My father, who was clearly in an ebullient mood, grinned. 'Oh yes, and over seven hundred of us work here. Since we could not all be here at one time, we simply stretch the usage out across the timestream like a long piece of elastic.'
He stretched his arms wide as if to demonstrate.
'We call it a timeshare.'
He rubbed his chin and looked around.
'What's the time out there?'
'It's 14 July 1988.'
'That's a stroke of good fortune,' he said, lowering his voice still further. 'It's a good job you've turned up. They've blamed me for the 1864 war between Germany and Denmark.'
'Was it your fault?'
'No — it was that clot Bismarck. But it doesn't matter. They've transferred me to another division inside the Historical Preservation Corps for a second chance. My first assignment occurs in July 1988, so local knowledge right now is a godsend. Have you heard of anyone named Yorrick Kaine?'
'He's Chancellor of England.'
'That figures. Did St Zvlkx return tomorrow?'
'He might.'
'Okay. Who won the Superhoop?'
'That's Saturday week,' I explained. 'It hasn't happened yet.'
'Not strictly true, Sweetpea. Everything that we do actually happened a long, long time ago — even this conversation. The future is already there. The pioneers that ploughed the first furrows of history into virgin timeline died aeons ago — all we do now is try and keep it pretty much the way it should be. Have you heard of someone named Winston Churchill, by the way?'
I thought for a moment.
'He was an English statesman who seriously blotted his copybook in the Great War, then was run over by a cab and killed in 1932.'
'So, no one of any consequence?'
'Not really. Why?'
'Ah, no reason. Just a little pet theory of mine. Anyway, everything has already happened — if it hadn't, there'd be no need for people like me. But things go wrong. In the normal course of events, time flies back and forth from the end of then until the beginning of now like a shuttle on a loom, weaving the threads of history together. If it encounters an obstacle then it might just flex slightly and no change will be noticed. But if that obstacle is big enough — and Kaine is plenty big enough, believe me — then history will veer off at a tangent. And that's when we have to sort it out. I've been transferred to the Armageddon Avoidance Division, and we've got an apocalyptic disaster of life-extinguishing capability, Level III, heading your way.'
There was a moment's silence.
'Does your mother know you wear your hair this short?'
'Is it meant to happen?'
'Your hair?'
'No, the Armageddon.'
'Not at all. This one has an Ultimate Likelihood Index rating of only twenty-two per cent: "not very likely".'
'Nothing like that incident with the Dream Topping, then,' I observed.
'What incident?'
'Nothing.'
'Right. Well, since I'm on probation — sort of — they thought they'd start me on the small stuff.'
'I still don't understand.'
'It's simple,' began my father. 'Two days after the Superhoop President Formby will die of natural causes. The following day Yorrick Kaine proclaims himself dictator of England. Two weeks after that, following the traditional suspension of the press and summary executions of former associates, Kaine will declare war on Wales. Two days after a prolonged tank battle on the Welsh Marches, the United Clans of Scotland launch an attack upon Berwick-upon-Tweed. In a fit of pique Kaine carpet-bombs Glasgow and the Swedish empire enter on Scotland's side. Russia joins Kaine after their colonial outpost of Fetlar is sacked — and the 'war moves to mainland Europe. It soon escalates into an apocalyptic shoot-out between the African and American superpowers. In less than three months the earth will be nothing but a steaming radioactive cinder. Of course,' he added, 'that is a worst-case scenano. It'll probably never happen, and if you and I do our jobs properly, it won't.'
'Can't you just kill Kaine?'
'Not that easy. Time is the glue of the cosmos, Sweetpea, and it has to be eased apart — you'd be surprised how strongly the historical timeline tends to look after despots. Why do you think dictators like Pol Pot, Bokassa and Idi Amin live such long lives and people like Mozart, Jim Henson and Mother Teresa are plucked from us when relatively young?'
'I don't think Mother Teresa could be thought of as young.'
'On the contrary — she was meant to live to a hundred and twenty-eight.'
There was a pause.
'Okay, Dad — so what's the plan?'
'Right. It's incredibly complex and also unbelievably simple. To stop Kaine gaining power we have to seriously disrupt his sponsor, the Goliath Corporation. Without them, his power is zero. To do that we need to ensure . . . that Swindon wins the Superhoop.'
'How is that going to work?'
'It's a causality thing. Small events have large consequences. You'll see.'
'No, I mean, how am I going to get Swindon to win? Apart from Kapok and Aubrey Jambe and perhaps "Biffo" Mandible, the players are, well, crap — not to put too fine a point on it. Especially when you compare them to their Superhoop opponents, the Reading Whackers.'
'I'm sure you'll think of something, but keep an eye on Kapok — they'll try to get to him first. You'll have to do this on your own, Sweetpea, I've got my own problems. It seems Nelson getting killed at the beginning of the battle of Trafalgar wasn't French History Revisionists after all. I talked to someone I know over at the ChronoGendarmerie and they thought it amusing that the Revisionists should even attempt such a thing; advanced timestream models with Napoleon emperor of all Europe bode very poorly for France — they're much better in the long run with things as they are meant to be.'
'So who is killing Nelson?'
'Well, it's Nelson himself. Don't ask me why. Now, what did you want to see me about?'
I had to think carefully.
'Well. . . nothing, really. I met you three hours ago and you said we'd spoken so I came here to find you, then I suppose I should ask you to figure out who's trying to kill me this morning, which you wouldn't have been able to do if I hadn't met you this morning, and I only met you this morning because I've just told you right now I might be assassinated . . .'
Dad laughed.
'It's a bit like having a tumble dryer in your head, Sweetpea. Sometimes I don't know whether I'm thening or nowing. But I'd better check this assassin out, just in case.'
'Yes,' I said, more confused than ever, 'I suppose you should.'
9
Hamlet and I arrived home to find a TV news crew from Swindon-5 waiting for me outside the house.
'Miss Next,' said the reporter, 'can you tell us where you've been these past two years?'
'No comment.'
'You can interview me,' said Hamlet, realising he was something of a celebrity out here.
'And who are you?' asked the reporter, mystified.
I stared at him and his face fell.
'I'm . . . I'm . . . her cousin Eddie.'
'Well, Cousin Eddie, can you tell us where Miss Next has been for the past two years?'
'No comment.'
And we walked up the garden path to the front door.
'Where have you been?' demanded my mother as we walked in the door.
'Sorry I'm late, Mum — how's the little chap?'
'Tiring. He says that his Aunt Mel is a gorilla who can peel bananas with her feet while hanging from the light fixtures.'
'He talked?'
Friday was using the time-honoured international child signal to be picked up — raising his arms in the air — and when I did so he gave me a wet kiss and started to chatter away unintelligibly.
'Well, he didn't exactly say as much,' admitted Mum, 'but he drew me a picture of Aunt Mel which is pretty conclusive.'
'Aunt Mel a gorilla?' I laughed, looking at the picture, which was unequivocally of . . . well, a gorilla. 'Quite an imagination, hasn't he?'
'I'd say. I found him standing on the sideboard ready to swing on the curtains. When I told him it wasn't allowed he pointed to the picture of Aunt Mel, which I took to mean that she used to let him.'
'Does she, now. I mean, did he, now.'
Pickwick walked in looking very disgruntled and wearing a bonnet made of card and held together with sticky tape.
'Pickwick's a very tolerant playmate,' said my mother, who was obviously not that skilled at reading dodo expressions.
'I really need to get him into a playgroup. Did you change his nappy?'
'Three times. It just goes straight through, doesn't it?'
I sniffed at the leg of his dungarees.
'Yup. Straight through.'
'Well, I've got my panel-beating group to attend to,' she said, putting on her hat and taking her handbag and welding goggles from the peg, 'but you'd better sort out some more reliable childcare, my dear. I can do the odd hour here and there but not whole days — and I certainly don't want to do any more nappies.'
'Do you think Lady Hamilton would look after him?'
'It's possible,' said my mother in the sort of voice that means the reverse, 'you could always ask.'
She opened the door and was plinked at angrily by Alan, who was in a bit of a strop and was pulling up flowers in the front garden. With unbelievable speed she grabbed him by the neck and with a lot of angry plinking and scrabbling deposited him unceremoniously inside the potting shed and locked the door.
'Miserable bird!' said my mother, giving me and Friday a kiss. 'Have I got my purse?'
'It's in your bag.'
'Am I wearing my hat?'
'Yes.'
She smiled, told me that Bismarck was not to be disturbed and that I mustn't buy anything from a door-to-door salesman unless it was truly a bargain, and was gone.
I changed Fnday, then let him toddle off to find something to do. I made a cup of tea for myself and Hamlet, who had switched on the TV and was watching MOLE-TV's Shakespeare channel. I sat on the sofa and stared out of the windows into the garden. It had been destroyed by a mammoth when I was last here and I noted that my mother had replanted it with plants that were not very palatable to the Proboscidea tongue — quite wise, considering the migrations. As I watched, Pickwick waddled past, possibly wondering where Alan had gone. In terms of the day's work I had done very little. I was still a Literary Detective but £20,000 in debt and no nearer getting Landen back.
