2
No Place Like Home

   'Swindon, Wessex, England, was the place I was born and where I lived until I left to join the literary detectives in London. I returned ten years later and married my former boyfriend, Landen Parke-Laine. He was subsequently murdered at the age of two by the Goliath Corporation, who had decided to blackmail me. It worked, I helped them – but I didn't get my husband back. Oddly, I kept his son, my son, Friday – it was one of those quirky time-travel paradoxical things that my father understands but I don't. Two years farther on Landen was still dead, and unless I did something about it soon, he might remain that way for ever.'

THURSDAY NEXT – Thursday Next, a Life in SpecOps


   It was a bright and clear morning in mid-July two weeks later when I found myself on the corner of Broome Manor Lane in Swindon, on the opposite side of the road to my mother's house, with a toddler in a pushchair, two dodos, the Prince of Denmark, an apprehensive heart and hair cut way too short. The Council of Genres hadn't taken the news of my resignation very well. In fact, they refused to accept it at all and gave me instead unlimited leave, in the somewhat deluded hope that I might return if actualising my husband 'didn't work out'. They also suggested I might like to deal with escaped fictionaut Yorrick Kaine, someone with whom I had crossed swords twice in the past.
   Hamlet had been a late addition to my plans. Increasingly concerned over reports that he was being misrepresented as something of a 'ditherer' in the Outland, he had requested leave to see for himself. This was unusual in that fictional characters are rarely troubled by public perception, but Hamlet would worry about having nothing to worry about if he had nothing to worry about, and since he was the indisputable star of the Shakespeare canon and had lost the 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead' crown to Heathcliff once again at this year's BookWorld awards, the Council of Genres thought they should do something to appease him. Besides, Jurisfiction had been trying to persuade him to police Elizabethan drama since Sir John Falstaff retired on grounds of 'good health', and a trip to the Outland, it was thought, might persuade him.
   '’Tis very strange!' he murmured, staring at the sun, trees, houses and traffic in turn. 'It would take a rhapsody of wild and whirling words to do justice to all that I witness!'
   'You're going to have to speak English out here.'
   'All this,' explained Hamlet, waving his hands at the fairly innocuous Swindon street, 'would take millions of words to describe correctly!'
   'You're right. It would. That's the magic of the book ImaginoTransference technology,' I told him. 'A few dozen words conjure up an entire picture. But in all honesty the reader does most of the work.'
   'The reader? What's it got to do with them?'
   'Well, each interpretation of an event, setting or character is unique to the person who reads it because they clothe the author's description with the memory of their own experiences. Every character they read is actually a complex amalgam of people that they've met, read or seen before – far more real than it can ever be just from the text on the page. Because every reader's experiences are different, each book is unique for each reader.'
   'So,' replied the Dane, thinking hard, 'what you're saying is that the more complex and apparently contradictory the character, the greater the possible interpretations?'
   'Yes. In fact, I'd argue that every time a book is read by the same person it is different again – because the reader's experiences are changed, or they are in a different frame of mind.'
   'Well, that explains why no one can figure me out. After four hundred years nobody's quite decided what, exactly, my inner motivations are.' He paused for a moment and sighed mournfully. 'Including me. You'd have thought I was religious, wouldn't you, with all that not wanting to kill Uncle Claudius when at prayer and suchlike?'
   'Of course.'
   'I thought so too. So why do I use the atheistic line there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so? What's that all about?'
   'You mean you don't know?'
   'Listen, I'm as confused as anyone.'
   I stared at Hamlet and he shrugged. I had been hoping to get some answers from him regarding the inconsistencies within his play, but now I wasn't so sure.
   'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'that's why we like it. To each our own Hamlet.'
   'Well,' snorted the Dane unhappily, 'it's a mystery to me. Do you think therapy would help?'
   'I'm not sure. Listen, we're almost home. Remember: to anyone but family you're . . . who are you?'
   'Cousin Eddie.'
   'Good. Come on.'

   Mum's house was a detached property of good proportions in the south of the town but of no great charm other than that which my long association had conferred upon it. I had spent the first eighteen years of my life growing up here, and everything about the old house was familiar. From the tree I had fallen out of, cracking a collar bone, to the garden path where I had learned to ride my bicycle. I hadn't really noticed it before but empathy for the familiar grows stronger with age. The old house felt warmer to me now than it ever had before.
   I took a deep breath, picked up my suitcase and trundled the pushchair across the road. My pet dodo Pickwick followed with her unruly son Alan padding grumpily after her.
   I rang Mum's doorbell and after about a minute a slightly overweight vicar with short brown hair and spectacles answered the door.
   'Is that Doofus—?' he said when he saw me, suddenly breaking into a broad grin. 'By the GSD, it is Doofus!'
   'Hi, Joffy. Long time no see.'
   Joffy was my brother. He was a minister of the Global Standard Deity religion, and although we had had differences in the past, they were long forgotten. I was pleased to see him, and he me.
   'Whoa!' he said. 'What's that?'
   'That's Friday,' I explained. 'Your nephew.'
   'Wow!' replied Joffy, undoing Friday's harness and lifting him out. 'Does his hair always stick up like that?'
   'Probably leftovers from breakfast.'
   Friday stared at Joffy for a moment, took his fingers out of his mouth, rubbed them on his face, put them in again and offered Joffy his polar bear, Poley.
   'Kind of cute, isn't he?' said Joffy, jiggling Friday up and down and letting him tug at his nose. 'But a bit, well, sticky. Does he talk?'
   'Not a lot. Thinks a great deal, though.'
   'Like Mycroft. What happened to your head?'
   'You mean my haircut?'
   'So that's what it was!' murmured Joffy. 'I thought you'd had your ears lowered or something. Bit, er . . . bit extreme, isn't it?'
   'I had to stand in for Joan of Arc. It's always tricky to find a replacement.'
   'I can see why,' exclaimed Joffy, still staring incredulously at my pudding-bowl haircut. 'Why don't you just have the whole lot off and start again?'
   'This is Hamlet,' I said, introducing him before he began to feel awkward, 'but he's here incognito so I'm telling everyone he's my cousin Eddie.'
   'Joffy,' said Joffy, 'brother of Thursday.'
   'Hamlet,' said Hamlet, 'Prince of Denmark.'
   'Danish?' said Joffy with a start. 'I shouldn't spread that around if I were you.'
   'Why?'
   'Darling!' said my mother, appearing behind Joffy. 'You're back! Goodness! Your hair!'
   'It's a Joan of Arc thing,' explained Joffy, 'very fashionable right now. Martyrs are big on the catwalk, y'know – remember the Edith Cavell/Tolpuddle look in last month's Femole?'
   'He's talking rubbish again, isn't he?'

