Lost in a good book (47 page)

“We’ll sort out Lavoisier eventually,” muttered Lady Hamilton sadly, downing the cooking sherry. “You can be sure of that.”

“We?”

She looked at me and poured another generous—even by my mother’s definition—cup of sherry.

“Me—and your father, of course.”

I sighed. She obviously hadn’t heard the news.

“That’s what I came to talk to my mother about.”

“What did you come to talk to me about?”

It was my mother. She had just walked in wearing a quilted dressing gown with her hair sticking in all directions. For someone usually so suspicious of Emma Hamilton, she seemed quite cordial and even wished her good morning—although she swiftly removed the sherry from the counter and replaced it in the cupboard.

“You early bird!” she cooed. “Do you have time to take DH-82 to the vet’s this morning? His boil needs lancing again.”

“I’m kind of busy, Mum.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, sensing the seriousness in my voice. “Was that business at Vole Towers anything to do with you?”

“Sort of. I came over to tell you—”

“Yes?”

“That Dad has—Dad is—Dad was—”

Mum looked at me quizzically as my father, large as life, strode into the kitchen.

“—is making me feel
very
confused.”

“Hello, sweetpea!” said my father, looking considerably younger than the last time I saw him. “Have you been introduced to Lady Hamilton?”

“We had a drink together,” I said uncertainly. “But—you’re— you’re—
alive!
”

He stroked his chin and replied: “Should I be something else?”

I thought for a moment and furtively shook my cuff down to hide his ChronoGraph on my wrist.

“No—I mean, that is to say—”

But he had twigged me already.

“Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!”

He stood next to Mum and placed an arm round her waist. It was the first time I had seen them together for nearly seventeen years.

“But—”

“You mustn’t be so
linear,
” said my father. “Although I try to visit only in
your
chronological order, sometimes it’s not possible.”

He paused.

“Did I suffer much pain?”

“No—none at all,” I lied.

“It’s funny,” he said as he filled the kettle, “I can recall everything up until final curtain minus ten, but after that it’s all a bit fuzzy—I can vaguely see a rugged coastline and the sunset on a calm ocean, but other than that, nothing. I’ve seen and done a lot in my time, but my entry and exit will
always
remain a mystery. It’s better that way. Stops me getting cold feet and trying to change them.”

He spooned some coffee into the Cafetiere. I was glad to see that I had only witnessed Dad’s death and not the end of his life, as the two, I learned, are barely related at all.

“How are things, by the way?” he asked.

“Well,” I began, unsure of where to start, “the world didn’t end yesterday.”

He looked at the low winter sun that was shining through the kitchen windows.

“So I see. Good job too. An Armageddon right now might have been awkward. Have you had any breakfast?”

“Awkward? Global destruction would be
awkward?
”

“Decidedly so.
Tiresome
almost,” replied my father thoughtfully. “The end of the world could
really
louse up my plans. Tell me, did you manage to get me a ticket to the Nolans’ concert last night?”

I thought quickly.

“Er—no, Dad—sorry. They’d all sold out.”

There was another pause. Mum nudged her husband, who looked at her oddly. It looked as if she wanted him to say something.

“Thursday,” she began when it became obvious that Dad wasn’t going to take her cue, “your father and I think you should take some leave until our
first
grandchild is born. Somewhere safe. Somewhere
other.
”

“Oh yes!” added Dad with a start. “With Goliath, Aornis and Lavoisier after you, the herenow is not
exactly
the best place to be.”

“I can look after myself.”

“I thought I could too,” grumbled Lady Hamilton, gazing longingly at the cupboard where the cooking sherry was hidden.

“I
will
get Landen back,” I replied resolutely.

“Perhaps
now
you might be physically up to it—but what happens in six months’ time? You need a break, Thursday, and you need to take it now. Of course, you must fight—but fight with a level playing field.”

“Mum?”

“It makes sense, darling.”

I rubbed my head and sat on one of the kitchen chairs. It
did
seem to be a good idea.

“What have you in mind?”

Mum and Dad exchanged looks.