My mother returned at about eight and the first of her Eradications Anonymous friends began to appear at nine. There were ten of them, and they started to chatter about what they described as their 'lost ones' as soon as they got through the door. Emma Hamilton and I weren't alone in having husbands with an existence problem. But although it seemed my Landen and Emma's Horatio were strong in our memories, many people were not so lucky. Some had only vague feelings about someone who they felt should be there but wasn't. To be honest I really didn't want to be there, but I had promised my mother and I was living in her house, so that was the end of it.
'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' said my mother, clapping her hands, 'and if you'd all like to take a seat we can allow this meeting to begin.'
Everyone sat down, tea and Battenberg cake in hand, and looked expectant.
'Firstly I would like to welcome a new member to the group. As you know, my daughter has been away for a couple of years — not in prison, I'd like to make that clear!'
'Thank you, Mother,' I murmured under my breath as there was polite laughter from the group, who instantly assumed that's exactly where I had been.
'And she has kindly agreed to join our group and say a few words. Thursday?'
I took a deep breath, stood up and said quickly:
'Hello, everyone. My name's Thursday Next and my husband doesn't exist.'
There was applause at this and someone said: 'Way to go, Thursday,' but I couldn't think of anything to add, nor wanted to, so sat down again. There was silence as everyone stared at me, politely waiting for me to carry on.
'That's it. End of story.'
'I'll drink to that!' said Emma, gazing forlornly at the locked drinks cabinet.
'You're very brave,' said Mrs Beatty, who was sitting next to me. She patted my hand in a kindly manner. 'What was his name?'
'Landen. Landen Parke-Laine. He was murdered by the ChronoGuard in 1947. I'm going to the Goliath Apologarium tomorrow to try to get his eradication reversed.'
There was a murmuring.
'What's the matter?'
'You must understand,' said a tall and painfully thin man who up until now had remained silent, 'that for you to progress in this group you must begin to accept that this is a problem of the memory — there is no Landen; you just think there is.'
'It's very dry in here, isn't it?' muttered Emma unsubtly, still staring at the drinks cabinet.
'I was like you once,' said Mrs Beatty, who had stopped patting my hand and returned to her knitting. 'I had a wonderful life with Edgar and then, one morning, I wake up in a different house with Gerald lying next to me. He didn't believe me when I explained the problem, and I was on medication for ten years until I came here. It is only now, in the company of your good selves, that I am coming to the realisation that it is only a malady of the head.'
I was horrified.
'Mother?'
'It's something that we must try and face, my dear.'
'But Dad visits you, doesn't he?'
'Well, I believe he does,' she said, thinking hard, 'but of course when he's gone it's only a memory. There isn't any real proof that he ever existed.'
'What about me? And Joffy? Or even Anton? How were we born without Dad?'
She shrugged at the impossibility of the paradox.
'Perhaps it was, after all, youthful indiscretions that I have expunged from my mind.'
'And Emma? And Herr Bismarck? How do you explain them being here?'
'Well,' said my mother, thinking hard, 'I'm sure there's a rational explanation for it . . . somewhere.'
'Is this what this group teaches you?' I replied angrily. 'To deny the memories of your loved ones?'
I looked around at the gathering whose members had, it seemed, given up in the face of the hopeless paradox that they lived every minute of their lives. I opened my mouth to try to describe eloquently just how I knew Landen had once been married to me when I realised I was wasting my time. There was nothing, but nothing, to suggest it was anything other than in my mind. I sighed. To be truthful, it was in my mind. It hadn't happened. I just had memories of how it might have turned out. The tall thin man, the realist, was beginning to convince everyone they were not victims of a timeslip, but delusional.
'You want proof—'
I was interrupted by an excited knock at the front door. Whoever it was didn't waste any time; they just walked straight into the house and into the front room. It was a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who was holding the hand of a confused and acutely embarrassed-looking man.
'Hello, group!' she said happily. 'It's Ralph! I got him back!'
'Ah!' said Emma. 'This calls for a celebration!' Everyone ignored her.
'I'm sorry,' said my mother, 'have you got the right house? Or the right self-help group?'
'Yes, yes,' the woman asserted. 'It's Julie, Julie Aseizer. I've been coming to this group every week for the past three years!'
There was silence in the group. All you could hear was the quiet click of Mrs Beatty's knitting needles.
'Well, I haven't seen you,' announced the tall thin man. He looked around at the group. 'Does anyone recognise this person?'
The group members shook their heads blankly.
'I expect you think this is really funny, don't you?' said the thin man angrily. 'This is a self-help group for people with severe memory aberrations and I really don't think it is either amusing or constructive for pranksters to make fun of us! Now, please leave!'
The woman stood for a moment, biting her lip, but it was her husband who spoke.
'Come on, darling, I'm taking you home.'
'But wait—!' she said. 'Now he's back everything is as it was and I wouldn't have needed to come to your group, so I didn't — yet I remember—'
Her voice trailed off and her husband gave her a hug as she started to sob. He led her out, apologising profusely all the while.
As soon as they had gone the thin man sat down indignantly.
'A sorry state of affairs!' he grumbled.
'Everyone thinks it's funny to do that old joke,' added Mrs Beatty, 'that's the second time this month.'
'It gave me a powerful thirst,' added Emma. 'Anyone else?'
'Maybe,' I suggested, 'they should start a self-help group for themselves — they could call it Eradications Anonymous Anonymous.'
No one thought it was funny and I hid a smile. Perhaps there would be a chance for me and Landen after all.
I didn't contribute much to the group after that, and indeed the conversation soon threaded away from eradications and on to more mundane matters, such as the latest crop of TV shows that seemed to have flourished in my absence. Celebrity Name That Fruit! hosted by Frankie Saveloy was a ratings topper these days, as was Toasters from Hell and You've Been Stapled!, a collection of England's funniest stationery incidents. Emma had given up all attempts at subtlety by now and was prising the lock off the drinks cabinet with a screwdriver when Friday wailed one of those ultrasonic cries that only parents can hear — makes you understand how sheep can know whose lamb is whose — and I mercifully excused myself. He was standing up in his cot rattling the bars, so I took him out and read to him until we were both fast asleep.
10
I was dreaming that a large chainsaw-wielding elephant was sitting on me when I awoke at two in the morning. I was still fully dressed with a snoring Friday fast asleep on my chest. I put him back in his cot and turned the bedside lamp to the wall to soften the light. My mother, for reasons known only to herself, had kept my bedroom pretty much as it was at the time I had left home. It was nostalgic but also deeply disturbing to see just what had interested me in my late teens. It seemed that it had been boys, music, Jane Austen and law enforcement, but not particularly in that order.
I undressed and slipped on a long T-shirt and stared at Friday's sleeping form, his lips making gentle sucky motions.
'Psss!' said a voice close at hand. I turned. There, in the semi-dark, was a very large hedgehog dressed in a pinafore and bonnet. She was keeping a close lookout at the door and after giving me a wan smile crept to the window and peeked out.
'Whoa!' she breathed in wonderment. 'Street lights are orange. Never would have thought that!'
'Mrs Tiggy-Winkle,' I said, 'I've only been gone two days!'
'Sorry to bother you,' she said, curtsying quickly and absently folding my shirt, which I had tossed over a chair-back, 'but there are one or two things going on that I thought you should know about — and you did say that if I had any questions to ask.'
'Okay — but not here; we'll wake Friday.'
So we crept downstairs to the kitchen. I pulled down the blinds before turning the lights on as a six-foot hedgehog in a shawl and bonnet might have caused a few eyebrows to be raised in the neighbourhood — no one wore bonnets in Swindon these days.
I offered Mrs Tiggy-Winkle a seat at the table. Although she, Emperor Zhark and Bradshaw had been put in charge of running Jurisfiction in my absence, none of them had the leadership skills necessary to do the job on their own. And while the Council of Genres refused to concede that my absence was anything but 'compassionate leave', a new Bellman was yet to be elected in my place.
'So what's up?' I asked.
'Oh, Miss Next!' she wailed, her spines bristling with vexation. 'Please come back!'
'I have things to deal with out here,' I explained, 'you all know that!'
She sighed. 'I know, but Emperor Zhark threw a tantrum when I suggested he spend a little less time conquering the universe and a little more time at Jurisfiction — the Red Queen won't do anything post-1867 and Vernham Deane is tied up with the latest Daphne Farquitt novel. Commander Bradshaw does his own thing, which leaves me in charge — and someone left a saucer of bread and milk on my desk this morning.'
'It was probably just a joke.'
'Well, I'm not laughing,' replied Mrs Tiggy-Winkle indignantly.
'By the way,' I said as a thought suddenly struck me, 'did you find out which book Yornck Kaine escaped from?'
'I'm afraid not. The Cat is searching unpublished novels in the Well of Lost Plots at the moment, but it might take a little time. You know how chaotic things are down there.'
