A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (125 page)

“So who is killing Nelson?”

“Well, it's Nelson
himself.
Don't ask me why. Now, what did you want to see me about?”

I had to think carefully. “Well . . . nothing,
really.
I met you three hours ago and you said we'd spoken, so I came here to find you, so then I suppose I should ask you to figure out who's trying to kill me this morning, which you wouldn't have been able to do if I hadn't met you this morning, and I only met you this morning because I've just told you right now I might be assassinated. . . .”

Dad laughed. “It's a bit like having a tumble dryer in your head, Sweetpea. Sometimes I don't know whether I'm thening or nowing. But I'd better check this assassin out, just in case.”

“Yes,” I said, more confused than ever, “I suppose you should.”

 

 

 

 

H
amlet and I arrived home to find a TV news crew from Swindon-5 waiting for me outside the house.

“Miss Next,” said the reporter. “Can you tell us where you've been these past two years?”

“No comment.”

“You can interview
me,
” said Hamlet, realizing he was something of a celebrity out here.

“And who are you?” asked the reporter, mystified.

I stared at him and his face fell.

I'm . . . I'm . . . her cousin Eddie.”

“Well, Cousin Eddie, can
you
tell us where Miss Next has been for the past two years?”

“No comment.”

And we walked up the garden path to the front door.

“Where have you been?”
demanded my mother as we walked in the door.

“Sorry I'm late, Mum—how's the little chap?”

“Tiring. He says that his aunt Mel is a gorilla who can peel bananas with her feet while hanging from the light fixtures.”

“He
talked?
”

Friday was using the time-honored international child signal to be picked up—raising his arms in the air—and when I did so, gave me a wet kiss and started to chatter away unintelligibly.

“Well, he didn't exactly
say
as much,” admitted Mum, “but he drew me a picture of Aunt Mel, which is pretty conclusive.”

“Aunt Mel a gorilla?” I laughed, looking at the picture, which was unequivocally of . . . well, a gorilla. “Quite an imagination, hasn't he?”

“I'd say. I found him standing on the sideboard ready to swing from the curtains. When I told him it wasn't allowed, he pointed to the picture of Aunt Mel, which I took to mean that she used to let him.”

“Does she, now? I mean, did he, now?”

Pickwick walked in looking very disgruntled and wearing a bonnet made of cardboard and held together with sticky tape.

“Pickwick's a very tolerant playmate,” said my mother, who was obviously not that skilled at reading dodo expressions.

“I really need to get him into a play group. Did you change his nappy?”

“Three times. It just goes straight through, doesn't it?”

I sniffed at the leg of his dungarees. “Yup. Straight through.”

“Well, I've got my auto-body work group to attend to,” she said, putting on her hat and taking her handbag and welding goggles from the peg, “but you'd better sort out some more reliable child care, my dear. I can do the odd hour here and there, but not whole days—and I certainly don't want to do any more nappies.”

“Do you think Lady Hamilton would look after him?”

“It's possible,” said my mother in the sort of voice that means the reverse. “You could always ask.”

She opened the door and was plinked at angrily by Alan, who was in a bit of a bad mood and was pulling up flowers in the front garden. With unbelievable speed she grabbed him by the neck and, with a lot of angry plinking and scrabbling, deposited him unceremoniously inside the potting shed and locked the door.

“Miserable bird!” said my mother, giving me and Friday a kiss. “Have I got my purse?”

“It's in your bag.”

“Am I wearing my hat?”

“Yes.”

She smiled, told me that Bismarck was not to be disturbed and that I mustn't buy anything from a door-to-door salesman unless it was
truly
a bargain and was gone.

I changed Friday, then let him toddle off to find something to do. I made a cup of tea for myself and Hamlet, who had switched on the TV and was watching MOLE-TV 's Shakespeare channel. I sat on the sofa and stared out the windows into the garden. It had been destroyed by a mammoth when I was last here, and I noted that my mother had replanted it with plants that are not very palatable to the Proboscidea tongue—quite wise, considering the migrations. As I watched, Pickwick waddled past, possibly wondering where Alan had gone. For the day's work, I had done very little. I was still a Literary Detective, but twenty thousand pounds in debt and no nearer getting Landen back.

 

My mother returned at about eight, and the first of her Eradications Anonymous friends began to appear at nine. There were ten of them, and they started to chatter about what they described as their “lost ones” as soon as they got through the door. Emma Hamilton and I weren't alone in having a husband with an existence problem. But although it seemed my Landen and Emma's Horatio were strong in our memories, many people were not so lucky. Some had only vague feelings about someone they felt who
should
be there but wasn't. To be honest, I really didn't want to be here, but I had promised my mother and I was living in her house, so that was the end of it.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” said my mother, clapping her hands, “and if you'd all like to take a seat, we can allow this meeting to begin.”

Everyone sat down, tea and Battenberg cake in hand, and looked expectant.

