'Thursday Next' (№4) - Something rotten

41

Death Becomes Her

SUPERHOOP ASSAILANT 'VANISHES'

The mysterious assassin who shot the Mallets' team manager has not yet been found, despite a vigorous SpecOps search. 'Its still early days in the investigation,' said a police spokesman, 'but from clothes left at the crime scene we are interested in interviewing a Mr Norman Johnson, who we understand has been staying at the Finis Hotel for the past week.' Asked to comment further on the rumoured link between the attack on Miss Next and a grand piano incident last Friday, the same police spokesman confirmed that the attacks were connected, but wouldn't be pressed on details, Miss Next is still in St Septyks Hospital where her condition is reported as 'critical.'

Article in the Swindon Daily Eyestrain, 24 July 1988

'Table seventeen?'

'Sorry?'

'Table seventeen. You are table seventeen, I take it?'

I looked up at the waitress in a confused manner. A second ago I had been taking a penalty during a Superhoop — and now I was in a cafeteria somewhere. She was a kindly woman with a friendly manner. I looked at the table marker. I was table seventeen.

'Yes?'

'You're to go ... northside.'

I must have looked confused because she repeated it and then gave me directions: along the concourse, past the Coriolanus Will-Speak machine, up the stairs and across the pedestrian walkway.

I thanked her and got up. I was still dressed in my croquet gear

but without mallet or helmet, and I touched my head gently where I could feel a small hole. I stopped for a moment and looked around. I had been here before, and recently. I was in a motorway services. The same one that I had visited with Spike. But where was Spike? And why couldn't I remember how I got here?

'Well, looky what we have here!' came a voice from behind me. It was Chesney, this time wearing some sort of neck brace but with a bruise on the side of his head where I had kicked him. Next to him was one of his henchmen, who was minus an arm.

'Chesney,' I muttered, looking around for a weapon, 'still in the soul reclamation business?'

'And how!'

'Touch me and I'll knock your block off

'Ooooh!' said Chesney. 'Don't flatter yourself, girlie — you've just been called to go northside, haven't you?'

'So?'

'Well, there's only one reason you go over there,' replied Chesney's sidekick with an unkindly laugh.

'You mean—?'

'Right,' said Chesney with a grin, 'you're dead.'

'Dead?'

'Dead. Join the club, sweetheart.'

'How can I be dead?'

'Remember the assassin at the Superhoop?'

I touched the hole in my head again.

'I was shot.'

'In the head. Get out of that one, Miss Next!'

'Landen must be devastated,' I murmured, 'and I have to take Friday for a health check-up on Tuesday.'

'Ain't none of your concern no longer!' sneered Chesney's sidekick, and they walked off, laughing loudly.

I turned to the steps of the pedestrian footbridge that led towards the northside and looked around. Oddly, I didn't feel any great fear about being dead — I just wished I'd had the chance to say goodbye to the boys. I took the first step on the staircase when I heard a screeching of tyres and a loud crash. A car had just pulled up outside the services, jumped the kerb and collided with a rubbish bin. A large man had leaped out and was running through the doors, looking up and down in desperation until he saw me. It was Spike.

'Thursday—!' he gasped. 'Thank heavens I got to you before you went across!'

'You're alive?'

'Of course. It took me two days driving up and down the M4 to get here. Looks like I was just in time.'

'In time? In time for what?'

'I'm taking you home.'

He gave me his car keys.

'That's the ignition but the engine starter is a push button in the middle of the dash.'

'Middle of the dash, okay. What about you?'

'I've got some unfinished business with Chesney so I'll see you on the other side.'

He gave me a hug, and trotted off towards the newsagent's.

I walked outside and got into Spike's car, grateful that I had a friend like him who knew how to deal with things like this. I'd be seeing Friday and Landen again, and everything would be just hunky-dory. I pressed the starter, reversed off the rubbish bin and drove towards the exit. I wondered whether we'd won the Superhoop. I should have asked Spike. SPIKE!!!

I stamped on the brakes and reversed rapidly back to the services, jumped out of the car and ran across the footbridge leading to the northside.

