chepstow and the disputed border town of Oswestry. A military spokesman had dismissed the maneuvers as simple “exercises,” but it didn't sound good at all. Not at all. I turned to Victor.

“Jack Schitt? Do you think he wants the Prose Portal badly enough to go to war with Wales?”

“Who knows what power the Goliath Corporation wields. He might not be behind this at all. It could be coincidence or just saber-rattling; but in any event I don't think we can ignore it.”

“Then we need to steal a march. Any ideas?”

“What did Müller say again?” asked Finisterre.

I sat down.

“He screamed: ‘He's at Penderyn'; nothing else.”

“Nothing else?” asked Bowden.

“No; when Schitt asked him
which
Penderyn he meant, as there must be hundreds, Müller told him to guess.”

Bowden spoke up.

“What were his
precise
words?”

“He said ‘Guess,' then repeated it but it turned into a yell— he was in grave pain at the time. The conversation was recorded but there is about as much chance as getting hold of that as—”

“Maybe he meant something else.”

“Like what, Bowden?”

“I really only speak tourist Welsh but ‘Gwesty' means hotel.”

“Oh my God,” said Victor.

“Victor?” I queried, but he was busy rummaging in a large pile of maps we had accumulated; each of them had a Pen-deryn of some sort marked on it. He spread a large street plan of Merthyr Tydfil out on the table and pointed at a place just between the Palace of justice and Government House. We craned to see where his finger was pointing but the location was unmarked.

“The Penderyn Hotel,” announced Victor grimly. “I spent my honeymoon there. Once the equal of the Adelphi or Raffles, it's been empty since the sixties. If
I
wanted a safe haven—”