Lost in a Good Book

  'There's more than one pair of red shoes in Wessex, Land.'

  'You're right,' he observed. 'I did say it was a long shot.'

  I had an idea, and before Landen could say another word we were in the square at Osaka with all the Nextian-logoed Japanese, the fortune-teller frozen in mid-beckon, the crowd around us an untidy splash of visual noise which is the way crowds appear to the mind's eye, the logos I remembered jutting out in sharp contrast to the unremembered faces. I peered through the crowd as I anxiously searched for anything that might resemble a young European woman.

  'See anything?' asked Landen, hands on hips and surveying the strange scene.

  'No,' I replied. 'Wait a minute. Let's come in a bit earlier.'

  I took myself back a minute and there she was, getting up from the fortune-teller's chair the moment I first saw him. I walked closer and looked at the vague shape. I squinted at her feet. There, in the haziest corner of my mind, was the memory I was looking for. The shoes were definitely red.

  'It's her, isn't it?' asked Landen

  'Yes,' I murmured, staring at the wraith-like figure in front of me. 'But it doesn't help; none of these memories is strong enough for a positive ID.'

  'Perhaps not on their own,' observed Landen. 'But since I've been in here I've figured out a few things about how your memory works. Try and superimpose the images.'

  I thought of the woman on the platform, placed her across the vague form in the market and then added the spectre who had called herself De'ath. The three images shimmered for a bit before they locked together. It wasn't great. I needed more. I pulled from my memory the half-shredded picture that Lamb and Slaughter had shown me. It fitted perfectly, and Landen and I stared at the result.

  'What do you think?' asked Landen. 'Twenty-five?'

  'Possibly a little older,' I muttered, looking closer at the amalgam of my attacker, trying to fix it in my memory. She had plain features, a small amount of make-up and blonde hair cut in an asymmetric bob. She didn't look like a killer. I ran through all the information I had – which didn't take long. The failed SpecOps 5 investigations allowed me a few clues: the recurring name of Hades, the initials 'A.H.', the fact that she did resolve on pictures. Clearly it wasn't Acheron in disguise but perhaps—

  'Oh, shit.'

  'What?'

  'It's Hades.'

  'It can't be. You killed him.'

  'I killed Acheron. He had a brother named Styx – why couldn't he have a sister?'

  We exchanged nervous looks and stared at the mnemonograph in front of us. Some of her features did seem to resemble those of Acheron now I stared at her. For a start, she was tall. And the way her lips were thin, and the eyes – they had a sort of brooding darkness to them.

  'No wonder she's pissed off with you,' murmured Landen 'You killed her brother.'

  'Thanks for that, Landen,' I said. 'You always know how to relax a girl.'

  'Sorry. So we know the "H" in "A.H." is Hades – what about the "A"?'

  'The Acheron was a tributary of the river Styx,' I said quietly, 'as were the Phlegethon, Cocytus, Lethe – and … Aornis.'

  I'd never felt so depressed at having identified a suspect before. But something was niggling at me. There was something here that I couldn't see, as if I were listening to a TV from another room, hearing dramatic music but having no idea what was going on.

  'Cheer up.' Landen smiled, rubbing my shoulder. 'She's ballsed it up three times already – it might never happen!'

  'There's something else, Landen.'

  'What?'

  'Something I've forgotten. Something I never remembered. Something about … I don't know.'

  'It's no good asking me,' replied Landen. 'I may seem real to you but I'm not – I can't know any more than you do.'

  Aornis had vanished and Landen was starting to fade.

  'You've got to go now,' he said in a hollow-sounding voice. 'Remember what I said about Jack Schitt.'

  'Don't go!' I yelled. 'I want to stay here for a bit. It's not much fun out here at the moment. I think it's Miles's baby, Aornis wants to kill me, and Goliath and Flanker—!'

  But it was too late. I'd woken up I was still in bed, undressed, bedclothes rumpled. The clock told me it was a few minutes past nine. I stared at the ceiling in a forlorn mood, wondering how I could have got myself into such a mess, and then wondering whether there was anything I could have done to prevent it. I decided, on the face of it, probably not. This, to my fuddled way of thinking, I took to be a positive sign. So I slipped on a T-shirt and shuffled into the kitchen, filled the kettle and put some dried apricots in Pickwick's bowl after trying and failing to get her to stand on one leg.

