'But—'
'I will not survive this,' she whispered, 'but I have enough strength to make a good exit. Hand me the brandy and take me to my last appearance in the book; I will make my peace with Pip and Estella. It is for the best, I think.'
News of Miss Havisham's accident got around Great Expectations quickly; I made up a story about her falling in the fire and invited Pip to come up and try to improvise her death scene. He was upset but it did give him a good motivation to go back up to Satis House for the incident at the lime kilns. They discussed it together, she and Pip, and when they were ready I said my goodbyes and left the room. I waited outside with a heavy heart and tensed as there a shriek and a flickering orange light shone beneath the door. I heard Pip curse, and then more thumps and shouts as he smothered the fire with his cape. Jaw clenched, I walked away, my heart heavy with loss. She had been bossy and obnoxious on occasion but she had protected me and taught me well. I would remember her until my dying days.
26
Post-Havisham blues
* * *
'The Bellman lived in a grace-and-favour apartment at Norland Park when he wasn't working in The Hunting of the Snark. He had been head of Jurisfiction for twenty years and was required, under Council of Genres mandate, to stand down. The Bellman, oddly enough, had always been called the Bellman – it was no more than coincidence that he had actually been a Bellman himself. The previous Bellman had been Bradshaw and, before him, Virginia Woolf. Under Woolf, Jurisfiction roll-calls tended to last several hours.'
THE BELLMAN – The Hardest Job in Fiction
I walked into the Jurisfiction offices an hour later and tingled the Bellman's bell. It was a signal for the immediate attention of the Bellman, and within a few moments he had appeared, still with a napkin stuck in his collar from lunch. I sat down and explained what had happened. When he heard, he needed to sit down, too.
'Where is the Bluebird now?' he asked.
'Back at the stores,' I replied. 'I've ordered an investigation; it looks as though the stub axle failed through metal fatigue.'
'An accident?'
I nodded my head. They hadn't got to her after all. Despite all that had happened, I still had less than nothing suspicious to pin on her death, and only a misplaced key on Perkins'. Motor racing has its own share of dangers, and Havisham knew that more than most.
'How long has she got?'
'They're improvising her death scene in Expectations as we speak. The doctor said a chapter at most – as long as we can keep references or appearances to a minimum.'
He patted me on the shoulder.
'We'll have to get an A-grade Generic trained to take her place,' he said softly. 'Expectations won't be demolished.'
He turned to me.
'You're off the active list for a few days, Miss Next. Take it easy at home and we'll get some quiet jobs for you to do until you're ready to return to full duties.'
Tweed appeared.
'What's going on?' he demanded. 'They told me—'
The Bellman took him by the arm and explained what had happened as I thought about Havisham and life without her. Tweed approached and laid a hand upon my shoulder.
'I'm sorry, Thursday. Havisham was one of the best; we all thought the world of her.'
I thanked him.
'You might be interested in these copies of reports from Text Grand Central.'
'What are they?'
He placed them on the table in front of me.
'They are the UltraWord™ reports written by Perkins, Deane and Miss Havisham. They all give it the thumbs-up. If Perkins was murdered, it wasn't because of UltraWord™.'
'The Ultimate Reading Experience?'
'Looks like it. A modern system like this needs people like you to police it, Next. I want you to consider a permanent post here inside fiction.'
I looked up at him. This seemed to me like rather a good idea. After all, there was no one waiting for me back at Swindon.
'Sounds good, Tweed. Can I sleep on it?'
He smiled.
'Take as long as you want.'
I went back to Mary's flying boat and read over what Miss Havisham had done with her final scene in Great Expectations. A professional to the last, she had enacted her own death with a sensitivity and fallibility that I had never seen her exhibit in life. I found a bottle of wine, poured myself a large glass and drank it gratefully. Oddly I thought there was a reason why perhaps I shouldn't be drinking, but couldn't think what it was. I looked at my hand where there had been a name written that morning. Havisham had instructed me to scrub it out, and I had – but even so I was intrigued and tried to figure out from the small marks still visible what had been written there.
