‘Filbert, ah yes!’ he murmured. ‘A good lad and a fine son to his father!’
   Filbert Snood was the only man who had even remotely interested me since I left Landen ten years ago. Snood had been in the ChronoGuard; he went away on assignment to Tewkesbury and never came back. I had a call from his commanding officer explaining that he had been unavoidably detained. I took that to mean another girl. It hurt at the time but I hadn’t been in love with Filbert. I was certain of that because I had been in love with Landen. When you’ve been there you know it, like seeing a Turner or going for a walk on the west coast of Ireland.
   ‘So you’re his father?’
   Snood walked through to the kitchen but I wasn’t going to let it go.
   ‘So how is he? Where’s he living these days?’
   The old man fumbled with the kettle.
   ‘I find it hard to talk about Filbert,’ he announced at length, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘It was so long ago!’
   ‘He’s dead?’ I asked.
   ‘Oh no,’ murmured the old man. ‘He’s not dead; I think you were told he was unavoidably detained, yes?’
   ‘Yes. I thought he had found someone else or something.’
   ‘We thought you would understand; your father was or is, I suppose, in the ChronoGuard and we use certain—let me see—euphemisms’
   He looked at me intently with clear blue eyes staring through heavy lids. My heart thumped heavily. ‘What are you saying?’ I asked him.
   The old man thought about saying something else but then lapsed into silence, paused for a moment and then shuffled back to the main room to mark up videotape labels. There was obviously more to it than just a girl in Tewkesbury, but time was on my side. I let the matter drop.
   It gave me a chance to look around the room. A trestle table against one damp wall was stacked with surveillance equipment. A Revox spool-to-spool tape recorder slowly revolved next to a mixing box that placed all seven bugs in the room opposite and the phone line on to eight different tracks of the tape. Set back from the windows were two binoculars, a camera with a powerful telephoto lens, and next to this a video camera recording at slow speed on to a ten-hour tape.
   Tamworth looked up from the binoculars. ‘Welcome, Thursday. Come and have a look!’ I looked through the binoculars. In the flat opposite, not thirty yards distant, I could see a well-dressed man aged perhaps fifty with a pinched face and a concerned expression. He seemed to be on the phone.
   ‘That’s not him.’
   Tamworth smiled. ‘I know. This is his brother, Styx. We found out about him this morning. SO-14 were going to pick him up but our man is a much bigger fish; I called SO-1, who intervened on our behalf; Styx is our responsibility at the moment. Have a listen.’
   He handed me some earphones and I looked through the binoculars again. Hades’ brother was sitting at a large walnut desk flicking through a copy of the London and District Car Trader. As I watched, he stopped, picked up the phone and dialled a number.
   ‘Hello?’ said Styx into the phone.
   ‘Hello?’ replied a middle-aged woman, the recipient of the call.
   ‘Do you have a 1976 Chevrolet for sale?’
   ‘Buying a car?’ I asked Tamworth.
   ‘Keep listening. Same time every week, apparently. Regular as clockwork.’
   ‘It’s only got eighty-two thousand miles on the clock,’ continued the lady, ‘and runs really well. MOT and tax paid till year’s end, too.’
   ‘It sounds perfect,’ replied Styx. ‘I’ll be willing to pay cash. Will you hold it for me? I’ll be about an hour. You’re in Clapham, yes?’
   The woman agreed, and she read over an address that Styx didn’t bother writing down. He reaffirmed his interest and then hung up, only to call a different number about another car in Hounslow. I took off the headphones and pulled out the headset jack so we could hear Styx’s nasal rasp over the loudspeakers.
   ‘How long does he do this for?’
   ‘From SO-14 records, until he gets bored. Six hours, sometimes eight. He’s not the only one either. Anyone who has ever sold a car gets someone like Styx on the phone at least once. Here, these are for you.’
   He handed me a box of ammunition with expanding slugs developed for maximum internal damage.
   ‘What is he? A buffalo?’
   But Tamworth wasn’t amused.
   ‘We’re up against something quite different here, Thursday. Pray to the GSD you never have to use them, but if you do, don’t hesitate. Our man doesn’t give second chances.’
   I took the clip out of my automatic and reloaded it and the spare I carried with me, leaving a standard slug on top in case of an SO-1 spot check. Over in the flat, Styx had dialled another number in Ruislip.
   ‘Hello?’ replied the unfortunate car owner on the other end of the line.
   ‘Yes, I saw your advert for a Ford Granada in today’s Trader,’ continued Styx. ‘Is it still for sale?’
   Styx got the address out of the car owner, promised to be around in ten minutes, put the phone down and then rubbed his hands with glee, laughing childishly. He put a line through the advert and then went on to the next.
   ‘Doesn’t even have a licence,’ said Tamworth from the other side of the room. ‘He spends the rest of his time stealing Biros, causing electrical goods to fail after the guarantee has expired and scratching records in record shops.’
   ‘A bit childish, isn’t it?’

