'Thursday Next' (№4) - Something rotten

'There are more things in heaven and earth, Parks, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'

There was a pause as the SO-6 agent weighed up the facts.

'Do you think you can get him back?'

'I fear not. The spirits of the semi-dead will be flocking to him like moths to a light, trying to feed off his life force and return themselves to the land of the living. Such a trip would almost certainly be suicidal.'

Parks sighed audibly.

'All right. How much?'

'Ten grand. Realm-of-the-dead-certam-to-die work pays extra.'

'Each?'

'Since you mention it, why not?'

'Okay, then,' said Parks with a faint grin, 'you'll get your blood money — but only on results.'

'Wouldn't have it any other way.'

Spike beckoned me to follow him and we climbed back over the fence, the SO-6 agents staring at us, unsure of whether to be impressed, have us certified, or what.

'That really put the wind up them!' hissed Spike as we scrambled up the embankment, across bits of broken bumpers and shards of plastic mouldings. 'Nothing like a bit of that woo-woo crossing-over-into-the-spirit-world stuff to scare the crap out of them!'

'You mean you were making all that up?' I asked, not without a certain degree of nervousness in my voice. I had been on two scams with Spike before. On the first I was nearly fanged by a vampire, on the second almost eaten by zombies.

'I wish,' he replied, 'but if we make it look too easy then they don't cough up the big moolah. It'll be a cinch! After all, what do we have to lose?'

'Our lives?'

'Dahhhh! You must loosen up a bit, Thursday. Look upon it as an experience — part of death's rich tapestry. You ready?'

'No.'

'Good. Let's hit those semi-deads where it hurts!'

By the fifth time we had driven the circuit between Junctions 16 and 17 without so much as a glimpse of anything other than bored motorists and a cow or two, I was beginning to wonder whether Spike really knew what he was doing.

'Spike?'

'Mmm?' he replied, concentrating on the empty field that he thought might contain the gateway to the dead.

'What exactly are we looking for?'

'I don't have the foggiest idea, but if the President can make his way in without dying, so can we. Are you sure you won't put Biffo on midhoop attack? He's wasted on defence. You could promote Johnno to striker and use Jambe and Snake to build up defence.'

'If I don't find another five players, it might not matter anyway,' I replied. 'I managed to get Alf Widdershaine out of retirement to coach, though. You used to play county croquet, didn't you?'

'No way, Thursday.'

'Oh, go on.'

'No.'

There was a long pause. I stared out of the window at the traffic and Spike concentrated on driving, every now and then looking expectantly into the fields by the side of the road. I could see this was going to be a long day, so it seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject of Cindy. I wasn't keen to kill her and Spike, I knew, would be less than happy to see her dead.

'So . . . when did you and Cindy tie the knot?'

'About eighteen months ago. Have you ever visited the realm of the dead?'

'Orpheus told me about the Greek version of it over coffee once — but only the highlights. Does she — er — have a job?'

'She's a librarian,' replied Spike, 'part time. I've been there a couple of times; it's not half as creepy as you'd have thought.'

'The library?'

'The abode of the dead. Orpheus would have paid the ferryman but, you know, that's just a scam. You can easily do it yourself; those inflatable boats from Argos work a treat.'

I tried to visualise Spike paddling his way to the underworld on a brightly coloured inflatable boat but quickly swept the image aside.

'So . . . which library does Cindy work in?'

'The one in Highclose. They have a creche so it's very convenient. I want to have another kid but Cindy's not sure. How's your husband, by the way — still eradicated?'

'Wavering between "to be'' and "not to be" at the moment.'

'So there's hope, then?'

'There is always hope.'

'My sentiments entirely. Ever had a near death experience?'

'Yes,' I replied, recalling the time I was shot by a police marksman in an alternative future.

'What was it like?'

'Dark.'

'That sounds like a plain old common-or-garden death experience,' replied Spike cheerfully. 'I get them all the time. No, we need something a bit better than that. To pass over into the dark realm we need to just come within spitting distance of the grim reaper and hover there, tantalisingly just out of his reach.'

'And how are we going to achieve that?'

'Haven't a clue.'

He turned off the motorway at Junction 17 and took the slip road back on to the opposite carriageway to do another circuit.

'What did Cindy do before you were married?'

'She was a librarian then, too. She comes from a long line of dedicated Sicilian librarians — her brother is a librarian for the CIA.'

'The CIA?'

'Yes; he spends his time travelling the world — cataloguing their books, I presume.'

