Lost in a Good Book

  I took a deep breath and leaned forward to press the starter button.

  As I did so I glanced into my wing mirror and saw a Packard parked on the other side of the road. There was a well-dressed figure leaning on the wing, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette and looking in my direction. It was Schitt-Hawse. He appeared to be smiling. Suddenly, the whole plan came into sharp focus. Jack Schitt. What had Schitt-Hawse threatened me with? Corporate impatience? My anger re-established itself.

  Muttering 'Bastard!' under my breath. I jumped out of the car and walked briskly and purposefully towards Schitt-Hawse, who stiffened slightly as I approached. I ignored a car that screeched to a halt inches from me, and as Schitt-Hawse took a pace forward I put out both hands and pushed him hard against the car. He lost his footing and fell heavily to the ground; I was quickly upon him, grabbed his shirt lapels and raised a fist to punch him. But the blow never fell. In my blind anger I had failed to see that his associates Chalk and Cheese were close by, and they did their job admirably, efficiently and, yes, painfully too. I fought like hell and was gratified that in the confusion I managed to kick Schitt-Hawse hard on the kneecap – he yelped in pain. But my victory, such as it was, was short lived. I must have been a tenth of their combined weight and my struggles were soon in vain. They held me tightly, and Schitt-Hawse approached with an unpleasant smile etched upon his pinched features.

  I did the first thing I could think of. I spat in his face. I'd never tried it before but it turned out delightfully, I got him right in the eye.

  He raised the back of his hand to strike me but I didn't flinch – I just stared at him, anger burning in my eyes. He stopped, lowered his hand and wiped his face with a crisply laundered pocket handkerchief.

  'You are going to have to control that temper of yours, Next.'

  'That's Mrs Parke-Laine to you.'

  'Not any more. If you'd stop struggling perhaps we could talk sensibly, like adults. You and I need to come to an arrangement.'

  I gave up squirming and the two men relaxed their grip. I straightened my clothes and glared at Schitt-Hawse, who rubbed his knee.

  'What sort of arrangement?' I demanded.

  'A trade,' he answered. 'Jack Schitt for Landen.'

  'Oh yes?' I retorted 'And how do I know I can trust you?'

  'You don't and you can't,' replied Schitt-Hawse simply, 'but it's the best offer you're going to get.'

  'My father will help me.'

  Schitt-Hawse laughed.

  'Your father is a washed-out clock jockey. I think you overestimate his chances – and his talents. Besides, we've got the summer of 1947 locked down so tight not even a trans-temporal gnat could get back there without us knowing about it. Retrieve Jack from The Raven and you can have your own dear hubby back.'

  'And how do you propose I do that?'

  'You're a resourceful and intelligent woman – I'm sure you'll think of something. Do we have a deal?'

  I stared hard at him, shaking with fury. Then, almost without thinking, I had my automatic pressed against Schitt-Hawse's forehead. I heard two safety catches click off behind me. Associates Chalk and Cheese were fast, too.

  Schitt-Hawse seemed unperturbed; he smiled at me in a supercilious manner and ignored the weapon.

  'You won't kill me, Next,' he said slowly. 'It's not the way you do things. It might make you feel better but believe me it won't get your Landen back and Mr Chalk and Mr Cheese would make quite sure you were dead long before you hit the asphalt.'

  Schitt-Hawse was good. He'd done his homework and he hadn't underestimated me one little bit. I'd do all I could to get Landen back and he knew it. I reholstered my pistol.

  'Splendid!' he enthused. 'We'll be hearing from you in due course, I trust, hmm?'

  10

  A lack of differences

  * * *

  'Landen Parke-Laine's eradication was the best I'd seen since Veronica Golightly's. They plucked him out and left everything else exactly as it was. Not a crude hatchet job like Churchill or Victor Borge – we got those sorted out eventually. What I never figured out was how they took him out and left her memories of him completely intact. Agreed, there would be no point to the eradication without her knowing what she had missed, but it still intrigued me over four centuries later. Eradication was never an exact art.'

