A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (128 page)

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Authors: Jasper Fforde

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“—an as-yet-unnamed tyrant. This is Lydia Startright, bringing you a miraculous event live for Toad News. And now a word from our sponsors, Goliath Pharmaceuticals, the makers of Hemmorrelief.”
12.
Spike and Cindy
Operative Spike Stoker
was with SO-17, the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations. Undeniably employed in the loneliest of the SpecOps divisions, SO-17 operatives worked in the twilight world of the semidead, changelings, vampires, lycanthropes and those of a generally evil disposition. Stoker had been decorated more times than I had read
Three Men in a Boat,
but then he was the only staker in the southwest, and no one in his right mind would do what he did on a SpecOps wage, except me. And only then when I was desperate for the cash.
Thursday Next,
Thursday Next: A Life in SpecOps
 
 
 
 
D
eep in thought, I pushed Friday back towards my car. The stakes had just been raised, and any chance that I might somehow influence the outcome of the SuperHoop was suddenly made that much more impossible. With Goliath and Kaine both having a vested interest in making sure the Swindon Mallets lost, chances of our victory had dropped from “highly unlikely” to “nigh impossible.”
“It explains,” said a voice, “why Goliath is changing to a faith-based corporate-management system.”
I turned to find my stalker, Millon de Floss, walking close behind me. It must have been important for him to contravene the blanket restraining order. I stopped for a moment. “Why do you think that?”
“Once they are a religion, they won't be a ‘company named Goliathe' as stated in Zvlkx's prophecy,” observed Millon, “and they can avoid the revealment's coming true. Sister Bettina, their own corporate precog, must have foreseen something like this and alerted them.”
“Does that mean,” I asked slowly, “that they're taking St. Zvlkx seriously?”
“He's too accurate not to be, Miss Next, however unlikely it may seem. Now that they know the complete Seventh Revealment, they'll try to do anything to stop Swindon's winning—and continue with the religion thing as a backup, just in case.”
It made sense—sort of. Dad must have known this or something very like it. None of it boded very well, but my father had said the likelihood of this Armageddon was only 22 percent, so the answer must be somewhere.
“I'm going to visit Goliathopolis this afternoon,” I said slowly. “Have you found out anything about Kaine?”
Millon rummaged in his pocket for a notepad, found it and flicked through the pages, which seemed to be full of numbers.
“It's here somewhere,” he said apologetically. “I like to collect vacumn-cleaner serial numbers and was investigating a rare Hoover XB-23E when I got the call. Here it is. This Kaine fellow is a conspiracist's delight. He arrived on the scene five years ago with no past, no history, no parents—nothing. His national insurance number wasn't given to him until 1982, and it seems the only jobs he has ever held were with his publishing company and then as MP.”
“Not a lot to go on, then.”
“Not yet, but I'll keep digging. You might be interested to know that he has been seen on several occasions with Lola Vavoom.”
“Who hasn't?”
“Agreed. You wanted to know about Mr. Schitt-Hawse? He heads the Goliath tech division.”
“You sure?”
Millon looked dubious for a moment.
“In the conspiracy industry, the word ‘sure' has a certain plasticity about it, but yes. We have a mole at Goliathopolis. Admittedly our mole only serves in the canteen, but you'd be surprised the sensitive information that one can overhear giving out shortbread fingers. Apparently Schitt-Hawse has been engaged in something called the Ovitron Project. We're not positive, but it might be a development of your uncle's Ovinator. Could it be something along the lines of
The Midwich Cuckoos
?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
I made a few notes, thanked Millon for his time and pushed Friday back to my car, my head full of potential futures, Ovinators and Kaine.
 