   ‘I’d say,’ replied Tamworth. ‘He’s possessed of a certain amount of wickedness, but nothing like his brother.’
   ‘So what’s the connection between Styx and the Chuzzlewit manuscript?’
   ‘We suspect that he may have it. According to SO-14’s surveillance records he brought in a package the evening of the break-in at Gad’s Hill. I’m the first to admit that this is a long shot but it’s the best evidence of his whereabouts these past three years. It’s about time he broke cover.’
   ‘Has he demanded a ransom for the manuscript?’ I asked.
   ‘No, but it’s early days. It might not be as simple as we think. Our man has an estimated IQ of 180, so simple extortion might be too easy for him.’
   Snood came in and sat down slightly shakily at the binoculars, put on the headphones and plugged in the jack. Tamworth picked up his keys and handed me a book.
   ‘I have to meet up with my opposite number at SO-4. I’ll be about an hour. If anything happens, just page me. My number is on Redial One. Have a read of this if you get bored.’
   I looked at the small book he had given me. It was Charlotte Bronte’s JaneEyre bound in thick red leather. ‘Who told you?’ I asked sharply.
   ‘Who told me what?’ replied Tamworth, genuinely surprised.
   ‘It’s just… I’ve read this book a lot. When I was younger. I know it very well.’
   ‘And you like the ending?’
   I thought for a moment. The rather flawed climax of the book was a cause of considerable bitterness within Bronte circles. It was generally agreed that if Jane had returned to Thornfield Hall and married Rochester, the book might have been a lot better than it was.
   ‘No one likes the ending, Tamworth. But there’s more than enough in it regardless of that.’
   ‘Then a reread will be especially instructive, won’t it?’ There was a knock at the door. Tamworth answered it and a man who was all shoulders and no neck entered.
   ‘Just in time!’ said Tamworth, looking at his watch. ‘Thursday Next, this is Buckett. He’s temporary until I get a replacement.’ He smiled and was gone.
   Buckett and I shook hands. He smiled wanly as though this sort of job was not something he relished. He told me that he was pleased to meet me, then went to speak to Snood about the results of a horse race.
   I tapped my fingertips on the copy ofJane Eyre that Tamworth had given me and placed it in my breast pocket. I rounded up the coffee cups and took them next door to the cracked enamel sink. Buckett appeared at the doorway.
   ‘Tamworth said you were a LiteraTec.’
   ‘Tamworth was correct.’
   ‘I wanted to be a LiteraTec.’
   ‘You did?’ I replied, seeing if there was anything in the fridge that wasn’t a year past its sell-by date.
   ‘Yeah. But they said you had to read a book or two.’
   ‘It helps.’
   There was a knock at the door and Buckett instinctively reached for his handgun. He was more on edge than I had thought.
   ‘Easy, Buckett. I’ll get it.’
   He joined me at the door and released the safety from his pistol. I looked at him and he nodded back in reply.
   ‘Who’s there?’ I said without opening the door.
   ‘Hello!’ replied a voice. ‘My name’s Edmund Capillary. Have you ever stopped to wonder whether it was really William Shakespeare who penned all those wonderful plays?’
   We both breathed a sigh of relief and Buckett put the safety back on his automatic, muttering under his breath: ‘Bloody Baconians!’
   ‘Steady,’ I replied, ‘it’s not illegal.’
   ‘More’s the pity.’
   ‘Shh.’
   I opened the door on the security chain and found a small man in a lumpy corduroy suit. He was holding a dog-eared ID for me to see and politely raised his hat with a nervous smile. The Baconians were quite mad but for the most part harmless. Their purpose in life was to prove that Francis Bacon and not Will Shakespeare had penned the greatest plays in the English language. Bacon, they believed, had not been given the recognition that he rightfully deserved and they campaigned tirelessly to redress this supposed injustice.
   ‘Hello!’ said the Baconian brightly. ‘Can I take a moment of your time?’
   I answered slowly: ‘If you expect me to believe that a lawyer wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I must be dafter than I look.’
   The Baconian was not to be put off. He obviously liked fighting a poor argument; in real life he was most likely a personal accident barrister.
   ‘Not as daft as supposing that a Warwickshire schoolboy with almost no education could write works that were not for an age but for all time.’
   ‘There is no evidence that he was without formal education,’ I returned evenly, suddenly enjoying myself. Buckett wanted me to get rid of him but I ignored his gesticulations.
   ‘Agreed,’ continued the Baconian, ‘but I would argue that the Shakespeare in Stratford was not the same man as the Shakespeare in London.’
   It was an interesting approach. I paused and Edmund Capillary took the opportunity to pounce. He launched into his well-rehearsed patter almost automatically: ‘The Shakespeare in Stratford was a wealthy grain trader and buying houses when the Shakespeare in London was being pursued by tax collectors for petty sums. The collectors traced him to Sussex on one occasion in 1600; yet why not take action against him in Stratford?’
   ‘Search me.’
   He was on a roll now.
   ‘No one is recorded in Stratford as having any idea of his literary success. He was never known to have bought a book, written a letter or indeed done anything apart from being a purveyor of bagged commodities, grain and malt and so forth.’
   The small man looked triumphant.
   ‘So where does Bacon fit into all this?’ I asked him.
   ‘Francis Bacon was an Elizabethan writer who had been forced into becoming a lawyer and politician by his family. Since being associated with something like the theatre would have been frowned upon, Bacon had to enlist the help of a poor actor named Shakespeare to act as his front man—history has mistakenly linked the two Shakespeares to give added validity to a story that otherwise has little substance.’
   ‘And the proof?’

   ‘Hall and Marston—both Elizabethan satirists—were firmly of the belief that Bacon was the true author of “Venus and Adonis” and “The Rape of Lucrece”. I have a pamphlet here which goes into the matter further. More details are available at our monthly gatherings; we used to meet at the town hall but the radical wing of the “New Marlovians” fire-bombed us last week. I don’t know where we will meet next. But if I can take your name and number, we can be in touch.’
   His face was earnest and smug; he thought he had me. I decided to play my trump card.
   ‘What about the will?’
   ‘The will?’ he echoed, slightly nervously. He was obviously hoping I wasn’t going to mention it.
   ‘Yes,’ I continued. ‘If Shakespeare were truly two people, then why would the Shakespeare in Stratford mention the London Shakespeare’s theatre colleagues Condell, Heming and Burbage in his will?’
   The Baconian’s face fell.
   ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.’ He sighed. ‘I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?’
   ‘I’m afraid you are.’
   He muttered something under his breath and moved on. As I threw the bolt I could hear the Baconian knocking at the next door to ours. Perhaps he’d have better luck down the corridor.
   ‘What is a LiteraTec doing here anyway, Next?’ asked Buckett as we returned to the kitchen.
   ‘I’m here,’ I answered slowly, ‘because I know what he looks like; I’m not permanent in the least. As soon as I’ve fingered his man, Tamworth will transfer me back again.’
   I poured some yoghurty milk down the sink and rinsed out the container.
   ‘Might be a blessing.’
   ‘I don’t see it that way. What about you? How did you get in with Tamworth?’
   ‘I’m antiterrorist usually. SO-9. But Tamworth has trouble with recruitment. He took a cavalry sabre for me. I owe him.’
   He dropped his eyes and fiddled with his tie for a moment. I peered cautiously into a cupboard for a dishcloth, discovered something nasty and then closed it quickly.
   Buckett took out his wallet and showed me a picture of a dribbling infant that looked like every other dribbling infant I had ever seen.
   ‘I’m married now so Tamworth knows I can’t stay; one’s needs change, you know.’
   ‘Good-looking kid.’
   ‘Thank you.’ He put the picture away. ‘You married?’
   ‘Not for want of trying,’ I replied as I filled the kettle. Buckett nodded and brought out a copy of Fast Horse.
   ‘Do you ever flutter on the gee-gees? I’ve had an unusual tip on Malabar.’
   ‘I don’t. Sorry.’
   Buckett nodded. His conversation had pretty much dried up.
   I brought in some coffee a few minutes later. Snood and Buckett were discussing the outcome of the Cheltenham Gold Stakes Handicap.
   ‘So you know what he looks like, Miss Next?’ asked the ancient Snood without looking up from the binoculars.
   ‘He was a lecturer of mine when I was at college. He’s tricky to describe, though.’
   ‘Average build?’
   ‘When I last saw him.’
   ‘Tan?’
   ‘At least six-six.’
   ‘Black hair worn swept back and greying at the temples?’
   Buckett and I looked at one another.
   ‘Yes—?’
   ‘I think he’s over there, Thursday.’
   I jerked the headphone jack out.
   ‘—Acheron!!’ came Styx’s voice over the loudspeaker. ‘Dear brother, what a pleasant surprise!’
   I looked through the binoculars and could see Acheron in the flat with Styx. He was dressed in a large grey duster jacket and was exactly how I remembered him from all those years ago. It didn’t seem as though he had aged even one day. I shivered involuntarily.
   ‘Shit,’ I muttered. Snood had already dialled the pager number to alert Tamworth.
   ‘Mosquitoes have stung the blue goat,’ he muttered down the phone. ‘Thank you. Can you repeat that back and send it twice?’
   My heart beat faster. Acheron might not stay long and I was in a position for advancement beyond the LiteraTecs for good. Capturing Hades would be something no one could ever ignore.
   ‘I’m going over there,’ I said almost casually.
   ‘What?!’
   ‘You heard. Stay here and call SO-14 for armed back-up, silent approach. Tell them we have gone in and to surround the building. Suspect will be armed and highly dangerous. Got it?’
   Snood smiled in the manner that I had so liked in his son and reached for the telephone. I turned to Buckett. ‘You with me?’
   Buckett had turned a little pale. ‘I’m—ah—with you,’ he replied slightly shakily.
   I flew out of the door, down the stairs and into the lobby.
   ‘Next—!’
   It was Buckett. He had stopped and was visibly shaking.
   ‘What is it?’
   ‘I… I… can’t do this,’ he announced, loosening his tie and rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I have the kid—! You don’t know what he can do. I’m a betting man, Next. I love long odds. But we try and take him and we’re both dead. I beg you, wait for 80-14!’
   ‘He could be long gone by then. All we have to do is detain him.’
   Buckett bit his lip, but the man was terrified. He shook his head and beat a hasty retreat without another word. It was unnerving to say the least. I thought of shouting after him but remembered the picture of the dribbling kid. I pulled out my automatic, pushed open the door to the street and walked slowly across the road to the building opposite. As I did so Tamworth drew up in his car. He didn’t look very happy.
   ‘What the hell are you doing?’
   ‘Pursuing the suspect.’
   ‘No you’re not. Where’s Buckett?’
   ‘On his way home.’
   ‘I don’t blame him. SO-14 on their way?’
   I nodded. He paused, looked up at the dark building and then at me.
   ‘Shit. Okay, stay behind and stay sharp. Shoot first, then question. Below the eight—‘
   ‘—above the law. I remember.’
   ‘Good.’
   Tamworth pulled out his gun and we stepped cautiously into the lobby of the converted warehouse. Styx’s flat was on the seventh floor. Surprise, hopefully, would be on our side.

