Page 21 of Something Rotten

  'You one-legged piece of crap,' I said at last, smiling with the relief, 'you did no such thing!'

  'Had you going, though, didn't I?' He grinned.

  Now I was angry.

  'What did you want to go and make that stupid joke for? You know I'm armed and unstable!'

  'It's no more stupid than your dopey yarn about me being eradicated!'

  'It's not a dopey yarn.'

  'It is. If I had been eradicated, then there wouldn't be any little boy . . .'

  His voice trailed off and suddenly all our remonstrations dissipated as Friday became the centre of attention. Landen looked at Friday and Friday looked at Landen. I looked at both of them in turn, then, taking his fingers out of his mouth, Friday said:

  'Bum.'

  'What did he say?'

  'I'm not sure. Sounds like a word he picked up from St Zvlkx.'

  Landen pressed Friday's nose.

  'Beep,' said Landen.

  'Bubbies,' said Friday.

  'Eradicated, eh?'

  'Yes.'

  'That must be the most preposterous story I have ever heard in my life.'

  'I have no argument with that.'

  He paused.

  'Which I guess makes it too weird not to be true.'

  We moved towards each other at the same time and I bumped into his chin with my head. There was a crack as his teeth snapped together and he yelped in pain – I think he had bitten his tongue. It was as Hamlet said. Nothing is ever slick and simple in the real world. He hated it for that reason – and I loved it.

  'What's so funny?' he demanded.

  'Nothing,' I replied, 'it's just something Hamlet said.'

  'Hamlet? Here?'

  'No – at Mum's. He was having an affair with Emma Hamilton, whose boyfriend Admiral Nelson attempted to commit suicide.'

  'By what means?'

  'The French navy.'

  'No . . . no,' said Landen, shaking his head. 'Let's just stick with one ludicrously preposterous story at a time. Listen, I'm an author and I can't think up the sort of cr— I mean nonsense you get yourself into.'

  Friday managed to squeeze off one shoe despite the best efforts of my double knots and was now tugging at his sock.

  'Handsome fellow, isn't he?' said Landen after a pause.

  'He takes after his father.'

  'Nah – his mother. Is his finger stuck permanently up his nose?'

  'Most of the time. It's called "The Search". An amusing little pastime that has kept small children entertained since the dawn of time. Enough, Friday.'

  He took his finger out with an almost audible 'pop' and handed Landen his polar bear.

  'Ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip.'

  'What did he say?'

  'I don't know,' I replied, 'it's something called Lorem Ipsum – a sort of quasi-Latin that typesetters use to make up blocks of realistic-looking type.'

  Landen raised an eyebrow.

  'You're not joking, are you?'

  'They use it a lot in the Well of Lost Plots.'

  'The what?'

  'It's a place where all fiction is—'

  'Enough!' said Landen, clapping his hands together. 'We can't have you telling ridiculous stories here on the front step. Come on in and tell me them inside.'

  I shook my head and stared at him.

  'What?'

  'My mother said Daisy Mutlar was back in town.'

  'She has a job here, apparently.'

  Really?' I asked suspiciously. 'How do you know?'

  'She works for my publisher.'

  'And you haven't been seeing her''

  'Definitely not!'

  'Cross your heart, hope to die?'

  He held up his hand.

  'Scout's honour.'

  'Okay,' I said slowly, 'I believe you.'

  I tapped my lips.

  'I don't come inside until I get one right here.'

  He smiled and took me in his arms. We kissed very tenderly and I shivered.

  'Consequat est laborum,' said Friday, joining in with the hug.

  We walked into the house and I put Friday on the floor. His sharp eyes scanned the house for anything he could pull on top of himself.

  'Thursday?'

  'Yes?'

  'Let's just say for reasons of convenience that I was eradicated.'

  'Yuh?'

  'Then everything that happened since the last time we parted outside the SpecOps building didn't really happen?'

  I hugged him tightly.

  'It did happen, Land. It shouldn't have, but it did.'