   'Yes,' said Joffy and I in unison.
   'Hello, Mum,' I said, giving her a hug, 'remember your grandson?"
   She picked him up and remarked how much he had grown. It was unlikely in the extreme that he had shrunk but I smiled dutifully nonetheless. I tried to visit the real world as often as I could but hadn't been able to manage it for at least six months. When she had nearly fainted by hyperventilating with 'Ooohs' and 'Aaaahs' and Friday had stopped looking at her dubiously, she invited us indoors.
   'You stay out here,' I said to Pickwick, 'and don't let Alan misbehave himself
   It was too late. Alan, small size notwithstanding, had already terrorised Mordecai and the other dodos into submission. They all shivered in fright beneath the hydrangeas.
   'Are you staying for long?' enquired my mother. 'Your room is just how you left it.'
   This meant just how I left it when I was nineteen, but I thought it rude to say so. I explained that I'd like to stay at least until I got an apartment sorted out, introduced Hamlet and asked whether he could stay for a few days too.
   'Of course! Lady Hamilton's in the spare room and that nice Mr Bismarck is in the attic, so he can have the boxroom.'
   My mother grasped Hamlet's hand and shook it heartily.
   'How are you, Mr Hamlet? Where did you say you were the prince of again?'
   'Denmark.'
   'Ah! No visitors after seven p.m. and breakfast stops at nine a.m. prompt. I do expect guests to make their own bed and if you need washing done you can put it in the wicker basket on the landing Pleased to meet you. I'm Mrs Next, Thursday's mother.'
   'I have a mother,' replied Hamlet gloomily as he bowed politely and kissed my mother's hand. 'She shares my uncle's bed.'
   'They should buy another one in that case,' my mother replied, practical as ever. 'They do a very good deal at IKEA, I'm told. Don't use it myself because I don't like all that self-assembly – I mean, what's the point of paying for something you have to build yourself? But it's popular with men for exactly that same reason. Do you like Battenberg?'
   'Wittenberg?'
   'No, no. Battenberg.'
   'On the River Eder?' asked Hamlet, confused over my mother's conversational leap from self-assembly furniture to cake.
   'No, silly, on a doily – covered with marzipan.'
   Hamlet leaned closer to me.
   'I think your mother may be insane – and I should know.'
   'You'll get the hang of what she's talking about,' I said, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm.
   We walked through the hall to the living room where, after managing to extract Friday's fingers from Mum's beads, we managed to sit down.
   'So tell me all your news!' she exclaimed as my eyes flicked around the room, trying to take in all the many potential hazards for the two-year-old.
   'Where do you want me to begin?' I asked, removing the vase of flowers from the top of the TV before Friday had a chance to pull them over on himself. 'I had a flurry of things to do before I left. Two days ago I was in Camelot trying to sort out some marital strife and the day before – sweetheart, don't touch that – I was negotiating a pay dispute with the Union of Orcs.'
   'Goodness!' replied my mother. 'You must be simply dying for a cup of tea.'
   'Please. The BookWorld might be the cat's pyjamas for characterisation and explosive narrative, but you can't get a decent cup of tea for all the bourbon in Hemingway.'
   'I'll do it!' said Joffy. 'C'mon, Hamlet, tell me about yourself. Got a girlfriend?'
   'Yes – but she's bonkers.'
   'In a good way or a bad way?'
   Hamlet shrugged.
   'Neither – just bonkers. But her brother – hell's teeth! Talk about sprung-loaded . . . !'
   Their conversation faded as they disappeared into the kitchen.
   'Don't forget the Battenberg,' my mother called after them.
   I opened my suitcase and took out a few rattly toys Mrs Bradshaw had given me. Melanie had looked after Friday a lot as she and Commander Bradshaw had no children of their own, what with Melanie being a mountain gorilla, so she had doted on Friday. It had its upsides – he always ate his greens and loved fruit – but I had my suspicions that they climbed on the furniture when I wasn't about, and once I found Friday trying to peel a banana with his feet.
   'How's life treating you?' I asked.
   'Better for seeing you. It's quite lonely with Mycroft and Polly away at the fourteenth annual Mad Scientists Conference. If it wasn't for Joffy and his partner Miles popping round every day, Bismarck and Emma, Mrs Beatty next door, Eradications Anonymous, my panel-beating class and that frightful Mrs Daniels, I'd be completely alone. Should Friday be in that cupboard?'
   I turned, jumped up, grabbed Friday by the straps of his dungarees and gently took the two crystal wineglasses from his inquisitive grasp. I showed him his toys and sat him down in the middle of the room. He stayed put for about three seconds before tottering off in the direction of DH82, Mum's bone-idle Thylacine, who was asleep on a nearby chair.
   DH82 yelped as Friday tugged playfully at his whiskers. The Thylacine then got up, yawned, and went to find his supper dish. Friday followed. And I followed Friday.
   '—in the ear?' said Joffy as I walked into the kitchen. 'Does that work?'
   'Apparently,' replied the prince, 'we found him stone dead in the orchard.'
   I scooped up Friday, who was about to tuck into DH82's food, and took him back to the living room.
   'Sorry,' I explained, 'he's into everything at the moment. Tell me about Swindon. Much changed?'
   'Not really. The Christmas lights have improved tremendously, there's a Skyrail line straight through the Brunei Centre and Swindon now has twenty-six different supermarkets.'
   'Can the residents eat that much?'
   'We're giving it our best shot.'
   Joffy walked back in with Hamlet and placed a tray of tea things in front of us.
   'That small dodo of yours is a terror. Tried to peck me when I wasn't looking.'
   'You probably startled him. How's Dad?'
   Joffy, to whom this was a touchy subject, decided not to join us but play with Friday instead.
   'C'mon, young lad,' he said, 'let's get drunk and shoot some pool.'
   'Your father has been wanting to get hold of you for a while,' said my mother as soon as Joffy and Friday had gone. 'As you probably guessed he's been having trouble with Nelson again. He often comes home simply reeking of cordite, and I'm really not keen on him hanging around with that Emma Hamilton woman.'
   My father was a sort of time-travelling knight errant. He used to be a member of SO-12, the agency charged with policing the timelines: the ChronoGuard. He resigned owing to differences over the way the historical timeline was managed and went rogue. The ChronoGuard decided that he was too dangerous and eradicated him by a well-timed knock at the door during the night of his conception; my aunt April was born instead.
   'So Nelson died at the Battle of Trafalgar?' I asked, recalling Dad's previous problems in the timeline.
   'Yes,' she replied, 'but I'm not sure he was meant to. That's why your father says he has to work so closely with Emma.'
   Emma, of course, was Lady Emma Hamilton, Nelson's consort. It was she who had alerted my father to Nelson's eradication. One moment she had been married to Lord Nelson for over ten years, the next she was a bankrupt lush living in Calais. Must have been quite a shock. My mother leaned closer.
   'Between the two of us I'm beginning to think Emma's a bit of a tram– Emma! How nice of you to join us!'
   At the doorway was a tall, red-faced woman wearing a brocade dress that had seen better days. Despite the rigours of a lengthy and damaging acquaintance with the bottle, there were the remains of great beauty and charm about her. She must have been dazzling in her youth.
   'Hello, Lady Hamilton,' I said, getting up to shake her hand, 'how's the husband?'
   'Still dead.'

