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

“And you like the ending?”

I thought for a moment. The rather flawed climax of the book was a cause of considerable bitterness within Brontë circles. It was generally agreed that if Jane had returned to Thornfield Hall and married Rochester, the book might have been a lot better than it was.

“No one likes the ending, Tamworth. But there's more than enough in it regardless of that.”

“Then a reread will be especially instructive, won't it?”

There was a knock at the door. Tamworth answered it and a man who was all shoulders and no neck entered.

“Just in time!” said Tamworth, looking at his watch.
“Thursday Next, this is Buckett. He's temporary until I get a replacement.”

He smiled and was gone.

Buckett and I shook hands. He smiled wanly as though this sort of job was not something he relished. He told me that he was pleased to meet me, then went to speak to Snood about the results of a horse race.

I tapped my fingertips on the copy of
Jane Eyre
that Tamworth had given me and placed it in my breast pocket. I rounded up the coffee cups and took them next door to the cracked enamel sink. Buckett appeared at the doorway.

“Tamworth said you were a Litera Tec.”

“Tamworth was correct.”

“I wanted to be a Litera Tec.”

“You did?” I replied, seeing if there was anything in the fridge that wasn't a year past its sell-by date.

“Yeah. But they said you had to read a book or two.”

“It helps.”

There was a knock at the door and Buckett instinctively reached for his handgun. He was more on edge than I had thought.

“Easy, Buckett. I'll get it.”

He joined me at the door and released the safety from his pistol. I looked at him and he nodded back in reply.

“Who's there?” I said without opening the door.

“Hello!” replied a voice. “My name's Edmund Capillary. Have you ever stopped to wonder whether it was
really
William Shakespeare who penned all those wonderful plays?”

We both breathed a sigh of relief and Buckett put the safety back on his automatic, muttering under his breath:

“Bloody Baconians!”

“Steady,” I replied, “it's not illegal.”

“More's the pity.”

“Shh.”

I opened the door on the security chain and found a small man in a lumpy corduroy suit. He was holding a dog-eared ID for me to see and politely raised his hat with a nervous smile. The Baconians were quite mad but for the most part harmless. Their purpose in life was to prove that Francis Bacon and not Will Shakespeare had penned the greatest plays in the English language. Bacon, they believed, had not been given the recognition that he rightfully deserved and they campaigned tirelessly to redress this supposed injustice.

“Hello!” said the Baconian brightly. “Can I take a moment of your time?”

I answered slowly:

“If you expect me to believe that a lawyer wrote
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
I must be dafter than I look.”

The Baconian was not to be put off. He obviously liked fighting a poor argument; in real life he was most likely a personal accident barrister.

“Not as daft as supposing that a Warwickshire schoolboy with almost no education could write works that were not for an age but for all time.”

“There is no evidence that he was without formal education,” I returned evenly, suddenly enjoying myself. Buckett wanted me to get rid of him but I ignored his gesticulations.

“Agreed,” continued the Baconian, “but I would argue that the Shakespeare in Stratford was
not
the same man as the Shakespeare in London.”

It was an interesting approach. I paused and Edmund Capillary took the opportunity to pounce. He launched into his well-rehearsed patter almost automatically:

“The Shakespeare in Stratford was a wealthy grain trader and buying houses when the Shakespeare in London was being pursued by tax collectors for petty sums. The collectors traced
him to Sussex on one occasion in 1600; yet why not take action against him in Stratford?”

“Search me.”

He was on a roll now.

“No one is recorded in Stratford as having any idea of his literary success. He was never known to have bought a book, written a letter or indeed done anything apart from being a purveyor of bagged commodities, grain and malt and so forth.”

The small man looked triumphant.

“So where does Bacon fit into all this?” I asked him.

“Francis Bacon was an Elizabethan writer who had been forced into becoming a lawyer and politician by his family. Since being associated with something like the theater would have been frowned upon, Bacon had to enlist the help of a poor actor named Shakespeare to act as his front man—history has mistakenly linked the two Shakespeares to give added validity to a story that otherwise has little substance.”

“And the proof?”