5. Search for the guilty, punish the innocent

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

Millon de Floss. Thursday Next. A biography


   I tried to focus on the striplight above me. I knew that something had happened but the night when Tamworth and I tackled Acheron Hades had, for the moment at least, been erased from my mind. I frowned, but only fractured images paraded themselves in my consciousness. I remembered shooting a little old lady three times and running down a fire escape. I had a dim recollection of blasting away at my own car and being shot in the arm. I looked at my arm and it was, indeed, tightly bound with a white bandage. Then I remembered being shot again—in the chest. I breathed in and out a couple of times and was relieved that no crackly rasp reached my ears. There was a nurse in the room who said a few words I couldn’t decipher and smiled. I thought it odd and then lapsed once again into grateful slumber.
   The next time I awoke it was evening and the room seemed colder. I was alone in a single hospital ward with seven empty beds. Just outside the door I could see an armed police officer on guard duty, while inside a vast quantity of flowers and cards vied for space. As I lay in bed the memories of the evening returned and tumbled out of my subconscious. I resisted them as long as I could but it was like holding back a flood. Everything that had happened that night came back in an instant. And as I remembered, I wept.
   Within a week I was strong enough to get out of bed. Paige and Boswell had both dropped by, and even my mother had made the trip up from Swindon to see me. She told me she had painted the bedroom mauve, much to Dad’s disappointment—and it was my fault for suggesting it. I didn’t think I’d bother trying to explain. I was glad of any sympathy, of course, but my mind was elsewhere: there had been a monumental fiasco and someone was going to be responsible; and as the sole survivor of that disastrous evening, I was the strongest and only candidate. A small office was procured in the hospital and into it came Tamworth’s old divisional commander, a man whom I had never met named Flanker, who seemed utterly devoid of humour and warmth. He brought with him a twin-cassette tape deck and several SO-1 senior operatives, who declined to give their names. I gave my testimony slowly and frankly, without emotion and as accurately as possible. Acheron’s strange powers had been hinted at before, but even so Flanker was having trouble believing it.
   ‘I’ve read Tamworth’s file on Hades and it makes pretty weird reading, Miss Next,’ he said. ‘Tamworth was a bit of a loose cannon. SO-5 was his and his alone; Hades was more of an obsession than a job. From our initial enquiries it seems that he has been flaunting basic SpecOps guidelines. Contrary to popular belief, we are accountable to Parliament, albeit on a very discreet basis.’
   He paused for a moment and consulted his notes. He looked at me and switched on the tape recorder. He identified the tape with the date, his name and mine, but only referred to the other operatives by numbers. That done, he drew up a chair and sat down.
   ‘So what happened?’
   I paused for a moment and then began, giving the story of my meeting with Tamworth right up until Buckett’s hasty departure.
   ‘I’m glad that someone seemed to have some sense,’ murmured one of the SO-1 agents. I ignored him.
   ‘Tamworth and I entered the lobby of Styx’s property,’ I told them. ‘We took the stairs and on the sixth floor we heard the shot. We stopped and listened but there was complete silence. Tamworth thought we had been rumbled.’
   ‘You had been rumbled,’ announced Flanker. ‘From the transcript of the tape we know that Snood spoke Hades’ name out loud. Hades picked it up and reacted badly; he accused Styx of betraying him, retrieved the package and then killed his brother. Your surprise attack was no surprise. He knew you were both there.’
   I took a sip of water. If we had known, would we have retreated? I doubted it.
   ‘Who was in front?’
   ‘Tamworth. We edged slowly round the stairwell and looked on to the seventh-floor landing. It was empty apart from a little old lady who was facing the lift doors and muttering angrily to herself. Tamworth and I edged closer to Styx’s open door and peered in. Styx was lying on the floor and we quickly searched the small flat.’
   ‘We saw you on the surveillance video, Next,’ said one of the nameless operatives. ‘Your search was conducted well.’
   ‘Did you see Hades on the video?’
   The same man coughed. They had been having trouble coming to terms with Tamworth’s report, but the video was unequivocal. Hades’ likeness had not shown up on it at all—just his voice.
   ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, we did not.’
   ‘Tamworth cursed and walked back to the door,’ I continued. ‘It was then that I heard another shot.’
   I stopped for a moment, remembering the event carefully, yet not fully understanding what I had seen and felt. I remembered that my heart rate had dropped; everything had suddenly become crystal clear. I had felt no panic, just an overwhelming desire to see the job completed. I had seen Tamworth die but had felt no emotion; that was to come later.
   ‘Miss Next?’ asked Flanker, interrupting my thoughts.
   ‘What? Sorry. Tamworth was hit. I walked over but a quick glance confirmed that the wound was incompatible with survival. I had to assume Hades was on the landing, so I took a deep breath and glanced out.’
   ‘What did you see?’
   ‘I saw the little old lady, standing by the lift. I had heard no one run off downstairs, so assumed Hades was on the roof. I glanced out again. The old lady gave up waiting and walked past me on her way to the stairs, splashing through a puddle of water on the way. She tut-tutted as she passed Tamworth’s body. I switched my attention back to the landing and to the stairwell that led to the roof. As I walked slowly towards the roof access, a doubt crept into my mind. I turned back to look at the little old lady, who had started off down the stairs and was grumbling about the infrequency of trams. Her footprints from the water caught my eye. Despite her small feet, the wet footprints were made by a man’s-size shoe. I required no more proof. It was Rule Number Two: Acheron could lie in thought, deed, action and appearance. For the first time ever, I fired a gun in anger.’
   There was silence, so I continued.
   ‘I saw at least three of the four shots hit the lumbering figure on the stairs. The old lady—or, at the very least, her image—tumbled out of sight and I walked cautiously up to the head of the stairwell. Her belongings were strewn all the way down the concrete steps with her shopping trolley on the landing below. Her groceries had spilt out and several cans of cat food were rolling slowly down the steps.’
   ‘So you hit her?’
   ‘Definitely.’