   'Mine too.'
   'Bummer.'
   'Ah!' I exclaimed, wondering quite where Lady Hamilton picked up the word, although on reflection she probably knew a few worse. 'This is Hamlet.'
   'Emma Hamilton,' she cooed, casting an eye in the direction of the unquestionably handsome Dane and giving him her hand, 'Lady.'
   'Hamlet,' he replied, kissing her proffered hand, 'Prince.'
   Her eyelashes fluttered momentarily.
   'A prince? Of anywhere I'd know?'
   'Denmark, as it happens.'
   'My . . . late boyfriend bombarded Copenhagen quite mercilessly in 1801. He said the Danes put up a good fight.'
   'We Danes like a tussle, Lady Hamilton,' replied the prince with a great deal of charm, 'although I'm not from Copenhagen myself. A little town up the coast – Elsinore. We have a castle there. Not very large Barely sixty rooms and a garrison of under two hundred. A bit bleak in the winter.'
   'Haunted?'
   'One that I know of. What did your late boyfriend do when he wasn't bombarding Danes?'
   'Oh, nothing much,' she said offhandedly, 'fighting the French and the Spanish, leaving body parts around Europe – it was quite de rigueur at the time.'
   There was a pause as they stared at one another. Emma started to fan herself.
   'Goodness!' she murmured. 'All this talk of body parts has made me quite hot!'
   'Right!' said my mother, jumping to her feet. 'That's it! I'm not having this sort of smutty innuendo in my house!'
   Hamlet and Emma looked startled by her outburst but I managed to pull her aside and whispered:
   'Mother! Don't be so judgemental – after all, they're both single, and Hamlet's interest in Emma might take her mind off someone else.'
   'Someone . . . else?'
   You could almost hear the cogs going around in her head. After a long pause she took a deep breath, turned back to them and smiled broadly.
   'My dears, why don't you have a walk in the garden? There is a gentle cooling breeze and the niche d' amour in the rose garden is very attractive this time of year.'
   'A good time for a drink, perhaps?' asked Emma hopefully.
   'Perhaps,' replied my mother, who was obviously trying to keep Lady Hamilton away from the bottle.
   Emma didn't reply. She just offered her arm to Hamlet, who took it graciously and was going to steer her out of the open doors to the patio when Emma stopped him with a murmur of 'Not the French windows' and took him out by way of the kitchen.
   'As I was saying,' said my mother as she sat down, 'Emma's a lovely girl. Cake?'
   'Please.'
   'Here,' she said, handing me the knife, 'help yourself'
   'Tell me,' I began, as I cut the Battenberg carefully, 'did Landen come back?'
   'That's your eradicated husband, isn't it?' she replied kindly. 'No, I'm afraid he didn't.' She smiled encouragingly. 'You should come to one of my Eradications Anonymous evenings – we're meeting tomorrow night.'
   In common with my mother, I had a husband whose reality had been scrubbed from the here and now. Unlike my mother, whose husband still returned every now and then from the timestream, I had a husband, Landen, who only existed in my dreams and recollections. No one else had any memories or knowledge of him at all. Mum knew about Landen only because I'd told her. To anyone else, Landen's parents included, I was suffering some bizarre delusion. But Friday's father was Landen, despite his non-existence, just as my brothers and I had been born despite my father not existing. Time travel is like that. Full of unexplainable paradoxes.
   'I'll get him back,' I mumbled.
   'Who?'
   'Landen.'
   Joffy reappeared from the garden with Friday, who, in common with most toddlers, didn't see why adults couldn't give aeroplane rides all day. I gave him a slice of Battenberg, which he dropped in his eagerness to devour it. The usually torpid DH82 opened an eye, ate the cake and was asleep again in under three seconds.
   'Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet!' Friday cried indignantly.
   'Yes, it was impressive, wasn't it?' I agreed. 'Bet you never saw Pickwick move that fast – even for a marshmallow.'
   'Nostrud laboris nisi et commodo consequat,' replied Friday with great indignation. 'Excepteur sint cupidatat non proident!'
   'Serves you right,' I told him. 'Here, have a cucumber sandwich.'
   'What did my grandson say?' asked my mother, staring at Friday, who was trying to eat the sandwich all in one go and making a nauseating spectacle of himself.
   'Oh, that's just him jabbering away in Lorem Ipsum. He speaks nothing else.'
   'Lorem . . . what?'
   'Lorem Ipsum. It's dummy text used by the printing and typesetting industry to demonstrate layout. I don't know where he picked it up. Comes from living inside books, I should imagine.'
   'I see,' said my mother, not seeing at all.
   'How are the cousins?' I asked.
   'Wilbur and Orville both run MycroTech these days,' answered Joffy as he passed me a cup of tea. 'They made a few mistakes while Uncle Mycroft was away, but I think he's got them on a short leash now.'
   Wilbur and Orville were my aunt and uncle's two sons. Despite having two of the most brilliant parents around, they were almost solid mahogany from the neck up.
   'Pass the sugar, would you? A few mistakes?'
   'Quite a lot actually. Remember Mycroft's memory erasure machine?'
   'Yes and no.'
   'Well, they opened a chain of high-street erasure centres called Mem-U-Gon. You could go in and have unpleasant memories removed.'
   'Lucrative, I should imagine.'
   'Extremely lucrative – right up to the moment they made their first mistake. Which was, considering those two, not an if but a when.'
   'Dare I ask what happened?'
   'I think that it was the equivalent of setting a vacuum cleaner to "blow" by accident. A certain Mrs Worthing went into the Swindon branch of Mem-U-Gon to remove every single recollection of her failed first marriage.'
   'And—?'
   'Well, she was accidentally uploaded with the unwanted memories of seventy-two one-night stands, numerous drunken arguments, fifteen wasted lives and almost a thousand episodes of Name That Fruit! She was going to sue but settled instead for the name and address of one of the men whose exploits are now lodged in her memory. As far as I know, they married.'
   'I like a story with a happy ending,' put in my mother.
   'In any event,' continued Joffy, 'Mycroft forbade them from using it again and gave them the Chameleocar to market. It should be in the showrooms quite soon – if Goliath haven't pinched the idea first.'
   'Ah!' I muttered, taking another bite of cake. 'And how is my least-favourite multinational?'
   Joffy rolled his eyes.
   'Up to no good as usual. They're attempting to switch to a faith-based corporate management system.'
   'Becoming a . . . religion?'