Only it wasn't the northside, of course. It was a large cavern of incalculable age lit by dozens of burning torches. The stalactites and stalagmites had joined, giving the impression of organic Doric columns supporting the high roof, and snaking among the columns and the boulder-strewn floor was an orderly queue of departed souls who had lined up ready to cross the river that guarded the entrance to the underworld. The lone ferryman was doing a brisk trade; for an extra shilling you could be taken on a guided tour on the way. Another entrepreneur was selling guides to the underworld, how best to ensure the departed soul went to a land of milk of honey, and for the more dubious characters a few helpful hints on how to square yourself with the Big Guy on Judgment Day.

I ran up the queue and found Spike ten souls from the front.

'Absolutely no way, Spike!'

'Ssh!' said someone ahead of us.

'Nuts to you, Thursday. Just look after Betty, would you?'

'You are NOT taking my place, Spike.'

'Let me do this, Thursday. You deserve a long life. You have many wonderful things in front of you.'

'So do you.'

'It's debatable. Battling the undead was never a bowl of cherries. And without Cindy?'

'She's not dead, Spike.'

'If she pulls through they'll never let her out of jail. She was the Windowmaker. No, after the shit I've been through, this actually seems like a good option. I'm staying.'

'You are not.'

'Try and stop me.'

'Sssh!' said the man in front again.

'I won't let you do it, Spike. Think of Betty. Besides, I'm the one that's dead, not you. SECURITY!'

A mouldy skeleton holding a lance and dressed in rusty armour clanked up.

'What's going on here?'

I stabbed a finger at Spike.

'This man's not dead.'

'Not dead?' replied the guard in a shocked tone. The queue of people all turned round to stare as the guard drew a rusty sword and pointed it at Spike, who reluctantly raised his hands and, shaking his head sadly, walked back towards the footbridge.

'Tell Landen and Friday I love them!' I yelled at his departing form, suddenly realising that I should have asked him who'd won the Superhoop. I turned to the queue behind me, which snaked around the boulder-strewn cavern, and said:

'Does anyone know the results of Superhoop '88?'

'Shhh!' said the man in front again.

'Why don't you poke your "shhhh" up your. . . Oh. Hello, Mr President.'

As soon as he recognised me he gave me a broad toothy grin.

'Eeee, Miss Next! Is this that theme park again?'

'Sort of'

I was glad that the trip across the river led up as well as down. One thing was for sure: unless there had been some sort of dreadful administrative mix-up, Formby was certainly not for eternal torment within the all-consuming flames of hell.

'So — how are you?' I asked, momentarily lost for words when confronted with the biggest — and last — celebrity I would be likely to meet.

'Pretty good, lass. One moment I was giving a concert, next thing I was in the cafeteria ordering pie and chips for one.'

Spike had said he had driven for two days to get to me, so it must be the 24th — and, as Dad had predicted, Formby had died as he had meant to, performing for the Lancaster Regiment Veterans. My heart fell as I realised that the days following Formby's death would mark the beginning of the Third World War. Still, it was out of my hands now.

The boat arrived for the ex-President and he stepped in.

The ferryman pushed the small craft into the river and dropped his pole into the dark water.

'Mr Formby, isn't it?' said the ferryman. 'I'm a big fan of yours. I had that Mr Garrick in the back of my boat once. Do you do requests?'

'Ooh, aye,' replied the entertainer, 'but I don't have me uke with me.'

'Borrow mine,' said the ferryman. 'I do a bit of entertaining myself, you know.'

Formby picked up the ukulele and strummed the strings.

'What would you like?'

The ferryman told him and the dour cavern was soon filled with a chirpy rendition of 'We've Been a Long Time Gone'. It seemed a fitting way to go for the old man, who had given so much to so many — not only as an entertainer, but as a freedom fighter and elder statesman. The boat, Formby and the ferryman disappeared into the mist that drifted across the river, obscuring the far bank and muting the sound. It was my turn next. What had Gran said? The worst bit about dying is not knowing how it all turns out? Still, at least I got Landen back, so Friday was in good hands.

'Miss Next?'

I looked up. The ferryman had returned. He was dressed in a sort of dirty muslin cloth; I couldn't see his face.

'You have the fare?'

I dug out a coin and was about to hand it over when—

'WAIT!!!'

I turned around as a petite young woman trotted up, out of breath. She brushed the blonde hair from her face and smiled shyly at me. It was Cindy.

'I'm taking her place,' she told the ferryman, handing over a coin.