'Only too well.' I sighed, thinking about my old home in unpublished fiction with a mixture of fondness and relief. The Well is where books are actually constructed, where plotsnuths create the stones that authors think they write. You can buy plot devices at discount rates and verbs by the pint. An odd place, to be sure. 'Okay,' I said finally, 'you'd better tell me what's going on.'
'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, counting the points out on her paw, 'this morning a rumour of potential change in the copyright laws swept through the BookWorld.'
'I don't know how these rumours get started,' I replied wearily. 'Was there any truth in it?'
'Not in the least.'
This was a contentious subject to the residents of the BookWorld. The jump to copyright-free Public Domain Status had always been a fearful prospect for a book character, and even with support groups and training courses to soften the blow, the 'Narrative Menopause' could take some getting used to. The problem was, copyright laws tend to vary around the world and sometimes characters are in the public domain in one market and not in another, which is confusing. Then there is the possibility that the law might change and characters who had adjusted themselves to Public Domain Status would find themselves in copyright again or vice versa. Unrest in the BookWorld about these matters is palpable; it only takes a small spark to set off a riot.
'So all was well?'
'Pretty much.'
'Good. Anything else?'
'Starbucks want to open another coffee shop in the Hardy Boys series.'
'Another one?' I asked with some surprise. 'There's already sixteen. How much coffee do they think they can drink? Tell them they can open another in Mrs Dalloway and two more in The Age of Reason. After that, no more. What else?'
'The Tailor of Gloucester needs three yards of cherry-coloured silk to finish the mayor's embroidered coat — but he's got a cold and can't go out.'
'Who are we? Interlink? Tell him to send his cat, Simpkin.'
'Okay.'
There was a pause.
'You didn't come all this way to tell me bad news about Kaine, copyright panics and cherry-coloured twist, now, did you?'
She looked at me and sighed.
'There's a bit of a problem with Hamlet.'
'I know. But he's doing a favour for my mother at the moment. I'll send him back in a few days.'
'Um,' replied the hedgehog nervously, 'it's a bit more complex than that. I think it might be a good idea if you kept him out here for a bit longer.'
'What's going on?' I asked suspiciously.
'It wasn't my fault!' she burst out, reaching for her pocket handkerchief. 'I thought the Internal Plot Adjustment request was to sort out the seasonal anomalies! All that death in the orchard, then winter, then flowers—'
'What happened?' I asked.
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle looked miserable.
'Well, you know there has been much grumbling within Hamlet ever since Rosencrantz and Guildenstern got their own play?'
'Yes?'
'Just after you left, Ophelia attempted a coup d'etat in Hamlet's absence. She imported a B-6 Hamlet from Lamb's Shakespeare and convinced him to re-enact some of the key scenes with a pro-Ophelia bias.'
'And?'
'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'they retitled it The Tragedy of the Fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'
'She's always up to something, isn't she? I'll give her "Hey nonny, nonny". Tell her to get back into line or we'll slap a Class II fiction infraction on her so fast it'll make her head spin.'
'We tried that but Laertes returned from Paris and lent his voice to the revolution. Together they made some more changes and called it: The Tragedy of the Noble Laertes, who avenges his sister the fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous and murderous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'
I ran my fingers through what remained of my hair.
'So . . . arrest them both?'
'Too late. Their father Polonius was in a "have a go" mood and joined in. He also made changes and together they renamed it The tragedy of the very witty and not remotely boring Polonius, father of the noble Laertes, who avenges his fair sister Ophelia, driven mad by the callous, murderous and outrageously disrespectful Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'
'What was it like?'
'With Polonius? Very . . . wordy. We could replace them all,' carried on Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'but changing so many major players in one swoop might cause irreparable damage. The last thing we need right now is Hamlet coming back and sticking his oar in -you know how mad he gets when anybody even suggests a word change.'
'Right,' I said, 'here's the plan. This is all happening in the 1623 folio edition, yes?'
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle nodded her head.
'Okay. Move Hamlet — or whatever it is called at present — to a disused Storycode engine and fire up The Penguin Modern Hamlet so that is the one everyone in the Outland will read. It will give us some breathing space without anyone seeing the Polonised version. It won't be at its best, but it'll have to do. Horatio must still be on Hamlet's side, surely?'
'Most definitely.'
'Then deputise him to Jurisfiction and try to get him to convince the Polonius family to attend an arbitration session. Keep me posted. I'll try and keep Hamlet amused out here.'
She made a note.
'Is that all?' I asked.
'Unless you need some washing done.'
'I have a mother who will fight you for that. Now please, please, Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, you must leave me to sort out Kaine and get my husband back!'
'You're right,' she said after a short pause. 'We're going to handle this all on our own.'
'Good.'
'Right.'
'Well . . . goodnight, then.'
'Yes,' said the hedgehog, 'goodnight.'
She stood there on the kitchen linoleum, tapping her paws together and staring at the ceiling.
'Tiggy, what is it?'
'It's Mr Tiggy-Winkle!' she burst out at last. 'He came home late last night in a state of shock and smelling of car exhaust and I'm so worried!'
It was about three in the morning when I was finally left alone with my thoughts, a sleeping son and a pocket handkerchief drenched with hedgehog tears.
11
From humble beginnings in 1289 to a fiery end in the autumn of 1536, the towering beauty of the Great Cathedral of Swindon was once the equal of Canterbury or York, but no longer. Built over at least four times since then, the site of the cathedral is now occupied by a temple of another kind: Tesco's. Where monks once moved silently to prayer beneath vaulted cloisters, you can now buy Lola Vavoom workout videos, and where the exquisite stained-glass east window once brought forth tears from the coldest heart, there is now a refrigerated display boasting five different types of smoked sausage.
I took my seat and placed Friday on my lap. He wriggled while I looked around. The car park was full of eager spectators. Some, like myself, were sitting on the especially constructed tiered seating, the rest standing behind barriers on the asphalt. But everyone, sitting or standing, was facing a small fenced-off area sandwiched between the shopping trolley return point and the cashpoint machines. This small area contained a weathered arched doorway, the only visible remnant of Swindon's once great monastic settlement.
'How are you doing?' asked Joffy, who, as well as being a minister for the GSD and several other smaller denominations, was also head of the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx.
'Fine. Isn't that Lydia Startright?'
I was pointing at a well-dressed female reporter readying herself for a broadcast.
'She's about to interview me. How do I look?'
'Very . . . ecclesiastical.'
'Good. Excuse me.'
He straightened his dog collar and walked over to join Lydia. She was standing next to her producer, a small and curiously unappealing man who was so unoriginal of thought that he still considered it cool and desirable for people in the media to wear black.
'What time is old Zvlkxy due to appear?' the producer asked Joffy.
'In about five minutes.'
'Good. Lyds, we'd better go live.'
Lydia composed herself, took one more look at her notes, awaited the count-in of the producer, gave a welcoming smile and began.
'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is Lydia Startright for Toad News Network reporting live from Swindon. In under five minutes St Zvlkx, the obscure and sometimes controversial thirteenth-century saint, is due to be resurrected here, live on regional TV.'
She turned to indicate the weathered pieces of stone, previously ignored by thousands of shoppers but now the centre of attention.
'On this spot once stood the towering Great Cathedral of Swindon, founded by St Zvlkx in the thirteenth century. Where the wet-fish counter now stands was where St Zvlkx penned his "Book of Revealments" containing seven sets of prophecies, five of which have already come true. To help us through the quagmire of claims and counter-claims I have with me the Very Irrev. Joffy Next, head of the Church of the Global Standard Deity here in Swindon, speaker at the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and something of an expert in things Zvlkxian. Hello, Joffy, welcome to the show.' 'Thank you, Lydia,' said Joffy, 'we're all big fans of yours at the GSD.'
'Thank you. So tell me, what exactly are the Revealments?'
'Well,' he began, 'details are understandably vague, but St Zvlkx wrote a number of predictions in a small book before he vanished in a "cleansing fire" in 1292. An incomplete copy of the Revealments is in the Swindon City Library, but unlike those of most of the other seers who make vague and sweeping generalisations that are open to interpretation, St Zvlkx's predictions are refreshingly specific.'
'Perhaps you could give us an example?'
'Of course. Part of Zvlkx's Revealment the First tells us that: A lowly butcher's son from the town of Ipswich will rise to be Lord Chancellor. His name shall be Tommy Wolsey, and he will be inaugurated the day before Christmas, and shall get only one present, not two, as should be his right . . .'
'That's uncannily accurate!' breathed Lydia.
'Indeed — existing letters from Cardinal Wolsey indicate most strongly that he was "vexed and annoyed" at having to make do with only one present, something he often spoke about and which might have contributed, many years later, to his failure to persuade the Pope to grant Henry VIII an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.'
'Remarkable,' said Lydia. 'What else?'