   'Announced only last month on the suggestion of their own corporate precog, Sister Bettina of Stroud. They aim to switch the corporate hierarchy to a multi-deity plan with their own gods, demigods, priests, places of worship and official prayerbook. In the new Goliath, employees will not be paid with anything as unspiritual as money, but faith — in the form of coupons which can be exchanged for goods and services at any Goliath-owned store. Anyone holding Goliath shares will have these exchanged on favourable terms with these "Coupons" and everyone gets to worship the Goliath upper echelons.'
   'And what do the "devotees" get in return?'
   'Well, a warm sense of belonging, protection from the world's evils and a reward in the afterlife – oh, and I think there's a T-shirt in it somewhere, too.'
   'That sounds very Goliath-like.'
   'Doesn't it just?' Joffy smiled. 'Worshipping in the hallowed halls of consumer-land. The more you spend, the closer to their "god" you become.'
   'Hideous!' I exclaimed. 'Is there any good news?'
   'Of course! The Swindon Mallets are going to beat the Reading Whackers to win the Superhoop this year.'
   'You've got to be kidding!'
   'Not at all. Swindon winning the 1988 Superhoop is the subject of the incomplete seventh Revealment of St Zvlkx. It goes like this: There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of . . . The rest is missing, but it's pretty unequivocal.'
   St Zvlkx was Swindon's very own saint, and no child educated here could fail to know about him, including me. His Revealments had been the subject of much conjecture over the years, for good reason – they were uncannily accurate. Even so, I was sceptical – especially if it meant the Swindon Mallets winning the Superhoop. The city's team, despite a surprise appearance at the Superhoop finals a few years back and the undeniable talents of team captain Roger Kapok, were probably the worst side in the country.
   'That's a bit of a long shot, isn't it? I mean, St Zvlkx vanished in, what – 1292?'
   But Joffy and my mother didn't think it very funny.
   'Yes,' said Joffy, 'but we can ask him to confirm it.'
   'You can? How?'
   'According to his sixth Revealment he's due for spontaneous resurrection at ten past nine the day after tomorrow.'
   'But that's remarkable!'
   'Remarkable but not unprecedented,' replied Joffy. 'Thirteenth-century seers have been popping up all over the place. Eighteen in the last six months. Zvlkx will be of interest to the faithful and us at the Friends, but the TV networks probably won't cover it. The ratings of Brother Velobius's second coming last week didn't even come close to beating Bonzo the Wonder Hound reruns on the other channel.'
   I thought about this for a moment in silence.
   'That's enough about Swindon,' said my mother, who had a nose for gossip – especially mine. 'What's been happening to you?'
   'How long have you got? What I've been getting up to would fill several books.'
   'Then . . . let's start with why you're back.'
   So I explained about the pressures of being the head of Jurisfiction, and just how annoying books could be sometimes, and Friday, and Landen, and Yorrick Kaine's fictional roots. On hearing this Joffy jumped.
   'Kaine is . . . fictional?'
   I nodded.
   'Why the interest? Last time I was here he was a washed-up ex-member of the Whig Party.'
   'He's not now. Which book is he from?'
   I shrugged.
   'I wish I knew. Why? What's going on?'
   Joffy and Mum exchanged nervous glances. When my mother gets interested in politics, it really means things are bad.
   'Something is rotten in the state of England,' murmured my mother.
   'And that something is the English Chancellor Yorrick Kaine,' added Joffy, 'but don't take our word for it. He's appearing on Toad News Network's Evade the Question Time here in Swindon at eight tonight. We'll go and see him for ourselves.'
   I told them more about Jurisfiction and Joffy, in return, cheerfully reported that attendance at the Global Standard Deity church was up since he had accepted sponsorship from the Toast Marketing Board, a company that seemed to have doubled in size and influence since I was here last. They had spread their net beyond hot bread and now included jams, croissants and pastries in their portfolio of holdings. My mother, not to be outdone, told me she received a little bit of sponsorship money herself from Mr Rudyard's cakes, although she privately admitted that the Battenberg she had served up was actually her own. She then told me in great detail about her aged friends' medical operations, which I can't say I was overjoyed to hear about, and as she drew breath in between Mrs Stripling's appendectomy and Mr Walsh's 'plumbing' problems, a tall and imposing figure walked into the room. He was dressed in a fine morning coat of eighteenth-century vintage, wore an impressive moustache that would have put Commander Bradshaw's to shame, and had an impenousness and sense of purpose that reminded me of Emperor Zhark. 'Thursday,' announced my mother in a breathless tone, 'this is the Prussian Chancellor, Herr Otto Bismarck – your father and I are trying to sort out the Schleswig-Holstein question of 1863-4; he's gone to fetch Bismarck's opposite number from Denmark so they can talk. Otto . . . I mean, Herr Bismarck, this is my daughter, Thursday.'
   Bismarck clicked his heels and kissed my hand in an icily polite manner.
   'Fräulein Next, the pleasure is all mine,' he intoned in a heavy German accent.
   My mother's curious and usually long-dead house guests should have surprised me, but they didn't. Not any more. Not since Alexander the Great turned up when I was nine. Nice enough fellow – but shocking table manners.
   'So, how are you enjoying 1988, Herr Bismarck?'
   'I am especially taken with the concept of dry cleaning,' replied the Prussian, 'and I see big things ahead for the gasoline engine.' He turned back to my mother. 'But I am most eager to speak to the Danish prime minister. Where might he be?'
   'I think we're having a teensy-weensy bit of trouble locating him,' replied my mother, waving the cake knife. 'Would you care for a slice of Battenberg instead?'
   'Ah!' replied Bismarck, his demeanour softening. He stepped delicately over DH82 to sit next to my mother. 'The finest Battenberg I have ever tasted!'
   'Oh, Herr B,' flustered my mother, 'you do flatter me so!'
   She made 'shooing' motions at us out of vision of Bismarck and, obedient children that we are, we withdrew from the living room.
   'Well!' said Joffy as we shut the door. 'How about that? Mum's after a bit of Teutonic slap and tickle!'
   I raised an eyebrow and stared at him.
   'I hardly think so, Joff. Dad doesn't turn up that often and intelligent male company can be hard to find.'
   Joffy chuckled.
   'Just good friends, eh? Okay. Here's the deal: I'll bet you a tenner Mum and the Iron Chancellor are doing the wild thing by this time next week.'
   'Done.'
   We shook hands and, with Emma, Hamlet, Bismarck and my mother thus engaged, I asked Joffy to look after Friday so I could slip out of the house to get some air.