It seemed as though Cindy was wanting to tell him what she really did but couldn't pluck up the courage. The truth about her might easily shock him, so I thought I'd better plant a few seeds of doubt. If he could figure it all out himself, it would be a great deal less painful.

'Does it pay well, being a librarian?'

'Certainly does!' exclaimed Spike. 'Sometimes she is called away to do freelance contract work — emergency card-file indexing or something — and they pay her in used notes, too — in suitcases. Don't know how they manage it, but they do.'

I sighed and gave up.

We drove around twice more. Parks and the rest of the SO-6 spooks had long since got bored and driven off, and I was beginning to get a little tired of this myself.

'How long do we have to do this for?' I asked as we drove on to the Junction 16 roundabout for the seventh time, the sky darkening and small spots of rain appearing on the windscreen. Spike turned on the wipers, which squeaked in protest.

'Why? Am I keeping you from something?'

'I promised Mum she wouldn't have to look after Friday past five.'

'What are grannies for? Anyway, you're working.'

'Well, that's not the point, is it?' I answered. 'If I annoy her she may decide not to look after him again.'

'She should be grateful. My parents love looking after Betty, although Cindy doesn't have any — they were both shot by police marksmen while being librarians.'

'Doesn't that strike you as unusual?'

He shrugged.

'In my line of work, it's difficult to know what unusual is.'

'I know the feeling. Are you sure you don't want to play in the Superhoop?'

'I'd sooner attempt root canal work on a werewolf He pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and weaved around the traffic that was waiting to return to the westbound M4. 'I'm bored with all this. Death, drape your sable coat upon us!'

Spike's car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped on to the motorway, so heavy that even with the wipers on full speed it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the headlights and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, passing through the spray of a juggernaut before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.

'Don't you think you'd better slow down?' I yelled, but Spike just grinned maniacally and overtook a car on the inside. We were going at almost a hundred when Spike pointed out of the window and yelled:

'Look!'

I gazed out of my window at the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared I suddenly glimpsed a sliver of light as faint as a will-o'-the-wisp. It might have been anything, but to Spike's well-practised eye it was just what we'd been looking for — a chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.

'Here we go!' yelled Spike, and pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4 greeted us in a flash and I had just the faintest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as we were airborne and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn't happen. A moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of night. The rain had stopped and the inky-black sky had no stars. We had arrived.

28

Dauntsey Services

'Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.'

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW —'A Psalm of Life'

We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby's Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.

'Looks like we're still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?'

'Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well — and not looking back has something to do with it.'

'Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: we locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?'

'Wow!' I muttered. 'You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn't you?'

'It has the benefit of simplicity.'

Spike looked around at the people entering the motorway services building. He got out of the car.

'This gateway isn't just for road accidents,' he muttered, opening the boot and taking out a pump-action shotgun. 'From the numbers I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as 'well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.'

'So what's changed?'

Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun.

'The rise of secularism has a hand in it but mostly it's down to CPR. Death takes a hold — you come here — someone resuscitates you, you leave.'

'Right. So what's the President doing here?'

Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster.

'An accident. He's not meant to be here at all — like us. Are you packing?'

I nodded.

'Then let's see what's going on. And act dead — we don't want to attract any attention.'

We strode slowly across the car park towards the services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.

We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring an RAC man who tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit, airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big difference. Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the burden of life were pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that although many people were walking in the main entrance, not so many people were walking out.

We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the cafeteria, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking in low voices, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.

'Are all these people dead?' I asked.

'Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.' Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us — the southside services — to the other side, the north-side. I looked out of the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge which stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.

'No one comes back, do they?'

'The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns,' replied Spike. 'It's the last journey we ever make.'

The waitress called out a number.

'Thirty-two?'

'Here!' said a couple quite near us.

'Thank you, the northside is ready for you now.'

'Northside?' echoed the woman. 'I think there's been some sort of mistake. We ordered fish, chips and peas for two.'

'You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!'

The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves, but got up nonetheless, walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the motorway. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living, heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God's name was I doing here?

I was diverted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and pointed. On the far side of the cafeteria was a frail old man who was sitting by himself at a table. I'd seen President Formby once or twice before but not for about a decade. According to Dad he would die of natural causes in six days, and it wouldn't be unkind to say that he looked about ready. He was painfully thin and his eyes appeared to be sunken into his sockets. His teeth, so much a trademark, more protruding than ever. A lifetime's entertaining can be punishing, a half-lifetime in politics doubly so. He was hanging on to keep Kaine from power, and by the look of it he was losing and knew it.

