'All four and a half hours of it?'
   'Yes,' I said, wary of his feelings, 'all four and a half hours of it.'
   He shook his head sadly.
   'I wish I could agree with you but I need more answers, Horatio.'
   'Thursday.'
   'Yes, her too. More answers and a new facet to my character. Less talk, more action. So I have secured the services . . . of a conflict resolution consultant.'
   This didn't sound good at all.
   'Conflict resolution? Are you sure that's wise?'
   'It might help me resolve matters with my uncle — and that twit Laertes.'
   I thought for a moment. An all-action Hamlet might not be such a good idea, but since he had no play to return to it at least gave me a few days' breathing space. I decided not to intervene for the time being.
   'When are you talking to him?'
   He shrugged.
   'Tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Conflict resolution advisers are pretty busy, you know.'
   I breathed a sigh of relief. True to form, Hamlet was still dithering. But he had brightened up having come to a decision of sorts and continued in a more cheery tone:
   'But that's enough about me. How goes it with you?'
   I gave him a brief outline, beginning with Landen's re-eradication and ending with the importance of finding five good players to help Swindon win the Superhoop.
   'Hmm,' he replied as soon as I had finished, 'I've got a plan for you. Want to hear it?'
   'As long as it's not about where Biffo should play.'
   He shook his head, looked around carefully and then lowered his voice.
   'Pretend to be mad and talk a lot. Then — and this is the important bit — do nothing at all until you absolutely have to — and then make sure everyone dies.'
   'Thanks,' I said at length, I'll remember that.'
   'Plink!' said Alan, who had been padding grumpily around the garden.
   'I think that bird is looking for trouble,' observed Hamlet.
   Alan, who clearly didn't like Hamlet's attitude, decided to attack and made a lunge at Hamlet's shoe. It was a bad move. The Prince of Denmark leapt up, drew his sword and before I could stop him made a wild slash in Alan's direction. He was a skilled swordsman and did no more damage than to pluck the feathers off the top of Alan's head. The little dodo, who now had a bald patch, opened his eyes wide and looked around him with a mixture of horror and awe at the small feathers that were floating to the ground.
   'Any more from you, my fine feathered friend,' announced Hamlet, replacing his sword, 'and you'll be in the curry!'
   Pickwick, who had been watching from a safe corner near the compost heap, boldly strode out and stood defiantly between Alan and Hamlet. I'd never seen her acting brave before, but I suppose Alan was her son, even if he was a hooligan. Alan, either terrified or incensed, stood completely motionless, beak open.
 
   'Telephone for you,' my mother called out. I walked into the house and picked up the receiver. It was Aubrey Jambe. He wanted me to speak to Alf Widdershaine to get him out of retirement, and also to know whether I had found any new players yet.
   'I'm working on it,' I said, rummaging through the Yellow Pages under 'sports agents'. 'I'll call you back. Don't lose hope, Aubrey.'
   He hurrumphed and rang off. I called Wilson Lonsdale & Partners, England's top sports agents, and was delighted to hear there were any number of world-class croquet players available; sadly the interest evaporated when I mentioned which team I represented.
   'Swindon?' said one of Lonsdale's associates. 'I've just remembered — we don't have anyone on our books at all.'
   'I thought you said you had?'
   'It must have been a clerical error. Good day.'
   The line went dead. I called several others and received a similar response from all of them. Goliath and Kaine were obviously covering all their bases.
   Following that I called my old coach, Alf Widdershaine, and after a long chat managed to persuade him to go down to the stadium and do what he could. I called Jambe back to tell him the good news about Alf, although I thought it prudent to hide the lack of new players from him for the time being.
 
