'Thursday Next' (№4) - Something rotten

Mum said she could look after Friday until teatime, something I got her to promise before she had fully realised the implications of nappy changing and saw just how bad his manners were at breakfast. He yelled, 'Ut enim ad veniam!', which might have meant: 'Look how far I can throw my porridge!' as a spoonful of oatmeal flew across the kitchen, much to the delight of DH82, who had learned pretty quickly that hanging around messy toddlers at mealtimes was an extremely productive pastime.

Hamlet came down to breakfast, followed, after a prudent gap, by Emma. They bade each other good morning in such an obvious way that only their serious demeanour kept me from laughing out loud.

'Did you sleep well, Lady Hamilton?' asked Hamlet.

'I did, thank you. My room faces east for the morning light, you know.'

'Ah!' replied Hamlet. 'Mine doesn't. I believe it was once the boxroom. It has pretty pink wallpaper and a bedside light shaped like Tweetie-pie. Not that I noticed much, of course, being fast asleep — on my own.'

'Of course.'

'Let me show you something,' said Mum after breakfast.

I followed her down to Mycroft's workshop. Alan had kept Mum's dodos trapped in the potting shed all night and even now threatened to peck anyone who so much as looked at him 'in a funny way'.

'Pickwick!' I said sternly. 'Are you going to let your son bully those dodos?'

Pickwick looked the other way and pretended to have an itchy foot. To be honest she couldn't control Alan any more than I could. Only half an hour previously he had chased the postman out of the garden with an angry plink-plink-plink noise, something even the postman had to admit 'was a first'.

Mum opened the side door to the large workshop and we entered. This was where my Uncle Mycroft did all his inventing. It was here that he had demonstrated, among many other things, translating carbon paper, a sarcasm early warning device, Nextian geometry and, most important to me, the Prose Portal — the method by which I first entered fiction. Mother was always nervous in Mycroft's lab. Many years ago he had developed some four-dimensional paper, the idea being that you could print on the same sheet of paper again and again, isolating the different over-printings in marginally different time zones that could be read by the use of temporal spectacles. By going to the nanosecond level, a million sheets of text or pictures could be stored on one sheet of paper in a single second. Brilliant — but the paper looked identical to a standard sheet of A4, and it had been a long, contentious family argument that my mother used the irreplaceable prototype to line the compost bucket. It was no wonder she was careful near his inventions.

'What did you want to show me?'

She smiled and led me to the end of the workshop. There, next to my stuff, which she had rescued from my apartment, was the unmistakable shape of my Porsche 356 Speedster hidden beneath a dustsheet.

'I've run the engine every month and kept it MOTed for you. I even took it for a spin a couple of times.'

She pulled the sheet off with a flourish. The car still looked slightly shabby after our various encounters, but just the way I liked it. I gently touched the bullet holes that had been made by Hades all those years ago, and the bent front wing where I had slid it into the River Severn. I opened the garage doors.

'Thanks, Mum. Sure you're all right with the boy Friday?'

'Until four this afternoon. But you have to promise me something.'

'What's that?'

'That you'll come to my Eradications Anonymous group this evening.'

'Mum—!'

'It will do you good. You might enjoy it. Might meet someone. Might make you forget Linden.'

'Landen. His name's Landen. And I don't need or want to forget him.'

'Then the group will support you. Besides, you might learn something. Oh, and would you take Hamlet with you? Mr Bismarck has a bee in his bonnet about Danes because of that whole silly Schleswig-Holstein thingummy.'

I narrowed my eyes. Could Joffy be right?

'What about Emma? Do you want me to take her, too?'

'No. Why?'

'Er, no reason.'

I picked up Friday and gave him a kiss.

'Be good, Friday. You're staying with Nana for the day.'

Friday looked at me, looked at Mum, stuck his finger up his nose and said: 'Sunt in culpa qui officia id est laborum?'

I ruffled his hair and he showed me a bogey he had found. I declined the present, wiped his hand with a hanky, then went to look for Hamlet. I found him in the front garden demonstrating a thrust-and-parry sword fight to Emma and Pickwick. Even Alan had left off bullying the other dodos and was watching in silence. I called out to Hamlet and he came running.

'Sorry,' said the prince as I opened the garage doors, just demonstrating how that damn fool Laertes gets his comeuppance.'

I showed him how to get into the Porsche, dropped in myself, started the engine and drove off down the hill towards the Brunei Centre.

'You seem to be getting on very well with Emma.'

'Who?' asked Hamlet, unconvincingly vague.

'Lady Hamilton.'

'Oh, her. Nice girl. We have a lot in common.'

'Such as—?'