  'Then the pain I felt was real?'

  'Yes. I felt it too.'

  'Then I missed you getting bulgy – got any pictures, by the way?'

  'I don't think so. But play your cards right and I may show you the stretch marks.'

  'I can hardly wait.'

  He kissed me again and stared at Friday while an inane grin spread across his face.

  'Thursday?'

  'What?'

  'I have a son!'

  I decided to correct him.

  'No – we have a son!'

  'Right. Well,' he said, rubbing his hands together, 'I suppose you'd better have some supper. Do you still like fish pie?'

  There was a crash as Friday found a vase in the living room to knock over. So I mopped it up while apologising, and Landen said it was okay but shut the doors of his office anyway. He made us both supper and I caught up with what he was doing while he wasn't eradicated – if that makes any sense at all – and I told him about Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, wordstorms, Melanie and all the rest of it.

  'So a grammasite is a parasitic life form that lives inside books?'

  'Pretty much.'

  'And if you don't find a cloned Shakespeare then we lose Hamlet?'

  'Yup.'

  'And the Superhoop is inextricably linked to the avoidance of a thermonuclear war?'

  'It is. Can I move back in?'

  'I kept the sock drawer just how you liked it.'

  I smiled.

  'Alphabetically, left to right?'

  'No, rainbow, violet to the right – or was that how Daisy liked— Ah! Just kidding! You have no sense of— Ah! Stop it! Get off! No! Ow!'

  But it was too late. I had pinned him to the floor and was attempting to tickle him. Friday sucked his fingers and looked on, disgusted, while Landen managed to get out of my hands, roll round and tickle me, which I didn't like at all. After a while we just collapsed into a silly giggling mess.

  'So, Thursday,' he said as he helped me off the floor, 'are you going to spend the night?'

  'No.'

  'No?'

  'No. I'm moving in and staying for ever.'

  We put Friday to bed in the spare room and made up a sort of cot for him. He was quite happy sleeping almost anywhere as long as he had his polar bear with him. He'd stayed over at Melanie's house and once at Mrs Tiggy-Winkle's, which was warm and snug and smelt of moss, sticks and washing powder. He had even slept on Treasure Island during a visit there I made last year to sort out the Ben Gunn goat problem – Long John had talked him to sleep, something he was very good at.

  'Now then,' said Landen as we went to our room, 'a man's needs are many—'

  'Let me guess! You want me to rub your back?'

  'Please. Right there in the small where you used to do it so well. I've really missed that.'

  'Nothing else?'

  'No, nothing. Why, did you have something in mind?'

  I giggled as he pulled me closer. I breathed in his scent. I could remember pretty well what he looked like and how he sounded, but not his smell. That was something that was instantly recognisable as soon I pressed my face into the folds of his shirt, and it brought back memories of courting, and picnics, and passion.

  'I like your short hair,' said Landen.

  'Well, I don't,' I replied, 'and if you ruffle it once more like that I may feel inclined to poke you in the eye.'

  We lay back on the bed and he pulled my sweatshirt ve
ry slowly over the top of my head. It caught on my watch and there was an awkward moment as he tugged gently, trying to keep the romance of the moment. I couldn't help it and started giggling.

  'Oh, do please be serious, Thursday!' he said, still pulling at the sweatshirt. I giggled some more and he joined in, then asked whether I had any scissors and finally removed the offending garment. I started to undo the buttons of his shirt and he nuzzled my neck, something that gave me a pleasant tingly sensation. I tried to flip off my shoes but they were lace-ups and when one finally came off it shot across the room and hit the mirror on the far wall, which fell off and smashed.

  'Bollocks!' I said. 'Seven years' bad luck.'

  'That was a only a two-year mirror,' explained Landen. 'You don't get the full seven-year jobs from the pound shop.'

  I tried to get the other shoe off and slipped, sinking Landen's shin – which wasn't a problem as he had lost a leg in the Crimea and I'd done it several times before. But there wasn't a hollow 'bong' sound as usual.