   I thought about Landen's existence problem for a moment and then found the number of Julie Aseizer, the woman at Eradications Anonymous who had got her husband back. I called her and explained the situation.
   'Oh yes!' she said helpfully. 'My Ralph flickered on and off like a faulty light bulb until his uneradication held!'
   I thanked her and put the receiver down, then checked my finger for a wedding ring. It still wasn't there.
   I glanced into the garden and saw Hamlet walking on the lawn, deep in thought — with Alan following him at a safe distance. As I watched, Hamlet turned to him and glared. The small dodo went all sheepish and laid his head on the ground in supplication. Clearly, Hamlet wasn't just a fictional Prince of Denmark, but also something of an alpha dodo.
   I smiled to myself and wandered into the living room, where I found Friday building a castle out of bricks with Pickwick helping. Of course, 'helping' in this context means 'watching'. I glanced at the clock. Time for work. Just when I could do with some relaxing brick-building therapy. Mum agreed to look after Friday and I gave him a kiss goodbye.
   'Be good.'
   'Arse.'
   'What did you say?'
   'Pikestaff.'
   'If those are rude Old English words, St Zvlkx is in a lot of trouble — and so are you, my little fellow. Mum, sure you're okay?'
   'Of course. We'll take him to the zoo.'
   'Good. No, wait — we?'
   'Bismarck and I.'
   'Mum!?'
   'What? Can't a more or less widowed woman have a bit of male company from time to time?'
   'Well,' I stammered, feeling unnaturally shocked for some reason, 'I suppose there's no reason why not.'
   'Good. Be off with you. After we've gone to the zoo we might drop in at the tearooms. And then the theatre.'
   She had started to go all dreamy so I left, shocked not only that mother might be even considering some sort of a fling with Bismarck, but that Joffy might have been right.

27
Weird Shit on the M4

   'George Formby was born George Hoy Booth in Wigan in 1904. He followed his father into the music hall business, adopted the ukulele as his trademark and by the time the war broke out he was a star of variety, pantomime and film. During the first years of the war, he and his wife Beryl toured extensively for ENSA, entertaining the troops as well as making a series of highly successful movies. When invasion of England was inevitable, many influential dignitaries and celebrities were shipped out to Canada. Moving underground with the English resistance and various stalwart regiments of the Local Defence Volunteers, Formby manned the outlawed "Wireless St George" and broadcast songs, jokes and messages to secret receivers across the country. The Formbys used their numerous contacts in the North to smuggle Allied airmen to neutral Wales and form resistance cells that harried the Nazi invaders. In post-war republican England he was made nonexecutive President for life.'
JOHN WILLIAMS — The Extraordinary Career of George Formby

 
   I avoided the news crews who were waiting for me at the SpecOps building and parked up at the rear. Major Drabb was waiting for me as I walked into the entrance lobby. He saluted smartly but I detected a slight reticence about him this morning. I handed him another scrap of paper.
   'Good morning, Major. Today's assignment is the Museum of the American Novel in Salisbury.'
   'Very . . . good, Agent Next.'
   'Problems, Major?'
   'Well,' he said, biting his lip nervously, 'yesterday you had me searching the library of a famous Belgian and today the Museum of the American Novel. Shouldn't we be searching more . . . well, Danish facilities?'
   I pulled him aside and lowered my voice.
   'That's precisely what they would be expecting us to do. These Danes are clever people. You wouldn't expect them to hide their books somewhere as obvious as the Wessex Danish Library, now, would you?'
   He smiled and tapped his nose.
   'Very astute, Agent Next.'
   Drabb saluted again, clicked his heels and was gone. I smiled to myself and pressed the elevator call button. As long as Drabb didn't report to Flanker I could keep this going all week.
 
   Bowden was not alone. He was talking to the last person I would expect to see in a LiteraTec office: Spike.
   'Yo, Thursday,' he said.
   'Yo, Spike.'
   He wasn't smiling. I feared it might be something to do with Cindy, but I was wrong.
   'Our friends in SO-6 tell us there's some seriously weird shit going down on the M4,' he announced, 'and when someone says "weird shit" they call—'
   '—you.'
   'Bingo. But the weird shit merchant can't do it on his own, so he calls—'
   '—me.'
   'Bingo.'
   There was another officer with them. He wore a dark suit typical of the upper SpecOps divisions, and he looked at his watch in an unsubtle manner.
   'Time is of the essence, Agent Stoker.'
   'What's the job?' I asked.
   'Yes,' returned Spike, whose somewhat laid-back attitude to life-and-death situations took a little getting used to, 'what is the job?'
   The suited agent looked impassively at us both.
   'Classified,' he announced, 'but I am authorised to tell you this:Unless we get |||||||| back in under |||||||| — ||||| hours then ||||||| will seize ultimate executive |||| and you can ||||| goodbye to any semblance of |||||||.'
   'Sounds pretty ****ing serious,' said Spike, turning back to me. 'Are you in?'
   'I'm in.'
 
