A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (47 page)

“You're a resourceful and intelligent woman—I'm sure you'll think of something. Do we have a deal?”

I stared hard at him, shaking with fury. Then, almost without thinking, I had my automatic pressed against Schitt-Hawse's forehead. I heard two safety catches click off behind me. Associates Chalk and Cheese were fast, too.

Schitt-Hawse seemed unperturbed; he smiled at me in a supercilious manner and ignored the weapon.

“You won't kill me, Next,” he said slowly. “It's not the way you do things. It might make you feel better, but believe me, it won't get your Landen back, and Mr. Chalk and Mr. Cheese would make quite sure you were dead long before you hit the asphalt.”

Schitt-Hawse was good. He'd done his homework and he hadn't underestimated me one little bit. I'd do all I could to get Landen back, and he knew it. I reholstered my pistol.

“Splendid!” he enthused. “We'll be hearing from you in due course, I trust, hmm?”

Landen Parke-Laine's eradication was the best I'd seen since Veronica Golightly's. They plucked him out and left everything else
exactly
as it was. Not a crude hatchet job like Churchill or Victor Borge—we got those sorted out eventually. What I never figured out was how they took him out and left her memories of him completely intact. Agreed, there would be no point to the eradication
without
her knowing what she had missed, but it still intrigued me over four centuries later. Eradication was never an exact art.

COLONEL NEXT
,
QT CG
(nonexist.),
Upstream/Downstream
(unpublished)

I
STARED AFTER
their departing car, trying to figure out what to do. Finding a way into “The Raven” to release Jack Schitt would be my first priority. It wasn't going to be hard—it was going to be impossible. It wouldn't deter me. I'd done impossible things several times in the past, and the prospect didn't scare me as much as it used to. I thought of Landen and the last time I saw him, limping across to the café just opposite the SpecOps building. It was going to be his birthday in two weeks—we planned to take the airship to Spain, or somewhere hot for a break; we knew we wouldn't be able to go on holiday so easily once there was a baby—

The baby. With all that had happened, I didn't know whether I was still pregnant. I jumped into my car and screeched off into town, startling a few great auks who were picking their way through a nearby garbage can.

I was heading for the doctor's surgery on Shelley Street. Every shop I passed seemed to either stock prams or high chairs, toys or something else baby-related, and all the toddlers and infants, heavily pregnant women and prams in Swindon seemed to be crowding the route—and all staring at me. I skidded to a halt outside the surgery. It was a double yellow line and a traffic warden looked at me greedily.

“Hey!” I said, pointing a finger at her. “Expectant mother. Don't even
think
about it.”

I dashed in and found the nurse I'd seen the day before.

“I was in here yesterday,” I blurted out. “Was I pregnant?”

She looked at me without even the least vestige of surprise. I guess she was used to this sort of thing.

“Of course!” she replied. “Confirmation is in the post. Are you okay?”

I sat down heavily on a chair and burst into tears. The sense of relief was overwhelming. I had more than just Landen's memories—I had his child, too. I rubbed my face with my hands. I'd been in a lot of difficult and dangerous life-or-death situations both in the military and law enforcement—but nothing even comes
close
to the tribulations of emotion. I'd face Hades again twice rather than go through that little charade again.

“Yes, yes,” I assured her happily. “I really couldn't be better!”

“Good,” beamed the nurse. “Is there anything else you'd like to know?”

“Yes, actually,” I replied. “Tell me, where do I live?”

 

The shabby block of flats in the old town didn't look like my sort of place, but who knows where I might be living without
Landen. I trotted briskly up the stairs to the top landing and flat six. I took a deep breath, unlocked and opened the door. There was a brief scrabble of activity from the kitchen and Pickwick was there to greet me as usual, bearing a gift that turned out to be the torn cover off last month's
SpecOps-27 Gazette.
I closed the door with my foot as I tickled her under the chin and looked cautiously about. I was relieved to discover that despite the shabby exterior my apartment was south-facing, warm and quite comfortable. I couldn't remember a thing about any of it, of course, but I was glad to see that Pickwick's egg was still in residence. I walked softly around the flat, exploring my new surroundings. It seemed I painted a lot more without Landen about, and the walls were covered with half-finished canvases. There were several of Pickwick and the family which I could remember painting, and a few others that I couldn't—but none, sadly, of Landen. I looked at the other canvases and wondered why several included images of amphibious aircraft. I sat on the sofa, and when Pickwick came up to nuzzle me I put my hand on her head.