  COLONEL NEXT, QT, CG (non-exst.) –

  Upstream /Downstream (unpublished)

  I stared after their departing car, trying to figure out what to do. Finding a way into The Raven to release Jack Schitt would be my first priority. It wasn't going to be hard – it was going to be impossible. It wouldn't deter me. I'd done impossible things several times in the past and the prospect didn't scare me as much as it used to.

  A patrol car drew up beside me and the driver rolled down his window. It was officer 'Spike' Stoker of SpecOps 17 – the vampire and werewolf disposal operation, or 'Suckers & Biters' as they preferred to call themselves. I had helped him out once on a vampire stake-out; dealing with the undead is not a huge barrel of fun, but I liked Spike a great deal.

  He saw the consternation in my face and asked in a friendly tone:

  'What happens, Next?'

  'Hi, Spike. Goliath happens, that's what.'

  'Word is you lipped Flanker.'

  'Good news travels fast, doesn't it?'

  Spike thought about this for a moment, turned down the wireless and got out of his car.

  'If the shit hits the fan I can offer you some freelance staking for cash at Suckers & Biters; the minimum entry requirements have been reduced to "anyone mad enough to join me".'

  'Sorry, Spike. I can't. Not right now – I think I've had enough of the undead for a while. Tell me, am I still working at SO-27?'

  'Of course! Thursday? Are you in some sort of trouble?'

  'The worst sort,' I said, showing him my empty ring finger. 'Someone eradicated my husband.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that,' responded Spike. 'My Uncle Bart was eradicated, but y'know, someone goofed, and they left some memories of him with my aunt. She lodged an appeal and had him reactualised a year later. Thing is, I never knew I ever had an uncle after he left, and never knew he had gone when he came back – I've only my aunt's word that it ever happened at all. Does any of this make any sense to you?'

  'An hour ago it would have sounded insane. Right now it seems as clear as day.'

  'Hmm,' grunted Spike, laying an affectionate hand on my shoulder. 'You'll get him back, don't worry. Listen: I wish they'd sideslip all this vampire and werewolf crap and I could go and work at Sommeworld™ or something.'

  'Wouldn't you miss it?'

  'Not for a second.'

  I leaned against his car, SpecOps gossip a welcome distraction as I sought to calm my nerves.

  'Got a new partner yet?' I asked him.

  'For this shit? You must be kidding – but there is some good news. Look at this.'

  He pulled a photo from his breast pocket. It was of himself standing next to a very petite blonde girl who barely came up to his elbow.

  'Her name's Cindy,' he murmured affectionately. 'A cracker —and smart too.'

  'I wish you both the best. How does she feel about all this vampire and werewolf stuff?'

  'Oh, she's fine with all that – or at least she will be, when I tell her.'

  His face fell.

  'Oh, craps. How can I tell her that I thrust sharpened stakes through the undead and hunt down werewolves like some sort of dog-catcher?' He stopped and sighed, then asked, in a brighter tone: 'You're a woman, aren't you?'

  'Last time I looked.'

  'Well, can't you figure out some sort of a … I don't know … strategy for me. I'd hate to lose this one as well.'

  'How long do they last when you tell them?'

  'Oh, they're usually peachy about it,' said Spike, laughing. 'They hang about for, well, five, six, maybe more—'

  'Weeks?' I asked. 'Months?'

  'Seconds,' replied Spike mournfully, 'and those were the
ones that really liked me.'

  He sighed deeply.

  'I think you should tell her the truth. Girls don't like being lied to – unless it's about surprise holidays and rings and stuff.'

  'I thought you'd say something like that,' replied Spike, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, 'but the shock—!'

  'You don't have to tell her outright. You could always scatter a few copies of Van Helsing's Gazette around the house.'

  'Oh, I get it!' replied Spike, thinking hard. 'Sort of build her up to it – stakes and crucifixes in the garage—'

  'And you could drop werewolves into the conversation every now and then.'

  'It's a great plan, Thurs,' replied Spike happily. 'I don't want to lose Cindy – I've a family I want to start.'

  '. . .'

  'What's the matter, Thurs? You look kind of shocked.'