   We were driven without explanation to the roundabout at Junction 16 of the M4 motorway. SO-6 were National Security, which made for some interesting conflicts of interest. The department that protected Formby also protected Kaine. And for the most part the SO-6 agents looking after Formby worked against Kaine's SO-6 operatives, who were more than keen to see him gone. SpecOps factions always fought, but rarely from within the same department. Kaine had a lot to answer for.
   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 is the last line of defence before rationality starts to crumble.
   We pulled on to the verge, where two large black Bentley limousines were waiting for us. Parked next to them were six standard police cars, the occupants looking bored and waiting for orders. Something pretty big was going down.
   'Who's she?' demanded a tall agent with a humourless demeanour 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 other-worldliness possibility 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. Missing or dying early allowed Kaine to gain power and start the Third World War 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 stretched 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 for 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 roadblock. 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 centre 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 on to 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 tyre. 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 semi-dead. Dead are 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, bogles and what have you.'
   'And the semi-dead?'
   'Spiritually ambiguous. Those that are moving on from one state to another or are 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 to 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 withered tree. It had leafless branches that looked incongruous among 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 semi-dead 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 semi-dead for years. The "spiritually ambiguous" who don't know they are dead, or, in the case of the President, are 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 Chieveley 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 Delamere 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?'
   'I fear not. The spirits of the semi-dead 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-certam-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, have us certified, or what.
   'That really put the wind up them!' hissed Spike as we scrambled up the embankment, across bits of broken bumpers and shards of plastic mouldings. 'Nothing like a bit of that woo-woo 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 scams 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 moolah. 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 semi-deads where it hurts!'
   By the fifth time we had driven the circuit between Junctions 16 and 17 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 defence. You could promote Johnno to striker and use Jambe and Snake to build up defence.'
   '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 of 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 Argos work a treat.'
   I tried to visualise Spike paddling his way to the underworld on a brightly coloured inflatable boat but quickly swept the image aside.
   'So . . . which library does Cindy work in?'
   'The one in Highclose. They have a creche 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 is 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 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, tantalisingly just out of his reach.'
   'And how are we going to achieve that?'
   'Haven't a clue.'
   He turned off the motorway at Junction 17 and took the slip road back on to the opposite carriageway to do another circuit.
   'What did Cindy do before you were married?'
   'She was a librarian then, too. She comes from a long line of dedicated Sicilian librarians — her brother is a librarian for the CIA.'
   'The CIA?'
   'Yes; he spends his time travelling the world — cataloguing their books, I presume.'
   It seemed as though Cindy was wanting to tell him what she really did but couldn't pluck up the courage. The truth about her might easily shock him, so I thought I'd better plant a few seeds of doubt. If he could figure it all out himself, it would be a great deal less painful.
   'Does it pay well, being a librarian?'
   'Certainly does!' exclaimed Spike. 'Sometimes she is called away to do freelance contract work — emergency card-file indexing or something — and they pay her in used notes, too — in suitcases. Don't know how they manage it, but they do.'
   I sighed and gave up.
   We drove around twice more. Parks and the rest of the SO-6 spooks had long since got bored and driven off, and I was beginning to get a little tired of this myself.
   'How long do we have to do this for?' I asked as we drove on to the Junction 16 roundabout for the seventh time, the sky darkening and small spots of rain appearing on the windscreen. Spike turned on the wipers, which squeaked in protest.
   'Why? Am I keeping you from something?'
   'I promised Mum she wouldn't have to look after Friday past five.'
   'What are grannies for? Anyway, you're working.'
   'Well, that's not the point, is it?' I answered. 'If I annoy her she may decide not to look after him again.'
   'She should be grateful. My parents love looking after Betty, although Cindy doesn't have any — they were both shot by police marksmen while being librarians.'
   'Doesn't that strike you as unusual?'
   He shrugged.
   'In my line of work, it's difficult to know what unusual is.'
   'I know the feeling. Are you sure you don't want to play in the Superhoop?'
   'I'd sooner attempt root canal work on a werewolf He pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and weaved around the traffic that was waiting to return to the westbound M4. 'I'm bored with all this. Death, drape your sable coat upon us!'
   Spike's car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped on to the motorway, so heavy that even with the wipers on full speed it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the headlights and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, passing through the spray of a juggernaut before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.
   'Don't you think you'd better slow down?' I yelled, but Spike just grinned maniacally and overtook a car on the inside. We were going at almost a hundred when Spike pointed out of the window and yelled:
   'Look!'
   I gazed out of my window at the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared I suddenly glimpsed a sliver of light as faint as a will-o'-the-wisp. It might have been anything, but to Spike's well-practised eye it was just what we'd been looking for — a chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.
   'Here we go!' yelled Spike, and pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4 greeted us in a flash and I had just the faintest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as we were airborne and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn't happen. A moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of night. The rain had stopped and the inky-black sky had no stars. We had arrived.