“Oh, Pickers,” I murmured, “what shall we do?”

I sighed, tried to get Pickwick to stand on one leg with the promise of a marshmallow, failed, then made a cup of tea and something to eat before searching the rest of the apartment in an inquisitive sort of way. Most things were where I would expect to find them; there were more dresses in the closet than usual and I even found a few copies of
FeMole
stashed under the sofa. The fridge was well stocked with food, and it seemed that in this non-Landen world I was a vegetarian. There were a lot of things that I couldn't remember ever having acquired, including a table light shaped like a pineapple, a large enamel sign advertising Dr. Spongg's footcare remedies and—slightly more worryingly—a size twelve pair of socks in the laundry and some boxer shorts. I rummaged further and found two
tooth-brushes in the bathroom, a large Swindon Mallets jacket on the hook and several XXL-size T-shirts with
SpecOps-14 Swindon
written on them. I called Bowden straightaway.

“Hello, Thursday,” he said. “Have you heard? Professor Spoon has given his 100% backing to
Cardenio
—I've never heard him actually laugh before!”

“That's good, that's good,” I said absently. “Listen, this might seem an odd question, but do I have a boyfriend?”

“A what?”

“A boyfriend. You know. A male friend I see on a regular basis for dinner and picnics and . . .
thingy,
y'know?”

“Thursday, are you okay?”

I took a deep breath and rubbed my neck.

“No, no, I'm not,” I gabbled. “You see, my husband was eradicated this afternoon. I went to see SO-1 and just before I went in the walls changed color and Stig talked funny and Flanker didn't know I was married—which I'm not, I suppose—and then Houson didn't know me and Billden
wasn't
in the cemetery but Landen
was
and Goliath said they'd bring him back if I got Jack Schitt out and I thought I'd lost Landen's baby which I haven't so everything was fine and now it's not fine anymore because
I've found an extra toothbrush and some men's clothes in my flat!
”

“Okay, okay,” said Bowden in a soothing voice. “Slow down a bit and just let me think.”

There was a pause as Bowden mulled all this over. When he answered his voice was tinged with urgency—and concern. I knew he was a good friend, but until now I never knew
how
good.

“Thursday. Calm down and listen to me. Firstly,
we keep this to ourselves.
Eradication can
never
be proved—mention this to anyone at SpecOps and the quacks will enforce your retirement on a Form D4. We don't want that. I'll try and fill you in with
any lost memories I might have that you don't. What was the name of your husband, again?”

“Landen.”

I found strength in his approach. You could always rely on Bowden to be analytical about a problem—no matter how strange it might seem. He made me go over the day again in more detail, something that I found very calming. I asked him again about a possible boyfriend.

“I'm not sure,” he replied. “You're kind of a private person.”

“Come on—office rumors, SpecOps gossip—there must be
something.
”

“There
is
some talk, but I don't hear a lot of it, since I'm your partner. Your love life is a matter of some quiet speculation. They call you—”

He went quiet.

“What do they call me, Bowden?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Tell me.”

“All right,” sighed Bowden. “It's—they call you the Ice Maiden.”

“The Ice Maiden?”

“It's not as bad as my nickname,” continued Bowden. “I'm known as Dead Dog.”

“Dead dog?” I repeated, trying to sound as though I'd not heard it before. “Ice Maiden, eh? It's kind of, well,
corny.
Couldn't they think of something better? Anyway, did I have a boyfriend or not?”

“There was a rumor of someone over at SO-14—”

I held up the croquet jacket, trying to figure out how tall this unnamed beau might be.

“Do we have a positive ID?”

“I think it's only a rumor, Thursday.”