'How can you?' I said in some surprise. 'You're almost dead yourself!'

'No,' she corrected me, 'I'm not. And what's more, I pull through. I shouldn't, but I do. Sometimes the Devil looks after his own.'

'But you'll leave Spike and Betty—

'Listen to me for a moment, Thursday. I've killed sixty-eight people in my career.'

'So you did do Samuel Pring.'

'It was a fluke. But listen: sixty-eight innocent souls sent across this river before their time, all down to me. And I did it all for cash. You can play the self-righteous card for all I care, but the fact remains that I'll never see the light of day when I recover, and I'll never get to hold Betty again, or hug Spike. I don't want that. You're a better person than me, Thursday, and the world is far better off with you in it.'

'But that's not the point, surely?' I said. 'When it's time to go—

'Look,' she interrupted angrily, 'let me do one good thing to make up for even one quarter of one per cent of the misery I've caused.'

I stared at her as the skeleton in rusty armour clanked up again.

'More trouble, Miss Next?'

'Give us a minute, will you?'

'Please,' implored Cindy, 'you'd be doing me a favour.'

I looked at the skeleton, who probably would have rolled his eyes if he had had any.

'It's your decision, Miss Next,' said the guard, 'but someone has to take that boat or I'm out of a job — and I've got a bony wife and two small skeletons to put through college.'

I turned back to Cindy, put out my hand and she shook it, then pulled me forward and hugged me tightly while whispering in rny ear:

'Thank you, Thursday. Keep an eye on Spike for me.'

She hopped quickly into the boat before I had a chance to change my mind. She gave a wan smile and sat in the bows as the ferryman leaned on his pole, sending the small boat noiselessly across the river. In terms of the burden of her sins, saving me was only small recompense, but she felt better for it, and so did I. As the boat containing Cindy faded into the mists of the river I turned and walked back towards the pedestrian footbridge, the southside of Dauntsey services, and life.

42

Explanations

STATE FUNERAL ATTRACTS WORLD'S LEADERS

Millions of heartbroken citizens of England and the most important world leaders arrived in Wigan yesterday to pay tribute to President George Formby, who died two weeks ago. The funeral cortege was driven on a circuitous route round the Midlands, the streets lined with mourners eager to bid a final goodbye to England's President of the past thirty-nine years. At his memorial service in Wigan Cathedral the new Chancellor, Mr Redmond van de Poste, spoke warmly of the great man's contribution to world peace. After the Lancashire Male Voice Choir sang 'With My Little Stick of Blackpool Rock' accompanied by two hundred ukuleles, the Chancellor invited the Queen of Denmark to accompany him in a duet of 'Your Way Is My Way', something that might well serve to mend the rift between our respective nations.

Article in The Toad, 10 August 1988

'It was touch and go for a moment,' said Landen, who was sitting by my hospital bed holding my hand. 'There was a moment when we really didn't think you'd make it.'

I gave a wan smile. I had regained consciousness only the day before and every movement felt like a dagger in my head. I looked around. Joffy and Miles and Hamlet were there, too.

'Hi, guys.'

They smiled and welcomed me back.

'How long?' I asked in a whisper.

'Two weeks,' said Landen. 'We really thought—

I gently squeezed his hand and looked around. Land divined my thoughts perfectly.

'He's with his grandmother.'

I raised a hand to touch the side of my head but could feel only a heavy bandage. Landen took my hand and returned it to the sheet.

'What—?'

'You were astonishingly lucky,' he said in a soothing tone. 'The doctors say you'll make a full recovery. The calibre was quite small and it entered your skull obliquely; by the time it had gone through most of the energy was gone.' He tapped the side of his head. 'It lodged between your brain and the inside of the skull. Gave us quite a fright, though.'

'Cindy died, didn't she?'

Joffy answered.

'Looked to be improving but then septicaemia set in.'

'They really loved one another, you know, despite their differences.'

'She was a hit-woman, Thursday, a trained assassin. I don't think she regarded death as anything more than an occupational hazard.'

I nodded. He was right.

Landen leaned forward and kissed my nose.

'Who shot me, Land?'

'Does the name "Norman Johnson" mean anything to you?'