   I turned left and wandered up Marlborough Road, looking about at the changes that two years' absence had wrought. I had walked this way to school for almost eight years, and every wall and tree and house was as familiar to me as an old friend. A new hotel had gone up on Piper's Way and a few shops in the Old Town had either changed hands or been updated. It all felt very familiar, and I wondered whether the feeling of wanting to belong somewhere would stay with me, or fade, like my fondness for Caversham Heights, the book in which I had made my home these past few years.
   I walked down Bath Road, took a right and found myself in the street where Landen and I had lived, before he was eradicated. I had returned home one afternoon to find his mother and father in residence. Since they hadn't known who I was and considered – not unreasonably – that I was dangerously insane, I decided to play it safe today and just walk past slowly on the other side of the street.
   Nothing looked very different. A tub of withered Tickia orologica was still on the porch next to an old pogo stick and the curtains in the windows were certainly his mother's. I walked on, then retraced my steps, my resolve to get him back mixed with a certain fatalism, a feeling that perhaps ultimately I wouldn't and I should prepare myself. After all, he had died when he was two years old, and I had no memories of how it had been, only of how things might have turned out had he lived.
   I shrugged my shoulders and chastised myself on the morbidity of my own thoughts, then walked towards the Goliath Twilight Homes where my gran was staying these days.