'Well,' continued Joffy, 'Zvlkx's Revealment the Second told us that: . . . It shall be known as the "Sail of the Century" — an armada of over a hundred ships smelling of paella shall cross the Channel. Fire and wind will conspire to destroy them, England will remain free . . .'
'Not quite so good,' said Lydia.
'I agree,' replied Joffy. 'Paella wasn't invented until after the Spanish Armada. There are the odd mistakes, but even so his accuracy is astonishing. Not only do his Revealments include names and dates but also, on one occasion, a reliable phone number for a good time in Leeds. By the end of the sixteenth century St Zvlkx had been afforded that rare hallmark of unbridled Elizabethan success — the commemorative plate. By the time of his next Revealment a century and a half later his supporters and followers had dwindled to only a handful. But when it arrived, this Revealment the Third catapulted Zvlkx back into the world's headlines: . . . In 1776, a George King numbered three will lose his mind, his largest colony, and his socks. The colony will grow to be the greatest power in the world but his mind and his socks will stay lost . . .'
'And the fourth?'
'. . . a man named after a form of waterproof shoe will trounce a short Frenchman in Belgium . . .'
'Clearly Waterloo — and the fifth?'
'. . . The evil yet nattily dressed aggressors known as Nasis, fear of whom has polarised the nation, will be ejected from these islands by — and I know this sounds really weird — the colony that was mentioned in prediction three. And Denis Compton will score 3,816 runs for Middlesex in a single season . . .'
'Uncanny,' murmured Lydia. 'How would a thirteenth-century monk know that Compton batted for Middlesex?'
'He was, and indeed might be again, the greatest of seers,' replied Joffy.
'We know that his Revealment the Sixth was a prediction of his own second coming, but it is the sports fans of Swindon who will really be bowled over by his Revealment the Seventh.'
'Exactly so,' replied Joffy. 'According to the incomplete Codex Zvlkxus, it will be: There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of . . . There is more, but it's been lost. We can ask him about it when he reappears.'
'Fascinating stuff, Irrev. Next! Just one question. Where is he?'
I looked at my watch as Friday stood on my lap and stared that unnerving sort of two-year-old stare at the couple behind us. St Zvlkx was already three minutes late, and I saw Joffy bite his lip nervously. They had made much of the Great Man's predictions, and for him not to turn up would be just plain embarrassing — not to mention costly. Joffy had spent a great deal of Mum's savings learning Old English at the local adult education centre.
'Tell me, Irrev. Next,' continued Lydia, trying to pad out the interview, 'I understand the Toast Marketing Board has secured a sponsorship deal with St Zvlkx?'
'Indeed,' replied Joffy, 'we at the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx have secured on his behalf a very favourable deal with Toast, who wanted to have exclusive rights to his likeness and wisdom, if he has any.'
'Nevertheless, I understand the Goliath Corporation were said to be interested?'
'Not really. Goliath have been less than enthusiastic since their sportswear division paid over a quarter of a million for an exclusive sponsorship deal with St Bernadette of Lincoln. But since her return six months ago she has done nothing except brick herself up in a room and pray in silent retrospection, something that doesn't lend itself to selling running shoes. The Toast Marketing Board, on the other hand, made no such demands — they are happy just to see what Zvlkx himself would like to do for them.'
Lydia turned back to the camera.
'Astonishing. If you've just joined us this is a live telecast of the second coming of the thirteenth-century saint, Thomas Zvlkx.'
I looked at my watch again. Zvlkx was now five minutes late. Lydia carried on with her live broadcast, interviewing several other people to soak up time. The crowd grew slightly impatient and a low murmuring started to emerge from the expectant silence. Lydia had just asked a style guru about the sort of clothes they might be expecting Zvlkx to be wearing when she was interrupted by a shout. Something was happening just outside Tesco's between the child's coin-in-the-slot flying elephant ride and the letterbox. Joffy vaulted over the press enclosure and ran towards where a column of smoke was rising from a crack that had opened up in the mother-and-child parking area. The sky grew dark, birds stopped singing and shoppers coming out of the revolving doors stared in astonishment as a bolt of lightning struck the weathered stone arch and split it asunder. There was a collective cry of alarm as a wind sprang up from nowhere. Pennants advertising new Saver product lines which were hanging limply on the flagpoles came loose with a crack and a whirling mass of dust and waste paper spread across the car park, making several people cough.
Within a few moments it was all over. Sitting on the ground and dressed in a rough habit tied with a rope at the waist was a grubby man with a scraggy beard and exceptionally bad teeth. He blinked and looked curiously around at his new surroundings.
'Welcome,' said Joffy, the first on the scene, 'I represent the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and offer you protection and guidance'
The thirteenth-century monk looked at him with his dark eyes, then at the crowd which had gathered closer to him, everyone talking and pointing and asking him whether they could have their pictures taken with him.
'Your accent is not bad,' replied St Zvlkx slowly. 'Is this 1988?'
'It is, sir. I've brokered a sponsorship deal for you with the Toast Marketing Board.'
'Cash?'
Joffy nodded.
'Thank ?*&£@ for that,' said Zvlkx. 'Has the ale improved Since I've been away?'
'Not much. But the choice is better.'
'Can't wait. Hubba-hubba! Who's the moppet in the tight blouse?'
'Mr Next,' interjected Lydia. who had managed to push her way to the front, 'perhaps you would be good enough to tell us what Mr Zvlkx is saying?'
'I — um — welcomed him to the twentieth century and said we had much to learn from him as regards beekeeping and the lost art of brewing mead. He — um — said just then that he is tired after his journey and wants only world peace, bridges between nations and a good home for orphans, kittens and puppies.'
The crowd suddenly parted to make way for the Mayor of Swindon. St Zvlkx knew power when he saw it and smiled a greeting to Lord Volescamper, who walked briskly up and shook the monk's grimy hand.
'Look here, welcome to the twentieth century, old salt,' said Volescamper, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. 'How are you finding it?"
'Welcome to our age,' translated Joffy, 'How are you enjoying your stay?'
'Cushty, me old cocker babe,' replied the saint simply.
'He says very well, thank you.'
'Tell the worthy saint that we have a welcome pack awaiting him in the presidential suite at the Finis Hotel. Knowing his aversion to comfort we took the liberty of removing all carpets, drapes, sheets and towels and replaced the bedclothes with hemp sacks stuffed with rocks.'
'What did the old fart say?'
'You don't want to know.'
'What about the incomplete seventh Revealment?' asked Lydia. 'Can St Zvlkx tell us anything about that?'
Joffy swiftly translated and St Zvlkx rummaged in the folds of his blanket and produced a small leather-bound book. The crowd fell silent as he licked a grubby finger, turned to the requisite page and read:
'There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of this and only in consequence of this, a great tyrant and the company named Goliathe will fall.'
All eyes switched to Joffy, who translated. There was a sharp intake of breath and a clamour of questions.
'Mr Zvlkx,' said a reporter from The Mole, who up until that moment had been bored out of his skull, 'do you mean to say that Goliath will be lost if Swindon wins the Superhoop?'
'That is exactly what he says,' replied Joffy.
There was a further clamour of questions from the assembled journalists as I carefully tried to figure out the repercussions of this new piece of intelligence. Dad had said that a Superhoop win for Swindon would avert an armageddon and, if what Zvlkx was saying came true, a triumph on Saturday would do precisely this. The question was, how? There was no connection as far as I could see. I was still trying to think how a croquet final could unseat a near-dictator and destroy one of the most powerful multinationals on the planet when Lord Volescamper intervened and silenced the noisy crowd of newsmen with a wave of his hand.
'Mr Next, thank the gracious saint for his words. There is time enough to muse on his Revealment but right now I would like him to meet members of the Swindon Chamber of Commerce, which, I might add, is sponsored by St Biddulph's® Hundreds and Thousands, the cake decoration of choice. After that we might take some tea and carrot cake. Would he be agreeable to that?'
Joffy translated every word and Zvlkx smiled happily.
'Look here, St Zvlkx,' said Volescamper as they walked towards the marquee for tea and scones, 'what was the thirteenth century like?'
'The mayor wants to know what the thirteenth century was like — and no lip, sunshine.'
He stretched his arms wide as if to demonstrate.
'We call it a timeshare.'
He rubbed his chin and looked around.
'What's the time out there?'
'It's 14 July 1988.'
'That's a stroke of good fortune,' he said, lowering his voice still further. 'It's a good job you've turned up. They've blamed me for the 1864 war between Germany and Denmark.'
'Was it your fault?'
'No — it was that clot Bismarck. But it doesn't matter. They've transferred me to another division inside the Historical Preservation Corps for a second chance. My first assignment occurs in July 1988, so local knowledge right now is a godsend. Have you heard of anyone named Yorrick Kaine?'
'He's Chancellor of England.'
'That figures. Did St Zvlkx return tomorrow?'
'He might.'
'Okay. Who won the Superhoop?'
'That's Saturday week,' I explained. 'It hasn't happened yet.'