  Flanker dug a small evidence bag out of his pocket and showed it to me. It contained three of my slugs, flattened as though they had been fired into the side of a tank.
   When Flanker spoke again his voice was edged with disbelief.
   ‘You say that Acheron disguised himself as an old lady?’
   ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, looking straight ahead.
   ‘How did he do that?’
   ‘I don’t know, sir.’
   ‘How could a man over six foot six dress in a small woman’s clothes?’
   ‘I don’t think he did it physically; I think he just projected what he wanted me to see.’
   ‘That sounds crazy.’
   ‘There’s a lot we don’t know about Hades.’
   ‘That I can agree with. The old lady’s name was Mrs Grimswold; we found her wedged up the chimney in Styx’s apartment. It took three men to pull her out.’
   Flanker thought for a moment and let one of the other men ask a question.
   ‘I’m interested to know why you were both armed with expanding ammunition,’ said one of the other officers, not looking at me but at the wall. He was short and dark and had an annoying twitch in his left eye. ‘Fluted hollow points and high-power loads. What were you planning to shoot? Buffalo?’
   I took a deep breath.
   ‘Hades was shot six times without any ill effects in ‘77, sir. Tamworth gave us expanded ammunition to use against him. He said he had SO-1 approval.’
   ‘Well, he didn’t. If the papers get hold of this there will be hell to pay. SpecOps doesn’t have a good relationship with the press, Miss Next. The Mole keeps on wanting access for one of its journalists. In this climate of accountability the politicians are leaning on us more and more. Expanding ammunition—! Shit, not even the Special Cavalry use those on Russians.’
   ‘That’s what I said,’ I countered, ‘but having seen the state of these’—I shook the bag of flattened slugs—‘I can see that Tamworth showed considerable restraint. We should have been carrying armour-piercing.’
   ‘Don’t even think about it.’
   We had a break then. Flanker and the others vanished into the next room to argue while a nurse changed the dressing on my arm. I had been lucky; there had been no infection. I was thinking about Snood when they returned to resume the interview.
   ‘As I walked carefully down the stairwell it was apparent that Acheron was now unarmed,’ I continued. ‘A nine-millimetre Beretta lay on the concrete steps next to a tin of custard powder. Of Acheron and the little old lady, there was no sign. On the landing I found a door to an apartment that had been pushed open with great force, shearing both hinge pins and the Chubb door bolt. I quickly questioned the occupants of the flat but they were both insensible with laughter; it seemed Acheron had told them some sort of a joke about three anteaters in a pub, and I got no sense out of either of them.’
   One of the operatives was slowly shaking her head.
   ‘What is it now?’ I asked indignantly.
   ‘Neither of the two people you describe remember you or Hades coming through their flat. All they recall is the door bursting open for no apparent reason. How do you account for this?’
   I thought for a moment.
   ‘Obviously, I can’t. Perhaps he has control over the weak-minded. We still only have a small idea of this man’s powers.’
   ‘Hmm,’ replied the operative thoughtfully. ‘To tell the truth, the couple did try to tell us the joke about the anteaters. We wondered about that.’
   ‘It wasn’t funny, was it?’
   ‘Not at all. But they seemed to think it was.’
   I was beginning to feel angry and didn’t like the way the interview was going. I collected my thoughts and continued, arguing to myself that the sooner this was over, the better.
   ‘I looked slowly around the flat and found an open window in the bedroom. It led out on to the fire escape, and as I peered out I could see Acheron’s form running down the rusty steps four floors below. I knew I couldn’t catch him, and it was then that I saw Snood. He stumbled out from behind a parked car and pointed his revolver at Hades as he dropped to the ground. At the time, I didn’t understand what he was doing there.’
   ‘But you know now?’
   My heart sank. ‘He was there for me.’
   I felt tears well up and then fought them down. I was damned if I was going to start crying like a baby in front of this bunch, so I expertly turned the sniff into a cough.
   ‘He was there because he knew what he had done,’ said Flanker. ‘He knew that by speaking Hades’ name out loud he had compromised you and Tamworth. We believe he was trying to make amends. At eighty-nine years of age, he was attempting to take on a man of superior strength, resolve and intellect. He was brave. He was stupid. Did you hear anything they said?’
   ‘Not at first. I proceeded down the fire escape and heard Snood yell out “Armed Police!” and “On the ground!” By the time I reached the second floor, Hades had convinced Snood to give up his weapon and had shot him. I fired twice from where I was; Hades stumbled slightly but he soon recovered and sprinted for the nearest car. My car.’
   ‘What happened then?’
   ‘I clambered down the ladder and dropped to the ground, landing badly on some trash and twisting my ankle. I looked up and saw Acheron punch in the window of my car and open the door. It didn’t take him much more than a couple of seconds to tear off the steering lock and start the engine. The street was, I knew, a cul-de-sac. If Acheron wanted to escape it would have to be through me. I hobbled out into the middle of the road and waited. I started firing as soon as he pulled away from the kerb. All my shots hit their mark. Two in the windscreen and one in the radiator grille. The car kept accelerating and I kept firing. A wing mirror and the other headlamp shattered. The car would hit me if it carried on as it was, but I didn’t really care any more. The operation was a mess. Acheron had killed Tamworth and Snood. He’d kill countless others if I didn’t give it my all. With my last shot I hit his offside front tyre and Acheron finally lost control. The car hit a parked Studebaker and turned over, bounced along on its roof and finally teetered to a stop barely three feet from where I stood. It rocked unsteadily for a moment and then was still, the water from the radiator mixing with the petrol that leaked on to the road.’