   Granny Next was in her room watching a nature documentary called Walking with Ducks when I was shown in by the nurse. Gran was wearing a blue gingham nightie, had wispy grey hair and looked all of her no years. She had got it into her head that she couldn't shuffle off this mortal coil until she had read the ten most boring books, but since 'boring' was about as impossible to quantify as 'not boring' it was difficult to know how to help.
   'Shhh!' she muttered as soon as I walked in. 'This programme's fascinating!' She was staring at the TV screen earnestly. 'Just think,' she went on, 'by analysing the bones of the extinct duck Anas platyrhynchos they can actually figure out how it walked.'
   I stared at the small screen, where an odd animated bird waddled strangely in a backward direction as the narrator explained just how they had managed to deduce such a thing.
   'How could they know that just by looking at a few old bones?' I asked doubtfully, having learned long ago that an 'expert' was usually anything but.
   'Scoff not, young Thursday,' replied Gran, 'a panel of expert avian palaeontologists have even deduced that a duck's call might have sounded something like this: "Quock, quock".'
   '"Quock?" Hardly seems likely.'
   'Perhaps you're right,' she replied, switching off the TV and tossing the remote aside. 'What do experts know?'
   Like me, Gran was able to jump inside fiction. I wasn't sure how either of us did it but I was very glad that she could – it was she who helped me to not forget my husband, something at one time I was in clear and real danger of doing thanks to Aornis, the mnemonomorph, of course. But Gran had left me about a year ago, announcing that I could fend for myself and she wouldn't waste any more time labouring for me hand and foot, which was a bit of cheek really, as I generally looked after her. But no matter. She was my gran and I loved her a great deal.
   'Goodness!' I said, looking at her soft and wrinkled skin, which put me oddly in mind of a baby echidna I had once seen in National Geographic.
   'What?' she asked sharply.
   'Nothing.'
   'Nothing? You were thinking of how old I was looking, weren't you?'
   It was hard to deny it. Every time I saw her I felt she couldn't look any older, but the next time, with startling regularity, she did.
   'When did you get back?'
   'This morning.'
   'And how are you finding things?'
   I brought her up to date with current events. She made 'tut-tutting' noises when I told her about Hamlet and Lady Hamilton, then even louder 'tut-tut' noises when I mentioned my mother and Bismarck.
   'Risky business, that.'
   'Mum and Bismarck?'
   'Emma and Hamlet.'
   'He's fictional and she's historical – what could be wrong about that?'
   'I was thinking,' she said slowly, raising an eyebrow, 'about what would happen if Ophelia found out.'
   I hadn't thought of that, and she was right. Hamlet could be difficult but Ophelia was impossible.
   'I always thought the reason Sir John Falstaff retired from policing Elizabethan drama was to get away from Ophelia's sometimes unreasonable demands,' I mused, 'such as having petting animals and a goodly supply of mineral water and fresh sushi on hand at Elsinore whenever she was working. Do you think I should insist Hamlet return to Hamlet?'
   'Perhaps not right away,' said Gran, coughing into her hanky. 'Let him see what the real world is like. Might do him good to realise it needn't take five acts to make up one's mind.'
   She started coughing again so I called the nurse, who told me I should probably leave her. I kissed her goodbye and walked out of the rest home deep in thought, trying to work up a strategy for the next few days. I dreaded to think what my overdraft was like and if I was to catch Kaine I'd be better off inside SpecOps than outside. There were no two ways about it: I needed my old job back. I'd attempt that tomorrow and take it from there. Kaine certainly needed dealing with, and I'd play it by ear at the TV studios tonight. I'd probably have to find a speech therapist for Friday to try to wean him off the Lorem Ipsum, and then, of course, there was Landen. How could I even begin to get someone returned to the here-and-now after they were deleted from the there-and-then by a chroirupt official from the supposedly incorruptible ChronoGuard?