'Not strictly true, Sweetpea. Everything that we do actually happened a long, long time ago — even this conversation. The future is already there. The pioneers that ploughed the first furrows of history into virgin timeline died aeons ago — all we do now is try and keep it pretty much the way it should be. Have you heard of someone named Winston Churchill, by the way?'
I thought for a moment.
'He was an English statesman who seriously blotted his copybook in the Great War, then was run over by a cab and killed in 1932.'
'So, no one of any consequence?'
'Not really. Why?'
'Ah, no reason. Just a little pet theory of mine. Anyway, everything has already happened — if it hadn't, there'd be no need for people like me. But things go wrong. In the normal course of events, time flies back and forth from the end of then until the beginning of now like a shuttle on a loom, weaving the threads of history together. If it encounters an obstacle then it might just flex slightly and no change will be noticed. But if that obstacle is big enough — and Kaine is plenty big enough, believe me — then history will veer off at a tangent. And that's when we have to sort it out. I've been transferred to the Armageddon Avoidance Division, and we've got an apocalyptic disaster of life-extinguishing capability, Level III, heading your way.'
There was a moment's silence.
'Does your mother know you wear your hair this short?'
'Is it meant to happen?'
'Your hair?'
'No, the Armageddon.'
'Not at all. This one has an Ultimate Likelihood Index rating of only twenty-two per cent: "not very likely".'
'Nothing like that incident with the Dream Topping, then,' I observed.
'What incident?'
'Nothing.'
'Right. Well, since I'm on probation — sort of — they thought they'd start me on the small stuff.'
'I still don't understand.'
'It's simple,' began my father. 'Two days after the Superhoop President Formby will die of natural causes. The following day Yorrick Kaine proclaims himself dictator of England. Two weeks after that, following the traditional suspension of the press and summary executions of former associates, Kaine will declare war on Wales. Two days after a prolonged tank battle on the Welsh Marches, the United Clans of Scotland launch an attack upon Berwick-upon-Tweed. In a fit of pique Kaine carpet-bombs Glasgow and the Swedish empire enter on Scotland's side. Russia joins Kaine after their colonial outpost of Fetlar is sacked — and the 'war moves to mainland Europe. It soon escalates into an apocalyptic shoot-out between the African and American superpowers. In less than three months the earth will be nothing but a steaming radioactive cinder. Of course,' he added, 'that is a worst-case scenano. It'll probably never happen, and if you and I do our jobs properly, it won't.'
'Can't you just kill Kaine?'
'Not that easy. Time is the glue of the cosmos, Sweetpea, and it has to be eased apart — you'd be surprised how strongly the historical timeline tends to look after despots. Why do you think dictators like Pol Pot, Bokassa and Idi Amin live such long lives and people like Mozart, Jim Henson and Mother Teresa are plucked from us when relatively young?'
'I don't think Mother Teresa could be thought of as young.'
'On the contrary — she was meant to live to a hundred and twenty-eight.'
There was a pause.
'Okay, Dad — so what's the plan?'
'Right. It's incredibly complex and also unbelievably simple. To stop Kaine gaining power we have to seriously disrupt his sponsor, the Goliath Corporation. Without them, his power is zero. To do that we need to ensure . . . that Swindon wins the Superhoop.'
'How is that going to work?'
'It's a causality thing. Small events have large consequences. You'll see.'
'No, I mean, how am I going to get Swindon to win? Apart from Kapok and Aubrey Jambe and perhaps "Biffo" Mandible, the players are, well, crap — not to put too fine a point on it. Especially when you compare them to their Superhoop opponents, the Reading Whackers.'
'I'm sure you'll think of something, but keep an eye on Kapok — they'll try to get to him first. You'll have to do this on your own, Sweetpea, I've got my own problems. It seems Nelson getting killed at the beginning of the battle of Trafalgar wasn't French History Revisionists after all. I talked to someone I know over at the ChronoGendarmerie and they thought it amusing that the Revisionists should even attempt such a thing; advanced timestream models with Napoleon emperor of all Europe bode very poorly for France — they're much better in the long run with things as they are meant to be.'
'So who is killing Nelson?'
'Well, it's Nelson himself. Don't ask me why. Now, what did you want to see me about?'
I had to think carefully.
'Well. . . nothing, really. I met you three hours ago and you said we'd spoken so I came here to find you, then I suppose I should ask you to figure out who's trying to kill me this morning, which you wouldn't have been able to do if I hadn't met you this morning, and I only met you this morning because I've just told you right now I might be assassinated . . .'
Dad laughed.
'It's a bit like having a tumble dryer in your head, Sweetpea. Sometimes I don't know whether I'm thening or nowing. But I'd better check this assassin out, just in case.'
'Yes,' I said, more confused than ever, 'I suppose you should.'
9
Eradications Anonymous
GOLIATH BACK KAINE AND WHIG PARTY
The Goliath Corporation yesterday renewed its support for Chancellor Kaine at a party to honour England's leader. At a glittering dinner attended by over 500 heads of commerce and governmental departments, Goliath pledged to continue its support of the Chancellor. In reply Mr Kaine gratefully acknowledged their support and announced a package of measures designed to assist Goliath in the difficult yet highly desirable change to faith-based corporate status, as well as funding for several ongoing weapons programmes, details of which have been classified.
Article in The Toad, 13 July 1988
Hamlet and I arrived home to find a TV news crew from Swindon-5 waiting for me outside the house.
'Miss Next,' said the reporter, 'can you tell us where you've been these past two years?'
'No comment.'
'You can interview me,' said Hamlet, realising he was something of a celebrity out here.
'And who are you?' asked the reporter, mystified.
I stared at him and his face fell.
'I'm . . . I'm . . . her cousin Eddie.'
'Well, Cousin Eddie, can you tell us where Miss Next has been for the past two years?'
'No comment.'
And we walked up the garden path to the front door.
'Where have you been?' demanded my mother as we walked in the door.
'Sorry I'm late, Mum — how's the little chap?'
'Tiring. He says that his Aunt Mel is a gorilla who can peel bananas with her feet while hanging from the light fixtures.'
'He talked?'
Friday was using the time-honoured international child signal to be picked up — raising his arms in the air — and when I did so he gave me a wet kiss and started to chatter away unintelligibly.
'Well, he didn't exactly say as much,' admitted Mum, 'but he drew me a picture of Aunt Mel which is pretty conclusive.'
'Aunt Mel a gorilla?' I laughed, looking at the picture, which was unequivocally of . . . well, a gorilla. 'Quite an imagination, hasn't he?'
'I'd say. I found him standing on the sideboard ready to swing on the curtains. When I told him it wasn't allowed he pointed to the picture of Aunt Mel, which I took to mean that she used to let him.'
'Does she, now. I mean, did he, now.'
Pickwick walked in looking very disgruntled and wearing a bonnet made of card and held together with sticky tape.
'Pickwick's a very tolerant playmate,' said my mother, who was obviously not that skilled at reading dodo expressions.
'I really need to get him into a playgroup. Did you change his nappy?'
'Three times. It just goes straight through, doesn't it?'
I sniffed at the leg of his dungarees.
'Yup. Straight through.'
'Well, I've got my panel-beating group to attend to,' she said, putting on her hat and taking her handbag and welding goggles from the peg, 'but you'd better sort out some more reliable childcare, my dear. I can do the odd hour here and there but not whole days — and I certainly don't want to do any more nappies.'
'Do you think Lady Hamilton would look after him?'
'It's possible,' said my mother in the sort of voice that means the reverse, 'you could always ask.'
She opened the door and was plinked at angrily by Alan, who was in a bit of a strop and was pulling up flowers in the front garden. With unbelievable speed she grabbed him by the neck and with a lot of angry plinking and scrabbling deposited him unceremoniously inside the potting shed and locked the door.
'Miserable bird!' said my mother, giving me and Friday a kiss. 'Have I got my purse?'
'It's in your bag.'
'Am I wearing my hat?'
'Yes.'
She smiled, told me that Bismarck was not to be disturbed and that I mustn't buy anything from a door-to-door salesman unless it was truly a bargain, and was gone.
I changed Fnday, then let him toddle off to find something to do. I made a cup of tea for myself and Hamlet, who had switched on the TV and was watching MOLE-TV's Shakespeare channel. I sat on the sofa and stared out of the windows into the garden. It had been destroyed by a mammoth when I was last here and I noted that my mother had replanted it with plants that were not very palatable to the Proboscidea tongue — quite wise, considering the migrations. As I watched, Pickwick waddled past, possibly wondering where Alan had gone. In terms of the day's work I had done very little. I was still a Literary Detective but £20,000 in debt and no nearer getting Landen back.
My mother returned at about eight and the first of her Eradications Anonymous friends began to appear at nine. There were ten of them, and they started to chatter about what they described as their 'lost ones' as soon as they got through the door. Emma Hamilton and I weren't alone in having husbands with an existence problem. But although it seemed my Landen and Emma's Horatio were strong in our memories, many people were not so lucky. Some had only vague feelings about someone who they felt should be there but wasn't. To be honest I really didn't want to be there, but I had promised my mother and I was living in her house, so that was the end of it.
