Lost in a good book (16 page)

“Yes, yes,” I assured her happily. “I really couldn’t be better!”

“Good,” beamed the nurse. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“Yes, actually,” I replied. “Tell me, where do I live?”

The shabby block of flats in the old town didn’t look like my sort of place, but who knows where I might be living without Landen. I trotted briskly up the stairs to the top landing and flat six. 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. I walked softly around the flat, exploring my new surroundings. 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
FeMole
stashed under the sofa. The fridge was well stocked with food, and it seemed that in this non-Landen world 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 tooth-brushes in the bathroom, a large Swindon Mallets jacket on the hook and several XXL-size T-shirts with
SpecOps-14 Swindon
written on them. I called Bowden straightaway.

“Hello, Thursday,” he said. “Have you heard? Professor Spoon has given his 100% 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 color 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 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 anymore because
I’ve found an extra toothbrush and some men’s clothes in my flat!
”

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

There was a pause as Bowden 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 rumors, 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,” sighed Bowden. “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 rumor 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 rumor, 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 called my mother, who seemed more interested in putting out a fire on the kitchen stove than in talking to me. I asked her when she 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
sound 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 through my hair, flopped backwards, 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 yet know it, 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

I
TOOK
P
ICKWICK
to the park first thing in the morning. Perhaps it would be better to say that she took me—she was the one who knew the way. She played coyly with a few other dodos while I sat on a park bench. A crotchety old woman sat next to me and turned out to be Mrs. Scroggins, who lived directly below. She told me not to make so much noise in future, and then, without drawing breath, gave me a few extremely useful tips about smuggling pets in and out of the building. I picked up a copy of
The Owl
on the way home and was just crossing the road back to my apartment when 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 and Biters as they preferred to call themselves. I helped him out once on a vampire stakeout; dealing with the undead is not a huge barrel of fun, but I liked Spike a great deal.

“Hey, Thursday, word is you lipped Flanker.”

“Good news travels fast, doesn’t it? But he got the last laugh—I’m suspended.”

He switched off the engine and thought about this for a moment.

“If the shit hits the fan I can offer you some freelance staking for cash at Suckers and Biters; the minimum entry requirements have been reduced to ‘anyone mad enough to join me.’ ”

I sighed.

“Sorry, Spike. I can’t. Not right now. I’ve got husband troubles.”

“You’re married? When?”

“Exactly,” I said, showing him my empty ring finger. “ Someone eradicated my husband.”

Spike hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand.

“Bastards. I’m sorry to hear that, but listen, it’s not the end of the world. A few years back my uncle Bart was eradicated. Someone goofed and left some memories of him with my aunt. She lodged an appeal and had him reactualized a year later. Thing is, I never knew I 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?”

“Twenty-four hours ago it would have sounded insane. Right now it seems—stop that, Pickwick!—as clear as day.”

“Hmm,” murmured Spike. “You’ll get him back, don’t worry. Listen: I wish they’d sideslip all this vampire and werewolf crap so I could go and work at Somme World™ or something.”

I leaned against his car, SpecOps gossip a welcome distraction.

“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 petite blond 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 dogcatcher?” 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 like that.”

“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. “Hang on.”

The wireless had started to report an occurrence of unspeakable nastiness up near Banbury. He started the engine.

“I’ve got to go. Think about my offer. Always some work if you need it!”

And he was gone in a screech of tires.

I smuggled Pickwick back to my apartment and read the paper—I was glad to see the discovery of
Cardenio
had not yet broken in the press, but I was distracted. I stared out of the window for a moment, trying to formulate some sort of plan to get Landen back. Get into books? I didn’t know where to even
begin.
On reflection, that wasn’t quite right. It was time to go and visit the closest thing to the Delphic Oracle I would ever know: Granny Next.

Gran was playing Ping-Pong at the SpecOps Twilight Homes when I found her. She was thrashing her opponent, who was at least twenty years her junior—but still about eighty. Nervous nurses looked on, trying to stop her before she fell over and broke a bone or two. Granny Next was old.
Really
old. Her pink skin looked more wrinkled than the most wrinkled prune I had ever seen, and her face and hands were livid with dark liver spots. She was dressed in her usual blue gingham dress and hailed me from the other side of the room as I walked in.

“Ah!” she said. “Thursday! Fancy a game?”

“Don’t you think you’ve played enough today?”

“Nonsense! Grab a paddle and we’ll play to the first point.”

I picked up a paddle as a ball careened past me.

“Wasn’t ready!” I protested as another ball came over the net. I swiped at it and missed.