   I was jolted from my thoughts as I approached Mum's house. There appeared to be someone partially hidden from view in the alleyway opposite. I nipped into the nearest front garden, ran between the houses, across two back gardens, and then stood on a dustbin to peek cautiously over a high wall. I was right. There was someone watching my mother's house. He was dressed too warmly for summer and was half hidden in the buddleia. My foot slipped on the dustbin and I made a noise. The lurker looked round, saw me and took flight. I jumped over the wall and gave chase. It was easier than I thought. He wasn't terribly fit and I caught up with him as he tried rather pathetically to climb a wall. Pulling the man down, I upset his small duffel bag and out poured an array of battered notebooks, a camera, a small pair of binoculars and several copies of the SpecOps 27 gazette, much annotated in red pen. 'Ow, ow, ow, get off!' he said. 'You're hurting!' I twisted his arm round and he dropped to his knees. I was just patting his pockets for a weapon when another man, dressed not unlike the first, came charging out from behind an abandoned car, holding aloft a tree branch. I spun, dodged the blow and, as the second man's momentum carried him on, I pushed him hard with my foot and he slammed head first into a wall and collapsed unconscious.
   The first man was unarmed so I made sure his unconscious friend was also unarmed – and wasn't going to choke on his blood or teeth or something.
   'I know you're not SpecOps,' I observed, 'because you're both way too crap. Goliath?'
   The first man got slowly to his feet. He was looking curiously at me, rubbing his arm where I had twisted it. He was a large man but not an unkindly looking one. He had short dark hair and a large mole on his chin. I had broken his spectacles; he didn't look Goliath but I had been wrong before.
   'I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Next. I've been waiting for you for a long, long time.'
   'I've been away.'
   'Since January 1986. I've waited nearly two and a half years to see you.'
   'And why would you do a thing like that?'
   'Because,' said the man, producing an identity badge from his pocket and handing it over, 'I am your officially sanctioned stalker.'
   I looked at the badge. It was true enough, he was allocated to me. All 100 per cent legit, and I didn't have a say in it. The whole stalker thing was licensed by SpecOps 33, the Entertainments Facilitation Department, which had drawn up specific rules with the Amalgamated Union of Stalkers as to who was allowed to stalk who. It helped to regulate a historically dark business and also graded stalkers according to skill and perseverance. My stalker was an impressive Grade I, the sort who are permitted to stalk the really big celebrities. And that made me suspicious.
   'A Grade I?' I queried. 'Should I be flattered? I don't suppose I'm anything above a Grade 8.'
   'Not nearly that high,' agreed my stalker, 'more like a Grade 12. But I've got a hunch you're going to get bigger. I latched on to Lola Vavoom in the sixties when she was just a bit part in The Streets of Wootton Bassett and stalked her for nineteen years, man and boy. I only gave her up to move on to Buck Stallion. When she heard she sent me a glass tankard with "Thank you for a great stalk, Lola" etched on it. Have you ever met her?'
   'Once, Mr . . .' I looked at the pass before handing it back. '. . . de Floss. Interesting name. Any relation to Candice?'
   'The author? In my dreams,' replied the stalker, rolling his eyes. 'But since I'd like us to be friends, do please call me Millon.'
   'Millon it is, then.'
   And we shook hands. The man on the ground moaned and sat up, rubbing his head.
   'Who's your friend?'
   'He's not my friend,' said Millon, 'he's my stalker. And a pain in the arse he is too.'
   'Wait – you're a stalker and you have a stalker?'
   'Of course!' Millon laughed. 'Ever since I published my autobiography, A Stalk on the Wild Side, I've become a bit of a celebrity myself. I even have a sponsorship deal with Compass Rose™ duffel coats. It is my celebrity status that enables Adam here to stalk me. Come to think of it, he's a Grade 3 stalker so it's possible he's got a stalker of his own – haven't you heard the poem?'

   Before I could stop him he started to recite:


'. . . And so the tabloids do but say,
that stalkers on other stalkers prey,
and these have smaller stalkers to stalk ’em
and so proceed, ad infinitum . . . '


   'No, I hadn't heard that one,' I mused as the second stalker placed a handkerchief on his bleeding lip.
   'Miss Next, this is Adam Gnusense. Adam, Miss Next.'
   He waved weakly at me, looked at the bloodied handkerchief and sighed mournfully. I felt rather remorseful all of a sudden.
   'Sorry to have hit you, Mr Gnusense,' I said apologetically, 'I didn't know what either of you was up to.'
   'Occupational hazard, Miss Next.'
   'Hey, Adam,' said Millon, suddenly sounding enthusiastic, 'do you have your own stalker yet?'
   'Somewhere,' said Gnusense, looking around, 'a Grade 34 loser. The sad bastard was rummaging through my bins last night. Passe or what!'
   'Kids – tsk,' said Millon. 'It might have been de rigueur in the sixties but the modern stalker is much more subtle. Long vigils, copious notes, timed entry and exits, telephoto lenses.'
   'We live in sad times,' agreed Adam, shaking his head sadly. 'Must be off. I said I'd keep a close eye on Adrian Lush for a friend.'
   He stood up and shambled slowly away down the alley, stumbling on discarded beer cans.
   'Not a great talker is old Adam,' said Millon in a whisper, 'but sticks to his target like a limpet. You wouldn't catch him rummaging through dustbins – unless he was giving a masterclass for a few of the young pups, of course. Tell me, Miss Next, where have you been for the past two and a half years? It's been a bit dull here – after the first eighteen months of you not showing up, I'd reduced my stalking to only three nights a week.'
   'You'd never believe me.'
   'You'd be surprised what I can believe. Aside from stalking I've just finished my first book: A Short History of the Special Operations Network. I'm also editor of Conspiracy Theorist magazine. In between pieces on the very tangible link between Goliath and Yorrick Kaine and the existence of a mysterious beast known only as "Guinzilla", we've run several articles devoted entirely to you and that Jane Eyre thing. We'd love to do a piece on your uncle Mycroft's work, too. Even though we know almost nothing, the conspiracy network is alive with healthy half-truths, lies and supposition. Did he really build an LCD cloaking device for cars?'
   'Sort of.'
   'And translating carbon paper?'
   'He called it rossetionery.'
   'And what about the ovinator? Conspiracy Theorist devotes several pages of unsubstantiated rumours to this one invention alone.'
   'I don't know. Some sort of machine for cooking eggs, perhaps? Is there anything you don't know about my family?'
   'Not a lot. I'm thinking of writing a biography of you. How about: Thursday Next – A Biography?'
   'The title? Way too imaginative.'
   'So I have your permission?'
   'No, but if you can put a dossier together on Yorrick Kaine I'll tell you all about Aornis Hades.'
   'Acheron's little sister? It's a deal! Are you sure I can't write your biography? I've already made a start.'
   'Positive – if you find anything, knock on my door.'
   'I can't. There's a blanket restraining order on all members of the Amalgamated Union of Stalkers. We're not allowed within a hundred yards of your place of residence.'
   I sighed.
   'All right, just wave when I come out.'
   De Floss readily agreed to that plan and I left him rearranging his notebook, binoculars and camera and starting to make copious notes on his first encounter with me. I couldn't get rid of the poor deluded fool but a stalker just might – might — be an ally.

