A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (57 page)

“It wasn't mine either,” confided my mother, smiling kindly. “It's no accident that I'm a dreadful cook. Before I met your father and had you and your brothers I worked at SO-3. Still do, on occasions.”

“You didn't meet him on a day trip to Portsmouth then?” I asked slowly, wondering whether I really wanted to hear what I was hearing.

“Not at all. It was in another place
entirely.
”

“SO-3?”

“You'd never believe me if I told you, so I'm not going to. But the point is, I was very happy to have children when the time came. Despite all your ceaseless bickering when you were kids and teenage grumpiness, it's been a wonderful adventure. Losing Anton was a storm cloud for a bit, but on balance it's been good—better than SpecOps any day.” She paused for a moment. “But I was the same as you, worrying about not being ready, about being a bad mother. How did I do?”

She stared at me and smiled kindly.

“You did good, Mum.”

I hugged her tightly.

“I'll do what I can to help, sweetness, but strictly no nappies or potty training, and Tuesday and Thursday evenings are
right out.
”

“SO-3?”

“No,” she replied, “bridge and skittles.”

She handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed at my eyes.

“You'll be fine, sweetness.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

She bustled off, muttering something about having a million mouths to feed. I watched her leave, smiling to myself. I thought I knew my mother but I didn't. Children rarely know their parents at all.

 

“Thursday!” said Joffy as I reappeared from the vestry. “What use are you if you don't mingle? Will you take that wealthy Flex fellow to meet Zorf, the neanderthal artist? I'd be ever so grateful. Oh my goodness!” he muttered, staring at the church door. “It's Aubrey Jambe!”

And so it was. Mr. Jambe, Swindon's croquet captain,
despite
his recent indiscretion with the chimp, was still attending functions as though nothing had happened.

“I wonder if he's brought the chimp?” I said, but Joffy flashed me an angry look and rushed off to press flesh. I found Cordelia and Mr. Flex discussing the merits of a minimalist painting by Welsh artist Tegwyn Wedimedr that was
so
minimalist it wasn't there at all. They were staring at a blank wall with a picture hook on it.

“What does it say to you, Harry?”

“It says . . .
nothing,
Cords—but in a very different way. How much is it?”

Cordelia bent forward to look at the price tag.

“It's called
Beyond Satire
and it's twelve hundred pounds; quite a snip. Hello, Thursday! Changed your mind about the book-flick?”

“Nope. Have you met Zorf, the neanderthal artist?”

I guided them over to where Zorf was exhibiting. Some of his friends were with him, one of whom I recognized—it was Stiggins of SpecOps-13.

“Good evening, Stig.”

He nodded his head politely and introduced me to a younger neanderthal who was dressed in a boiler suit that was almost completely covered in different-colored blobs of paint.

“Good evening, Thursday,” returned Stig. “This is our friend Zorf.” The younger neanderthal shook my hand as I explained who Harry and Cordelia were.

“Well, this is a
very
interesting painting, Mr. Zorf,” said Harry, staring at a mass of green, yellow and orange paint on a six-foot-square canvas. “What does it represent?”

“Is not obvious?” replied the neanderthal.

“Of course!” said Harry, turning his head this way and that. “It's daffodils, isn't it?”

“No.”

“A sunset?”

“No.”

“Field of barley?”

“No.”

“I give up.”

“Closest yet, Mr. Flex. If you have to ask, then you
never
understand. To neanderthal, sunset is only finish-day. Van Gogh's
Green Rye
is merely poor depiction of a field. The only sapien painters we truly understand are Pollock and Kandinsky; they speak our language. Our paintings are not for you.”

I looked at the small gathering of neanderthals who were
staring at Zorf's abstract paintings with wonderment. But Harry, a bullshitter to the end, had not yet given up hope.

“Can I have another guess?” he asked Zorf, who nodded.

He stared at the canvas and screwed up his eyes.

“It's a—”

“Hope,” said a voice close by. “It's hope. Hope for the future of neanderthal. It is the fervent wish—for
children.
”

Zorf and all the other neanderthals turned to stare at the speaker. It was Granny Next.

“
Exactly
what I was about to say,” said Flex, fooling no one but himself.

“The esteemed lady shows understanding beyond her species,” said Zorf, making a small grunting noise that I took to be laughter. “Would lady sapien like to add to our painting?”

This was indeed an honor. Granny Next stepped forward, took the proffered brush from Zorf, mixed a subtle shade of turquoise and made a few fine brushstrokes to the left of center. There was a gasp from the neanderthals, and the women in the group hastily placed veils over their faces while the men— including Zorf—raised their heads and stared at the ceiling, humming quietly. Gran did likewise. Flex, Cordelia and I looked at one another, confused and ignorant of neanderthal customs. After a while the staring and humming stopped, the women raised their veils and they all ambled slowly over to Gran and smelled her clothes and touched her face gently with their large hands. Within a few minutes it was all over; the neanderthals returned to their seats and were staring at Zorf's paintings again.

“Hello, young Thursday!” said Gran, turning to me. “Let's find somewhere quiet to have a chat!”

We walked off towards the church organ and sat on a pair of hard plastic chairs.

“What did you paint on his picture?” I asked her, and Gran smiled her sweetest smile.

“Something a bit controversial,” she confided, “yet
supportive.
I have worked with neanderthals in the past and know many of their ways and customs. How's hubby?”

“Still eradicated,” I said glumly.