  I shook the entroposcope just in case, was thankful to find everything as normal, and was just checking the fridge for some fresh milk when the doorbell rang. I trotted out to the hall, picked up my automatic from the table and asked:

  'Who is it?'

  'Open the door, Doofus.'

  I put the gun away and opened the door. Joffy smiled at me as he entered and raised his eyebrows at my dishevelled state.

  'Half-day today?'

  'I don't feel like working now that Landen's gone.'

  'Who?'

  'Never mind. Coffee?'

  We walked into the kitchen. Joffy patted Pickwick on the head and I emptied the old grounds out of the coffee jug. He sat down at the table.

  'Seen Dad recently?'

  'Last week. He was fine. How much did you make on the art sale?'

  'Over two thousand pounds in commission. I thought of using the cash to repair the church roof but then figured what the hell – I'll just blow it on drink, curry and prostitutes.'

  I laughed.

  'Sure you will, Joff'

  I rinsed some mugs and stared out of the window.

  'What can I do for you, Joff?'

  'I came round to pick Miles's things up.'

  I stopped what I was doing and turned to face him.

  'Say that again.'

  'I said I came—'

  'I know what you said, but … but – how do you know Miles?'

  Joffy laughed, saw I was serious, frowned at me and then remarked:

  'He said you didn't recognise him that night at Vole Towers. Is everything okay?'

  I shrugged.

  'Not really, Joff – but tell me: how do you know him?'

  'We're going out, Thurs – surely you can't have forgotten?'

  'You and Miles?'

  'Sure! Why not?'

  This was very good news indeed.

  'Then his clothes are in my apartment because—'

  'We borrow it every now and then.'

  I tried to grasp the facts.

  'You borrow my apartment because it's … secret?'

  'Right. You know how old fashioned SpecOps are when it comes to their staff fraternising with clerics.'

  I laughed out loud and wiped away the tears that had sprung to my eyes.

  'Sis?' said Joffy, getting up. 'What's the matter?'

  I hugged him tightly.

  'Nothing's the matter, Joff. Everything's wonderful. I'm not carrying his baby!'

  'Miles?' said Joff. 'Wouldn't know how. Wait a minute, sis – you've got a bun in the oven? Who's the father?'

  I smiled through my tears.

  'It's Landen's,' I said with renewed confidence. 'By God it's Landen's!'

  And I jumped up and down with the sheer joy of the fact, and Joffy, who had nothing better to do, joined me in jumping up and down until Mrs Scroggins in the apartment below banged on the ceiling with a broom handle.

  'Sister dearest,' said Joffy as soon as we had stopped, 'who in St Zvlkx's name is Landen?'

  'Landen Parke-Laine,' I gabbled happily. 'The ChronoGuard eradicated him but something other happened and I still have his child, so it's all meant to come out right, don't you see? And I have to get him back because if Aornis does get to me then he'll never exist, ever, ever, ever – and neither will the baby and I can't sta
nd that idea and I've been farting around for too long so I'm going to go into The Raven no matter what – because if I don't I'm going to go nuts!'

  'I'm very happy for you,' said Joffy. 'You've completely lost your mind, but I'm very happy for you.'

  I ran into the living room, rummaged on my desk until I found Schitt-Hawse's calling card and rang the number. He answered in less than two rings.

  'Ah, Next,' he said with a triumphant air. 'Changed your mind?'

  'I'll go into The Raven for you, Schitt-Hawse. Double-cross me and I'll maroon both you and your half-brother in the worst Daphne Farquitt novel I can find. Believe me, I can do it – and will do it, if necessary.'

  There was a pause.

  'I'll send a car to pick you up.'

  The phone went dead and I placed the receiver back on the cradle. I took a deep breath, shooed Joffy out of the door once he had collected Miles's stuff, then had a shower and got dressed. My mind was set. I would get Landen back, no matter what the risks. I still didn't have a coherent plan, but this didn't bother me that much – I seldom did.