28
Dauntsey Services

 
'Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.'
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW —'A Psalm of Life'

 
   We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby's Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.
   'Looks like we're still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?'
   'Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well — and not looking back has something to do with it.'
   'Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: we locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?'
   'Wow!' I muttered. 'You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn't you?'
   'It has the benefit of simplicity.'
   Spike looked around at the people entering the motorway services building. He got out of the car.
   'This gateway isn't just for road accidents,' he muttered, opening the boot and taking out a pump-action shotgun. 'From the numbers I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as 'well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.'
   'So what's changed?'
   Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun.
   'The rise of secularism has a hand in it but mostly it's down to CPR. Death takes a hold — you come here — someone resuscitates you, you leave.'
   'Right. So what's the President doing here?'
   Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster.
   'An accident. He's not meant to be here at all — like us. Are you packing?'
   I nodded.
   'Then let's see what's going on. And act dead — we don't want to attract any attention.'
   We strode slowly across the car park towards the services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.
   We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring an RAC man who tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit, airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big difference. Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the burden of life were pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that although many people were walking in the main entrance, not so many people were walking out.
   We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the cafeteria, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking in low voices, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.
   'Are all these people dead?' I asked.
   'Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.' Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us — the southside services — to the other side, the north-side. I looked out of the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge which stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.
   'No one comes back, do they?'
   'The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns,' replied Spike. 'It's the last journey we ever make.'
   The waitress called out a number.
   'Thirty-two?'
   'Here!' said a couple quite near us.
   'Thank you, the northside is ready for you now.'
   'Northside?' echoed the woman. 'I think there's been some sort of mistake. We ordered fish, chips and peas for two.'
   'You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!'
   The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves, but got up nonetheless, walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the motorway. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living, heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God's name was I doing here?
   I was diverted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and pointed. On the far side of the cafeteria was a frail old man who was sitting by himself at a table. I'd seen President Formby once or twice before but not for about a decade. According to Dad he would die of natural causes in six days, and it wouldn't be unkind to say that he looked about ready. He was painfully thin and his eyes appeared to be sunken into his sockets. His teeth, so much a trademark, more protruding than ever. A lifetime's entertaining can be punishing, a half-lifetime in politics doubly so. He was hanging on to keep Kaine from power, and by the look of it he was losing and knew it.
   I moved to get up but Spike murmured:
   'We might be too late. Look at his table.'
   There was a '33' sign in front of him. I felt Spike tense and lower his shoulders, as though he had seen someone he recognised but didn't want them to see him.
   'Thursday,' he whispered, 'get the President to my car by whatever means you can before the waitress gets back. I have to take care of something. I'll see you outside '
   'What? Hey, Spike!'
   But he was away, moving slowly among the lost souls milling around the newsagent until he was gone from sight. I took a deep breath, got up and crossed to Formby's table.
   'Hullo, young lady!' said the President. 'Where are me bodyguards?'
   'I've no time to explain, Mr President, but you need to come with me.'
   'Oh well,' he said agreeably, 'if you say so — but I've just ordered pie and chips. Could eat a horse and probably will, too!'
   He grinned and laughed weakly.