   I took another sip of water and looked at the assembled faces. They were following my every word, but the hardest part of it was yet to come.
   ‘I reloaded, then pulled open the driver’s door of the upturned car. I had expected Acheron to tumble out in a heap, but Hades, not for the first time that night, had failed to live up to expectations. The car was empty.’
   ‘Did you see him escape?’

   ‘No. I was just pondering this when I heard a familiar voice behind me. It was Buckett. He had returned.
   “Where is he?’” Buckett yelled.
   “I don’t know,” I stammered in reply, checking the back of the car. “He was here—!”
   “Stay here!” shouted Buckett. “I’m going to check around the front!”
   I was glad to be given orders and spared the burden of initiative. But as Buckett turned to leave he shimmered slightly and I knew something was wrong. Without hesitating, I shot Buckett in the back three times. He collapsed in a heap—‘

   ‘You shot another operative?’ said one of the SO-1 crowd with an incredulous tone. ‘In the back!’
   I ignored her.

   ‘—only it wasn’t Buckett, of course. The figure that picked itself up from the road to face me was Acheron. He rubbed his back where I had hit him and smiled benignly.
   “That wasn’t very sporting!” he said with a smile.
   “I’m not here for the sport,” I assured him.’

   One of the SO-1 officers interrupted me.
   ‘You seem to shoot a lot of people in the back, Next. Point-blank range with fluted slugs and he survived! I’m sorry, this is quite impossible!’
   ‘It happened.’
   ‘She’s lying—!’ he said indignantly. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this—!’
   But Flanker laid a hand on his arm to quieten him. ‘Carry on, Miss Next.’
   I did.

   ‘“Hello, Thursday,” Hades said.
   “Acheron,” I replied.
   He smiled. “Tamworth’s blood is getting cold on the concrete upstairs and it’s all your fault. Just give me your gun and we can finish this all up and go home.”
   Hades reached out his hand and I felt a strong impulse to give him my weapon. But I had turned him down before when he was using more persuasive methods—when I was a student and he was a lecturer. Perhaps Tamworth knew I was strong enough to resist him; perhaps this was another reason he wanted me on his team. I don’t know.
   Hades realised this and said instead in a genial manner: “It’s been a long time. Fifteen years, isn’t it?”
   “Summer of ‘69,” I replied grimly. I had little time for his games.
   “‘69?” he asked, having thought about it for a moment. “Sixteen years, then. I seem to remember we were quite chummy.”
   “You were a brilliant teacher, Acheron. I’ve not met an intellect to compare with yours. Why all this?”
   “I could say the same about you,” returned Acheron with a smile. “You were the only student of mine whom I could ever describe as brilliant, yet here you are, working as a glorified plod; a LiteraTec; a lackey for the Network. What brought you to SO-5?”
   “Fate.”
   There was a pause. Acheron smiled. “I always liked you, Thursday. You turned me down and, as we all know, there is nothing more seductive than resistance. I often wondered what I’d do if we met again. My star pupil, my protegee. We were nearly lovers.”
   “I was never your protegee, Hades.”
   He smiled again. “Have you ever wanted a new car?” he asked me quite suddenly.
   I did, of course, and said so.
   “How about a large house? How about two large houses? In the country. With grounds. And a Rembrandt.”
   I saw what he was up to. “If you want to buy my compliance, Acheron, you have to choose the right currency.”
   Acheron’s face fell. “You are strong, Thursday. Avarice works on most people.”
   I was angry now. “What do you want with the Chuzzlewit manuscript, Acheron? To sell it?”
   “Stealing and selling? How common,” he sneered. “I’m sorry about your two friends. Hollow-points make quite a mess, don’t they?”
   We stood there facing one another. It wouldn’t be long before SO-14 were on the scene.
   “On the ground,” I ordered him, “or I swear I’ll fire.”
   ‘Hades was suddenly a blur of movement. There was a sharp crack and I felt something pluck at my upper arm. There was a sensation of warmth and I realised with a certain detached interest that I had been shot.
   “Good try, Thursday. How about with the other arm?”
   Without knowing it, I had loosed off a shot in his direction. It was this that he was congratulating me on. I knew that I had thirty seconds at best before the loss of blood started to make me woozy. I transferred the automatic to my left hand and started to raise it again.
   Acheron smiled admiringly. He would have continued his brutal game for as long as he could but the distant wail of police sirens hastened him into action. He shot me once in the chest and left me for dead.’