“Hall and Marston—both Elizabethan satirists—were firmly of the belief that Bacon was the true author of
Venus and Adonis
and
The Rape of Lucrece.
I have a pamphlet here which goes into the matter further. More details are available at our monthly gatherings; we used to meet at the town hall but the radical wing of the New Marlovians fire-bombed us last week. I don't know where we will meet next. But if I can take your name and number, we can be in touch.”

His face was earnest and smug; he thought he had me. I decided to play my trump card.

“What about the will?”

“The will?” he echoed, slightly nervously. He was obviously hoping I wasn't going to mention it.

“Yes,” I continued. “If Shakespeare were
truly
two people, then why would the Shakespeare in Stratford mention the
London Shakespeare's theater colleagues Condell, Heming and Burbage in his will?”

The Baconian's face fell.

“I was hoping you wouldn't ask.” He sighed. “I'm wasting my time, aren't I?”

“I'm afraid you are.”

He muttered something under his breath and moved on. As I threw the bolt I could hear the Baconian knocking at the next door to ours. Perhaps he'd have better luck down the corridor.

“What is a Litera Tec doing here anyway, Next?” asked Buckett as we returned to the kitchen.

“I'm here,” I answered slowly, “because I know what
he
looks like; I'm not permanent in the least. As soon as I've fingered his man, Tamworth will transfer me back again.”

I poured some yogurty milk down the sink and rinsed out the container.

“Might be a blessing.”

“I don't see it that way. What about you? How did you get in with Tamworth?”

“I'm antiterrorist usually. SO-9. But Tamworth has trouble with recruitment. He took a cavalry saber for me. I owe him.”

He dropped his eyes and fiddled with his tie for a moment. I peered cautiously into a cupboard for a dishcloth, discovered something nasty and then closed it quickly.

Buckett took out his wallet and showed me a picture of a dribbling infant that looked like every other dribbling infant I had ever seen.

“I'm married now so Tamworth knows I can't stay; one's needs change, you know.”

“Good-looking kid.”

“Thank you.” He put the picture away. “You married?”

“Not for want of trying,” I replied as I filled the kettle. Buckett nodded and brought out a copy of
Fast Horse.

“Do you ever flutter on the gee-gees? I've had an unusual tip on Malabar.”

“I don't. Sorry.”

Buckett nodded. His conversation had pretty much dried up.

I brought in some coffee a few minutes later. Snood and Buckett were discussing the outcome of the Cheltenham Gold Stakes Handicap.

“So you know what he looks like, Miss Next?” asked the ancient Snood without looking up from the binoculars.

“He was a lecturer of mine when I was at college. He's tricky to describe, though.”

“Average build?”

“When I last saw him.”

“Tall?”

“At least six-six.”

“Black hair worn swept back and graying at the temples?”

Buckett and I looked at one another.

“Yes?—”

“I think he's over there, Thursday.”

I jerked the headphone jack out.

“—Acheron!!” came Styx's voice over the loudspeaker. “Dear brother,
what
a pleasant surprise!”

I looked through the binoculars and could see Acheron in the flat with Styx. He was dressed in a large gray duster jacket and was exactly how I remembered him from all those years ago. It didn't seem as though he had aged even one day. I shivered involuntarily.

“Shit,” I muttered. Snood had already dialed the pager number to alert Tamworth.

“Mosquitoes have stung the blue goat,” he muttered down the phone. “Thank you. Can you repeat that back and send it twice?”

My heart beat faster. Acheron might not stay long and I was in a position for advancement beyond the LiteraTecs for good. Capturing Hades would be something no one could ever ignore.

“I'm going over there,” I said almost casually.

“What?!”

“You heard. Stay here and call SO-14 for armed backup, silent approach. Tell them we have gone in and to surround the building. Suspect will be armed and highly dangerous. Got it?”

Snood smiled in the manner that I had so liked in his son and reached for the telephone. I turned to Buckett.

“You with me?”

Buckett had turned a little pale.

“I'm . . . ah . . . with you,” he replied slightly shakily.

I flew out of the door, down the stairs and into the lobby.

“Next!—”

It was Buckett. He had stopped and was visibly shaking.

“What is it?”