  'New leg?'

  'Yeah! Do you want to see?'

  He removed his trousers to reveal an elegant prosthesis that looked as though it had come from an Italian design studio – all curves, shiny metal and rubber absorption joints. A thing of beauty. A leg among legs.

  'Wow!'

  'Your uncle Mycroft made it for me. Impressed?'

  'You bet. Did you keep the old one?'

  'In the garden. It has a hibiscus in it.'

  'What colour?'

  'Blue.'

  'Light blue or dark blue?'

  'Light.'

  'Have you redecorated this room?'

  'Yes. I got one of those wallpaper books and couldn't make up my mind which one to use, so I just took the samples out of the book and used them instead. Interesting effect, don't you think?'

  'I'm not sure that the Regency flock matches Bonzo, the Wonder Hound.'

  'Perhaps,' he conceded, 'but it was very economic.'

  I was nervous as hell, and so was he. We were talking about everything but what we really wanted to talk about.

  'Shh!'

  'What?'

  'Was that Friday?'

  'I didn't hear anything.'

  'A mother's hearing is finely attuned. I can hear a half-second wail across ten shopping aisles.'

  I got up and went to have a look but he was fast asleep, of course. The window was open and a cooling breeze moved the muslin curtains ever so slightly, causing shadows of the street lamps to move across his face. How I loved him, and how small and vulnerable he was. I relaxed and once more regained control of myself. Apart from a stupid drunken escapade that luckily went nowhere, my romantic involvement with anyone had been the sum total of zip over the past two and a half years. I had been waiting for this moment for ages. And now I was acting like a lovesick sixteen-year-old. I took a deep breath and turned to go back to our bedroom, taking off my T-shirt, trousers, remaining shoe and socks as I walked, half hobbled and hopped down the corridor. I stopped just outside the bedroom door. The light was off and there was silence. This made things easier. I stepped naked into the bedroom, padded silently across the carpet, slipped into bed and snuggled up to Landen. He was wearing pyjamas and smelled different. The light came on and there was a startled scream from the man lying next to me. It wasn't Landen but Landen's father – and next to him, his wife, Houson. They looked at me, I looked back, stammered, 'Sorry, wrong bedroom,' and ran out of the room, grabbing my clothes from the heap outside the bedroom door. But I wasn't in the wrong room and the lack of a wedding ring confirmed what I feared. Landen had been returned to me – only to be taken away again. Something had gone wrong. The uneradication hadn't held.

  'Don't I recognise you?' said Houson, who had come out of the bedroom and was staring at me as I retrieved Friday from the spare bedroom, where he was tucked up next to Landen's Aunt Ethel.

  'No,' I replied, 'I've just walked into the wrong house. Happens all the time.'

  I left my shoes and trotted downstairs with Friday tucked under my arm, picked up my jacket from where it was hanging on the back of a different chair in a differently furnished front room and ran into the night, tears streaming down my face.

  26

  Breakfast with Mycroft

  FEATHERED FRIEND FOUND TARRED

  Swindon's mysterious seabird asphalt-smotherer has struck again, the victim this time a stormy petrel found in an alleyway off Commercial Road. The unnamed bird was discovered yesterday covered in a thick glutinous coating that forensic scientists later confirmed as crude oil. This is the seventh such attack in less than a week and Swindon police are beginning to take notice. 'This has been the seventh attack in less than a week,' declared a Swindon policeman this morning, 'and we are beginning to take notice.' The inexplicable seabird-tarrer has so far not been seen but an expert from the NSPB told the police yesterday that the suspect would probably have a displacement of 280,000 tons, be covered in rust and floundering on a nearby rock, Despite numerous searches by police in the area, a suspect of this description has not yet been found.

  Article in the Swindon Daily Eyestrain, 18 July 1988

  It was the following morning. I was sitting at the kitchen table staring at my ring finger and the complete absence of a wedding band. Mum walked in wrapped in a dressing gown and with her hair in curlers, fed DH82, let Alan out of the broom cupboard where we had to keep him these days and pushed the delinquent dodo outside with a mop. He made an angry plinking noise, then attacked the boot-scraper.

