A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (142 page)

In any case, I didn't like them and neither did Spike, and whatever it was they wanted it would have to be pretty weird. No one calls Spike until every avenue has been explored. He was the last line of defense before rationality started to crumble.

We pulled onto the verge, where two large black Bentley limousines were waiting for us. Parked next to them were six standard police cars, with the occupants looking bored and waiting for orders. Something pretty big was going down.

“Who's she?” demanded a tall agent with a humorless demeanor as soon as we stepped from the car.

“Thursday Next,” I replied, “SO-27.”

“Literary Detectives?” he sneered.

“She's good enough for me,” said Spike. “If I don't get my own people, you can do your own weird shit.”

The SO-6 agent looked at the pair of us in turn. “ID.”

I showed him my badge. He took it, looked at it for a moment, then passed it back.

“My name is Colonel Parks,” said the agent. “I'm head of Presidential Security. This is Dowding, my second in command.”

Spike and I exchanged looks. The President. This really
was
serious.

Dowding, a laconic figure in a dark suit, nodded his greeting as Parks continued:

“Firstly, I must point out to you both that this is a matter of great national importance, and I am asking for your advice only because we are desperate. We find ourselves in a head-of-state-deficit condition by virtue of a happenstance of a high-otherworldlinesspossibility situation—and we hoped you might be able to reverse-engineer us out of it.”

“Cut the waffle,” said Spike. “What's going on?”

Parks's shoulders slumped, and he took off his dark glasses. “We've lost the President.”

My heart missed a beat. This was
bad
news. Really bad news. The way I saw it, the President wasn't due to die until next Monday,
after
Kaine and Goliath had been neutered. Formby's going missing or dying early allowed Kaine to gain power and start World War III a week before he was meant to—and that was certainly
not
in the game plan.

Spike thought for a moment and then said, “Bummer.”

“Quite.”

“Where?”

Parks swept his arm towards the busy traffic speeding past on the motorway. “Somewhere out there.”

“How long ago?”

“Twelve hours. Chancellor Kaine has got wind of it, and he's pushing a parliamentary vote to establish himself dictator at six o'clock this evening. That gives us less than eight hours.”

Spike nodded thoughtfully. “Show me where you last saw him.”

Parks snapped his fingers, and a black Bentley drew up alongside. We climbed in, and the limo joined the M4 in a westerly direction, the police cars dropping in behind to create a rolling road-block. Within a few miles, our lane of the busy thoroughfare was deserted and quiet. As we drove on, Parks explained what had happened. President Formby was being driven from London to Bath along the M4, and somewhere between Junctions 16 and 17—where we now were—he vanished.

The Bentley glided to a halt on the empty asphalt.

“The President's car was the center vehicle in a three-car motorcade,” explained Parks as we got out. “Saundby's car was behind, I was with Dowding in front, and Mallory was driving the President. At this precise point, I looked behind and noticed that Mallory was indicating to turn off. I saw them move onto the hard shoulder, and we pulled over immediately.”

Spike sniffed the air. “And then what happened?”

“We lost sight of the car. We thought it had gone over the embankment, but when we got there—nothing. Not a bramble out of place. The car just vanished.”

We walked to the edge and looked down the slope. The motorway was carried above the surrounding countryside on an earth embankment; there was a steep slope that led down about fifteen feet through ragged vegetation to a fence. Beyond this was a field, a concrete bridge over a drainage ditch and beyond that, about half a mile distant, a row of white houses.

“Nothing
just
vanishes,” said Spike at last. “There is always a reason. Usually a simple one, sometimes a weird one—but always a reason. Dowding, what's your story?”

“Pretty much the same. His car started to pull over, then just . . . well, vanished from sight.”

“Vanished?”

“More like
melted,
really,” said a confused Dowding. Spike rubbed his chin thoughtfully and bent down to pick up a handful of roadside detritus. Small granules of toughened glass, shards of metal and wires from the lining of a car tire. He shivered.

“What is it?” asked Parks.

“I think President Formby's gone . . . deadside.”

“Then where's the body? In fact, where's the car?”

“There are three types of dead,” said Spike, counting on his fingers. “Dead, undead and semidead. Dead is what we call in the trade ‘spiritually bereft'—the life force is extinct. Those are the lucky ones. Undead are the ‘spiritually challenged' that I seem to spend most of my time dealing with. Vampires, zombies, bogeys and what have you.”

“And the semidead?”

“Spiritually
ambiguous.
Those that are moving on from one state to another or in a spiritual limbo—what you and I generally refer to as
ghosts.
”

Parks laughed out loud, and Spike raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign of indignation I had ever seen him make.

“I didn't ask you along so I could listen to some garbage about ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties, Officer Stoker.”

“Don't forget ‘things that go bump in the night,' ” countered Spike. “You won't believe how bad a thing can bump if you don't deal with it quick.”

“Whatever. As far as I can see, there is one state of dead and that's ‘not living.' Now, do you have anything useful to add to this investigation or not?”

Spike didn't answer. He stared hard at Parks for a moment and then scrambled down the embankment towards a dead and withered tree. It had leafless branches that looked incongruous amongst the summer greenery, and the plastic bags that had caught in its branches moved lazily in the breeze. Parks and I looked at one another, then slid down the bank to join him. We found Spike examining the short grass with great interest.

“If you have a theory, you should tell us,” said Parks, leaning against the tree. “I'm getting a bit bored with all this New Age mumbo jumbo.”