I moved to get up but Spike murmured:

'We might be too late. Look at his table.'

There was a '33' sign in front of him. I felt Spike tense and lower his shoulders, as though he had seen someone he recognised but didn't want them to see him.

'Thursday,' he whispered, 'get the President to my car by whatever means you can before the waitress gets back. I have to take care of something. I'll see you outside '

'What? Hey, Spike!'

But he was away, moving slowly among the lost souls milling around the newsagent until he was gone from sight. I took a deep breath, got up and crossed to Formby's table.

'Hullo, young lady!' said the President. 'Where are me bodyguards?'

'I've no time to explain, Mr President, but you need to come with me.'

'Oh well,' he said agreeably, 'if you say so — but I've just ordered pie and chips. Could eat a horse and probably will, too!'

He grinned and laughed weakly.

'We must go,' I urged. 'I will explain everything, I promise!'

'But I've already paid—!'

'Table thirty-three?' said the waitress, who had crept up behind me.

'That's us,' replied the President cheerfully.

'There's been a problem with your order. You're going to have to leave for the moment, but we'll keep it hot for you.'

I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't meant to be dead and the staff knew it.

'Now can we go?'

'I'm not leaving until I get a refund,' he said stubbornly.

'Your life is in danger, Mr President.'

'Been in danger many times, young lady, but I'm not leaving till I get my ten bob back.'

'I will pay it,' I replied, 'now let's get out of here.'

I heaved him to his feet and walked him to the exit. As we pushed open the doors and stumbled out, three disreputable-looking men appeared from the shadows. They were all armed.

'Well, well!' said the first man, who was dressed in a very tired and battered SpecOps uniform. He had stubble, oily hair and was pale to the point of cadaverous. In one hand he held an aged SpecOps-issue revolver, and the other was planted firmly on the top of his head. 'Looks like we've got some live ones here!'

'Drop your gun,' said the second.

'You'll live to regret this,' I told him, but realised the stupidity of the comment as soon as I had said it.

'Way too late for that!' he replied. 'Your gun, if you please.'

I complied and he grabbed Formby and took him back inside while the first man picked up my gun and put it in his pocket.

'Now you,' he said, 'inside. We've got a little trading to do and time is fleeting.'

I didn't know where Spike was but he had sensed the danger, that much was certain. I supposed he had a plan, and if I delayed, perhaps it would help.

'What do you want?'

'Nothing much.' The man who had his hand pressed firmly on his head laughed. 'Just. . . your soul.'

'Looks like a good one, too,' said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and pointing it in my direction, 'lots of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run — we won't get a lot for that.'

I didn't like the sound of this, not one little bit.

'Move,' said the first man, indicating the doors.

'Where to?'

'Northside.'

'Over my dead body.'

'That's the po—'

The third man didn't finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelled of mouldy vegetables. The first man whirled round and fired in the direction of the cafeteria but I seized the opportunity and ran back into the car park to take cover behind a parked car. After a few moments I peered cautiously round. Spike was inside, trading shots with the first man, who was pinned behind the presidential Bentley, still with his hand on his head. I cursed myself for giving up my weapon, but as I stared at the scene, the night-time, the motorway services, a sense of déjà vu welled up inside me. No, it was stronger than that — I had been here before, during a leap through time nearly three years ago. I witnessed the jeopardy I was in and left a gun for myself. I looked around. Behind me a man and a woman — Bowden and myself, in point of fact — were jumping into a Speedster — my Speedster. I smiled and dropped to my knees, feeling under the car tyre for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety catch and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover among the milling crowds, who scattered, terrified. I cautiously entered the now seemingly deserted services and rejoined Spike just inside the doorway of the shop. We had a commanding view of the stairs to the connecting bridge; no one was going northside without passing us. I dropped the magazine out of my automatic and reloaded.

'The tall guy is Chesney, my ex-partner from SO-17,' announced Spike as he reloaded his shotgun. 'The necktie covers the decapitation wound I gave him. He has to hold his head to stop it falling off

'Ah. I wondered why he was doing that. But losing his head — that makes him dead, right?'

'Usually. He must be bribing the gateway guardians or something. It's my guess he's running some sort of soul reclamation scam.'

'Wait, wait,' I said, 'slow down. Your ex-partner Chesney — who is dead — is now running a service pulling souls out of the netherworld?'