'Lisbon,' I muttered. 'Why would I write "Lisbon" on my hand?'
I shrugged. The delicate red was a welcome friend and I poured another glass. I pulled out the UltraWord™ copy of The Little Prince that Havisham had given me and opened the cover. There was an odd smell of melons about the book and the paper felt like a sort of thin plastic, the letters a harsh black against the milky-white pages. The text glowed in the dim light of the kitchen and, intrigued, I took the book into the darkness of the utility cupboard, where the text was still as clear as day. I returned to my place at the table and tried the read sensitive preferences page, the words changing from red to blue as I read them, then back again as I reread them. In this manner I turned the PageGlow™ feature on and off, and then played with the levels of the background and music tracks.
I started to read the book, and as the first words entered my head a huge panoply of new emotions opened up. As I read the sequence in the desert I could hear the sound of the wind over the dunes and even the heat and taste of the scorched sands. The voice of the narrator was different to that of the prince, and no dialogue tags were needed to differentiate them. It was, as Libris had asserted, an extraordinary piece of technology. I shut the book, leaned back on my chair and closed my eyes.
There was a tap at the door.
I bade my visitor enter. It was Arnold.
'Hello!' he said. 'Can I come in?'
'Make yourself at home,' I replied. 'Drink?'
'Thank you.'
He sat down and smiled at me. I'd never really noticed it before but he was quite handsome.
'Where's everyone else?' he asked, looking around.
'Out somewhere,' I replied, waving a hand in the direction of the boat and feeling a bit dizzy. 'Lola's probably under her latest beau, Randolph is doubtless complaining to someone about it – and I've no idea where Gran is. Have a drink?'
'You've already poured one.'
'So I have. What brings you here, Arnie?'
'Just passing. How are things at work?'
'Shit. Miss Havisham is dying and something is wrong – I just don't know what.'
'I've heard Outlanders sometimes go through a period of "imagination freefall" when they start trying to create plot lines out of nothing. You'll settle down to it, I shouldn't worry. Congratulations, by the way,' he added. 'I read about your appointment in the paper.'
I held up my glass in salute, and we both drank.
'So what's the deal with you and Mary?' I asked.
'Over for a long time. She thinks I'm a loser and—'
'Tells you to go to hell. Yes, I've heard. What about Lola? Have you slept with her yet?'
'No!'
'You must be the only bloke in Caversham Heights who hasn't,' I declared. 'Do you want another drink?'
'Okay. What about you?' he asked. 'Tell me about your husband in the Outland.'
'I don't have a husband,' I told him, 'never did.'
'You told me—'
'Probably one of those "push off" comments we girls sometimes use. There was this guy named Snood in the ChronoGuard but that was a long time ago. He suffered a time aggre-ge-ga-gation.'
'A what?'
'He got old before his time. He died.'
I felt confused all of a sudden and looked
at the wineglass and the half-empty bottle of wine.
'What's the matter, Thursday?'
'Oh – nothing. You know when you suddenly have a memory of something and you don't know why – a sort of flashback?'
He smiled.
'I don't have many memories, Thursday, I'm a Generic. I could have had a backstory but I wasn't considered important enough.'
'Is that a cat? I mean, is that a fact? Well, I just thought about the White Horse in Uffington back home. Soft warm grassland and blue skies, warm sun on my face. Why would I have done that?'
'I have no idea. Don't you think you've had enough to drink?'
'I'm fine,' I told him. 'Right as rain. Never better. What's it like being a Generic?'
'It's not bad,' he replied, taking another swig of wine. 'Promotion to a better or new part is always there if you are diligent enough and hang out at the Character Exchange. I miss having a family – that must be good.'
'My mum is a hoot,' I told him, 'and Dad doesn't exist – he's a time-travelling knight errant – don't laugh – and I have two brothers. They both live in Swindon. One's a priest and the other—'
'Is what?'
I felt confused again. It was probably the wine. I looked at my hand.
'I don't know what he does. We haven't spoken in years.'