“I . . . I . . . can't do this,” he announced, loosening his tie and rubbing the back of his neck. “I have the kid!—You don't know what
he
can do. I'm a betting man, Next. I
love
long odds. But we try and take him and we're both dead. I beg you, wait for SO-14!”

“He could be long gone by then. All we have to do is
detain
him.”

Buckett bit his lip, but the man was terrified. He shook his head and beat a hasty retreat without another word. It was unnerving to say the least. I thought of shouting after him but remembered the picture of the dribbling kid. I pulled out my automatic, pushed open the door to the street and walked slowly across the road to the building opposite. As I did so Tamworth drew up in his car. He didn't look very happy.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Pursuing the suspect.”

“No you're not. Where's Buckett?”

“On his way home.”

“I don't blame him. SO-14 on their way?”

I nodded. He paused, looked up at the dark building and then at me.

“
Shit.
Okay, stay behind and stay sharp. Shoot first, then question. Below the eight—”

“—above the law. I remember.”

“Good.”

Tamworth pulled out his gun and we stepped cautiously into the lobby of the converted warehouse. Styx's flat was on the seventh floor. Surprise, hopefully, would be on our side.

. . . Perhaps it was as well that she had been unconscious for four weeks. She had missed the aftermath, the SO-1 reports, the recriminations, Snood and Tamworth's funerals. She missed everything . . . except the blame. It was waiting for her when she awoke . . .

MILLON DE FLOSS
—
Thursday Next—A Biography

I
TRIED
to focus on the striplight above me. I knew that
something
had happened but the night when Tamworth and I tackled Acheron Hades had, for the moment at least, been erased from my mind. I frowned, but only fractured images paraded themselves in my consciousness. I remembered shooting a little old lady three times and running down a fire escape. I had a dim recollection of blasting away at my own car and being shot in the arm. I looked at my arm and it was, indeed, tightly bound with a white bandage. Then I remembered being shot again—in the chest. I breathed in and out a couple of times and was relieved that no crackly rasp reached my ears. There was a nurse in the room who said a few words I couldn't decipher and smiled. I thought it odd and then lapsed once again into grateful slumber.

The next time I awoke it was evening and the room seemed colder. I was alone in a single hospital ward with seven empty
beds. Just outside the door I could see an armed police officer on guard duty, while inside a vast quantity of flowers and cards vied for space. As I lay in bed the memories of the evening returned and tumbled out of my subconscious. I resisted them as long as I could but it was like holding back a flood. Everything that had happened that night came back in an instant. And as I remembered, I wept.

Within a week I was strong enough to get out of bed. Paige and Boswell had both dropped by, and even my mother had made the trip up from Swindon to see me. She told me she had painted the bedroom mauve, much to Dad's disappointment— and it was my fault for suggesting it. I didn't think I'd bother trying to explain. I was glad of any sympathy, of course, but my mind was elsewhere: there had been a monumental fiasco and someone was going to be responsible; and as the sole survivor of that disastrous evening, I was the strongest and only candidate. A small office was procured in the hospital and into it came Tamworth's old divisional commander, a man whom I had never met named Flanker, who seemed utterly devoid of humor and warmth. He brought with him a twin-cassette tape deck and several SO-1 senior operatives, who declined to give their names. I gave my testimony slowly and frankly, without emotion and as accurately as possible. Acheron's strange powers had been hinted at before, but even so Flanker was having trouble believing it.

“I've read Tamworth's file on Hades and it makes pretty weird reading, Miss Next,” he said. “Tamworth was a bit of a loose cannon. SO-5 was his and his alone; Hades was more of an obsession than a job. From our initial inquiries it seems that he has been flaunting basic SpecOps guidelines. Contrary to popular belief, we
are
accountable to Parliament, albeit on a very discreet basis.”

He paused for a moment and consulted his notes. He
looked at me and switched on the tape recorder. He identified the tape with the date, his name and mine, but only referred to the other operatives by numbers. That done, he drew up a chair and sat down.

“So what happened?”

I paused for a moment and then began, giving the story of my meeting with Tamworth right up until Buckett's hasty departure.

“I'm glad that someone seemed to have some sense,” murmured one of the SO-1 agents. I ignored him.