   'We must go,' I urged. 'I will explain everything, I promise!'
   'But I've already paid—!'
   'Table thirty-three?' said the waitress, who had crept up behind me.
   'That's us,' replied the President cheerfully.
   'There's been a problem with your order. You're going to have to leave for the moment, but we'll keep it hot for you.'
   I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't meant to be dead and the staff knew it.
   'Now can we go?'
   'I'm not leaving until I get a refund,' he said stubbornly.
   'Your life is in danger, Mr President.'
   'Been in danger many times, young lady, but I'm not leaving till I get my ten bob back.'
   'I will pay it,' I replied, 'now let's get out of here.'
   I heaved him to his feet and walked him to the exit. As we pushed open the doors and stumbled out, three disreputable-looking men appeared from the shadows. They were all armed.
   'Well, well!' said the first man, who was dressed in a very tired and battered SpecOps uniform. He had stubble, oily hair and was pale to the point of cadaverous. In one hand he held an aged SpecOps-issue revolver, and the other was planted firmly on the top of his head. 'Looks like we've got some live ones here!'
   'Drop your gun,' said the second.
   'You'll live to regret this,' I told him, but realised the stupidity of the comment as soon as I had said it.
   'Way too late for that!' he replied. 'Your gun, if you please.'
   I complied and he grabbed Formby and took him back inside while the first man picked up my gun and put it in his pocket.
   'Now you,' he said, 'inside. We've got a little trading to do and time is fleeting.'
   I didn't know where Spike was but he had sensed the danger, that much was certain. I supposed he had a plan, and if I delayed, perhaps it would help.
   'What do you want?'
   'Nothing much.' The man who had his hand pressed firmly on his head laughed. 'Just. . . your soul.'
   'Looks like a good one, too,' said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and pointing it in my direction, 'lots of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run — we won't get a lot for that.'
   I didn't like the sound of this, not one little bit.
   'Move,' said the first man, indicating the doors.
   'Where to?'
   'Northside.'
   'Over my dead body.'
   'That's the po—'
   The third man didn't finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelled of mouldy vegetables. The first man whirled round and fired in the direction of the cafeteria but I seized the opportunity and ran back into the car park to take cover behind a parked car. After a few moments I peered cautiously round. Spike was inside, trading shots with the first man, who was pinned behind the presidential Bentley, still with his hand on his head. I cursed myself for giving up my weapon, but as I stared at the scene, the night-time, the motorway services, a sense of déjà vu welled up inside me. No, it was stronger than that — I had been here before, during a leap through time nearly three years ago. I witnessed the jeopardy I was in and left a gun for myself. I looked around. Behind me a man and a woman — Bowden and myself, in point of fact — were jumping into a Speedster — my Speedster. I smiled and dropped to my knees, feeling under the car tyre for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety catch and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover among the milling crowds, who scattered, terrified. I cautiously entered the now seemingly deserted services and rejoined Spike just inside the doorway of the shop. We had a commanding view of the stairs to the connecting bridge; no one was going northside without passing us. I dropped the magazine out of my automatic and reloaded.
   'The tall guy is Chesney, my ex-partner from SO-17,' announced Spike as he reloaded his shotgun. 'The necktie covers the decapitation wound I gave him. He has to hold his head to stop it falling off
   'Ah. I wondered why he was doing that. But losing his head — that makes him dead, right?'
   'Usually. He must be bribing the gateway guardians or something. It's my guess he's running some sort of soul reclamation scam.'
   'Wait, wait,' I said, 'slow down. Your ex-partner Chesney — who is dead — is now running a service pulling souls out of the netherworld?'
   'Looks like it. Death doesn't care about personalities — he's more interested in meeting quotas. After all, one departed soul is very like another.'
   'So—'
   'Right. Chesney swaps the soul of someone deceased for someone healthy and living.'
   'I'd say you're shitting me but I've got a feeling you're not.' 'I wish I was. Nice little earner, I'm sure. It looks like that's where Formby's driver Mallory went. Okay, here's the plan: we'll do a hostage swap for the President and once you're in their custody I'll get Formby to safety and return for you.'
   'I've got a better idea,' I replied, 'how about we swap you for Formby and I go to get help?'
   'I thought you knew all about the underworld from your bosom pal Orpheus?' countered Spike with a trace of annoyance.