“Tell me, Bowden.”

“Miles,” he said at last. “His name's Miles Hawke.”

“Is it serious?”

“I have no idea. You don't talk about these things to me.”

 

I thanked him and put the phone down nervously, butterflies dancing in my stomach. I knew I was still pregnant, but the trouble was:
who was the father?
If I had a casual boyfriend named Miles, then perhaps it
wasn't
Landen's after all. I called my mother, who seemed more interested in putting out a fire on the kitchen stove than in talking to me. I asked her when she last met one of my boyfriends and she said that if memory served, not for at least six years, and if I didn't hurry up and get married she was going to have to adopt some grandchildren— or steal some from outside Tesco's, whichever was easier. I told her I would go out and look for one as soon as possible and put the phone down.

I paced the room in a flurry of nerves. If I
hadn't
introduced this Miles bloke to Mum, then it was quite likely he wasn't that serious; yet if he
did
leave his gear here then it undoubtedly
was.
I had an idea and rummaged in the bedside table and found a packet of unopened condoms which were three years out of date. I breathed a sigh of relief. This
did
sound more like me—unless Miles brought his own, of course—but then if I
had
a bun in the oven, then finding them was immaterial, as we didn't use them. Or perhaps the clothes weren't Miles's at all? And what about my memories? If they had survived, then surely Landen's share in Junior-to-be had
also
survived. I sat down on the bed and pulled out my hair tie. I ran my fingers through my hair, flopped backwards, covered my face and groaned—long and loud.

Young Thursday came that morning, as I knew she would. She had just lost Landen, as I had lost my own husband all those years ago. She had youth and hope on her side, and although she did not yet know it, she had plenty of what we call
the Other Stuff.
She would, I hoped, use it wisely. At the time not even her own father knew quite how important she was. More than Landen's life would depend on her.
All
life would depend on her, from the lowliest paramecium to the most complex life form that would ever exist.

From papers discovered in ex–SpecOps agent Next's effects

I
TOOK
P
ICKWICK
to the park first thing in the morning. Perhaps it would be better to say that she took me—she was the one who knew the way. She played coyly with a few other dodos while I sat on a park bench. A crotchety old woman sat next to me and turned out to be Mrs. Scroggins, who lived directly below. She told me not to make so much noise in future, and then, without drawing breath, gave me a few extremely useful tips about smuggling pets in and out of the building. I picked up a copy of
The Owl
on the way home and was just crossing the road back to my apartment when a patrol car drew up beside me and the driver rolled down his window. It was Officer “Spike” Stoker of SpecOps-17—the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operation, or Suckers and Biters as they preferred to
call themselves. I helped him out once on a vampire stakeout; dealing with the undead is not a huge barrel of fun, but I liked Spike a great deal.

“Hey, Thursday, word is you lipped Flanker.”

“Good news travels fast, doesn't it? But he got the last laugh—I'm suspended.”

He switched off the engine and thought about this for a moment.

“If the shit hits the fan I can offer you some freelance staking for cash at Suckers and Biters; the minimum entry requirements have been reduced to ‘anyone mad enough to join me.' ”

I sighed.

“Sorry, Spike. I can't. Not right now. I've got husband troubles.”

“You're married? When?”

“Exactly,” I said, showing him my empty ring finger. “ Someone eradicated my husband.”

Spike hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand.

“Bastards. I'm sorry to hear that, but listen, it's not the end of the world. A few years back my uncle Bart was eradicated. Someone goofed and left some memories of him with my aunt. She lodged an appeal and had him reactualized a year later. Thing is, I never knew I had an uncle after he left, and never knew he had gone when he came back—I've only my aunt's word that it ever happened at all. Does any of this make any sense to you?”

“Twenty-four hours ago it would have sounded insane. Right now it seems—stop that, Pickwick!—as clear as day.”

“Hmm,” murmured Spike. “You'll get him back, don't worry. Listen: I wish they'd sideslip all this vampire and werewolf crap so I could go and work at Somme World™ or something.”