Ten minutes later we were in my Speedster, heading north towards Cricklade. My father had told me that Cindy would fail to kill me three times before she died herself, but there was a chance the future didn't have to turn out that way—after all, I had once been shot dead by a SpecOps marksman in an alternative future, and I was still very much alive.
I hadn't seen Spike for more than two years but had been gratified to learn he had moved out of his dingy apartment to a new address in Cricklade. I soon found his street—it was on a newly built estate of Cotswold stone that shone a warm glow of ocher in the sunlight. As we drove slowly down the road checking door numbers, Friday helpfully pointed out things of interest.
“Ipsum,” he said, pointing at a car.
I was hoping that Spike wasn't there so I could speak to Cindy on her own, but I was out of luck. I parked up behind his SpecOps black-and-white and climbed out. Spike himself was sitting on a deck chair on the front lawn, and my heart fell when I saw that not only had he married Cindy but they had also had a child—a one-year-old girl was sitting on the grass next to him playing under a parasol. I cursed inwardly as Friday hid behind my leg. I was going to have to make Cindy play ball—the alternative wouldn't be good for her and would be worse for Spike and their daughter.
“Yo!” yelled Spike, telling the person on the other end of the phone to hold it one moment and getting up to give me a hug. “How you doing, Next?”
“I'm good, Spike, you?”
He spread his arms, indicating the trappings of middle-England suburbia. The UPVC double glazing, the well-kept lawn, the drive, the wrought-iron sunrise gate.
“Look at all this, sister! Isn't it the best?”
“Ipsum,” said Friday, pointing at a plant pot.
“Cute kid. Go on in. I'll be with you in a moment.”
I walked into the house and found Cindy in the kitchen. She had an apron on and her hair tied up.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound as normal as possible, “you must be Cindy.”
She stared me straight in the eye. She didn't look like a professional assassin who had killed sixty-seven times—sixty-eight if she did Samuel Pring—yet the really good ones never do.
“Well, well, Thursday Next,” she said slowly, crouching down to pull some damp clothes out of the washing machine and tweaking Friday's ear. “Spike holds you in very high regard.”
“Then you know why I'm here?”
She put down the washing and picked up a Fisher-Price Webster that was threatening to trip someone up, and passed it to Friday, who sat down to scrutinize it carefully.
“I can guess. Handsome lad. How old is he?”
“He was two last month. And I'd like to thank you for missing yesterday.”
She gave a wan smile and walked out the backdoor. I caught up with her as she started to hang the washing on the line.
“Is it Kaine trying to have me killed?”
“I always respect client confidentiality,” she said quietly, “and I can't miss forever.”
“Then stop it right now,” I said. “Why do you even need to do it at all?”
She pegged a blue romper on the line.
“Two reasons: first, I'm not going to give up work just because I'm married with a kid, and second, I always complete a contract, no matter what. When I don't deliver the goods, the clients want refunds. And the Windowmaker doesn't do refunds.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I was curious about that. Why the Windowmaker?”
She glared at me coldly. “The printers made a mistake on the notepaper, and it would have cost too much to redo. Don't laugh.”
She hung up a pillowcase.
“I'll contract you out, Miss Next, but I won't try today—which gives you some time to get yourself together and leave town once and for all. Somewhere where I can't find you. And hide well—I'm very good at what I do.”
She took a sideways glance towards the kitchen. I hung up a large SO-17 T-shirt on the line.
“He doesn't know, does he?” I asked.
“Spike is a fine man,” replied Cindy, “just a little slow on the uptake. You're not going to tell him, and he's never going to know. Grab the other end of that sheet, will you?”
I took the end of a dry sheet, and we folded it together.
“I'm not going anywhere, Cindy,” I told her, “and I'll protect myself in any way I can.”
We stared at one another for a moment. It seemed like such a waste.
“Retire!”
“Never!”
“Why?”
“Because I
like
it and I'm
good
at it—would you like some tea, Thursday?”
Spike had entered the garden carrying the baby. “So how are my two favorite ladies?”
“Thursday was helping me with the washing, Spikey,” said Cindy, her hard-as-nails professionalism replaced with a silly sort of girlie ditziness. “I'll put the kettle on—two sugars, Thursday?”
“One.”
She skipped into the house.
“What do you think?” asked Spike in a low tone. “Isn't she just the cutest thing ever?”
He was like a fifteen-year-old in love for the first time.
“She's lovely, Spike. You're a lucky man.”
“This is Betty,” said Spike, waving the tiny arm of the infant with his huge hand. “One year old. You were right about being honest with Cindy—she didn't mind me doing all that vampire sh—I mean
stuff.
In fact, I think she's kinda proud.”
“You're a lucky man,” I repeated, wondering just how I was going to avoid making him a widower and the gurgling child motherless.
We walked back into the house, where Cindy was busying herself in the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” asked Spike, depositing Betty next to Friday, where they looked at one another suspiciously. “Prison?”
“No. Somewhere weird. Somewhere
other.
”
“Will you be returning there?” asked Cindy innocently.
“She's only just got back!” exclaimed Spike. “We don't want to be shot of her quite yet.”
“Shot of her—of course not,” replied Cindy, placing a mug of tea on the table. “Have a seat. There are Hobnobs in that novelty dodo biscuit tin over there.”
“Thank you.”
“So,” I continued, “how's the vampire business?”
“So-so. Been quiet recently. Werewolves the same. I dealt with a few zombies in the city center the other night, but Supreme Evil Being containment work has almost completely dried up. There has been a report of a few ghouls, bogeys and phantoms in Winchester, but it's not really my area of expertise. There is talk of disbanding the division and then taking me on freelance when they need something done.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not really. I can charge what I want with vampires on the prowl—but in slack times I'd be a bit stuffed. Wouldn't want to send Cindy out to work full-time, now, would I?”
He laughed, and Cindy laughed with him, handing a rusk to Betty, who gave it an almighty toothless bite and then looked puzzled when there was no effect. Friday took it off her and showed how it was done.
“So what are you up to at present?” asked Spike.
“Not much. I was just dropping in before I went off up to Goliathopolis—my husband still isn't back.”
“Did you hear about Zvlkx's revealment?”
“I was there.”
“Then Goliath will want all the forgiveness they can get—you won't find a better time for forcing them to bring him back.”
We chatted for ten minutes or more until it was time for me to leave. I didn't manage to speak to Cindy on her own again, but I had said what I wanted to say—I just hoped she would take notice, but somehow I doubted it.
“If I ever have any freelance jobs to do, will you join me?” asked Spike as he was seeing me out the door, Friday having nearly eaten all the rusks.
I thought of my overdraft. “Please.”
“Good,” replied Spike, “I'll be in touch.”
 