'Well,' said Hamlet, thinking hard, 'we both have a good friend called Horatio.'

We motored on down past the magic roundabout and I pointed out the new stadium with its four floodlighting towers standing tall among the low housing.

'That's our croquet stadium,' I said, 'thirty thousand seats. Home of the Swindon Mallets croquet team.'

'Croquet is a national sport out here?'

'Oh yes,' I replied, knowing a thing or two about it since I used to play myself. 'It has evolved a lot since the early days. For a start the teams are bigger — ten a side in World Croquet League. The players have to get their balls through the hoops in the quickest possible time, so it can be quite rough. A stray ball can pack a wallop and a flailing mallet is potentially lethal. The WCL insist on body armour and perspex barriers for the spectators.'

I turned left into Manchester Road and parked behind a Griffin-6 Lowrider.

'What now?'

'Haircut. You don't think I'm going to spend the next few weeks looking like Joan of Arc, do you?'

'Ah!' said Hamlet. 'You hadn't mentioned it for a while so I'd stopped noticing. If it's all right with you, I'll just stay here and write a letter to Horatio. Does "pirate" have one "t" or two?'

'One.'

I walked into Mum's hairdresser. The stylists looked at my hair with a sort of shocked numbness until Lady Volescamper, who along with her increasingly eccentric mayoral husband constituted Swindon's most visible aristocracy, suddenly pointed at me and said in a strident tone that could shatter glass:

'That's the style I want. Something new. Something retro — something to cause a sensation at the Swindon Mansion House Ball!'

Mrs Barnet, who was both the chief stylist and official gossip laureate of Swindon, kept her look of horror to herself and then said diplomatically:

'Of course. And may I say that Her Grace's boldness matches her sense of style.'

Lady Volescamper returned to her Femole magazine, appearing not to recognise me, which was just as well — the last time I went to Vole Towers a hell beast from the darkest depths of the human imagination trashed the entrance lobby.

'Hello, Thursday,' said Mrs Barnet, wrapping a sheet around me with an expert flourish, 'haven't seen you for a while.'

'I've been away.'

'In prison?'

'No — just away.'

'Ah. How would you like it? I have it on good authority that the "Joan of Arc" look is set to be quite popular this summer.'

'You know I'm not a fashion person, Gladys. Just get rid of the dopey haircut, would you?'

'As madame wishes.' She hummed to herself for a moment, then asked: 'Been on holiday this year?'

I got back to the car a half-hour later to find Hamlet talking to a traffic warden, who seemed so engrossed in whatever he was telling her that she wasn't writing me a ticket.

'And that,' said Hamlet as soon as I came within earshot, making a thrusting motion with his hand, 'was when I cried: "A rat, a rat!" and killed the unseen old man. Hello, Thursday — goodness, that's short, isn't it?'

'It's better than it was. C'mon, I've got to go and get my job back.'

'Job?' asked Hamlet as we drove off, leaving a very indignant traffic warden, who wanted to know what happened next.

'Yes. Out here you need money to live.'

'I've got lots,' said Hamlet generously. 'You should have some of mine.'

'Somehow I don't think fictional kroner from an unspecified century will cut the mustard down at the First Goliath — and put the skull away. They aren't generally considered a fashion accessory here in the Outland.'

'They're all the rage where I come from.'

'Well, not here. Put it in this Tesco's bag.'

'STOP!'

I screeched to a halt.

'What?'

'That, over there. It's me!'

Before I could say anything Hamlet had jumped out of the car and run across the road to a coin-operated machine on the comer of the street. I parked the Speedster and walked over to join him. He was staring with delight at the simple box, the top half of which was glazed; inside was a suitably attired mannequin visible from the waist up.

'It's called a Will-Speak machine,' I said, passing him a carrier bag. 'Here — put the skull in the bag like I asked.'

'What does it do?'

'Officially it's called a Shakespeare Soliloquy Vending Automaton,' I explained. 'You put in two shillings and get a short snippet from Shakespeare.'

'Of me?'

'Yes,' I said, 'of you.'

For it was, of course, a Hamlet Will-Speak machine, and the mannequin Hamlet sat looking blankly out at the flesh-and-blood Hamlet standing next to me.

'Can we hear a bit?' asked Hamlet excitedly.

'If you want. Here.'

I dug out a coin and placed it in the machine. There was a whirring and clicking as the dummy came to life.

'To be, or not to be,' began the mannequin in a hollow metallic voice. The machine had been built in the thirties and was now pretty much worn out. 'That is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind—'

Hamlet was fascinated, like a child listening to a tape recording of their own voice for the first time.

'Is that really me?' he asked.

'The words are yours — but actors do it a lot better.'