“Tamworth and I entered the lobby of Styx's property,” I told them. “We took the stairs and on the sixth floor we heard the shot. We stopped and listened but there was complete silence. Tamworth thought we had been rumbled.”

“You
had
been rumbled,” announced Flanker. “From the transcript of the tape we know that Snood spoke Hades' name out loud. Hades picked it up and reacted badly; he accused Styx of betraying him, retrieved the package and then killed his brother. Your surprise attack was no surprise. He
knew
you were both there.”

I took a sip of water. If we had known, would we have retreated? I doubted it.

“Who was in front?”

“Tamworth. We edged slowly around the stairwell and looked onto the seventh-floor landing. It was empty apart from a little old lady who was facing the lift doors and muttering angrily to herself. Tamworth and I edged closer to Styx's open door and peered in. Styx was lying on the floor and we quickly searched the small apartment.”

“We saw you on the surveillance video, Next,” said one of the nameless operatives. “Your search was conducted well.”

“Did you see Hades on the video?”

The same man coughed. They had been having trouble
coming to terms with Tamworth's report, but the video was unequivocal. Hades' likeness had not shown up on it at all—just his voice.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we did not.”

“Tamworth cursed and walked back to the door,” I continued. “It was then that I heard another shot.”

I stopped for a moment, remembering the event carefully, yet not fully understanding what I had seen and felt. I remembered that my heart rate had dropped; everything had suddenly become crystal clear. I had felt no panic, just an overwhelming desire to see the job completed. I had seen Tamworth die but had felt no emotion; that was to come later.

“Miss Next?” asked Flanker, interrupting my thoughts.

“What? Sorry. Tamworth was hit. I walked over but a quick glance confirmed that the wound was incompatible with survival. I had to assume Hades was on the landing, so I took a deep breath and glanced out.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw the little old lady, standing by the lift. I had heard no one run off downstairs, so assumed Hades was on the roof. I glanced out again. The old lady gave up waiting and walked past me on her way to the stairs, splashing through a puddle of water on the way. She
tut-tutted
as she passed Tamworth's body. I switched my attention back to the landing and to the stairwell that led to the roof. As I walked slowly toward the roof access, a doubt crept into my mind. I turned back to look at the little old lady, who had started off down the stairs and was grumbling about the infrequency of trams. Her footprints from the water caught my eye. Despite her small feet, the wet footprints were made by a man's-size shoe. I required no more proof. It was Rule Number Two: Acheron could lie in thought, deed, action and
appearance
. For the first time ever, I fired a gun in anger.”

There was silence, so I continued.

“I saw at least three of the four shots hit the lumbering figure on the stairs. The old lady—or, at the very least, her image—tumbled out of sight and I walked cautiously up to the head of the stairwell. Her belongings were strewn all the way down the concrete steps with her shopping trolley on the landing below. Her groceries had spilled out and several cans of cat food were rolling slowly down the steps.”

“So you hit her?”

“Definitely.”

Flanker dug a small evidence bag out of his pocket and showed it to me. It contained three of my slugs, flattened as though they had been fired into the side of a tank.

When Flanker spoke again his voice was edged with disbelief.

“You say that Acheron disguised himself as an old lady?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, looking straight ahead.

“How did he do that?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“How could a man over six foot six dress in a small woman's clothes?”

“I don't think he did it
physically;
I think he just projected what he
wanted
me to see.”

“That sounds crazy.”

“There's a lot we don't know about Hades.”

“
That
I can agree with. The old lady's name was Mrs. Grimswold; we found her wedged up the chimney in Styx's apartment. It took three men to pull her out.”

Flanker thought for a moment and let one of the other men ask a question.

“I'm interested to know why you were both armed with expanding ammunition,” said one of the other officers, not looking at me but at the wall. He was short and dark and had an
annoying twitch in his left eye. “Fluted hollow points and high-power loads. What were you planning to shoot? Buffalo?”

I took a deep breath.

“Hades was shot six times without any ill effects in '77, sir. Tamworth gave us expanded ammunition to use against him. He said he had SO-1 approval.”