'Yes,' I said, 'the Minotaur. You were right. He'd been trying to slapstick me to death all week — steamroller, banana skin, piano — I was a fool not to see it. Mind you, a gun's hardly slapstick, is it?'

Landen smiled.

'It had a large "bang" sign that came out of the barrel, as well as the bullet. The police are still trying to make sense of it.'

I sighed. The Minotaur was long gone but I'd still have to be careful. I turned to Landen. There was still something I needed to know.

'Did we win?'

'Of course. You pegged a foot closer than O'Fathens. Your shot has been voted "sporting moment of the century" — in Swindon, at any rate.'

'So we aren't at war with Wales?'

Landen shook his head and smiled.

'Kaine's finished, my darling — and Goliath have abandoned all attempts to become a religion. St Zvlkx does indeed work in mysterious ways.'

'Are you going to tell me?' I said with a wan smile. 'Or do I have to beat it out of you with a stick?'

Joffy unfolded the picture of St Zvlkx and Cindy's fatal pianoing on Commercial Road, the one from the Swindon Evening Globe that Gran had given me.

'We found this in your back pocket,' said Miles.

'And it got us to thinking,' continued Joffy, 'exactly where Zvlkx was heading that morning, and why he had the ticket for the Gravitube in his bedroom. He was cutting his losses and running. I don't think even Zvlkx — or whoever he was — believed that Swindon could possibly win the Superhoop. Dad always said that time wasn't immutable.'

'I don't get it.'

Miles leaned forward and showed me the picture again.

'He died trying to get to Tudor Turf Accounting.'

'So? Oldest betting shop in Swindon.'

'No — in the world. We made a few calls. It had been trading continually since 1264.'

I looked at Joffy quizzically.

'What are you saying?'

'That the Book of Revealments was nothing of the kind — it's a thirteenth-century betting slip!'

'A what?'

He pulled Zvlkx's Revealments from his pocket and opened it to the front page. There was a countersigned receipt for a farthing that we had thought was a bookbinder's tax or something. The small arithmetical sum next to each Revealment was actually the odds against that particular event coming true, each one countersigned by the same signature as on the front page. Joffy flicked through the slim volume.

'The Spanish Armada Revealment had been given the odds of six hundred to one, Wellington's victory at Waterloo four hundred and twenty to one.' He flicked to the final page. 'The outcome of the croquet match was set at 124,000 to one. The odds were generous because Zvlkx was betting on things centuries before they happened; indeed, centuries before croquet was even thought of No wonder the person who had underwritten the bet felt confident in offering such odds.'

'Well,' I said, 'don't hold your breath — 124,000 farthings only adds up to . . . up to . . .'

'One hundred and thirty quid,' put in Miles.

'Right. One hundred and thirty quid. Nelson's victory would net Zvlkx only, what — nine bob?'

I still didn't quite get it.

'Thursday — it's a totalizer. Each bet or event that comes true is multiplied by the winnings of the previous event — and any prophecy that didn't come true would would have negated the whole deal.'

'So . . . how much are the Revealments worth?'

Joffy looked at Miles, who looked at Landen, who grinned and looked at Joffy.

'One hundred and twenty-eight billion pounds.'

'But Tudor Turf wouldn't have that sort of cash!'

'Of course not,' replied Miles, 'but the parent company that underwrites Tudor Turf would be legally bound to meet all bets drawn up. And Tudor Turf are owned by Wessex Cashcow which is itself owned by Tails You Lose, the wholly owned gaming division of Consolidated Glee, which is owned by—

'The Goliath Corporation,' I breathed.

'Right.'

There was a stunned silence. I wanted to jump out of bed and laugh and scream and run around, but that, I knew, would have to be postponed until I was in better health. For now, I just smiled.

'So how much of Goliath does the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx actually own?'

'Well,' continued Joffy, 'it doesn't actually own any of it. If you recall we sold all his wisdom to the Toast Marketing Board. They now own fifty-eight per cent of Goliath. We told them what we wanted and they wholeheartedly agreed. Goliath have dropped their plans to become a religion and have decided to support a political party other than the Whigs. There was something in the deal about a new cathedral to be built, too. We won, Thursday — we won!'