  'What's wrong, sweetheart?'

  'It's Landen.'

  'Who?'

  'My husband. He was reactualised last night but only for about two hours.'

  'My poor darling! That must be very awkward.'

  'Awkward? Extremely. I climbed naked into bed with Mr and Mrs Parke-Laine.'

  My mother went ashen and dropped a saucer.

  'Did they recognise you?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Thank the GSD for that!' she gasped, greatly relieved. Being embarrassed in public was something she cared to avoid more than anything else, and having a daughter climbing into bed with patrons of the Swindon Toast League was probably the biggest faux pas she could think of.

  'Good morning, pet,' said Mycroft, shuffling into the kitchen and sitting down at the breakfast table. He was my extraordinarily brilliant inventor uncle, and apparently had just returned from the 1988 Mad Scientists Conference, or MadCon '88 as it was known.

  'Uncle,' I said, probably with less enthusiasm than I should have mustered, 'how good to see you again!'

  'And you, my dear,' he said kindly. 'Back for good?'

  'I'm not sure,' I replied, thinking about Landen. 'Aunt Polly well?'

  'In the very best of health. We've been to MadCon – I was given a lifetime achievement award for something but for the life of me I can't think what, or why.'

  It was a typically Mycroft statement. Despite his undoubted brilliance, he never thought he was doing anything particularly clever or useful – he just liked to tinker with ideas. It was his Prose Portal invention which had got me inside books in the first place. He had set up home in the Sherlock Holmes canon to escape Goliath but had remained stuck there until I rescued him about a year ago.

  'Did Goliath ever bother you again?' I asked. 'After you came back, I mean?'

  'They tried,' he replied softly, 'but they didn't get anything from me.'

  'You wouldn't tell them anything?'

  'No. It was better than that. I couldn't. You see, I can't remember a single thing about any of the inventions they wanted me to talk about.'

  'How is that possible?'

  'Well,' replied Mycroft, taking a sip of tea, 'I'm not sure, but logically speaking I must have invented a memory erasure device or something and used it selectively on myself and Polly – what we call the Big Blank. It's the only possible explanation.'

  'So you can't remember how the Prose Portal actually works?'

  'The
what?'

  'The Prose Portal. A device for entering fiction.'

  'They were asking me about something like that, now you mention it. It would be very intriguing to try and redevelop it but Polly says I shouldn't. My lab is full of devices, the purpose of which I haven't the foggiest notion about. An ovinator, for example – it's clearly something to do with eggs, but what?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Well, perhaps it's all for the best. These days I only work for peaceful means. Intellect is worthless if it isn't for the betterment of us all.'

  'I'll agree with you on that one. What work were you presenting to MadCon '88?'

  'Theoretical Nextian mathematics, mostly,' replied Mycroft, warming to the subject dearest to his heart – his work. 'I told you all about Nextian geometry, didn't I?'

  I nodded.

  'Well, Nextian number theory is very closely related to that, and in its simplest form allows me to work backwards to discover the original sum from which the product is derived.'

  'Eh?'

  'Well, say you have the numbers twelve and sixteen. You multiply them together and get 192, yes? Now, in conventional maths if you were given the number 192 you would not know how that number was derived. It might just as easily have been three times sixty-four or six times thirty-two or even 194 minus two. But you couldn't tell just from looking at the number alone, now, could you?'

  'I suppose not.'

  'You suppose wrong,' said Mycroft with a smile. 'Nextian number theory works in an inverse fashion from ordinary maths – it allows you to discover the precise question from a stated answer.'

  'And the practical applications of this?'

  'Hundreds.' He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and passed it over. I unfolded it and found a simple number written upon it: 2216091 -1, or two raised to the power of two hundred and sixteen thousand and ninety-one, minus one.

  'It looks like a big number.'

  'It's a medium-sized number,' he corrected.