“We
all
visit the realm of the semidead at some point,” continued Spike, picking at the ground with his fingers like a chimp checking a partner for fleas, “but for most of us it is only a millisecond as we pass from one realm to the next. Blink and you'll miss it. But there are
others.
Others who loiter around in the world of the semidead for years. The ‘spiritually ambiguous' who don't know they are dead, or, in the case of the President, there by accident.”

“And . . . ?” asked Parks, who was becoming less keen on Spike with each second that passed. Spike carried on rummaging in the dirt, so the SO-6 agent shrugged resignedly and started to walk back up the embankment.

“He didn't stop for a leak at Membury or Chievley services, did he?” announced Spike in a loud voice. “I wonder if he even went at Reading.”

Parks stopped, and his attitude changed abruptly. He slid clumsily back down the embankment and rejoined us.

“How did you know that?”

Spike looked around at the empty fields. “There is a motorway services here.”

“There
was
going to be one,” I corrected, “but after Kington St—I mean, Leigh Delamare was built, it wasn't considered necessary.”

“It's here all right,” replied Spike, “just occluded from our view. This is what happened: The President needs a leak and tells Mallory to pull over at the next services. Mallory is tired, and his mind is open to those things usually hidden from our sight. He sees what he
thinks
are the services and pulls over. For a fraction of a second, the two worlds touch—the presidential Bentley moves across—and then part again. I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that President Formby has accidentally entered a gateway to the underworld—a living person adrift in the abode of the dead.”

There was deathly quiet.

“That is the most insanely moronic story I have ever been forced to listen to,” announced Parks, not wanting to lose sight of reality for even one second. “If I listened to a gaggle of lunatics for a month, I'd not hear a crazier notion.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Parks, than are dreamt of in
your
philosophy.”

There was a pause as the SO-6 agent weighed up the facts.

“Do you think you can get him back?” he asked at last.

“I fear not. The spirits of the semidead will be flocking to him like moths to a light, trying to feed off his life force and return
themselves
to the land of the living. Such a trip would almost certainly be suicidal.”

Parks sighed audibly. “All right. How much?”

“Ten grand. Realm-of-the-dead-certain-to-die work pays extra.”

“Each?”

“Since you mention it, why not?”

“Okay then,” said Parks with a faint grin, “you'll get your blood money—but only on results.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way.”

Spike beckoned me to follow him, and we climbed back over the fence, the SO-6 agents staring at us, unsure of whether to be impressed or have us certified or what.

“That really put the wind up them!” hissed Spike as we scrambled to the top of the embankment, across bits of broken bumpers and shards of plastic moldings. “Nothing like a bit of that wooo-wooo crossing-over-into-the-spirit-world stuff to scare the crap out of them!”

“You mean you were making all that up?” I asked, not without a certain degree of nervousness in my voice. I had been on two jobs with Spike before. On the first I was nearly fanged by a vampire, on the second almost eaten by zombies.

“I wish,” he replied, “but if we make it look too easy, then they don't cough up the big moola. It'll be a cinch! After all, what do we have to lose?”

“Our lives?”

“Dahhhh! You must loosen up a bit, Thursday. Look upon it as an experience—part of death's rich tapestry. You ready?”

“No.”

“Good. Let's hit those semideads where it hurts!”

 

By the fifth time we had driven the circuit between Junctions 16 and 17 and without so much as a glimpse of anything other than bored motorists and a cow or two, I was beginning to wonder whether Spike really knew what he was doing.

“Spike?”

“Mmm?” he replied, concentrating on the empty field that he thought might contain the gateway to the dead.

“What
exactly
are we looking for?”

“I don't have the foggiest idea, but if the President can make his way in without dying, so can we. Are you sure you won't put Biffo on midhoop attack? He's wasted on defense. You could promote Johnno to striker and use Jambe and Snake to build up defense.”

“If I don't find another five players, it might not matter anyway,” I replied. “I managed to get Alf Widdershaine out of retirement to coach, though. You used to play county croquet, didn't you?”

“No way, Thursday.”

“Oh, go on.”

“No.”

There was a long pause. I stared out the window at the traffic, and Spike concentrated on driving, every now and then looking expectantly into the fields by the side of the road. I could see this was going to be a long day, so it seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject of Cindy. I wasn't keen to kill her, and Spike, I knew, would be less than happy to see her dead.

“So . . . when did you and Cindy tie the knot?”

“About eighteen months ago. Have you ever visited the realm of the dead?”

“Orpheus told me about the Greek version of it over coffee once—but only the highlights. Does she . . . er . . . have a job?”

“She's a librarian,” replied Spike, “part-time. I've been there a couple of times; it's not half as creepy as you'd have thought.”

“The library?”

“The abode of the dead. Orpheus would have paid the ferryman, but, you know, that's just a scam. You can easily do it yourself; those inflatable boats from Wal-Mart work a treat.”

I tried to visualize Spike paddling his way to the underworld on a brightly colored inflatable boat but quickly swept it aside.

“So . . . which library does Cindy work in?”

“The one in Highclose. They have day care, so it's very convenient. I want to have another kid, but Cindy's not sure. How's your husband, by the way—still eradicated?”

“Wavering between ‘to be' and ‘not to be' at the moment.”

“So there's hope, then?”

“There's always hope.”

“My sentiments entirely. Ever had a near-death experience?”

“Yes,” I replied, recalling the time I was shot by a police marksman in an alternative future.

“What was it like?”

“Dark.”

“That sounds like a plain old common or garden-variety death experience,” replied Spike cheerfully. “I get them all the time. No, we need something a bit better than that. To pass over into the dark realm, we need to just come within spitting distance of the Grim Reaper and hover there, tantalizingly just out of his reach.”

“And how are we going to achieve that?”