Kaine's fall, I discovered, had been rapid and humiliating. Without Goliath's backing, and minus his ovinator, Parliament suddenly started wondering why they had been following him so blindly, and those who had supported him turned against him with the same enthusiasm. In less than a week he realised just what it was to be human. All the vanity and plotting and conniving that worked so well for him when fictional didn't seem to have the same power at all when spoken with a real tongue, and he was removed from office within three days of the Superhoop. Ernst Stricknene, questioned at length over calls made to Cindy Stoker from his office, decided to save as much of his skin as he could and talked at great length about his former boss. Kaine now had to face the biggest array of indictments ever heaped upon a public figure in the history of England. So many, in fact, that it was easier to list things he wasn't indicted for — which were: 'working as an unlicensed nanny' and 'using a car horn in a built-up area during the hours of darkness'. If found guilty on all charges he was facing over nine hundred years in prison.

'I feel almost sorry for him,' said Joffy, who was a lot more forgiving than me. 'Poor Yorrick.'

'Yes,' replied Hamlet sarcastically. 'Alas.'

43

Recovery

TOAST PARTY UNVEIL MANIFESTO

Mr Redmond van de Poste, whose ruling Toast (formerly Common-sense) Party took control of the nation last week, announced the party's manifesto to rescue the country from economic and social collapse. Mr van de Poste began by announcing mandatory toast-eating requirements for all citizens on a sliding scale based on age, then proposed a drive to place a new toaster in every home within a year.

'In the long term,' continued Mr van de Poste, 'we will instigate a five-year plan to upgrade all our manufacturing facilities to build a new brand of supertoaster that will sweep aside all competition and make England the toast capital of the world.' Critics of the 'Toast manifesto' indicated alarm at Poste's strident calls for a North Atlantic Toast Alliance, and pointed out that excluding non-toast-eating nations would create unnecessary international tension. Mr van de Poste has not yet responded, and has called for a reform of Parliament.

Article in The Toad, 4 August 1988

I went home two weeks later to a house that was so full of flowers it looked like Kew Gardens. I still didn't have complete command of the right-hand side of my body but every day it seemed a little bit more like part of me, a little less numb. I sat and looked out of the open French windows into the garden. The air was heavy with the scents of summer and the breeze gently played upon the net curtains. Friday was drawing with some crayons on the floor and I could hear the clackety-clack of Landen's old Underwood typewriter next door, and in the kitchen Louis Armstrong was on the wireless singing 'La Vie en rose'. It was the first time I had been able to relax for almost as long as I could remember. I was going to need an extended convalescence but would go back to work eventually — perhaps at SpecOps, perhaps at Jurisfiction, perhaps both.

'I came to say goodbye.'

It was Hamlet. I had learned from him earlier that William Shgakespeafe had managed to extricate The Merry Wives of Windsor from Hamlet, and both plays were as they should be. The one enigmatic, the other a spin-off.

'Are you sure you're—

He silenced me with a wave of his hand and sat down on the sofa while Alan gazed at him adoringly.

'I've learned a lot of things while I've been here,' he said. 'I've learned that there are many Hamlets and we love each one of them for their different interpretation. I liked Gibson's because it has the least amount of dithering, Orson because he did it with the best voice, Gielgud for the ease with which he placed himself within the role, and Jacobi for his passion. By the way, have you heard about this Branagh fellow?'

'No.'

'He's just starting to get going. I've got a feeling his Hamlet will be stupendous.'

He thought for a moment.

'For centuries I've been worrying about audiences seeing me as a mouthy spoiled brat who can't make up his mind about anything, but having seen the real world I can understand the appeal. My play is popular because my failings are your failings, my indecision the indecision of you all. We all know what has to be done; it's just that sometimes we don't know how to get there. Acting without thought doesn't really help in the long run. I might dither for a while, but at least I make the right decision in the end: I bear my troubles, and take arms against them. And therein lies a message for all mankind, although I'm not exactly sure what it is. Perhaps there's no message. I don't really know. Besides, if I don't dither, there's no play.'

'So you're not going to kill your uncle in the first act?'

'No. In fact, I'm going to leave the play exactly as it is. I've decided instead to focus my energies towards being the Jurisfiction agent for all of Shakespeare's works. I'll have a go at Marlowe, too— but I'm not keen on Webster.'

'That's excellent news,' I told him, 'Jurisfiction will be very happy.'

He paused.

'I'm still a bit annoyed that someone told Ophelia about Emma. It wasn't you, was it?'