I leaned against his car, SpecOps gossip a welcome distraction.

“Got a new partner yet?” I asked him.

“For this shit? You must be kidding. But there is
some
good news. Look at this.”

He pulled a photo from his breast pocket. It was of himself standing next to a petite blond girl who barely came up to his elbow.

“Her name's Cindy,” he murmured affectionately. “A cracker— and smart, too.”

“I wish you both the best. How does she feel about all this vampire and werewolf stuff?”

“Oh, she's
fine
with all that—or at least she will be, when I tell her.” His face fell. “Oh, craps. How can I tell her that I thrust sharpened stakes through the undead and hunt down werewolves like some sort of dogcatcher?” He stopped and sighed, then asked, in a brighter tone, “You're a woman, aren't you?”

“Last time I looked.”

“Well, can't you figure out some sort of a—I don't know— strategy for me? I'd hate to lose this one as well.”

“How long do they last when you tell them?”

“Oh, they're usually peachy about it,” said Spike, laughing. “They hang about for, well, five, six, maybe more—”

“Weeks?” I asked. “Months?”

“Seconds,” replied Spike mournfully, “and those were the ones that
really
liked me.”

He sighed deeply.

“I think you should tell her the truth. Girls don't like being lied to—unless it's about surprise holidays and rings and stuff like that.”

“I thought you'd say something like that,” replied Spike, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But the shock—!”

“You don't have to tell her outright. You could always scatter a few copies of
Van Helsing's Gazette
around the house.”

“Oh, I get it!” replied Spike, thinking hard. “Sort of build her up to it—stakes and crucifixes in the garage—”

“And you could drop werewolves into the conversation every now and then.”

“It's a great plan, Thurs,” replied Spike happily. “Hang on.”

The wireless had started to report an occurrence of unspeakable nastiness up near Banbury. He started the engine.

“I've got to go. Think about my offer. Always some work if you need it!”

And he was gone in a screech of tires.

 

I smuggled Pickwick back to my apartment and read the paper—I was glad to see the discovery of
Cardenio
had not yet broken in the press, but I was distracted. I stared out of the window for a moment, trying to formulate some sort of plan to get Landen back. Get into books? I didn't know where to even
begin.
On reflection, that wasn't quite right. It was time to go and visit the closest thing to the Delphic Oracle I would ever know: Granny Next.

 

Gran was playing Ping-Pong at the SpecOps Twilight Homes when I found her. She was thrashing her opponent, who was at least twenty years her junior—but still about eighty. Nervous nurses looked on, trying to stop her before she fell over and broke a bone or two. Granny Next was old.
Really
old. Her pink skin looked more wrinkled than the most wrinkled prune I had ever seen, and her face and hands were livid with dark liver spots. She was dressed in her usual blue gingham dress and hailed me from the other side of the room as I walked in.

“Ah!” she said. “Thursday! Fancy a game?”

“Don't you think you've played enough today?”

“Nonsense! Grab a paddle and we'll play to the first point.”

I picked up a paddle as a ball careened past me.

“Wasn't ready!” I protested as another ball came over the net. I swiped at it and missed.

“Ready is as ready does, Thursday. I'd have thought you knew that more than most!”

I grunted and returned the next ball, which was deftly deflected back to me.

“How are you, Gran?”

“Old,” she replied, behaving quite the opposite as she skipped nimbly sideways and whacked the ball towards me with savage backspin. “Old and tired, and I need looking after. The grim reaper is lurking close by—I can almost smell him!”

“Gran!”

She missed my shot and declared, “No ball,” before pausing for a moment.

“Do you want to know a secret, young Thursday?” she asked, leaning on the table.

“Go on then,” I replied, taking the opportunity to retrieve some balls.

“I am cursed to eternal life!”

“Perhaps it just
seems
like it, Gran.”

“Insolent pup,” she replied as she returned my serve. “I didn't attain one hundred and eight years on physical fortitude or a statistical quirk alone. Your point.”

I served again and missed her return. She paused for a moment.