'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' said my mother, clapping her hands, 'and if you'd all like to take a seat we can allow this meeting to begin.'
Everyone sat down, tea and Battenberg cake in hand, and looked expectant.
'Firstly I would like to welcome a new member to the group. As you know, my daughter has been away for a couple of years — not in prison, I'd like to make that clear!'
'Thank you, Mother,' I murmured under my breath as there was polite laughter from the group, who instantly assumed that's exactly where I had been.
'And she has kindly agreed to join our group and say a few words. Thursday?'
I took a deep breath, stood up and said quickly:
'Hello, everyone. My name's Thursday Next and my husband doesn't exist.'
There was applause at this and someone said: 'Way to go, Thursday,' but I couldn't think of anything to add, nor wanted to, so sat down again. There was silence as everyone stared at me, politely waiting for me to carry on.
'That's it. End of story.'
'I'll drink to that!' said Emma, gazing forlornly at the locked drinks cabinet.
'You're very brave,' said Mrs Beatty, who was sitting next to me. She patted my hand in a kindly manner. 'What was his name?'
'Landen. Landen Parke-Laine. He was murdered by the ChronoGuard in 1947. I'm going to the Goliath Apologarium tomorrow to try to get his eradication reversed.'
There was a murmuring.
'What's the matter?'
'You must understand,' said a tall and painfully thin man who up until now had remained silent, 'that for you to progress in this group you must begin to accept that this is a problem of the memory — there is no Landen; you just think there is.'
'It's very dry in here, isn't it?' muttered Emma unsubtly, still staring at the drinks cabinet.
'I was like you once,' said Mrs Beatty, who had stopped patting my hand and returned to her knitting. 'I had a wonderful life with Edgar and then, one morning, I wake up in a different house with Gerald lying next to me. He didn't believe me when I explained the problem, and I was on medication for ten years until I came here. It is only now, in the company of your good selves, that I am coming to the realisation that it is only a malady of the head.'
I was horrified.
'Mother?'
'It's something that we must try and face, my dear.'
'But Dad visits you, doesn't he?'
'Well, I believe he does,' she said, thinking hard, 'but of course when he's gone it's only a memory. There isn't any real proof that he ever existed.'
'What about me? And Joffy? Or even Anton? How were we born without Dad?'
She shrugged at the impossibility of the paradox.
'Perhaps it was, after all, youthful indiscretions that I have expunged from my mind.'
'And Emma? And Herr Bismarck? How do you explain them being here?'
'Well,' said my mother, thinking hard, 'I'm sure there's a rational explanation for it . . . somewhere.'
'Is this what this group teaches you?' I replied angrily. 'To deny the memories of your loved ones?'
I looked around at the gathering whose members had, it seemed, given up in the face of the hopeless paradox that they lived every minute of their lives. I opened my mouth to try to describe eloquently just how I knew Landen had once been married to me when I realised I was wasting my time. There was nothing, but nothing, to suggest it was anything other than in my mind. I sighed. To be truthful, it was in my mind. It hadn't happened. I just had memories of how it might have turned out. The tall thin man, the realist, was beginning to convince everyone they were not victims of a timeslip, but delusional.
'You want proof—'
I was interrupted by an excited knock at the front door. Whoever it was didn't waste any time; they just walked straight into the house and into the front room. It was a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who was holding the hand of a confused and acutely embarrassed-looking man.
'Hello, group!' she said happily. 'It's Ralph! I got him back!'
'Ah!' said Emma. 'This calls for a celebration!' Everyone ignored her.
'I'm sorry,' said my mother, 'have you got the right house? Or the right self-help group?'
'Yes, yes,' the woman asserted. 'It's Julie, Julie Aseizer. I've been coming to this group every week for the past three years!'
There was silence in the group. All you could hear was the quiet click of Mrs Beatty's knitting needles.
'Well, I haven't seen you,' announced the tall thin man. He looked around at the group. 'Does anyone recognise this person?'
The group members shook their heads blankly.
'I expect you think this is really funny, don't you?' said the thin man angrily. 'This is a self-help group for people with severe memory aberrations and I really don't think it is either amusing or constructive for pranksters to make fun of us! Now, please leave!'
The woman stood for a moment, biting her lip, but it was her husband who spoke.
'Come on, darling, I'm taking you home.'
'But wait—!' she said. 'Now he's back everything is as it was and I wouldn't have needed to come to your group, so I didn't — yet I remember—'
Her voice trailed off and her husband gave her a hug as she started to sob. He led her out, apologising profusely all the while.
As soon as they had gone the thin man sat down indignantly.
'A sorry state of affairs!' he grumbled.
'Everyone thinks it's funny to do that old joke,' added Mrs Beatty, 'that's the second time this month.'
'It gave me a powerful thirst,' added Emma. 'Anyone else?'
'Maybe,' I suggested, 'they should start a self-help group for themselves — they could call it Eradications Anonymous Anonymous.'
No one thought it was funny and I hid a smile. Perhaps there would be a chance for me and Landen after all.
I didn't contribute much to the group after that, and indeed the conversation soon threaded away from eradications and on to more mundane matters, such as the latest crop of TV shows that seemed to have flourished in my absence. Celebrity Name That Fruit! hosted by Frankie Saveloy was a ratings topper these days, as was Toasters from Hell and You've Been Stapled!, a collection of England's funniest stationery incidents. Emma had given up all attempts at subtlety by now and was prising the lock off the drinks cabinet with a screwdriver when Friday wailed one of those ultrasonic cries that only parents can hear — makes you understand how sheep can know whose lamb is whose — and I mercifully excused myself. He was standing up in his cot rattling the bars, so I took him out and read to him until we were both fast asleep.
10
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle
KIERKEGAARD BOOK — BURNING CEREMONY PROVES DANISH PHILOSOPHER'S UNPOPULARITY
Chancellor Yorrick Kaine last night officiated at the first burning of Danish literature with the incineration of eight copies ot Fear and Trembling, a quantity that fell far short of the expected 'thirty or forty tons'. When asked to comment on the apparent lack of enthusiasm among the public for torching their Danish philosophy. Kaine explained that 'Kierkegaard is clearly less popular than we thought, and rightly so — next stop Hans Christian Andersen!' Kierkegaard himself was unavailable for comment, having inconsiderately allowed himself to be dead for a number of years.
Article in The Toad, 14 July 1988
I was dreaming that a large chainsaw-wielding elephant was sitting on me when I awoke at two in the morning. I was still fully dressed with a snoring Friday fast asleep on my chest. I put him back in his cot and turned the bedside lamp to the wall to soften the light. My mother, for reasons known only to herself, had kept my bedroom pretty much as it was at the time I had left home. It was nostalgic but also deeply disturbing to see just what had interested me in my late teens. It seemed that it had been boys, music, Jane Austen and law enforcement, but not particularly in that order.
I undressed and slipped on a long T-shirt and stared at Friday's sleeping form, his lips making gentle sucky motions.
'Psss!' said a voice close at hand. I turned. There, in the semi-dark, was a very large hedgehog dressed in a pinafore and bonnet. She was keeping a close lookout at the door and after giving me a wan smile crept to the window and peeked out.
'Whoa!' she breathed in wonderment. 'Street lights are orange. Never would have thought that!'
'Mrs Tiggy-Winkle,' I said, 'I've only been gone two days!'
'Sorry to bother you,' she said, curtsying quickly and absently folding my shirt, which I had tossed over a chair-back, 'but there are one or two things going on that I thought you should know about — and you did say that if I had any questions to ask.'
'Okay — but not here; we'll wake Friday.'
So we crept downstairs to the kitchen. I pulled down the blinds before turning the lights on as a six-foot hedgehog in a shawl and bonnet might have caused a few eyebrows to be raised in the neighbourhood — no one wore bonnets in Swindon these days.
I offered Mrs Tiggy-Winkle a seat at the table. Although she, Emperor Zhark and Bradshaw had been put in charge of running Jurisfiction in my absence, none of them had the leadership skills necessary to do the job on their own. And while the Council of Genres refused to concede that my absence was anything but 'compassionate leave', a new Bellman was yet to be elected in my place.
'So what's up?' I asked.
'Oh, Miss Next!' she wailed, her spines bristling with vexation. 'Please come back!'
'I have things to deal with out here,' I explained, 'you all know that!'
She sighed. 'I know, but Emperor Zhark threw a tantrum when I suggested he spend a little less time conquering the universe and a little more time at Jurisfiction — the Red Queen won't do anything post-1867 and Vernham Deane is tied up with the latest Daphne Farquitt novel. Commander Bradshaw does his own thing, which leaves me in charge — and someone left a saucer of bread and milk on my desk this morning.'
'It was probably just a joke.'
'Well, I'm not laughing,' replied Mrs Tiggy-Winkle indignantly.
'By the way,' I said as a thought suddenly struck me, 'did you find out which book Yornck Kaine escaped from?'