“I could downstream you to the sixteenth century or something, but good medical care would be hard to come by. Upstreaming is too risky—and besides, SO-12 would soon find you. No, if you’re going to go anywhere, it will have to be
sideways.
”

He came and sat down next to me.

“Henshaw at SO-3 owes me a favor. Between the two of us we could slip you sideways into a world where Landen
doesn’t
drown aged two.”

“You could?” I replied, suddenly perking up.

“Sure. But steady on. It’s not so simple. A lot will be . . .
different
.”

My euphoria was short-lived. A prickle rose on my scalp.

“How different?”

“
Very
different. You won’t be in SO-27. In fact, there won’t be any SpecOps at all. The Second World War will finish in 1945 and the Crimean conflict won’t last much beyond 1854.”

“I see. No Crimean War? Does that mean Anton will still be alive?”

“It does.”

“Then let’s do it, Dad.”

He laid a hand on mine and squeezed it.

“There’s more. It’s your decision, and you have to know
precisely
what is involved.
Everything
will be gone. All the work you’ve ever done, all the work you
will
do. There will be no dodos or neanderthals, no Willspeak machines, no Gravitube—”

“No Gravitube? How do people get around?”

“In things called
jetliners.
Large passenger aircraft that can fly seven miles high at three-quarters of the speed of sound— some even faster.”

It was plainly a ridiculous idea, and I told him.

“I know it’s far-fetched, sweetpea, but you’ll never know any different. The Gravitube will seem as impossible there as jetliners do here.”

“What about mammoths?”

“No—but there will be ducks.”

“Goliath?”

“Under a different name.”

I was quiet for a moment.

“Will there be
Jane Eyre
?”

“Yes,” sighed my father. “Yes, there will always be
Jane Eyre.
”

“And Turner? Will he still paint
The Fighting Temeraire
?”

“Yes, and Carravaggggio will be there too, although his name will be spelt more sensibly.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

My father was silent for a moment.

“There’s a catch.”

“What sort of catch?”

He sighed.

“Landen will be back, but you and he won’t have met. Landen won’t even
know
you.”

“But I’ll know him. I can introduce myself, can’t I?”

“Thursday, you’re not part of this. You’re outside of it. You’ll still be carrying Landen’s child, but you won’t know the sideslip has ever happened. You will remember nothing about your old life. If you want to go sideways to see him, then you’ll have to have a new past and a new present. Perversely enough, to be able to see him, you
cannot
have any recollection of him—nor he of you.”

“That’s some catch,” I observed.

“It’s the second-best there is,” Dad agreed.

I thought for a moment.

“So I won’t be in love with him?”

“I’m afraid not. You might have a small residual memory— feelings that you can’t explain for someone you’ve never met.”

“Will I be confused?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me with an earnest expression. They all did. Even Lady Hamilton, who had been moving quietly towards the sherry, stopped and was staring at me. It was clear that making myself scarce was something I had to do. But having zero recollection of Landen? I didn’t really have to think very hard.

“No, Dad. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I don’t think you understand,” he intoned, using his paternal go-to-your-room-young-lady voice. “In a year’s time you can come back and everything will be as right as—”

“
No.
I’m not losing any more of Landen than I have already.”

I had an idea.

“Besides, I do have somewhere I can go.”

“Where?” inquired my father. “Where could you possibly go that Lavoisier couldn’t find you? Backwards, forwards, sideways, otherways—there isn’t anywhere else!”

I smiled.

“You’re wrong, Dad. There
is
somewhere. A place where no one will ever find me—not even you.”

“Sweetpea—!” he implored. “It is
imperative
that you take this seriously! Where will you go?”

“I’ll just,” I replied slowly, “lose myself in a good book.”