“Firstly I would like to welcome a new member to the group. As you know, my daughter has been away for a couple of years—not in prison, I'd like to make that clear!”

“Thank you, Mother,” I murmured under my breath as there was polite laughter from the group, who instantly assumed that's exactly where I
had
been.

“And she has kindly agreed to join our group and say a few words. Thursday?”

I took a deep breath, stood up and said quickly, “Hello, everyone. My name's Thursday Next, and my husband doesn't exist.”

There was applause at this, and someone said, “Way to go, Thursday,” but I couldn't think of anything to add, nor wanted to, so sat down again. There was silence as everyone stared at me, politely waiting for me to carry on.

“That's it. End of story.”

“I'll drink to that!” said Emma, gazing forlornly at the locked drinks cabinet.

“You're very brave,” said Mrs. Beatty, who was sitting next to me. She patted my hand in a kindly manner. “What was his name?”

“Landen. Landen Parke-Laine. He was murdered by the ChronoGuard in 1947. I'm going to the Goliath Apologarium tomorrow to try to get his eradication reversed.”

There was a murmuring.

“What's the matter?”

“You must understand,” said a tall and painfully thin man who up until now had remained silent, “that for you to progress in this group, you must begin to accept that this is a problem of the memory—there is no Landen; you just
think
there is.”

“It's very dry in here, isn't it?” muttered Emma unsubtly, still staring at the drinks cabinet.

“I was like you once,” said Mrs. Beatty, who had stopped patting my hand and returned to her knitting. “I had a wonderful life with Edgar, and then one morning I wake up in a different house with Gerald lying next to me. He didn't believe me when I explained the problem, and I was on medication for ten years until I came here. It is only now, in the company of your good selves, am I coming to the realization that it is merely a malady of the head.”

I was horrified. “Mother?”

“It's something that we must try and face, my dear.”

“But Dad visits you, doesn't he?”

“Well, I
believe
he does,” she said, thinking hard, “but of course when he's gone, it's only a memory. There isn't any
real
proof that he ever existed.”

“What about me? And Joffy? Or even Anton? How were we born without Dad?”

She shrugged at the impossibility of the paradox. “Perhaps it was, after all,” sighed my mother, “youthful indiscretions that I have expunged from my mind.”

“And Emma? And Herr Bismarck? How do you explain them being here?”

“Well,” said my mother, thinking hard, “I'm sure there's a rational explanation for it . . . somewhere.”

“Is this what this group teaches you?” I replied angrily. “To deny the memories of your loved ones?”

I looked around at the gathering, who had, it seemed, given up in the face of the hopeless paradox that they lived every minute of their lives. I opened my mouth to try to describe eloquently just how I
knew
that Landen had once been married to me when I realized I was wasting my time. There was nothing, but
nothing,
to suggest that it was anything other than in my mind. I sighed. To be truthful, it
was
in my mind. It hadn't happened. I just had memories of how it
might
have turned out. The tall, thin man, the realist, was beginning to convince everyone they were not victims of a timeslip, but delusional.

“You want proof—”

I was interrupted by an excited knock at the front door. Whoever it was didn't waste any time; she just walked straight into the house and into the front room. It was a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who was holding the hand of a confused and acutely embarrassed-looking man.

“Hello, group!” she said happily. “It's Ralph! I got him back!”

“Ah!” said Emma. “This calls for a celebration!” Everyone ignored her.

“I'm sorry,” said my mother, “have you got the right house? Or the right self-help group?”

“Yes, yes,” she reasserted. “It's Julie, Julie Aseizer. I've been coming to this group every week for the past three years!”

There was silence in the group. All you could hear was the quiet click of Mrs. Beatty's knitting needles.

“Well, I haven't seen you,” announced the tall, thin man. He looked around at the group. “Does
anyone
recognize this person?”

The group shook their heads blankly.

“I expect you think this is
really
funny, don't you?” said the thin man angrily. “This is a self-help group for people with severe memory aberrations, and I really don't think it is either amusing or constructive for pranksters to make fun of us! Now, please leave!”

She stood for a moment, biting her lip, but it was her husband who spoke.

“Come on, darling, I'm taking you home.”

“But wait!” she said. “Now he's
back,
everything is as it
was,
and I wouldn't have needed to come to your group, so I
didn't
—yet I
remember . . .
”

Her voice trailed off, and her husband gave her a hug as she started to sob. He led her out, apologizing profusely all the while.

As soon as they had gone, the thin man sat down indignantly. “A sorry state of affairs!” he grumbled.

“Everyone thinks it's funny to do that old joke,” added Mrs. Beatty. “That's the second time this month.”

“It gave me a powerful thirst,” added Emma. “Anyone else?”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “they should start a self-help group for themselves—they could call it Eradications Anonymous
Anonymous
.”

No one thought it was funny, and I hid a smile. Perhaps there would be a chance for me and Landen after all.