'Looks like it. Death doesn't care about personalities — he's more interested in meeting quotas. After all, one departed soul is very like another.'

'So—'

'Right. Chesney swaps the soul of someone deceased for someone healthy and living.'

'I'd say you're shitting me but I've got a feeling you're not.' 'I wish I was. Nice little earner, I'm sure. It looks like that's where Formby's driver Mallory went. Okay, here's the plan: we'll do a hostage swap for the President and once you're in their custody I'll get Formby to safety and return for you.'

'I've got a better idea,' I replied, 'how about we swap you for Formby and I go to get help?'

'I thought you knew all about the underworld from your bosom pal Orpheus?' countered Spike with a trace of annoyance.

'It was highlights over coffee — and anyway, you've done it before. What was that about an inflatable boat from Argos to paddle yourself to the underworld?'

'Well,' said Spike slowly, 'that was more of a hypothetical journey, really.'

'You haven't a clue what you're doing, have you?'

'No. But for ten grand, I'm willing to take a few risks.'

We didn't have time to argue further as several shots came our way. There was a frightened scream from a customer as one of the bullets reduced a magazine shelf to confetti. Before I knew it Spike had fired his shotgun into the ceiling, where it destroyed a light fixture in a shower of bright sparks.

'Who shot at us?' asked Spike. 'Did you see?'

'I think it's fair to say that it wasn't the light fixture.'

'I had to shoot at something. Cover me.'

He jumped up and fired. I joined him, fool that I was. I had thought that being out of my depth was okay because Spike vaguely knew what he was doing. Now that I was certain this was not the case, escape seemed a very good option indeed. After firing several shots ineffectively down the corridor, we stopped and dropped back round the corner.

'Chesney!' shouted Spike. 'I want to talk to you!'

'What do you want here?' came a voice. 'This is my patch!'

'Let's have a head-to-head,' replied Spike, stifling a giggle. 'I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement!'

There was a pause, then Chesney's voice rang out again:

'Hold your fire. We're coming out.'

Chesney stepped out into the open, just next to the children's helicopter ride and a Coriolanus Will-Speak machine. His remaining henchman joined him, holding the President.

'Hello, Spike,' said Chesney. He was a tall man who looked as though he didn't have a drop of liquid blood in his entire body. 'I haven't forgiven you for killing me.'

'I kill vampires for a living, Dave. You became one — I had to.'

'Had to?'

'Sure. You were about to sink your teeth into an eighteen-year-old virgin's neck and turn her into a lifeless husk willing to do your every bidding.'

'Everyone should have a hobby.'

'Train sets I tolerate,' Spike replied, 'spreading the seed of vampirism I do not.'

He nodded towards Chesney's neck.

'Nasty scratch you have there.'

'Very funny. What's the deal?'

'Simple. I want President Formby back.'

'And in return?'

Spike turned the shotgun towards me.

'I give you Thursday. She's got bags of life left in her. Give me your gun, sweetheart.'

'What?' I yelled in a well-feigned cry of indignation.

'Do as I say. The President must be protected at all costs — you told me so yourself

I handed the gun over.

'Good. Now move forward.'

We walked slowly up the concourse, the cowering visitors watching us with a sort of morbid fascination. We stopped ten yards from Chesney just near the arcade game area.

'Send the President to me.'

Chesney nodded to his henchman, who let him go. Formby, a little confused by now, tottered up to us.

'Now send me Thursday.'

'Whoa!' said Spike. 'Still using that old SpecOps-issue revolver? Here, have her automatic — she won't need it any more.'

And he tossed my gun towards his ex-partner. Chesney, in an unthinking moment, went to catch the gun — but with the hand he used to keep his head on. Unrestrained, his head wobbled dangerously. He tried to grab it but this made matters worse and his head tumbled off to the front, past his flailing hands, and hit the floor with the sound of a large cabbage. This unseemly situation had distracted Chesney's number two, who was disarmed by a blast from Spike's shotgun. I didn't see why Spike should have all the fun so I ran forward and caught Chesney's head on the bounce and expertly booted it through the door of the arcade, where it scored a direct hit on the SlamDunk! basketball game, earning three hundred points. Spike had thumped the now confused and headless Chesney in the stomach and retrieved both my automatics. I grabbed the President and we legged it for the car park while Chesney's head screamed obscenities from where he was stuck upside down in the SlamDunk! basket.