'—or to take arms against a sea of troubles—'

'Actors?'

'Yes. Actors, playing Hamlet.'

He looked confused.

'—That flesh is heir to—'

'I don't understand.'

'Well,' I began, looking around to check that no one was listening, 'you know that you are Hamlet, from Shakespeare's Hamlet?

'Yes?'

'—To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream—'

'Well, that's a play, and out here in the Outland, people act out that play.'

'With me?'

'Of you. Pretending to be you.'

'But I'm the real me?'

'—Who would fardels bear—'

'In a manner of speaking.'

'Ahhh,' he said after a few moments of deep thought, 'I see. Like the whole Murder of Gonzago thing. I wondered how it all worked. Can we go and see me some time?'

'I . . . suppose,' I answered uneasily. 'Do you really want to?'

'—from whose bourn No traveller returns—'

'Of course. I've heard that some people in the Outland think I am a dithering twit unable to make up his mind rather than a dynamic leader of men, and these "play" things you describe will prove it to me one way or the other.'

I tried to think of the movie in which he prevaricates the least.

'We could get the Zeffirelli version out on video for you to look at.'

'Who plays me?'

'Mel Gibson.'

'—Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all—'

Hamlet stared at me, mouth open.

'But that's incredible!' he said ecstatically. 'I'm Mel's biggest fan!' He thought for a moment. 'So. . . Horatio must be played by Danny Glover, yes?'

'—sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought—'

'No, no. Listen: the Lethal Weapon series is nothing like Hamlet.'

'Well,' replied the prince reflectively, 'in that I think you might be mistaken. The Martin Riggs character begins with self-doubt and contemplates suicide over the loss of a loved one, but eventually turns into a decisive man of action and kills all the bad guys.' He paused for a moment. 'Same as the Mad Max series, really. Is Ophelia played by Patsy Kensit?'

'No,' I replied, trying to be patient, 'Helena Bonham Carter.'

He perked up when he heard this.

'This gets better and better! When I tell Ophelia, she'll flip — if she hasn't already.'

'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'you'd better see the Olivier version instead. Come on, we've work to do.'

'—their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.'

The Will-Speak Hamlet stopped clicking and whirring and sat silent once more, waiting for the next florin.

5

Ham(let) and Cheese

'SEVEN WONDERS OF SWINDON' NAMING BUREAUCRACY UNVEILED

After five years of careful consideration, Swindon City Council has unveiled the naming procedure for the city's much-vaunted 'Seven Wonders' tourism plan. The twenty-seven-point procedure is the most costly and complicated piece of bureaucracy the city has ever devised and might even be included is one of the wonders itself. The plan will be undertaken by the Swindon Special Committee for Wonders which will consider applications prepared by the Seven Wonders Working Party from MX separate name selection subcommittees. Once chosen, the Wonders will be further scrutinized by eight different oversight committees, before being adopted. The byzantine and needlessly expensive system is already tipped to win the coveted 'Red Tape' award from Bureaucracy Today.

Article in Swindon Globe News, 12 June 1988

I drove to the car park above the Brunel Centre and bought a pay-and-display ticket, noting how they had almost tripled in price since I was here last. I looked in my purse. I had fifteen pounds, three shillings and an old Skyrail ticket.

'Short of cash?' asked Hamlet as we walked down the stairs to the street-level concourse.

'Let's just say I'm very "receipt rich" at present.' Money had never been a problem in the BookWorld. All the details of life were taken care of by something called 'Narrative Assumption'. A reader would assume you had gone shopping, or gone to the toilet, or brushed your hair, so a writer never needed to outline it — which was just as well, really. I'd forgotten all about the real-world trivialities, but I was actually quite enjoying them, in a mind-dulling sort of way.

'It says here,' said Hamlet, who had been reading the newspaper, 'that Denmark invaded England and put hundreds of innocent English citizens to death without trial!'

'It was the Vikings in 786, Hamlet. I hardly think that warrants the headline: "Bloodthirsty Danes Go on Rampage". Besides, at the time they were no more Danish than we were English.'

'So we're not the historical enemies of England?'

'Not at all.'

'And eating rollmop herrings won't lead to erectile dysfunction?'

'No. And keep your voice down. All these people are real, not D-7 generic crowd types. Out here, you only exist in a play.'

'Okay,' he said, stopping at an electronics shop and staring at the TVs. 'Who's she?'

'Lola Vavoom. An actress.'

'Really? Has she ever played Ophelia?'

'Many times.'

'Was she better than Helena Bonham Carter?'

'Both good — just different.'

'Different? What do you mean?'

'They both brought different things to the role.'

Hamlet laughed.