  28

  The Raven

  * * *

  'The Raven was undoubtedly Edgar Allan Foe's finest and most famous poem, and was his own personal favourite, being the one he most liked to recite at poetry readings. Published in 1845, the poem drew heavily on Elizabeth Barrett's Lady Geraldine's Courtship, something he acknowledged in the original dedication but had conveniently forgotten when explaining how he wrote The Raven in his essay "The Philosophy of Composition" – the whole affair tending to make a nonsense of Poe's attacks on Longfellow for being a plagiarist. A troubled genius, Poe also suffered the inverse cash/fame law – the more famous he became, the less money he had. "The Gold Bug", one of his most popular short stories, sold over 300,000 copies but netted him only $100. With The Raven he fared even worse. The total earnings for one of the greatest poems in the English language were only $9.'

  MILLON DE FLOSS – Who Put the Poe in Poem?

  The doorbell rang as I was putting my shoes on. But it wasn't Goliath. It was Agents Lamb and Slaughter. I was really quite glad to see that they were still alive; perhaps Aornis didn't regard them as a threat. I wouldn't.

  'Her name's Aornis Hades,' I told them as I hopped up and down, trying to pull the other shoe on, 'sister of Acheron. Don't even think of tackling her. You know you're close when you stop breathing.'

  'Wow!' exclaimed Lamb, patting his pockets for a pen. 'Aornis Hades! How did you figure that out?'

  'I've glimpsed her several times over the past few weeks.'

  'You must have a good memory,' observed Slaughter.

  'I have help.'

  Lamb found a pen, discovered it didn't work and borrowed a pencil from his partner. The point broke. I lent him mine.

  'What was her name again?'

  I spelt it out for him and he wrote it down painfully slowly.

  'Good!' I said once they had finished. 'What are you guys doing here anyway?'

  'Flanker wants a word.'

  This was interesting. He'd obviously not found the cause of tomorrow's armageddon.

  'I'm busy.'

  'You're not busy any more,' replied Slaughter, looking very awkward and wringing her hands. 'I'm sorry about this – but you're under arrest.'

  'What for now?'

  'Possession of an illegal substance.'

  I didn't have time for this.

  'Listen, guys, I'm not just busy, I'm really busy, and Flanker sending you along with some bullshit trumped-up charge is just wasting your time and mine.'

  'Cheese,' said Slaughter, holding out an arrest warrant. 'Illegal cheese. SO-1 found a block of flattened cheese under a Hispano-Suiza with your prints all over it. It was part of a cheese seizure, Thursday. It should have been consigned to the furnaces.'

  I groaned. It was just what Flanker wanted. A simple internal charge which usually meant a reprimand – but could, if needed, result in a custodial sentence. A solid gold arm-twister, in other words. Before the two agents could even draw breath I had slammed the door in their faces and was heading out on to the fire escape. I heard them yell at me as I ran on to the road, just in time to be picked up by Schitt-Hawse. It was the first and last time I would ever be pleased to see him.

  So there I was, unsure whether I had just got out of the frying pan and into the fire or out of the fire and into the frying pan. They had taken my automatic, keys and Jurisfiction travel book. Schitt-Hawse drove and I was sitting in the back seat – wedged tightly between Chalk and Cheese.

  'I'm kind of glad to see you, in a funny sort of way.'

  There was no answer so I waited ten minutes and then asked:

  'Where are we going?'

  This didn't elicit a response either so I patted Chalk and Cheese on the knees and said:

  'You guys been on holiday this year?'

  Chalk looked at me for a moment, then looked at Cheese and answered: 'We went to Majorca,' before he lapsed back into silence.

  The Goliath establishment we arrived at an hour later was their Research & Development Facility at Aldermaston. Surrounded by triple fences of razor wire and armed guards patrolling with full-sized sabre-tooths, the complex was a labyrinth of aluminium-clad windowless buildings and concrete bunkers interspersed with electrical substations and large ventilation ducts. We were waved through the gate and parked in a lay-by next to a large marble Goliath logo where Chalk, Cheese and Schitt-Hawse offered up a short prayer of contrition and unfailing devotion to the Corporation. That done, we were on our way again past thousands of yards of pipework, buildings, parked military vehicles, trucks and all manner of junk.