  The fear and panic that had only just diminished reasserted themselves. Did I still have Landen's baby? I muttered a short reply to Spike, jumped into my car and screeched off into town, startling a few Great Auks who were picking their way through a nearby garbage can.

  I was heading for the doctor's surgery on Shelley Street. Every shop I passed seemed to stock either prams or highchairs, toys or something else baby related, and all the toddlers and infants, heavily pregnant women and prams in Swindon seemed to be crowding the route – and all staring at me. I skidded to a halt outside the surgery. It was a double yellow line and a traffic warden looked at me greedily.

  'Hey!' I said, pointing a finger at her. 'Expectant mother. Don't even think about it.'

  I dashed in and found the nurse I'd seen the day before

  'I was in here yesterday,' I blurted out. 'Was I pregnant?'

  She looked at me without even the least vestige of surprise. I guess she was used to this sort of thing.

  'Of course!' she replied. 'Confirmation is in the post. Are you okay?'

  I sat down heavily on a chair. The sense of relief was indescribable. It looked as if I had more than just Landen's memories – I had his child, too. I rubbed my face with my hands. I'd been in a lot of difficult and dangerous life-or-death situations both in the military and law enforcement – but nothing even comes close to the tribulations of emotion. I'd face Hades again twice rather than go through that little charade again.

  'Yes, yes,' I assured her happily, 'I really couldn't be better!'

  'Good.' The nurse beamed. 'Is there anything else you'd like to know?'

  'Yes,' I replied. 'Where do I live?'

  The shabby block of flats in the old town didn't look like my sort of place but who knew what I might be doing without Landen. I trotted briskly up the stairs to the top landing and Flat 6. I took a deep breath, unlocked and opened the door. There was a brief scrabble of activity from the kitchen and Pickwick was there to greet me as usual, bearing a gift that turned out to be the torn cover off last month's SpecOps 27 Gazette. I closed the door with my foot as I tickled her under the chin and looked cautiously about. I was relieved to discover that despite the shabby exterior my apartment was south facing, warm and quite comfortable. I couldn't remember a thing about any of it, of course, but I was glad to see that Pickwick's egg was still in residence. It seemed I painted a lot more without Landen about, and the walls were covered with half-finished canvases. There were several of Pickwick and the family which I could remember painting, and a few others that I couldn't – but none, sadly, of Landen. I looked at the other canvases and wondered why several included images of amphibious aircraft. I sat on the sofa, and when Pickwick came up to nuzzle me I put my hand on her head.

  'Oh, Pickers,' I murmured, 'what shall we do?'

  I sighed, tried to get Pickwick to stand on one leg with the promise of a marshmallow, failed, then made a cup of tea and something to eat before searching the rest of the apartment in an inquisitive sort of way. Most things were where I would expect to find them; there were more dresses in the closet than usual and I even found a few copies of The Femole stashed under the sofa. The fridge was well stocked with food, and it seemed in this non-Landen world that I was a vegetarian. There were a lot of things that I couldn't remember ever having acquired, including a table light shaped like a pineapple, a large enamel sign advertising Dr Spongg's Footcare Remedies and – slightly more worryingly – a size-twelve pair of socks in the laundry and some boxer shorts. I rummaged further and found two toothbrushes in the bathroom, a large Swindon Mallets jacket on the hook and several XXL-sized T-shirts with SpecOps 14 Swindon written on them. I called Bowden straight away.

  'Hello, Thursday,' he said. 'Have you heard? Professor Spoon has given his hundred per cent backing to Cardenio — I've never heard him actually laugh before!'

  'That's good, that's good,' I said absently. 'Listen, this might seem an odd question, but do I have a boyfriend?'

  'A what?'

  'A boyfriend. You know. A male friend I see on a regular basis for dinner and picnics and … thingy, y'know?'

  'Thursday, are you okay?'

  I took a deep breath and rubbed my neck.

  'No, no, I'm not,' I gabbled. 'You see, my husband was eradicated this afternoon. I went to see SO-1 and just before I went in the walls changed colour and Stig talked funny and Flanker didn't know I was married – which I'm not, I suppose – and then Houson didn't know me and Billden wasn't in the Municipal Cemetery but Landen was and Goliath said they'd bring him back if I got Jack Schitt out and I thought I'd lost Landen's baby which I haven't so everything was fine and now it's not fine any more because I've found an extra toothbrush and some men's clothes in the bathroom.'