“Never mind,” said Gran seriously, touching my chin so I would look into her eyes. “
Always
there is hope. You'll find, as I did, that it's really
very
funny the way things turn out.”

“I know. Thanks, Gran.”

“Your mother will be a tower of strength—never be in any doubt of that.”

“She's here if you want to see her.”

“No, no,” said Gran hurriedly, “I expect she's a little busy. While we're here,” she went on, changing the subject without drawing breath, “can you think of any books that might be included in the ‘ten most boring classics'? I'm about ready to go.”

“Gran!”

“Indulge me, young Thursday!”

I sighed.

“How about
Paradise Lost
?”

Gran let out a loud groan.

“Awful! I could hardly walk for a week afterwards—it's enough to put anyone off religion for good!”

“
Ivanhoe
?”

“Pretty dull but redeemable in places. It isn't in the top ten, I think.”

“
Moby-Dick
?”

“Excitement and action interspersed with mind-numbing dullness. Read it twice.”

“
A la recherche du temps perdu
?”

“English or French, its sheer tediousness is undiminished.”

“
Pamela
?”

“Ah! Now you're talking. Struggled through
that
when a teenager. It might have had resonance in 1741, but today the
only resonance it possesses is the snores that emanate from those deluded enough to attempt it.”

“How about
A Pilgrim's Progress
?”

But Gran's attention had wandered.

“You have visitors, my dear. Look over there past the stuffed squid inside the piano and just next to the Fiat 500 carved from frozen toothpaste.”

There were two people in ill-fitting dark suits who looked very out of place. They were clearly SpecOps but
not
Dedmen and Walken. It looked as though SO-5 had suffered another mishap. I asked Gran if she would be all right on her own and walked across to meet them. I found them looking dubiously at a flattened tuba on the ground entitled
The Indivisible Thriceness of Death.

“What do you think?” I asked them.

“I don't know,” began the first agent nervously. “I'm . . . I'm . . . not really up on art.”

“Even if you were, it wouldn't help here,” I replied dryly. “SpecOps-5?”

“Yes, how did—”

He checked himself quickly and rummaged for a pair of dark glasses.

“I mean,
no.
Never heard of SpecOps, much less SpecOps-5. Don't exist. Oh
blast.
I'm not very good at this, I'm afraid.”

“We're looking for someone named Thursday Next,” said his partner in a very obvious whisper from the side of her mouth, adding, in case I didn't get the message, “
Official
business.”

I sighed. Obviously, SO-5 were beginning to run out of volunteers. I wasn't surprised.

“What happened to Dedmen and Walken?” I asked them.

“They were—” began the first agent but the second nudged him in the ribs and announced instead:

“Never heard of them.”

“
I'm
Thursday Next,” I told them, “and I think you're in more danger than you realize. Where did they get you from? SO-14?”

They took their sunglasses off and looked at me nervously.

“I'm from SO-22,” said the first. “The name's Lamme. This is Slorter; she's from—”

“—SO-28,” said the woman. “Thank you, Blake, I can talk, you know—and let me handle this. You can't open your mouth without putting your foot in it.”

Lamme sank into a sulky silence.

“SO-28? You're an income tax assessor?”

“So what if I am?” retorted Slorter defiantly. “We all have to risk things for advancement.”

“I know that only too well,” I replied, steering them towards a quiet spot next to a model of a matchstick made entirely out of bits of the houses of Parliament. “Just so long as you know what you're getting into. What happened to Walken and Dedmen?”

“They were reassigned,” explained Lamme.

“You mean dead?”

“No,” exclaimed Lamme with some surprise. “I mean reas— Oh my goodness! Is
that
what it means?”

I sighed. These two weren't going to last the day.

“Your predecessors are both dead, guys—and the ones before that. Four agents gone in less than a week. What happened to Walken's case notes? Accidentally destroyed?”

“Don't be ridiculous!” laughed Lamme. “When recovered they were
totally
intact—they were then put through the shedder by a new member of staff who mistook it for a photocopier.”

“Do you have
anything at all
to go on?”

“As soon as they realized it was a shredder, I—sorry,
they
stopped and we were left with these.”

He handed two half documents over. One was a picture of a young woman striding out of a shop laden down with carrier bags and parcels. Her face, tantalizingly enough, was the part that had been destroyed by the shredder. I turned the picture over. On the back was a penciled note: “A.H. leaves Dorothy Perkins having shopped with a stolen credit card.”

“The ‘A.H.' means Acheron Hades,” explained Lamme in a confident tone. “We were allowed to read part of his file. He can lie in thought, deed and action.”

“I know. I wrote it. But this
isn't
Hades. Acheron doesn't resolve on film.”

“Then who is it that we're after?” asked Slorter.

“I have no idea. What was on the other document?”

This was simply a handwritten page of notes, compiled by Walken about whoever it was they were watching. I read:

“... 9:34: Contact with suspect at Camp Hopson sales. 11:03: Elevenses of carrot juice and flapjack—leaves without paying. 11:48: Dorothy Perkins. 12:57: Lunch. 14:45: Continues shopping. 17:20: Argues with manager of Tammy Girl about returned leg warmers. 17:45: Lost contact. 21:03: Reestablished contact at the HotBox nightclub. 23:02: A.H. leaves the HotBox with male companion. 23:16: Contact lost. . . .”

I put down the sheet.

“It's not exactly how I'd describe the work of a master criminal, now is it?”