'On my honour.'

He got up, bowed and kissed my hand.

'Come and visit me, won't you?'

'You can count on it,' I replied. 'Just one question: where on earth did you find Daphne Farquitt? She's the recluse's recluse.'

He grinned.

'I didn't. By the morning of the Superhoop I had managed to gather about nine people. There's a limit to how much anti-Kaine sentiment you can muster going door to door in Swindon at two in the morning.'

'So there never was a Farquitt fan club?'

'Oh, I'm sure there is somewhere, but Kaine didn't know it, now, did he?'

I laughed.

'I've a feeling you're going to be an asset to Jurisfiction, Hamlet. And I want you to take something with you as a gift from me.'

'A gift? I don't think I've ever had one of those before.'

'No? Well, always a first for everything. I want you to have . . . Alan.'

'The dodo?'

'I think he'd be an invaluable addition to Elsinore Castle — just don't let him get into the main story.'

Hamlet looked at Alan, who looked back at him longingly.

'Thank you,' he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, 'I'm deeply honoured.'

Alan went a bit floppy as Hamlet picked him up, and a few moments later they both vanished back to Elsinore, Hamlet to further his work as a career procrastinator, and Alan to cause trouble in the Danish court.

'Hello, Sweetpea.'

'Hi, Dad.'

'You did a terrific job over that Superhoop. How are you feeling?'

'Pretty good.'

'Did I tell you that as soon as Zvlkx got hit by that number twenty-three bus the Ultimate Likelihood Index of that armageddon rose to eighty-three per cent?'

'No, you never told me that.'

'Just as well, really — I wouldn't have wanted you to panic.'

'Dad, who was St Zvlkx?'

He leaned closer.

'Don't tell a soul but he was someone named Steve Schultz from the Toast Marketing Board. I think I may have recruited him or he may have approached me to help — I'm not sure. History has rewritten itself so many times I'm really not sure how it was to begin with — it's a bit like trying to guess the original colour of a wall when it's been repainted eight times. All I can say is that everything turned out okay — and that things are far weirder than we can know. But the main thing is that Goliath now answer to the Toast Marketing Board and Kaine is out of power. The whole thing has been rubber-stamped into historical fact and that's the way it's going to stay.'

'Dad?'

'Yes?'

'How did you manage to jump Schultz or Zvlkx or whoever he was all the way from the thirteenth century without the ChronoGuard spotting what you were up to?'

'Where do you hide a pebble, Sweetpea?'

'On a beach.'

'And where do you hide a thirteenth-century impostor saint?'

'With . . . lots of other thirteenth-century impostor saints?'

He smiled.

'You sent all twenty-eight of them forward just to hide St Zvlkx?'

'Twenty-seven, actually — one of them was real. But I didn't do it alone. I needed someone to whip up a timephoon in the Dark Ages as cover. Someone with remarkable skills as a time traveller. An expert who can surf the timeline with a skill I will never possess.'

'Me?'

He chuckled.

'No, silly — Friday.'

The little boy looked up when he heard his name. He chewed the crayon, made a face and spat the bits on Pickwick, who jumped up in fright and ran away to hide.

'Meet the future head of the ChronoGuard, Sweetpea. How did you think he survived Landen's eradication?'

I stared at the little boy, who stared back, and smiled.

Dad looked at his watch.

'Well, I've got to go. Nelson's up to his old tricks again. Time waits for no man, as we say.'

44

Final Curtain

NEANDERTHALS MAKE NEW YEAR'S 'AT RISK' LIST

Neanderthals, the once extinct cousin of Homo sapiens, were yesterday granted 'at risk' status along with the edible dormouse and poorly crested grebe. Chancellor Mr Redmond van de Poste of the Toast Party granted them this honour in recognition of their work during the Swindon Reading Superhoop. Mr van de Poste met with Neanderthals and read from a specially prepared speech. 'Personally, I really don't give a button over your status,' he told them, 'but it's politically expedient and vote-winning to be doing something to help lowly clods like you gain some sort of limited Incoming freedom.' His speech was received warmly by the Neanderthals, who were expecting half-truths and disinformation. 'An application to become "endangered", continued Mr van de Poste, 'will be looked at on its merits in the new year — if we can be bothered.'