  'Okay, okay,' said Bowden in a soothing voice. 'Slow down a bit and just let me think.'

  There was a pause as he mulled all this over. When he answered his voice was tinged with urgency – and concern. I knew he was a good friend, but until now I never knew how good.

  'Thursday. Calm down and listen to me. Firstly, we keep this to ourselves. Eradication can never be proved – mention this to anyone at SpecOps and the quacks will enforce your retirement on a Form D4. We don't want that. I'll try and fill you in with any lost memories I might have that you don't. What was the name of your husband again?'

  'Landen.'

  I found strength in his approach. You could always rely on Bowden to be analytical about a problem – no matter how strange it might seem. He made me go over the day again in more detail, something that I found very calming. I asked him again about a possible boyfriend.

  'I'm not sure,' he replied. 'You're kind of a private person.'

  'Come on – office rumours, SpecOps gossip; there must be something.'

  'There is some talk but I don't hear a lot of it since I'm your partner. Your love life is a matter of some quiet speculation. They call you—'

  He went quiet.

  'What do they call me, Bowden?'

  'You don't want to know.'

  'Tell me.'

  'All right.' Bowden sighed. 'It's … they call you the Ice Maiden.'

  'The Ice Maiden?'

  'It's not as bad as my nickname,' continued Bowden. 'I'm known as Dead Dog.'

  'Dead Dog?' I repeated, trying to sound as though I'd not heard it before. 'Ice Maiden, eh? It's kind of, well, corny. Couldn't they think of something better? Anyway, did I have a boyfriend or not?'

  'There was a rumour of someone over at SO-14—'

  I held up the croquet jacket, trying to figure out how tall this unnamed beau might be.

  'Do we have a positive ID?'

  'I think it's only a rumour, Thursday.'

  'Tell me, Bowden.'

  'Miles,' he said at last. 'His name's Miles Hawke.'

  'Is it serious?'

  'I have no idea. You don't talk about these things to me.'

  I thanked him and put the phone down nervously, butterflies dancing in my stomach. I knew I was still pregnant, but the trouble was: who was the father? If I had a casual boyfriend named Miles, then perhaps it wasn't Landen's after all? I quickly called my
mother, who seemed more preoccupied with putting out a fire on the kitchen stove than talking to me. I asked her when she had last met one of my boyfriends and she said that, if memory served, not for at least six years, and if I didn't hurry up and get married she was going to have to adopt some grandchildren – or steal some from outside Tesco's, whichever was easier. I told her I would go out and look for one as soon as possible and put the phone down.

  I paced the room in a flurry of nerves. If I hadn't introduced this Miles bloke to Mum, then it was quite likely he wasn't that serious; yet if he did leave his gear here then it undoubtedly was. I had an idea and rummaged in the bedside table and found a packet of unopened condoms which were three years out of date. I breathed a sigh of relief – this did seem more like me, unless Miles brought his own, of course – but then if I had a bun in the oven, then finding them was immaterial as we didn't use them. Or perhaps the clothes weren't Miles's at all? And what about my memories? If they had survived, then surely Landen's share in junior-to-be had also survived. I sat down on the bed and pulled out my hair tie. I ran my fingers though my hair, flopped back, covered my face and groaned – long and loud.

  11

  Granny Next

  * * *

  'Young Thursday came that morning, as I knew she would. She had just lost Landen, as I had lost my own husband all those years ago. She had youth and hope on her side, and although she did not know it yet, she had plenty of what we call the Other Stuff. She would, I hoped, use it wisely. At the time not even her own father knew quite how important she was. More than Landen's life would depend on her. All life would depend on her, from the lowliest paramecium to the most complex life form that would ever exist.'

  – from papers discovered in ex-SpecOps agent Next's effects

  There was a thump on the door at 8 a.m. A dangerous-looking man was standing on my doorstep. I'd never seen him before, but he knew me well enough.