   The SO-1 officials shuffled slightly as I concluded my story. They swapped looks, but I had no interest in whether they believed me or not. Hades had left me for dead but my time wasn’t yet up. The copy of Jane Eyre that Tamworth had given me had saved my life. I had placed it in my breast pocket; Hades’ slug had penetrated to the back cover but had not gone through. Broken ribs, a collapsed lung and a bruise to die for—but I had survived. It was luck, or fate, or whatever the hell you want to make of it.
   ‘That’s it?’ asked Flanker.
   I nodded.
   ‘That’s it.’
   It wasn’t it, of course, there was a lot more, but none of it was relevant to them. I hadn’t told them how Hades had used Filbert Snood’s death to grind me down emotionally; that was how he managed to get the first shot in.
   ‘That’s about all we need to know, Miss Next. You can return to SO-27 as soon as you are able. I would remind you that you are bound by the confidentiality clause you signed. A misplaced word could have very poor consequences. Is there anything you would like to add yourself?’
   I took a deep breath.
   ‘I know a lot of this sounds far-fetched, but it is the truth. I am the first witness who has seen what Hades will do to survive. Whoever pursues him in the future must be fully aware of what he is capable of.’
   Flanker leaned back in his chair. He looked at the man with the twitch, who nodded in return.
   ‘Academic, Miss Next.’
   ‘What do you mean?’
   ‘Hades is dead. SO-14 are not complete losers despite a certain trigger-happiness. They pursued him up the M4 that night until he crashed his car by Junction twelve. It rolled down an embankment and burst into flames. We didn’t want to tell you until we’d heard your evidence.’
   The news hit me squarely and hard. Revenge had been a prime emotion keeping me together over the past two weeks. Without a burning desire to see Hades punished, I might not even have made it at all. Without Acheron all my testimony would be left unproven. I hadn’t expected it all to be believed, but at least I could look forward to being vindicated when others came across him.
   ‘Sorry?’ I asked suddenly.
   ‘I said that Hades was dead.’
   ‘No he isn’t,’ I said without thinking.
   Flanker supposed that my reaction was the effect of traumatic shock.
   ‘It might be difficult to come to terms with, but he is. Burned almost beyond recognition. We had to identify him by dental records. He still had Snood’s pistol with him.’
   ‘The Chuzzlewit manuscript?’
   ‘No sign—we think destroyed as well.’
   I looked down. The whole operation had been a fiasco.
   ‘Miss Next,’ said Flanker, standing up and laying a hand on my shoulder, ‘you will be pleased to hear that none of this will be published below SO-8. You can return to your unit without a blemish on your record. There were errors, but none of us have any idea how anything might have turned out given a different set of circumstances. As for us, you won’t be seeing us again.’
   He turned off the cassette recorder, wished me good health and walked out of the room. The other officers joined him, except for the man with the twitch. He waited until his colleagues were out of earshot then whispered to me:
   ‘I think your testimony is bullshit, Miss Next. The service can ill afford to lose the likes of Fillip Tamworth.’
   ‘Thank you.’
   ‘What for?’
   ‘For telling me his first name.’
   The man moved to say something, thought the better of it and then left.
   I got up from the table in the impromptu interview room and stared out of the window. It was warm and sunny outside and the trees swayed gently in the breeze; the world looked as though it had little room for people like Hades. I allowed the thoughts of the night to come back again. The part I hadn’t told them was about Snood.

   Acheron had talked some more that night. He had indicated the tired and worn body of Snood and said:
   ‘Filbert asked me to say he was sorry.’
   ‘That’s Filbert’s father—!’ I corrected him.
   ‘No,’ he chuckled. ‘That was Filbert.”
   I looked at Snood again. He was lying on his back with his eyes open and the likeness was unmistakable, despite the sixty-year age gap.
   ‘Oh my God, no! Filbert? Was that him?’
   Acheron seemed to be enjoying himself.
   ‘“Unavoidably detained” is a ChronoGuard euphemism for a time aggregation, Thursday. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. Caught outside the here-now. Sixty years piled on to him in less than a minute. It’s little surprise he didn’t want you to see him.’
   There hadn’t been any girl in Tewkesbury after all. I had heard about time dilations and temporal instabilities from my father. In the world of the Event, the Cone and the Horizon, Filbert Snood had been unavoidably detained. The tragedy of it was, he never felt he could tell me. It was then, as I hit my lowest, that Acheron had turned and fired. It was as he had planned it.

  I walked slowly back to my room and sat on the bed feeling utterly dejected. Tears come easily to me when no one is about. I wept copiously for about five minutes and felt a great deal better, blew my nose noisily then switched on the television as a distraction. I rattled through the channels until I chanced across the Toad News Network. It was more about the Crimea, of course.
   ‘Still on the subject of the Crimea,’ announced the anchor-woman, ‘the Goliath Corporation Special Weapons Division has unveiled the latest weapon in the struggle against the Russian aggressors. It is hoped that the new Ballistic Plasma Energy Rifle—code-named ‘Stonk’—will be the decisive weapon to change the tide of the war. Our defence correspondent James Backbiter takes us through it.’
   The scene changed to a close-up of an exotic-looking weapon handled by a soldier in Military SpecOps uniform.
   ‘This is the new Stonk plasma rifle, unveiled today by the Goliath Special Weapons Division,’ announced Backbiter, standing next to the soldier on what was obviously a test range. ‘We can’t tell you very much about it for obvious reasons, but we can show its effectiveness and report that it uses a bolt of concentrated energy to destroy armour and personnel up to a mile away.’
   I watched in horror as the soldier demonstrated the new weapon. Invisible bolts of energy tore into the target tank with the power of ten of our howitzers. It was like an artillery piece in the palm of your hand. The barrage ended and Backbiter asked a colonel a couple of obviously posed questions as soldiers paraded with the new weapon in the background.
   ‘When do you suppose the front-line troops will be issued with Stonk?’
   ‘The first weapons are being shipped now. The rest will be supplied just as soon as we can set up the necessary factories.’
   ‘And finally, its effect on the conflict?’
   A small amount of emotion flickered on the colonel’s face. ‘I predict Stonk will have the Russians suing for peace within a month.’
   ‘Oh, shit,’ I murmured out loud. I’d heard this particular phrase many times during my time in the military. It had supplanted the hoary old ‘over by Christmas’ for sheer fatuousness. It had always, without exception, been followed by an appalling loss of life.
   Even before the first deployment of the new weapon, its mere existence had upset the balance of power in the Crimea. No longer keen on a withdrawal, the English government was trying to negotiate a surrender of all Russian troops. The Russians were having none of it. The UN had demanded that both sides return to the talks in Budapest, but it had all stalled; the Imperial Russian Army had dug themselves in against the expected onslaught. Earlier in the day the Goliath Special Weapons spokesman had been instructed to appear before Parliament to explain the delay of the new weapons, as they were now a month behind schedule.
   A screech of tyres roused me from my thoughts. I looked up. In the middle of the hospital room was a brightly painted sports car.
   I blinked twice but it didn’t vanish. There was no earthly reason why it should be in the room or even any evidence as to how it got there, the door being only wide enough for a bed, but there it was. I could smell the exhaust and hear the engine ticking over, but for some reason I did not find it at all unusual. The occupants were staring at me. The driver was a woman in her mid-thirties who looked sort of familiar.
   ‘Thursday—!’ cried the driver with a sense of urgency in her voice.
   I frowned. It all looked real and I was definitely sure I had seen the driver somewhere before. The passenger, a young man in a suit whom I didn’t know, waved cheerily.
   ‘He didn’t die!’ said the woman, as though she wouldn’t have long to speak. ‘The car crash was a blind! Men like Acheron don’t die that easily! Take the LiteraTec job in Swindon!’
   ‘Swindon—?’ I echoed. I thought I had escaped that town—it afforded me a few too many painful memories.
   I opened my mouth to speak but there was another screech of rubber and the car departed, folding up rather than fading out until there was nothing left but the echo of the tyres and the faint smell of exhaust. Pretty soon that had gone too, leaving no clue as to its strange appearance. I held my head in my hands. The driver had been very familiar. It had been me.
   My arm was almost healed by the time the internal inquiry circulated its findings. I wasn’t permitted to read it but I wasn’t bothered. If I had known what was in it, I would probably only have been more dissatisfied and annoyed than I was already. Boswell had visited me again to tell me I had been awarded six months’ sick leave before returning, but it didn’t help. I didn’t want to return to the LiteraTec’s office; at least, not in London.
   ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Paige. She had turned up to help me pack before I was discharged from hospital.
   ‘Six months’ leave can be a long time if you’ve got no hobbies or family or boyfriend,’ she went on. She could be very direct at times.
   ‘I have lots of hobbies.’
   ‘Name one.’
   ‘Painting.’
   ‘Really?’
   ‘Yes, really. I’m currently painting a seascape.’
   ‘How long has it taken you so far?’
   ‘About seven years.’
   ‘It must be very good.’
   ‘It’s a piece of crap.’
   ‘Seriously, though,’ said Turner, who had become closer to me in these past few weeks than during the entire time we had known each other, ‘what are you going to do?’
   I handed her the SpecOps 27 gazette; it outlined’ postings around the country. Paige looked at the entry that I had circled in red ink.
   ‘Swindon?’
   ‘Why not? It’s home.’
   ‘Home it might be,’ replied Turner, ‘but weird it definitely is.’ She tapped the job description. ‘It’s only for an operative—you’ve been acting Inspector for over three years!’
   ‘Three and a half. It doesn’t matter. I’m going.’
   I didn’t tell Paige the real reason. It could have been a coincidence, of course, but the advice from the driver of the car had been most specific: Take the LiteraTec job in Swindon! Perhaps the vision had been real after all; the gazette with the job offer had arrived after the visitation by the car. If it had been right about the job in Swindon, it stood to reason that perhaps the news about Hades was also correct. Without any further thought, I had applied. I couldn’t tell Paige about the car; if she had known, friendship notwithstanding, she would have reported me to Boswell. Boswell would have spoken to Flanker and all sorts of unpleasantness might have happened. I was getting quite good at concealing the truth, and I felt happier now than I had for months.
   ‘We’ll miss you in the department, Thursday.’
   ‘It’ll pass.’
   ‘I’ll miss you.’
   ‘Thanks, Paige, I appreciate it. I’ll miss you, too.’
   We hugged, she told me to keep in touch, and left the room, pager bleeping.
   I finished packing and thanked the nursing staff, who gave me a brown paper parcel as I was about to leave.
   ‘What’s this?’ I asked.
   ‘It belonged to whoever saved your life that night.’
   ‘What do you mean?’
   ‘A passer-by attended to you before the medics arrived; the wound in your arm was plugged and they wrapped you in their coat to keep you warm. Without their intervention you might well have bled to death.’
   Intrigued, I opened the package. Firstly, there was a handkerchief that despite several washings still bore the stains of my own blood. There was an embroidered monogram in the corner that read ‘EFR’. Secondly the parcel contained a jacket, a sort of casual evening coat that might have been very popular in the middle of the last century. I searched the pockets and found a bill from a milliner. It was made out to one Edward Fairfax Rochester, Esq. and was dated 1833. I sat down heavily on the bed and stared at the two articles of clothing and the bill. Ordinarily I would not have believed that Rochester could have torn himself from the pages of Jane Eyre and come to my aid that night; such a thing is, of course, quite impossible. I might have dismissed the whole thing as a ludicrously complicated prank had it not been for one thing: Edward Rochester and I had met once before…