Despite their pleading, I bade farewell to Mum, Dad and Lady Hamilton, crept out of the house and sped to my apartment on Joffy’s motorbike. I parked outside the front door in clear defiance of the Goliath and SpecOps agents who were still waiting for me. I ambled slowly in; it would take them twenty minutes or more to report to base and then get up the stairs and break down the door—and I really only needed to pack a few things. I still had my memories of Landen, and they would sustain me until I got him back. Because I
would
get him back—but I needed time to rest and recuperate and bring our child into the world with the minimum of fuss, bother and interruptions. I packed four tins of Moggilicious cat food, two packets of Mintolas, a large jar of Marmite and two dozen AA batteries into a large holdall along with a few changes of clothing, a picture of my family and the copy of
Jane Eyre
with the bullet lodged in the cover. I placed a sleepy and confused Pickwick and her egg into the holdall and zipped up the bag so that only her head stuck out. I then sat and waited on a chair in front of the door with a copy of
Great Expectations
on my lap. I wasn’t a natural bookjumper, and without my travelbook I was going to need the fear of capture to help catapult me through the boundaries of fiction.

I started to read at the first knock on the door and continued through the volley of shouts for me to open up, past the muffled thuds and the sound of splintered wood, until finally, as the door fell in, I melted into the dingy interior of
Great Expectations
and Satis House.

Miss Havisham was understandably shocked when I explained what I needed, and even more shocked at the sight of Pickwick, but she consented to my request and cleared it with the Bellman— on the proviso that I’d continue with my training. I was hurriedly inducted into the Character Exchange Program and given a secondary part in an unpublished book deep within the Well of Lost Plots—the woman I was replacing had for some time wanted to take a course in drama at the Reading Academy of Dramatic Arts, so it suited her equally well. As I wandered down to subbasement six, Exchange Program docket in hand made out to someone named Briggs, I felt more relaxed than I had for weeks. I found the correct book sandwiched between the first draft of an adventure in the Tasman Sea and a vague notion of a comedy set in Bomber Command. I picked it up, took it to one of the reading tables and quietly read myself into my new home.

I found myself on the banks of a reservoir somewhere in the home counties. It was summer and the air smelt warm and sweet after the wintry conditions back home. I was standing on a wooden jetty in front of a large and seemingly derelict flying boat, which rocked gently in the breeze, tugging on the mooring ropes. A woman had just stepped out of a door in the high-sided hull; she was holding a suitcase.

“Hello!” she shouted, running up and offering me a hand. “I’m Mary. You must be Thursday. My goodness! What’s that?”

“A dodo. Her name’s Pickwick.”

“I thought they were extinct.”

“Not where I come from. Is this where I’m going to live?” I was pointing at the shabby flying boat dubiously.

“I know what you’re thinking,” smiled Mary proudly. “Isn’t she just the most beautiful thing ever? Short Sunderland; built in 1943 but last flew in ’54. I’m midway converting her to a houseboat, but don’t feel shy if you want to help out. Just keep the bilges pumped out, and if you can run the number three engine once a month I’d be very grateful.”

“Er—okay,” I stammered.

“Good. I’ve left a rough précis of the story taped to the fridge, but don’t worry too much—since we’re not published you can do pretty much what you want. Any problems, ask Captain Nemo who lives on the
Nautilus
two boats down, and don’t worry, Jack might seem gruff to begin with, but he has a heart of gold, and if he asks you to drive his Austin Allegro, make sure you depress the clutch fully before changing gear. Did the Bellman supply you with all the necessary paperwork and fake IDs?”

I patted my pocket, and she handed me a scrap of paper and a bunch of keys.

“Good. This is my footnoterphone number in case of emergencies, these are the keys to the flying boat and my BMW. If someone named Arnold calls, tell him he had his chance and he blew it. Any questions?”

“I don’t think so.”

She smiled.

“Then we’re done. You’ll like it here. It’s pretty odd. I’ll see you in about a year. So long!”

She gave a cheery wave and walked off up the dusty track. I looked across the lake at the faraway dinghies, then watched a pair of swans beating their wings furiously and pedaling the water to take off. I sat down on a rickety wooden seat and let Pickwick out of the bag. It wasn’t home but it looked pleasant enough. Landen’s reactualization was in the uncharted future, along with Aornis’s and Goliath’s comeuppance—but all in good time. I would miss Mum, Dad, Joffy, Bowden, Victor and maybe even Cordelia. But it wasn’t
all
bad news—at least this way I wouldn’t have to do
The Thursday Next Workout Video.