There was another flashback, this time of the Crimea.
'This bottle's empty,' I muttered, trying to pour it.
'You have to take the cork out first,' observed Arnold. 'Allow me.'
He fumbled with the corkscrew and drew the cork after a lot of effort. I think he was drunk. Some people have no restraint.
'What do you think of the Well?' he asked.
'It's all right,' I replied. 'Life here is pretty good for an Outlander. No bills to pay, the weather is always good and, best of all, no Goliath, SpecOps or my mother's cooking.'
'SpecOps can cook?'
I giggled stupidly and so did he. Within a few seconds we had both collapsed in hysterics. I hadn't laughed like this for ages.
The laughter stopped.
'What were we giggling about?' asked Arnold.
'I don't know.'
And we collapsed in hysterics again.
I recovered and took another swig of wine.
'Do you dance?'
Arnie looked startled for a moment.
'Of course.'
I took him by the hand and led him through into the living room, found a record and put it on the turntable. I placed my hands on his shoulders and he placed his hands on my waist. It felt odd and somehow wrong but I was past caring. I had lost a good friend that day and deserved a little unwinding.
The music began and we swayed to the rhythm. I had danced a lot in the past, which must have been with Filbert, I suppose.
'You dance well for someone with one leg, Arnie.'
'I have two legs, Thursday.'
And we burst out laughing again. I steadied myself on him and he steadied himself on the sofa. Pickwick looked on and ruffled her feathers in disgust.
'Do you have a girl in the Well, Arnie?'
'Nobody,' he said slowly, and I moved my cheek against his, found his mouth and kissed him, very gently and without ceremony. He began to pull away then stopped and returned the kiss. It felt dangerously welcome; I didn't know why I had been single for so long. I wondered whether Arnie would stay the night.
He stopped kissing me and took a step back.
'Thursday, this is all wrong.'
'What could be wrong?' I asked, staring at him unsteadily. 'Do you want to come and see my bedroom? It has a great view of the ceiling.'
I stumbled slightly and held the back of the sofa.
'What are you staring at?' I asked Pickwick, who was glaring at me.
'My head's thumping,' muttered Arnold.
'So's mine,' I replied.
Arnold cocked his head and listened.
'It's not our heads – it's the door.'
'The door of perception,' I noted, 'of heaven and hell.'
He opened the door and a very old woman dressed in blue gingham walked in. I started to giggle but stopped when she strode up to me and took away my wineglass.
'How many glasses have you had?'
'Two?' I replied, leaning against the table for support.
'Bottles,' corrected Arnie.
'Crates,' I added, giggling, although nothing actually seemed that funny all of a sudden. 'Listen here, Gingham Woman,' I added, wagging my finger, 'give me my glass back.'
'What about the baby?' she demanded, staring at me dangerously.
'What baby? Who's having a baby? Arnie, are you having a baby?'
'It's worse than I thought,' she muttered. 'Do the names Aornis and Landen mean anything to you?'
'Not a thing,' I replied, 'but I'll drink to them, if you want. Hello, Randolph.'
Randolph and Lola had arrived at the doorstep and were staring at me in shock.
'What?' I asked them. 'Have I grown another head or something?'
'Lola, fetch a spoon,' said Gingham Woman. 'Randolph, take Thursday to the bathroom.'
'Why?' I asked as I collapsed in a heap. 'I can walk.'
The next thing I saw was the view down the back of Randolph's legs and the living-room floor, then the stairs as I was carried up over his shoulder. I started to giggle but the rest was a bit blurry. I remember choking and throwing up in the loo, then being deposited in bed, then starting to cry.
'She died. Burned.'
'I know, darling,' said the old woman. 'I'm your grandmother, do you remember?'
'Gran?' I sobbed, realising who she was all of a sudden. 'I'm sorry I called you Gingham Woman!'
It's okay. Perhaps being drunk is for the best. You're going to sleep now, and dream – and in that dream you'll do battle to win back your memories. Do you understand?'
'No.'
She sighed and wiped my forehead with her small pink hand. It felt reassuring and I stopped crying.