'I'm afraid not. The Cat is searching unpublished novels in the Well of Lost Plots at the moment, but it might take a little time. You know how chaotic things are down there.'
'Only too well.' I sighed, thinking about my old home in unpublished fiction with a mixture of fondness and relief. The Well is where books are actually constructed, where plotsnuths create the stones that authors think they write. You can buy plot devices at discount rates and verbs by the pint. An odd place, to be sure. 'Okay,' I said finally, 'you'd better tell me what's going on.'
'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, counting the points out on her paw, 'this morning a rumour of potential change in the copyright laws swept through the BookWorld.'
'I don't know how these rumours get started,' I replied wearily. 'Was there any truth in it?'
'Not in the least.'
This was a contentious subject to the residents of the BookWorld. The jump to copyright-free Public Domain Status had always been a fearful prospect for a book character, and even with support groups and training courses to soften the blow, the 'Narrative Menopause' could take some getting used to. The problem was, copyright laws tend to vary around the world and sometimes characters are in the public domain in one market and not in another, which is confusing. Then there is the possibility that the law might change and characters who had adjusted themselves to Public Domain Status would find themselves in copyright again or vice versa. Unrest in the BookWorld about these matters is palpable; it only takes a small spark to set off a riot.
'So all was well?'
'Pretty much.'
'Good. Anything else?'
'Starbucks want to open another coffee shop in the Hardy Boys series.'
'Another one?' I asked with some surprise. 'There's already sixteen. How much coffee do they think they can drink? Tell them they can open another in Mrs Dalloway and two more in The Age of Reason. After that, no more. What else?'
'The Tailor of Gloucester needs three yards of cherry-coloured silk to finish the mayor's embroidered coat — but he's got a cold and can't go out.'
'Who are we? Interlink? Tell him to send his cat, Simpkin.'
'Okay.'
There was a pause.
'You didn't come all this way to tell me bad news about Kaine, copyright panics and cherry-coloured twist, now, did you?'
She looked at me and sighed.
'There's a bit of a problem with Hamlet.'
'I know. But he's doing a favour for my mother at the moment. I'll send him back in a few days.'
'Um,' replied the hedgehog nervously, 'it's a bit more complex than that. I think it might be a good idea if you kept him out here for a bit longer.'
'What's going on?' I asked suspiciously.
'It wasn't my fault!' she burst out, reaching for her pocket handkerchief. 'I thought the Internal Plot Adjustment request was to sort out the seasonal anomalies! All that death in the orchard, then winter, then flowers—'
'What happened?' I asked.
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle looked miserable.
'Well, you know there has been much grumbling within Hamlet ever since Rosencrantz and Guildenstern got their own play?'
'Yes?'
'Just after you left, Ophelia attempted a coup d'etat in Hamlet's absence. She imported a B-6 Hamlet from Lamb's Shakespeare and convinced him to re-enact some of the key scenes with a pro-Ophelia bias.'
'And?'
'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'they retitled it The Tragedy of the Fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'
'She's always up to something, isn't she? I'll give her "Hey nonny, nonny". Tell her to get back into line or we'll slap a Class II fiction infraction on her so fast it'll make her head spin.'
'We tried that but Laertes returned from Paris and lent his voice to the revolution. Together they made some more changes and called it: The Tragedy of the Noble Laertes, who avenges his sister the fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous and murderous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'
I ran my fingers through what remained of my hair.
'So . . . arrest them both?'
'Too late. Their father Polonius was in a "have a go" mood and joined in. He also made changes and together they renamed it The tragedy of the very witty and not remotely boring Polonius, father of the noble Laertes, who avenges his fair sister Ophelia, driven mad by the callous, murderous and outrageously disrespectful Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'
'What was it like?'
'With Polonius? Very . . . wordy. We could replace them all,' carried on Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'but changing so many major players in one swoop might cause irreparable damage. The last thing we need right now is Hamlet coming back and sticking his oar in -you know how mad he gets when anybody even suggests a word change.'
'Right,' I said, 'here's the plan. This is all happening in the 1623 folio edition, yes?'
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle nodded her head.
'Okay. Move Hamlet — or whatever it is called at present — to a disused Storycode engine and fire up The Penguin Modern Hamlet so that is the one everyone in the Outland will read. It will give us some breathing space without anyone seeing the Polonised version. It won't be at its best, but it'll have to do. Horatio must still be on Hamlet's side, surely?'
'Most definitely.'
'Then deputise him to Jurisfiction and try to get him to convince the Polonius family to attend an arbitration session. Keep me posted. I'll try and keep Hamlet amused out here.'
She made a note.
'Is that all?' I asked.
'Unless you need some washing done.'
'I have a mother who will fight you for that. Now please, please, Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, you must leave me to sort out Kaine and get my husband back!'
'You're right,' she said after a short pause. 'We're going to handle this all on our own.'
'Good.'
'Right.'
'Well . . . goodnight, then.'
'Yes,' said the hedgehog, 'goodnight.'
She stood there on the kitchen linoleum, tapping her paws together and staring at the ceiling.
'Tiggy, what is it?'
'It's Mr Tiggy-Winkle!' she burst out at last. 'He came home late last night in a state of shock and smelling of car exhaust and I'm so worried!'
It was about three in the morning when I was finally left alone with my thoughts, a sleeping son and a pocket handkerchief drenched with hedgehog tears.
11
The Greatness of St Zvlkx
GOLIATH CORPORATION IMPLEMENT 'DISTRACTION REDUCTION' PROGRAMME
Accusations were growing yesterday that the corporation's drive to increase productivity would result in the loss of civil liberties. This was strongly denied by Goliath, who commented: 'We don't see bricking up the million or so windows in our 10,000 work facilities as anything less than a positive step forward. By removing windows we aim to help the worker who might be suffering from interest in work deficit disorder to higher levels of self-help and greater productivity. We also think that it will save thousands of gallons of Windolene and the estimated six hundred deaths suffered by window cleaners every year.' Accusations that the corporation were 'nothing short of bullies' were met with a three-hundred-page writ for defamation, delivered personally by very big men with tattoos.'
Article in The Toad on Sunday 3 July, 1988
From humble beginnings in 1289 to a fiery end in the autumn of 1536, the towering beauty of the Great Cathedral of Swindon was once the equal of Canterbury or York, but no longer. Built over at least four times since then, the site of the cathedral is now occupied by a temple of another kind: Tesco's. Where monks once moved silently to prayer beneath vaulted cloisters, you can now buy Lola Vavoom workout videos, and where the exquisite stained-glass east window once brought forth tears from the coldest heart, there is now a refrigerated display boasting five different types of smoked sausage.
I took my seat and placed Friday on my lap. He wriggled while I looked around. The car park was full of eager spectators. Some, like myself, were sitting on the especially constructed tiered seating, the rest standing behind barriers on the asphalt. But everyone, sitting or standing, was facing a small fenced-off area sandwiched between the shopping trolley return point and the cashpoint machines. This small area contained a weathered arched doorway, the only visible remnant of Swindon's once great monastic settlement.
'How are you doing?' asked Joffy, who, as well as being a minister for the GSD and several other smaller denominations, was also head of the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx.
'Fine. Isn't that Lydia Startright?'
I was pointing at a well-dressed female reporter readying herself for a broadcast.
'She's about to interview me. How do I look?'
'Very . . . ecclesiastical.'
'Good. Excuse me.'
He straightened his dog collar and walked over to join Lydia. She was standing next to her producer, a small and curiously unappealing man who was so unoriginal of thought that he still considered it cool and desirable for people in the media to wear black.
'What time is old Zvlkxy due to appear?' the producer asked Joffy.
'In about five minutes.'
'Good. Lyds, we'd better go live.'
Lydia composed herself, took one more look at her notes, awaited the count-in of the producer, gave a welcoming smile and began.
'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is Lydia Startright for Toad News Network reporting live from Swindon. In under five minutes St Zvlkx, the obscure and sometimes controversial thirteenth-century saint, is due to be resurrected here, live on regional TV.'
She turned to indicate the weathered pieces of stone, previously ignored by thousands of shoppers but now the centre of attention.
'On this spot once stood the towering Great Cathedral of Swindon, founded by St Zvlkx in the thirteenth century. Where the wet-fish counter now stands was where St Zvlkx penned his "Book of Revealments" containing seven sets of prophecies, five of which have already come true. To help us through the quagmire of claims and counter-claims I have with me the Very Irrev. Joffy Next, head of the Church of the Global Standard Deity here in Swindon, speaker at the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and something of an expert in things Zvlkxian. Hello, Joffy, welcome to the show.' 'Thank you, Lydia,' said Joffy, 'we're all big fans of yours at the GSD.'
'Thank you. So tell me, what exactly are the Revealments?'
'Well,' he began, 'details are understandably vague, but St Zvlkx wrote a number of predictions in a small book before he vanished in a "cleansing fire" in 1292. An incomplete copy of the Revealments is in the Swindon City Library, but unlike those of most of the other seers who make vague and sweeping generalisations that are open to interpretation, St Zvlkx's predictions are refreshingly specific.'