  'Be honoured, Next,' said Schitt-Hawse. 'Few are blessed with seeing this far into the workings of our beloved Corporation.'

  'I can feel myself more humbled by the second, Mr Schitt-Hawse.'

  We drove on to a low building with a domed concrete roof. This had even higher security than the main entrance, and Chalk, Cheese and Schitt-Hawse had to have their half-Windsor tie knots scanned for verification. The guard on duty opened a heavy blast door that led to a brightly lit corridor which in turn contained a row of elevators. We descended to Lower Ground 12, went through another security check, and then along a shiny corridor past doors either side of us which had brass placards screwed to the polished wood explaining what went on inside. We walked past Electronic Computing Engines, Tachyon Communications, Square Peg in a Round Hole and stopped at The Book Project. Schitt-Hawse opened the door and we entered.

  The room was quite like Mycroft's laboratory apart from the fact that the devices seemed to have been built to a higher benchmark of quality. Where my uncle's machines were held together with baler twine, cardboard and rubber-solution glue, the machines in here had all been crafted from high-quality alloys. All the testing apparatus looked brand new and there was not a single atom of dust anywhere. There were about a half-dozen technicians, all of whom seemed to have a certain pallid disposition, and they looked at me curiously as we walked in. In the middle of the room was a doorway a little like a walk-through metal detector; it was tightly wrapped with thousands of yards of fine copper wire. The wire ended in a tight bunch the width of a man's arm which led to a large machine that hummed and clicked to itself. A technician pulled a switch, there was a crackle and a puff of smoke, and everything went dead. It was a Prose Portal, but more relevant to the purpose of this narrative, it didn't work.

  I pointed to the copper-bound doorway in the middle of the room. It had started to smoke and the technicians were now trying to put it out with CO2 extinguishers.

  'Is that thing meant to be a Prose Portal?'

  'Sadly, yes,' admitted Schitt-Hawse. 'As you may or may not know, all we managed to synthesise was a form of curdled stodgy gunge from Volumes One to Eight of The World of Cheese.'

  'Jack Schitt said it was Cheddar.'

  'Jack always tended to exaggerate a little, Miss Next. This way.'

  We walked past a large h
ydraulic press which was rigged in an attempt to open one of the books that I had seen at Mrs Nakajima's apartment. The steel press groaned and strained but the book remained firmly shut. Farther on, a technician was valiantly attempting to burn a hole in another book with similar poor results, and after that another technician was looking at an X-ray photograph of the book. He was having a little trouble as two or three thousand pages of text and numerous other 'enclosures' all sandwiched together didn't lend themselves to easy examination.

  'What do these books do, Next?'

  'Do you want me to get Jack Schitt out or not?'

  In reply, Schitt-Hawse walked past several other experiments, down a short corridor and through a large steel door to another room that contained a table, chair – and Lavoisier. He was reading a copy of The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe as we entered, and looked up.

  'Monsieur Lavoisier, I understand you already know Miss Next?' said Schitt-Hawse.

  Lavoisier smiled and nodded his head in greeting, shut the book, laid it on the table and got up. We stood in silence for a moment.

  'So go on,' said Schitt-Hawse, 'do your booky stuff and Lavoisier will reactualise your husband as though nothing had happened. No one will ever know he had gone – except you, of course.'

  'I need more than just your promise, Schitt-Hawse.'

  'It's not my promise, Next, it's a Goliath guarantee – believe me, it's riveted iron.'

  'So was the Titanic,' I replied. 'In my experience a Goliath guarantee guarantees nothing.'

  He stared at me and I stared back.

  'Then what do you want'' he asked.

  'One: I want Landen reactualised as he was. Two: I want my travel book back and safe conduct from here. Three: I want a signed confession admitting that you employed Lavoisier to eradicate Landen.'

  I gazed at him steadily, hoping my audacity would strike a nerve.

  'One: agreed. Two: you get the book back afterwards. You used it to vanish in Osaka and I'm not having that again. Three I can't do.'

  'Why not?' I asked. 'Bring Landen back and the confession is irrelevant because it never happened – but I can use it if you ever try anything like this again.'