“I got mixed up with some oddness in my youth, and the long and short of it is that I can't shuffle off this mortal coil until I have read the ten most boring classics.”

I looked into her bright eyes. She wasn't kidding.

“How far have you got?” I replied, returning another ball that flew wide.

“Well, that's the trouble, isn't it?” she replied, serving again.
“I read what I think is the dullest book on God's own earth, finish the last page, go to sleep with a smile on my face and wake up the following morning feeling better than ever!”

“Have you tried Edmund Spenser's
Faerie Queene
?” I asked. “Six volumes of boring Spenserian stanza, the only saving grace of which is that he
didn't
write the twelve volumes he had planned.”

“Read them all,” replied Gran. “And his other poems, too, just in case.”

I put down my paddle. The balls kept plinking past me.

“You win, Gran. I need to talk to you.”

She reluctantly agreed, and I helped her to her bedroom, a small chintzily decorated cell she darkly referred to as her “ departure lounge.” It was sparsely furnished; there was a picture of me, Anton, Joffy and my mother alongside a couple of empty frames.

As soon as she was seated I said: “They . . . they sideslipped my husband, Gran.”

“When did they take him?” she asked, looking at me over her glasses in the way that grannies do; she never questioned what I said, and I explained everything to her as quickly as I could—except for the bit about the baby.

“Hmm,” said Granny Next when I had finished. “They took my husband too—I know how you feel.”

“Why did they do it?”

“The same reason they did it to you. Love is a wonderful thing, my dear, but it leaves you wide open for blackmail. Give way to tyranny and others will suffer just as badly as you— perhaps worse.”

“Are you saying I shouldn't try to get Landen back?”

“Not at all; just think carefully before you help them. They don't care about you or Landen; all they want is Jack Schitt. Is Anton still dead?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“What a shame. I hoped to see your brother before I popped myself. Do you know what the worst bit about dying is?”

“Tell me, Gran.”

“You never get to see how it all turns out.”

“Did you get your husband back, Gran?”

Instead of answering she unexpectedly placed her hand on my midriff and smiled that small and all-knowing smile that grandmothers seem to learn at granny school, along with crochet, January sales battle tactics and wondering what you are doing upstairs.

“June?” she asked.

You never argue with Granny Next, nor seek to know how she knows such things.

“July. But Gran, I don't know if it's Landen's, or Miles Hawke's, or whose!”

“You should call this Hawke fellow and ask him.”

“I can't do that!”

“Worry yourself woolly then,” she retorted. “Mind you, my money is on Landen as the father—as you say, the memories avoided the sideslip, so why not the baby? Believe me, everything will turn out fine. Perhaps not in the way that you imagine, but fine nonetheless.”

I wished I could share her optimism. She took her hand off my stomach and lay back on the bed, the energy expended during the Ping-Pong having taken its toll.

“I need to find a way to get back into books without the Prose Portal, Gran.”

She opened her eyes and looked at me with a keenness that belied her old age.

“Humph!” she said, then added: “I was SpecOps for seventy-seven years in eighteen different departments. I jumped
backwards and forwards and even sideways on occasion. I've chased bad guys who make Hades look like St. Zvlkx and saved the world from annihilation eight times. I've seen such weird shit you can't even
begin
to comprehend, but for all of that I have
absolutely no idea
how Mycroft managed to jump you into
Jane Eyre
.”

“Ah.”

“Sorry, Thursday—but that's the way it is. If I were you I'd work the problem out
backwards.
Who was the last person you met who could bookjump?”

“Mrs. Nakajima.”

“And how did she manage it?”

“She just read herself in, I suppose.”

“Have you tried it?”

I shook my head.

“Perhaps you should,” she replied with deadly seriousness. “The first time you went into
Jane Eyre
—wasn't that a bookjump?”

“I guess.”

“Perhaps,” she said as she picked a book at random off the shelf above her bed and tossed it across to me, “you had better
try.
”

I picked the book up.

“
The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies
?”

“Well, you've got to start somewhere, haven't you?” replied Gran with a chuckle. I helped her take off her blue gingham shoes and made her more comfortable.