6. Jane Eyre: A short excursion into the novel

   ‘Outside Styx’s apartment was not the first time Rochester and I had met, nor would it be the last. We first encountered each other at Haworth House in Yorkshire when my mind was young and the barrier between reality and make-believe had not yet hardened into the shell that cocoons us in adult life. The barrier was soft, pliable and, for a moment, thanks to the kindness of a stranger and the power of a good storytelling voice, I made the short journey—and returned.’

Thursday Next. A Life in SpecOps


   It was 1958. My uncle and aunt—who even then seemed old—had taken me up to Haworth House, the old Bronte residence, for a visit. I had been learning about William Thackeray at school, and since the Brontes were contemporaries of his it seemed a good opportunity to further my interest in these matters. My Uncle Mycroft was giving a lecture at Bradford University on his remarkable mathematical work regarding game theory, the most practical side of which allowed one to win at Snakes and Ladders every time. Bradford was near to Haworth, so a combined visit seemed a good idea.
   We were led around by the guide, a fluffy woman in her sixties with steel-rimmed spectacles and an Angora cardigan who steered the tourists around the rooms with an abrupt manner, as though she felt that none of them could possibly know as much as she did, but would grudgingly assist to lift them from the depths of their own ignorance. Near the end of the tour, when thoughts had turned to picture postcards and ice cream, the prize exhibit in the form of the original manuscript of Jane Eyre greeted the tired museum-goers.
   Although the pages had browned with age and the black ink faded to a light brown, the writing could still be read by the practised eye, the fine spidery longhand flowing across the page in a steady stream of inventive prose. A page was turned every two days, allowing the more regular and fanatical Bronte followers to read the novel as originally drafted.
   The day that I came to the Bronte museum the manuscript was open at the point where Jane and Rochester first meet; a chance encounter by a stile.
   ‘—which makes it one of the greatest romantic novels ever written,’ continued the fluffy yet lofty guide in her oft-repeated monologue, ignoring several hands that had been raised to ask pertinent questions.
   The character of Jane Eyre, a tough and resilient heroine, drew her apart from the usual heroines of the time, and Rochester, a forbidding yet basically good man, also broke the mould with his flawed character’s dour humour. Jane Eyre was written by Charlotte Bronte in 1847 under the pseudonym Currer Bell. Thackeray described it as “the master work of a great genius”. We continue on now to the shop where you may purchase picture postcards, commemorative plates, small plastic imitation Heathcliffs and other mementos of your visit. Thank you for—‘
   One of the group had their hand up and was determined to have his say.
   ‘Excuse me,’ began the young man in an American accent. A muscle in the tour guide’s cheek momentarily twitched as she forced herself to listen to someone else’s opinion.
   ‘Yes?’ she enquired with icy politeness.
   ‘Well,’ continued the young man, ‘I’m kinda new to this whole Bronte thing, but I had trouble with the end of Jane Eyre.’
   ‘Trouble?’
   ‘Yeah. Like Jane leaves Thornfield Hall and hitches up with her cousins, the Rivers.’
   ‘I know who her cousins are, young man.’
   ‘Yeah, well, she agrees to go with this drippy St John Rivers guy but not to marry him, they depart for India and that’s the end of the book? Hello? What about a happy ending? What happens to Rochester and his nutty wife?’
   The guide glowered.
   ‘And what would you prefer? The forces of good and evil fighting to the death in the corridors of Thornfield Hall?’
   ‘That’s not what I meant,’ continued the young man, beginning to get slightly annoyed. ‘It’s just that the book cries out for a strong resolution, to tie up the narrative and finish the tale. I get the feeling from what she wrote that she just kinda pooped out.’
   The guide stared at him for a moment through her steel-rimmed glasses and wondered why the visitors couldn’t behave just that little bit more like sheep. Sadly, his point was a valid one; she herself had often pondered the diluted ending, wishing, like millions of others, that circumstances had allowed Jane and Rochester to marry after all.
   ‘Some things will never be known,’ she replied non-committally. ‘Charlotte is no longer with us so the question is abstract. What we have to study and enjoy is what she has left us. The sheer exuberance of the writing easily outweighs any of its small shortcomings.’
   The young American nodded and the small crowd moved on, my aunt and uncle among them. I hung back until only I and a single Japanese tourist were left in the room; I then tried to look at the original manuscript on tiptoe. It was tricky, as I was small for my age.
   ‘Would you like me to read it for you?’ said a kindly voice close at hand. It was the Japanese tourist. She smiled at me and I thanked her for her trouble.
   She checked that no one was around, unfolded her reading glasses and started to speak. She spoke excellent English and had a fine reading voice; the words peeled off the page into my imagination as she spoke.
   … In those days I was young and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind; the memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give…
   I closed my eyes and a thin chill suddenly filled the air around me. The tourist’s voice was clear now, as though speaking in the open air, and when I opened my eyes the museum had gone. In its place was a country lane of another place entirely. It was a fine winter’s evening and the sun was just dipping below the horizon. The air was perfectly still, the colour washed from the scene. Apart from a few birds that stirred occasionally in the hedge, no movement punctuated the starkly beautiful landscape. I shivered as I saw my own breath in the crisp air, zipped up my jacket and regretted that I had left my hat and mittens on the peg downstairs. As I looked about I could see that I was not alone. Barely ten feet away a young woman, dressed in a cloak and bonnet, was sitting on a stile watching the moon that had just risen behind us. When she turned I could see that her face was plain and outwardly unremarkable, yet possessed of a bearing that showed inner strength and resolve. I stared at her intently with a mixture of feelings. I had realised not long ago that I myself was no beauty, and even at the age of nine had seen how the more attractive children gained favour more easily. But here in that young woman I could see how those principles could be inverted. I felt myself stand more upright and clench my jaw in subconscious mimicry of her pose.