'I think you're confusing the matter, Thursday. Ophelia is just Ophelia.'

'Not out here. Listen, I'm just going to see how bad my overdraft is.'

'How you Outlanders complicate matters!' he murmured. 'If we were in a book right now you'd be accosted by a solicitor who tells you a wealthy aunt has died and left you lots of money — and then we'd just start the next chapter with you in London making your way to Kaine's office disguised as a cleaning woman.'

'Excuse me—!' said a suited gentleman who looked suspiciously like a solicitor. 'But are you Thursday Next?'

I glanced nervously at Hamlet.

'Perhaps.'

'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr Wentworth of Wentworth, Wentworth and Wentworth, Solicitors. I'm the second Wentworth, if you're interested.'

'And?'

'And . . . I wonder if I could have your autograph? I followed your Jane Eyre escapade with a great deal of interest.'

I breathed a sigh of relief and signed his autograph book. Mr Wentworth thanked me and hurried off.

'You had me worried for a moment there,' said Hamlet. 'I thought I was meant to be the fictitious one.'

I smiled. 'You are, and don't you forget it.'

'Twenty-two thousand pounds?' I said to the cashier. 'Are you sure?'

The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.

'Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred and eight pounds and four shillings three pence ha'penny — overdrawn,' she added, in case I had missed it. 'Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won five thousand pounds. Since you weren't here we upped your credit limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to pay for the additional interest.'

'How very thoughtful of you.'

'Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always aim to please.'

'Are you sure you wouldn't rather go with the "wealthy aunt" scenario?' asked Hamlet, being no help at all.

'No. Shhh.'

'We haven't had a single deposit from you for nearly two and a half years,' continued the bank clerk.

'I've been away.'

'Prison?'

'No. So the rest of my overdraft is—?'

'Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven't got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn't reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn't received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humour — you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a cheque in the near future?'

'Not really. Um — any chance of raising my credit limit?'

The cashier arched an eyebrow.

'I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?'

I gave them Muni's address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales — one of which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.

Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon Days.

'Okay, I give up,' said Hamlet quite suddenly. 'How does it all turn out?'

'How does what all turn out?'

He spread his arms out wide.

'All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that Superhoop thing and the big company — what's it called again?'

'Goliath?'

'Right. How does it all turn out?'

'I haven't the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.'

Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept.

'How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?'

'That's part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.'

'There is no pleasure in anticipation,' said Hamlet glumly. 'Except perhaps,' he added, 'in killing that old fool Polonius.'

'My point exactly,' I replied. 'Where you come from events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance farther on in the story.'

'It's clear you haven't read Hamlet for a— LOOK OUT!'

Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller — of the size that works on sidewalks and paths — bore rapidly down on us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.

'Are you okay?' asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.

'I'm fine — thanks to you.'

'Goodness!' said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. 'Are you all right?'

'Not hurt in the least. What happened?'

'I don't know,' replied the workman, scratching his head. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

'Really, I'm fine.'

We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn't look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what else he could charge to insurance.

'You see?' I said to Hamlet as we walked away.

'What?'

'This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing — after all, not every incident in life has a meaning.'

'Tell that to the scholars who study me,' Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding: 'If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Over-long, detailed to the point of distraction — and ultimately without a major resolution.'

'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'that's exactly what we like about it.'

We reached the SpecOps building. It was of a sensible Germanic design, built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades' plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre. Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.

'Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?'

'Please.'

We walked into the Cafe Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.

'Hey!' said the man behind the counter, who seemed somehow familiar. 'We don't serve that kind in here!'

'What kind?'

'The Danish kind.'

Goliath were obviously working with Kaine on this particular nonsense.

'He's not Danish. He's my cousin Eddie from Wolverhampton.'

'Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?'

I thought quickly.

'Because . . . he's insane. Isn't that right, Cousin Eddie?'

'Yes,' said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was not much of a problem. 'When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.'

'See?'

'Well, that's all right, then.'

I started as I realised why he seemed familiar. It was Mr Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner Mr Chalk had made my life difficult before I left. He didn't have his goatee any more but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it — his name was on his Cafe Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars — one for washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn't show any sign of recognising me.

'What will you have, Ham— I mean, Cousin Eddie?'

'What is there?'

'Espresso, Mocha, Latte, White Mocha, Hot Chocolate, Decaff, Recaff, Nocaff, Somecaff, Extracaff, Goliachmoв„ў . . . what's the matter?'

Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice laid out in front of him.

'To espresso or to latte, that is the question,' he muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for something he couldn't easily supply: a decision. 'Whether ’tis tastier on the palette to choose white mocha over plain,' he continued in a rapid garble, 'or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache—'

'Cousin Eddie!' I said sharply. 'Cut it out!'