   'It was highlights over coffee — and anyway, you've done it before. What was that about an inflatable boat from Argos to paddle yourself to the underworld?'
   'Well,' said Spike slowly, 'that was more of a hypothetical journey, really.'
   'You haven't a clue what you're doing, have you?'
   'No. But for ten grand, I'm willing to take a few risks.'
   We didn't have time to argue further as several shots came our way. There was a frightened scream from a customer as one of the bullets reduced a magazine shelf to confetti. Before I knew it Spike had fired his shotgun into the ceiling, where it destroyed a light fixture in a shower of bright sparks.
   'Who shot at us?' asked Spike. 'Did you see?'
   'I think it's fair to say that it wasn't the light fixture.'
   'I had to shoot at something. Cover me.'
   He jumped up and fired. I joined him, fool that I was. I had thought that being out of my depth was okay because Spike vaguely knew what he was doing. Now that I was certain this was not the case, escape seemed a very good option indeed. After firing several shots ineffectively down the corridor, we stopped and dropped back round the corner.
   'Chesney!' shouted Spike. 'I want to talk to you!'
   'What do you want here?' came a voice. 'This is my patch!'
   'Let's have a head-to-head,' replied Spike, stifling a giggle. 'I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement!'
   There was a pause, then Chesney's voice rang out again:
   'Hold your fire. We're coming out.'
   Chesney stepped out into the open, just next to the children's helicopter ride and a Coriolanus Will-Speak machine. His remaining henchman joined him, holding the President.
   'Hello, Spike,' said Chesney. He was a tall man who looked as though he didn't have a drop of liquid blood in his entire body. 'I haven't forgiven you for killing me.'
   'I kill vampires for a living, Dave. You became one — I had to.'
   'Had to?'
   'Sure. You were about to sink your teeth into an eighteen-year-old virgin's neck and turn her into a lifeless husk willing to do your every bidding.'
   'Everyone should have a hobby.'
   'Train sets I tolerate,' Spike replied, 'spreading the seed of vampirism I do not.'
   He nodded towards Chesney's neck.
   'Nasty scratch you have there.'
   'Very funny. What's the deal?'
   'Simple. I want President Formby back.'
   'And in return?'
   Spike turned the shotgun towards me.
   'I give you Thursday. She's got bags of life left in her. Give me your gun, sweetheart.'
   'What?' I yelled in a well-feigned cry of indignation.
   'Do as I say. The President must be protected at all costs — you told me so yourself
   I handed the gun over.
   'Good. Now move forward.'
   We walked slowly up the concourse, the cowering visitors watching us with a sort of morbid fascination. We stopped ten yards from Chesney just near the arcade game area.
   'Send the President to me.'
   Chesney nodded to his henchman, who let him go. Formby, a little confused by now, tottered up to us.
   'Now send me Thursday.'
   'Whoa!' said Spike. 'Still using that old SpecOps-issue revolver? Here, have her automatic — she won't need it any more.'
   And he tossed my gun towards his ex-partner. Chesney, in an unthinking moment, went to catch the gun — but with the hand he used to keep his head on. Unrestrained, his head wobbled dangerously. He tried to grab it but this made matters worse and his head tumbled off to the front, past his flailing hands, and hit the floor with the sound of a large cabbage. This unseemly situation had distracted Chesney's number two, who was disarmed by a blast from Spike's shotgun. I didn't see why Spike should have all the fun so I ran forward and caught Chesney's head on the bounce and expertly booted it through the door of the arcade, where it scored a direct hit on the SlamDunk! basketball game, earning three hundred points. Spike had thumped the now confused and headless Chesney in the stomach and retrieved both my automatics. I grabbed the President and we legged it for the car park while Chesney's head screamed obscenities from where he was stuck upside down in the SlamDunk! basket.
   Spike smiled as we reached his car. 'Well, Chesney really lost his—'
   'No,' I said, 'don't say it. It's too corny.'
   'Is this some sort of theme park?' asked Formby as we bundled him into Spike's car.
   'Of a sort, Mr President,' I replied as we reversed out of the car park with a squeal of tyres and tore towards the exit ramp. No one tried to stop us and a couple of seconds later we were blinking in the daylight — and the rain — of the M4 westbound. The time, I noticed, was 5.03 — lots of time to get the President to a phone and oppose Kaine's vote in Parliament. I put out my hand to Spike, who shook it happily and returned my gun, which was still covered in the desiccated dust of Chesney's hoodlum friend.
   'Did you see the look on his face when his head started to come off?' Spike asked, chuckling. 'Man, I live for moments like that!'

29
The Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire

   DANISH KING IN TIDAL COMMAND FIASCO