  I was just thinking about asking her where the museum had gone when a sound in the lane made us both turn. It was an approaching horse, and the young woman seemed startled for a moment. The lane was narrow, and I stepped back to give the horse room to pass. As I waited, a large black-and-white dog rushed along the hedge, nosing the ground for anything of interest. The dog ignored the figure on the stile but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. His tail wagged enthusiastically and he bounded over, sniffing me inquisitively, his hot breath covering me in a warm cloak and his whiskers tickling my cheek. I giggled and the dog wagged his tail even harder. He had sniffed along this hedge during every single reading of the book for over a hundred and thirty years, but had never come across anything that smelt so, well… real. He licked me several times with great affection. I giggled again and pushed him away, so he ran off to find a stick.
   From subsequent readings of the book I was later to realise that the dog Pilot had never had the opportunity to fetch a stick, his appearances in the book being all too few, so he was obviously keen to take the opportunity when it presented itself. He must have known, almost instinctively, that the little girl who had momentarily appeared at the bottom of page 81 was unfettered by the rigidity of the narrative. He knew that he could stretch the boundaries of the story a small amount, sniffing along one side of the lane or the other since it wasn’t specified; but if the text stated that he had to bark or run around or jump up, then he was obliged to comply. It was a long and repetitive existence, which made the rare appearances of people like me that much more enjoyable.
   I looked up and noticed that the horse and rider had just passed the young woman. The rider was a tall man with distinguished features and a careworn face, bent into a frown by some musings that seemed to envelop him in thoughtful detachment. He had not seen my small form and the safe route down the lane led right through where I was standing; opposite me was a treacherous slab of ice. Within a few moments the horse was upon me, the heavy hooves thumping the hard ground, the hot breath from its velvety nose blowing on my face. Suddenly, the rider, perceiving the small girl in his path for the first time, uttered: ‘What the deuce—‘ and reined his horse rapidly to the left, away from me but on to the slippery ice. The horse lost its footing and went crashing to the ground. I took a step back, mortified at the accident I had caused. The horse struggled to gain a footing and the dog, hearing the commotion, returned to the scene, presented me with a stick and then barked at the fallen group excitedly, his deep growl echoing in the still evening. The young woman approached the fallen man with grave concern on her face. She was eager to be of assistance and spoke for the first time.
   ‘Are you injured, sir?’
   The rider muttered something incomprehensible and ignored her completely.
   ‘Can I do anything?’ she asked again.
   ‘You must just stand on one side,’ answered the rider in a gruff tone as he rose shakily to his feet. The young woman stepped back as the rider helped his horse recover with a clattering and stamping of hooves. He silenced the dog with a shout and then stopped to feel his leg; it was obvious that he had hurt it quite badly. I felt sure that a man of such dour demeanour must surely be very angry with me, yet when he espied me again he smiled kindly and gave me a broad wink, placing a finger to his lips to ensure my silence. I smiled back, and the rider turned to face the young woman, his brow furrowing once more into a grimace as he fell back into character.
   High in the evening sky I could hear a distant voice calling my name. The voice grew louder and the sky darkened. The cold air warmed on my face as the lane evaporated, the horse, rider, young woman and the dog returning to the pages of the book whence they had sprung. The room in the museum faded in about me and the images and smells transformed back into the spoken word as the woman finished the sentence.
   … for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen and sat down…
   ‘Thursday!’ cried my Aunt Polly crossly. ‘Do try to keep up. I’ll be asking questions later!’
   She took me by the hand and led me away. I turned and waved my thanks to the Japanese tourist, who smiled genially back at me.
   I returned to the museum a few times after that but the magic never worked again. My mind had closed too much by the time I was twelve, already a young woman. I only ever spoke of it to my uncle, who nodded sagely and believed every word. I never told anyone else. Ordinary adults don’t like children to speak of things that are denied them by their own grey minds.
   As I got older I started to doubt the validity of my own memory, until by my eighteenth birthday I had written it off as the product of an overactive imagination. Rochester’s reappearance outside Styx’s apartment that night served only to confuse. Reality, to be sure, was beginning to bend.