'To froth, to sprinkle, perchance to drink, and in that—'

'He'll have a mocha with extra cream, please.'

Hamlet stopped abruptly once the burden of decision was taken from him.

'Sorry,' he said, rubbing his temples, 'I don't know what came over me. All of a sudden I had this overwhelming desire to talk for a very long time without actually doing anything. Is that normal?'

'Not for me. I'll have a latte, Mr Cheese,' I said, watching his reaction carefully.

He still didn't seem to recognise me. He rang up the cost and then started making the coffees.

'Do you remember me?'

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me carefully for a moment or two.

'No.'

'Thursday Next?'

His face broke into a broad grin and he put out a large hand for me to shake, welcoming me as an old workmate rather than a past nemesis. I faltered, then shook his hand slowly.

'Miss Next! Where have you been? Prison?'

'Away.'

'Ah! But you're well?'

'I'm okay,' I said suspiciously, retrieving my hand. 'How are you?'

'Not bad!' He laughed, looking at me sideways for a moment and narrowing his eyes. 'You've changed. What is it?'

'Almost no hair?'

'That's it. We were looking for you everywhere. You spent almost eighteen months in the Goliath "top ten most wanted" although you never made it to the number-one slot.'

'I'm devastated.'

'No one has ever spent ten months on the list,' carried on Cheese with a sort of dreamy nostalgic look, 'the next longest was three weeks. We looked everywhere for you!'

'But you gave up?'

'Goodness me no,' replied Cheese. 'Perseverance is what Goliath do best. There was a restructuring of corporate policy and we were reallocated.'

'You mean fired.'

'No one is ever fired from Goliath,' said Cheese in a shocked tone. 'Cots to coffins. You've heard the adverts.'

'So, just moved on from bullying and terrifying and into lattes and mochas?

'Haven't you heard?' said Cheese, frothing up some milk. 'Goliath has moved its corporate image away from the "overbearing bully" and more towards "peace, love and understanding".'

'I heard something about it last night,' I replied, 'but you'll forgive me if I'm not convinced.'

'Forgive is what Goliath do best, Miss Next. Faith is a difficult commodity to imbue — and that's why violent and ruthless bullies like me have to be reallocated. Our corporate seer Sister Bettina foresaw a necessity for us to change to a faith-based corporate management system, but the rules concerning new religions are quite strict — we have to make changes to the corporation that are meaningful and genuine. That's why the old Goliath Internal Security Service is now known as Goliath Is Seriously Sorry — you see, we even kept the old initials so we didn't have to divert money away from good causes to buy new headed notepaper.'

'Or have to change it back when this charade has been played out.'

'You know,' said Cheese, waving a finger at me, 'you always were just that teensy-weensy bit cynical. You should learn to be more trusting.'

'Trusting. Right. And you think the public will believe this touchy-feely good-Lord-we're-sorry-forgive-us-please crap after four decades of rampant exploitation?'

'Rampant exploitation?' echoed Cheese in a dismayed tone. 'I don't think so. "Proactive greater goodification" was more what we had in mind — and it's five decades, not four. Are you sure your cousin Eddie isn't Danish?'

'Definitely not.'

I thought about Brik Schitt-Hawse, the odious Goliath agent •who had my husband eradicated in the first place.

'What about Schitt-Hawse? Where does he work these days?'

'I think he moved into some post in Goliathopolis. I really don't move in those circles any more. Mind you, we should all get together for a reunion and have a drink! What do you think?'

'I think I'd rather have my husband back,' I replied darkly.

'Oh!' said Cheese, suddenly remembering just what particular unpleasantness he and Goliath had done to me, then adding slowly: 'You must hate us!'

'Just a lot.'

'We can't have that. Repent is what Goliath do best. Have you applied for a Goliath Unfair Treatment Reversal?'

I stared at him and raised an eyebrow.

'Well,' he began, 'Goliath have been allowing disgruntled citizens to apply to have reversed any unfair or unduly harsh measures taken against them — sort of a big apology, really. If Goliath is to become the opiate of the masses, we must first atone for our sins. We like to right any wrongs, and then have a good strong hug to show we really mean it.'

'Hence your demotion to coffee shop attendant.'

'Exactly so!'

'How do I apply?'

'We've opened an Apologarium in Goliathopolis; you can take the free shuttle from the Tarbuck Graviport. They'll tell you what to do.'

'Harmonious peace, eh?'

'Peace is what Goliath do best, Miss Next. Just fill out a form and see one of our trained apologists. I'm sure they can get your husband back in a jiffy!'