'Be vigilant, my dear. Keep your wits about you and be stronger than you have ever been. We'll see you on the other side, come the morning.'
But she was starting to fade as slumber swept over me, her voice ringing in my ears as my mind relaxed and transported me deep into my subconscious.
27
The lighthouse at the edge of my mind
* * *
'The Hades family when I knew them comprised, in order of age: Acheron, Styx, Phlegethon, Cocytus, Lethe, and the only girl, Aornis. Their father died many years previously, leaving their mother in charge of the youthful and diabolical family all on her own. Described once by Vlad the Impaler as 'unspeakably repellent', the Hades family drew strength from deviancy and committing every sort of horror that they could. Some with panache, some with half-hearted seriousness, others with a sort of relaxed insouciance about the whole thing. Lethe, the 'white sheep' of the family, was hardly cruel at all – but the others more than made up for him. In time, I was to defeat three of them.'
THURSDAY NEXT – Hades. Family from Hell
A wave burst on the rocks behind me, showering me with cold water and flecks of foam. I shivered. I was on a rocky outcrop in the darkest gale-torn night, and before me stood a lighthouse. The wind whistled and moaned around the tower and a flash of lightning struck the apex. The bolt coursed down the earthing cable and trailed a shower of sparks, leaving behind the acrid stench of brimstone. The lighthouse was as black as obsidian and, as I looked up, it seemed as though the arc lamp rotating within the vast lenses was floating in midair. The light swept through the inky blackness illuminating nothing but a heaving, angry sea. I looked backwards in my mind but could see nothing – I was without memory or past experiences. This was the loneliest outpost of my subconscious, a memoryless island where nothing existed other than that which I could feel and see and smell at this moment in time. But I still had emotions, and I was aware of a sense of danger, and purpose. Somehow I understood I was here to vanquish – or be vanquished.
r /> Another wave burst behind me and with beating heart I pulled on the locking lever of the steel front door and was soon inside, safe from the gale. The door securely fastened, I looked around. There was a central spiral staircase but nothing else – not a stick of furniture, a book, a packing case; nothing.
I shivered again and pulled out my gun.
'A lighthouse,' I murmured, 'a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere.'
I walked slowly up the concrete steps, keeping a careful watch as they curved away out of sight. The first floor was empty and I moved on up, each circular room I reached devoid of any signs of habitation. In this way I slowly climbed the tower, gun arm outstretched and trembling with a dread of impending loss that I could not control, nor understand. On the top floor the spiral staircase ended; a steel ladder was the only means by which to climb any higher. I could hear the electric motors that drove the rotating lamp whine above me, the bright white light shining through the open roof hatch as the beam swept slowly about. But this room was not empty. Sitting in an armchair was a young woman in the process of powdering her nose with the help of a small hand mirror.
'Who are you?' I asked, pointing my gun at her.
She lowered the mirror, smiled and looked at the pistol.
'Dear me!' she exclaimed. 'Always the woman of action, aren't you?'
'What am I doing here?'
'You really don't know, do you?'
'No,' I replied, lowering the gun. I couldn't remember any facts but I could feel love, and loss, and frustration, and fear. The woman was linked to one of these but I didn't know which.
'My name,' said the young woman, 'is—'
She stopped, and smiled again.
'No, I think even that is too much.'
She rose and walked towards me.
'All you need to know is that you killed my brother.'
'I'm a murderer?' I whispered, searching in my heart for guilt of such a crime and finding none. 'I … I don't believe you.'
'Oh, it's true,' she said, 'and I will have my revenge. Let me show you something.'
She took me to the window and pointed. There was another flash of lightning and the view outside was illuminated. We were on the edge of a massive waterfall which curved away from us into the darkness. The ocean was emptying over the edge; millions of gallons every second, falling into the abyss. But that wasn't all. In another flash of lightning I could see that the waterfall was rapidly eroding the small island on which the lighthouse was built – as I watched, the first piece of the rocky outcrop fell away noiselessly and disappeared into space.