Spike smiled as we reached his car. 'Well, Chesney really lost his—'

'No,' I said, 'don't say it. It's too corny.'

'Is this some sort of theme park?' asked Formby as we bundled him into Spike's car.

'Of a sort, Mr President,' I replied as we reversed out of the car park with a squeal of tyres and tore towards the exit ramp. No one tried to stop us and a couple of seconds later we were blinking in the daylight — and the rain — of the M4 westbound. The time, I noticed, was 5.03 — lots of time to get the President to a phone and oppose Kaine's vote in Parliament. I put out my hand to Spike, who shook it happily and returned my gun, which was still covered in the desiccated dust of Chesney's hoodlum friend.

'Did you see the look on his face when his head started to come off?' Spike asked, chuckling. 'Man, I live for moments like that!'

29

The Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire

DANISH KING IN TIDAL COMMAND FIASCO

In another staggering display of Danish Cupidity, King Canute of Denmark attempted to use his authority to halt the incoming tide, our reporters have discovered. It didn't, of course, and the Dopey Monarch was soaked Danish authorities were quick to deny the story and rushed with obscene haste to besmirch the excellent and unbiased English press with the following hies: 'For a start it wasn't Canute, it was Cnut,' began the wild and wholly unconvincing tirade from the Danish minister of propaganda. 'You English named him Canute to make it sound less like you were ruled by foreigners for two hundred years. And Cnut didn't try to command the sea — it was to demonstrate to his overly flattering courtiers that the tide wouldn't succumb to his will. And it all happened nine hundred years ago — if it happened at all.' King Canute himself was unavailable for comment.

Article in The Toad, 18 July 1988

We told the President that yes, he was right — the whole thing was some sort of motorway services theme park. Dowding and Parks were genuinely pleased to get their President back, and Yorrick Kaine cancelled the vote in Parliament. Instead, he led a silent prayer to thank providence for returning Formby to our midst. As for Spike and me, we were each given a post-dated cheque and told we would be sure to receive the 'Banjulele with Oak Clusters' for our steadfast adherence to duty.

Spike and I parted after the tiring day's work and I returned to the SpecOps office, where I found a slightly annoyed Major Drabb waiting for me near my car.

'No Danish books found again, Agent Next!' he said through clenched teeth, handing me his report. 'More failure and I will have to take the matter to higher authority.'

I glared at him, took a step closer and prodded him angrily in the chest. I needed Flanker off my case until the Superhoop at the very least.

'You blame me for your failings?'

'Well,' he said, faltering slightly and taking a nervous step backward as I moved even closer, 'that is to say—'

'Redouble your efforts, Major Drabb, or I will have you removed from your command. Do you understand?'

I shouted the last bit, which I didn't want to do — but I was getting desperate. I didn't want Flanker on my back in addition to everything else that was going on.

'Of course,' croaked Drabb, 'I take full responsibility for my failure.'

'Good,' I said, straightening up. 'Tomorrow you are to search the Australian Writers' Guild in Wootton Bassett.'

Drabb dabbed his brow and made another salute.

'As you say, Miss Next.'

I tried to drive past the mixed bag of journalists and TV news crews but they were more than insistent so I stopped to say a few words.

'Miss Next,' said a reporter from ToadSports, jostling with the five or six other TV crews trying to get the best angle, 'what is your reaction to the news that five of the Mallets have withdrawn from the side following death threats?'

This was news to me but I didn't show it.

'We are in the process of signing new players to the team—'

'Miss Manager, with only five players in your team, don't you think it better just to withdraw?'

'We'll be playing, I assure you.'

'What is your response to the rumour that the Reading Whackers have signed ace player "Bonecrusher" McSneed to play forward hoop?'

'The same as always — the Superhoop will be a momentous victory for Swindon.'

'And what about the news that you have been declared "unfit to manage" given your highly controversial decision to put Biffo in defence?'

'Positions on the field are yet to be decided and are up to Mr Jambe. Now if you'll excuse me . . .'

I started the engine again and drove away from the SpecOps building, the news crews still shouting questions after me. I was big news again, and I didn't like it.

I arrived home just in time to rescue Mother from having to make more tea for Friday.

'Eight fish fingers!' she muttered, shocked by his greed. 'Eight!'

'That's nothing,' I replied, putting my pay cheque into a novelty teapot and tickling Friday on the ear. 'You wait until you see how many beans he can put away.'

'The phone's been ringing all day. Aubrey somebody or other about death threats or something?'