“Well, he didn't. If the papers get hold of this there will be hell to pay. SpecOps doesn't have a good relationship with the press, Miss Next.
The Mole
keeps on wanting access for one of its journalists. In this climate of accountability the politicians are leaning on us more and more. Expanding ammunition!— Shit, not even the Special Cavalry use those on Russians.”

“That's what I said,” I countered, “but having seen the state of these”—I shook the bag of flattened slugs—“I can see that Tamworth showed considerable restraint. We should have been carrying armor-piercing.”

“Don't even think about it.”

We had a break then. Flanker and the others vanished into the next room to argue while a nurse changed the dressing on my arm. I had been lucky; there had been no infection. I was thinking about Snood when they returned to resume the interview.

“As I walked carefully down the stairwell it was apparent that Acheron was now unarmed,” I continued. “A nine-millimeter Beretta lay on the concrete steps next to a tin of custard powder. Of Acheron and the little old lady, there was no sign. On the landing I found a door to an apartment that had been pushed open with great force, shearing both hinge pins and the Chubb door bolt. I quickly questioned the occupants of the apartment but they were both insensible with laughter; it seemed Acheron had told them some sort of a joke about three anteaters in a pub, and I got no sense out of either of them.”

One of the operatives was slowly shaking her head.

“What is it now?”
I asked indignantly.

“Neither of the two people you describe remember you or Hades coming through their apartment. All they recall is the door bursting open for no apparent reason. How do you account for this?”

I thought for a moment.

“Obviously, I can't. Perhaps he has control over the weak-minded. We still only have a small idea of this man's powers.”

“Hmm,” replied the operative thoughtfully. “To tell the truth, the couple
did
try to tell us the joke about the anteaters. We wondered about that.”

“It wasn't funny, was it?”

“Not at all. But they seemed to think it was.”

I was beginning to feel angry and didn't like the way the interview was going. I collected my thoughts and continued, arguing to myself that the sooner this was over, the better.

“I looked slowly around the apartment and found an open window in the bedroom. It led out onto the fire escape, and as I peered out I could see Acheron's form running down the rusty steps four floors below. I knew I couldn't catch him, and it was then that I saw Snood. He stumbled out from behind a parked car and pointed his revolver at Hades as he dropped to the ground. At the time, I didn't understand what he was doing there.”

“But you know now?”

My heart sank.

“He was there for
me.
”

I felt tears well up and then fought them down. I was damned if I was going to start crying like a baby in front of this bunch, so I expertly turned the sniff into a cough.

“He was there because he knew what he had done,” said
Flanker. “He knew that by speaking Hades' name out loud he had compromised you and Tamworth. We believe he was trying to make amends. At eighty-nine years of age, he was attempting to take on a man of superior strength, resolve and intellect. He was brave. He was stupid. Did you hear anything they said?”

“Not at first. I proceeded down the fire escape and heard Snood yell out ‘Armed Police!' and ‘On the ground!' By the time I reached the second floor, Hades had convinced Snood to give up his weapon and had shot him. I fired twice from where I was; Hades stumbled slightly but he soon recovered and sprinted for the nearest car.
My
car.”

“What happened then?”

“I clambered down the ladder and dropped to the ground, landing badly on some trash and twisting my ankle. I looked up and saw Acheron punch in the window of my car and open the door. It didn't take him much more than a couple of seconds to tear off the steering lock and start the engine. The street was, I knew, a cul-de-sac. If Acheron wanted to escape it would have to be through me. I hobbled out into the middle of the road and waited. I started firing as soon as he pulled away from the curb. All my shots hit their mark. Two in the windscreen and one in the radiator grille. The car kept accelerating and I kept firing. A wing mirror and the other headlamp shattered. The car would hit me if it carried on as it was, but I didn't really care anymore. The operation was a mess. Acheron had killed Tamworth and Snood. He'd kill countless others if I didn't give it my all. With my last shot I hit his offside front tire and Acheron finally lost control. The car hit a parked Studebaker and turned over, bounced along on its roof and finally teetered to a stop barely three feet from where I stood. It rocked unsteadily for a moment and then was still, the water from the radiator mixing with the petrol that leaked onto the road.”