I drove down the M4 to Saknussum International, where I had to run to catch the Gravitube to the James Tarbuck Graviport in Liverpool. Friday and I had a brief lunch before hopping on the shuttle to Goliathopolis. Goliath took my husband from me, and they could bring him back. And when you have a grievance with a company, you go straight to the top.
14.
The Goliath Apologarium
Danish Car a “Deathtrap,” Claims Kainian Minister
Robert Edsel, the Kainian minister of road safety, hit out at Danish car manufacturer Volvo yesterday, claiming the boxy and unsightly vehicle previously considered one of the safest cars on the market to be the complete reverse—a death trap for anyone stupid enough to buy one. “The Volvo fared very poorly in the rocket-propelled grenade test,” claimed Mr. Edsel in a press release yesterday, “and owners and their children risk permanent spinal injury when dropped in the car from heights as low as sixty feet.” Mr. Edsel continued to pour scorn on the pride of the Danish motoring industry by revealing that the Volvo's air filters offered “scant protection” against pyroclastic flows, poisonous fumes and other forms of common volcanic phenomena. “I would very much recommend that anyone thinking of buying this poor Danish product should think again,” said Mr. Edsel. When the Danish foreign minister pointed out that Volvos were, in fact, Swedish, Mr. Edsel accused the Danes of once again attempting to blame their neighbors for their own manufacturing weaknesses.
Article in
The Toad on Sunday,
July 16, 1988

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