'Perhaps you could give us an example?'
'Of course. Part of Zvlkx's Revealment the First tells us that: A lowly butcher's son from the town of Ipswich will rise to be Lord Chancellor. His name shall be Tommy Wolsey, and he will be inaugurated the day before Christmas, and shall get only one present, not two, as should be his right . . .'
'That's uncannily accurate!' breathed Lydia.
'Indeed — existing letters from Cardinal Wolsey indicate most strongly that he was "vexed and annoyed" at having to make do with only one present, something he often spoke about and which might have contributed, many years later, to his failure to persuade the Pope to grant Henry VIII an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.'
'Remarkable,' said Lydia. 'What else?'
'Well,' continued Joffy, 'Zvlkx's Revealment the Second told us that: . . . It shall be known as the "Sail of the Century" — an armada of over a hundred ships smelling of paella shall cross the Channel. Fire and wind will conspire to destroy them, England will remain free . . .'
'Not quite so good,' said Lydia.
'I agree,' replied Joffy. 'Paella wasn't invented until after the Spanish Armada. There are the odd mistakes, but even so his accuracy is astonishing. Not only do his Revealments include names and dates but also, on one occasion, a reliable phone number for a good time in Leeds. By the end of the sixteenth century St Zvlkx had been afforded that rare hallmark of unbridled Elizabethan success — the commemorative plate. By the time of his next Revealment a century and a half later his supporters and followers had dwindled to only a handful. But when it arrived, this Revealment the Third catapulted Zvlkx back into the world's headlines: . . . In 1776, a George King numbered three will lose his mind, his largest colony, and his socks. The colony will grow to be the greatest power in the world but his mind and his socks will stay lost . . .'
'And the fourth?'
'. . . a man named after a form of waterproof shoe will trounce a short Frenchman in Belgium . . .'
'Clearly Waterloo — and the fifth?'
'. . . The evil yet nattily dressed aggressors known as Nasis, fear of whom has polarised the nation, will be ejected from these islands by — and I know this sounds really weird — the colony that was mentioned in prediction three. And Denis Compton will score 3,816 runs for Middlesex in a single season . . .'
'Uncanny,' murmured Lydia. 'How would a thirteenth-century monk know that Compton batted for Middlesex?'
'He was, and indeed might be again, the greatest of seers,' replied Joffy.
'We know that his Revealment the Sixth was a prediction of his own second coming, but it is the sports fans of Swindon who will really be bowled over by his Revealment the Seventh.'
'Exactly so,' replied Joffy. 'According to the incomplete Codex Zvlkxus, it will be: There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of . . . There is more, but it's been lost. We can ask him about it when he reappears.'
'Fascinating stuff, Irrev. Next! Just one question. Where is he?'
I looked at my watch as Friday stood on my lap and stared that unnerving sort of two-year-old stare at the couple behind us. St Zvlkx was already three minutes late, and I saw Joffy bite his lip nervously. They had made much of the Great Man's predictions, and for him not to turn up would be just plain embarrassing — not to mention costly. Joffy had spent a great deal of Mum's savings learning Old English at the local adult education centre.
'Tell me, Irrev. Next,' continued Lydia, trying to pad out the interview, 'I understand the Toast Marketing Board has secured a sponsorship deal with St Zvlkx?'
'Indeed,' replied Joffy, 'we at the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx have secured on his behalf a very favourable deal with Toast, who wanted to have exclusive rights to his likeness and wisdom, if he has any.'
'Nevertheless, I understand the Goliath Corporation were said to be interested?'
'Not really. Goliath have been less than enthusiastic since their sportswear division paid over a quarter of a million for an exclusive sponsorship deal with St Bernadette of Lincoln. But since her return six months ago she has done nothing except brick herself up in a room and pray in silent retrospection, something that doesn't lend itself to selling running shoes. The Toast Marketing Board, on the other hand, made no such demands — they are happy just to see what Zvlkx himself would like to do for them.'
Lydia turned back to the camera.
'Astonishing. If you've just joined us this is a live telecast of the second coming of the thirteenth-century saint, Thomas Zvlkx.'
I looked at my watch again. Zvlkx was now five minutes late. Lydia carried on with her live broadcast, interviewing several other people to soak up time. The crowd grew slightly impatient and a low murmuring started to emerge from the expectant silence. Lydia had just asked a style guru about the sort of clothes they might be expecting Zvlkx to be wearing when she was interrupted by a shout. Something was happening just outside Tesco's between the child's coin-in-the-slot flying elephant ride and the letterbox. Joffy vaulted over the press enclosure and ran towards where a column of smoke was rising from a crack that had opened up in the mother-and-child parking area. The sky grew dark, birds stopped singing and shoppers coming out of the revolving doors stared in astonishment as a bolt of lightning struck the weathered stone arch and split it asunder. There was a collective cry of alarm as a wind sprang up from nowhere. Pennants advertising new Saver product lines which were hanging limply on the flagpoles came loose with a crack and a whirling mass of dust and waste paper spread across the car park, making several people cough.
Within a few moments it was all over. Sitting on the ground and dressed in a rough habit tied with a rope at the waist was a grubby man with a scraggy beard and exceptionally bad teeth. He blinked and looked curiously around at his new surroundings.
'Welcome,' said Joffy, the first on the scene, 'I represent the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and offer you protection and guidance'
The thirteenth-century monk looked at him with his dark eyes, then at the crowd which had gathered closer to him, everyone talking and pointing and asking him whether they could have their pictures taken with him.
'Your accent is not bad,' replied St Zvlkx slowly. 'Is this 1988?'
'It is, sir. I've brokered a sponsorship deal for you with the Toast Marketing Board.'
'Cash?'
Joffy nodded.
'Thank ?*&£@ for that,' said Zvlkx. 'Has the ale improved Since I've been away?'
'Not much. But the choice is better.'
'Can't wait. Hubba-hubba! Who's the moppet in the tight blouse?'
'Mr Next,' interjected Lydia. who had managed to push her way to the front, 'perhaps you would be good enough to tell us what Mr Zvlkx is saying?'
'I — um — welcomed him to the twentieth century and said we had much to learn from him as regards beekeeping and the lost art of brewing mead. He — um — said just then that he is tired after his journey and wants only world peace, bridges between nations and a good home for orphans, kittens and puppies.'
The crowd suddenly parted to make way for the Mayor of Swindon. St Zvlkx knew power when he saw it and smiled a greeting to Lord Volescamper, who walked briskly up and shook the monk's grimy hand.
'Look here, welcome to the twentieth century, old salt,' said Volescamper, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. 'How are you finding it?"
'Welcome to our age,' translated Joffy, 'How are you enjoying your stay?'
'Cushty, me old cocker babe,' replied the saint simply.
'He says very well, thank you.'
'Tell the worthy saint that we have a welcome pack awaiting him in the presidential suite at the Finis Hotel. Knowing his aversion to comfort we took the liberty of removing all carpets, drapes, sheets and towels and replaced the bedclothes with hemp sacks stuffed with rocks.'
'What did the old fart say?'
'You don't want to know.'
'What about the incomplete seventh Revealment?' asked Lydia. 'Can St Zvlkx tell us anything about that?'
Joffy swiftly translated and St Zvlkx rummaged in the folds of his blanket and produced a small leather-bound book. The crowd fell silent as he licked a grubby finger, turned to the requisite page and read:
'There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of this and only in consequence of this, a great tyrant and the company named Goliathe will fall.'
All eyes switched to Joffy, who translated. There was a sharp intake of breath and a clamour of questions.
'Mr Zvlkx,' said a reporter from The Mole, who up until that moment had been bored out of his skull, 'do you mean to say that Goliath will be lost if Swindon wins the Superhoop?'
'That is exactly what he says,' replied Joffy.
There was a further clamour of questions from the assembled journalists as I carefully tried to figure out the repercussions of this new piece of intelligence. Dad had said that a Superhoop win for Swindon would avert an armageddon and, if what Zvlkx was saying came true, a triumph on Saturday would do precisely this. The question was, how? There was no connection as far as I could see. I was still trying to think how a croquet final could unseat a near-dictator and destroy one of the most powerful multinationals on the planet when Lord Volescamper intervened and silenced the noisy crowd of newsmen with a wave of his hand.
'Mr Next, thank the gracious saint for his words. There is time enough to muse on his Revealment but right now I would like him to meet members of the Swindon Chamber of Commerce, which, I might add, is sponsored by St Biddulph's® Hundreds and Thousands, the cake decoration of choice. After that we might take some tea and carrot cake. Would he be agreeable to that?'
Joffy translated every word and Zvlkx smiled happily.
'Look here, St Zvlkx,' said Volescamper as they walked towards the marquee for tea and scones, 'what was the thirteenth century like?'
'The mayor wants to know what the thirteenth century was like — and no lip, sunshine.'