3
Evade the Question Time

   PERFIDIOUS DANES 'HISTORICALLY OUR ENEMY', CLAIMS INSANE HISTORIAN
   'Quite frankly, I was yim-pim-pim appalled,' said England's leading mad history scholar yesterday. 'The eighth-century Danish attack on our flibble-flobble sceptred isle is a story of invasion, subjugation, plunder and exploitation that would remain bleep-bleep-baaaaa unequalled until we tried it ourselves many years later.' The confused and barely coherent historian's work has been authenticated by another equally feeble-minded academic, who told us yesterday: 'The Danish invasion began in 786 when the Danes set up a kingdom in East Anglia. They didn't even use their own names either. They preferred to do their brutal work cowardly hiding beneath the pseudonyms of Angles, Bruts, and Flynns.' Further research has shown that the Danes stayed for over four hundred years and were only driven home by the crusading help of our new close friends the French.

Article in the New Oppressor, the official mouthpiece of the Whig Party


   'How did Kaine rise so quickly to power?' I asked incredulously as Joffy and I queued patiently outside Swindon's Toad News Network studios that evening. 'When I was here last Kaine and the Whig Party were all but washed up after the Cardenio debacle.'
   Joffy looked grim and nodded towards a large crowd of uniformed Kaine followers who were waiting in silence for their glorious leader.
   'Things haven't been good back here, Thurs. Kaine regained his seat after Samuel Pring was assassinated. The Whigs formed an alliance with the Liberals and elected Kaine as their leader. He has some sort of magnetism, and the numbers that attend his rallies increase all the time. His 'British Unification' stance has had much support – mostly among stupid people who can't be bothered to think for themselves.'
   'War with Wales?'
   'He hasn't said as such but a leopard doesn't change its spots. He won by a landslide after the previous government collapsed over the "cash for llamas" scandal. As soon as he was in power he proclaimed himself Chancellor. His Unreform Act last year restricted the vote to people with property.'
   'How did he get Parliament to agree to that?' I muttered, aghast at the thought of it.
   'We're not sure,' said Joffy sadly. 'Sometimes Parliament does the funniest things. But he's not happy just being Chancellor. He's arguing that committees and accountants only slow things down and if people really want trains to run on time and shopping trolleys to run straight, it can only be done by one man wielding unquestionable executive power – a dictator.'
   'So what's stopping him?'
   'The President,' replied Joffy quietly. 'Formby has told Kaine that if he pushes for a dictatorial election he will stand against him, and Yorrick knows full well that Formby would win – he's as popular now as he ever was.'
   I thought for a moment.
   'How old is President Formby?'
   'That's the problem. He was eighty-four last May.'
   We fell silent for a moment, and shuffled with the queue up to the stage door, had our identities checked by two ugly men from SO-6 and were then ushered in. We took our seats at the back and waited patiently for the show to begin. It seemed hard to believe that Kaine had managed to inveigle his way to the top of English politics but, I reflected, anything can happen to a fictional character – a trait that Yorrick obviously exploited to the full.
   'See that nasty-looking man on the edge of the stage?' asked Joffy.
   'Yes,' I replied, following the line of Joffy's finger to a stocky man with short hair and no visible neck.
   'Colonel Fawsten Gayle, Kaine's head of security. Not a man to trifle with. It's rumoured he was expelled from school for nailing his head to a park bench for a bet.'
   Standing next to Gayle was a cadaverous man with pinched features and small round spectacles. He was holding a battered red briefcase and was dressed in a rumpled sports jacket and corduroy trousers.
   'Who's that?'
   'Ernst Stricknene. Kaine's personal adviser.'
   I stared at them both for a while and noticed that, despite being barely two feet from one another, they didn't exchange a single word or look. Things in the Kaine camp were far from settled. If I could get close I'd just grab Yorrick and jump him straight to one of Jurisfiction's many prison books and that would be that. It looked as though I had got back home just in time.
   I consulted the complimentary copy of The New Oppressor I had found on my seat.
   'Why is Kaine blaming the nation's woes on the Danish?' I asked.
   'Because economically we're in a serious mess after losing to Russia in the Crimean War. They didn't just get Tunbndge Wells as war reparations but a huge chunk of cash, too. The country is near bankruptcy, Kaine wants to stay in power, so—'
   '—misdirection.'
   'Bingo. He blames someone else.'
   'But the Danish?'
   'Shows how desperate he is, doesn't it? As a nation we've been blaming the Welsh and the French for far too long, and with the Russians out of the frame he's come up with Denmark as public enemy number one. He's using the Viking raids of AD 800 and the Danish Rule of England in the eleventh century as an excuse to whip up some misinformed xenophobia.'
   'Ludicrous!'
   'Agreed. The papers have been full of anti-Danish propaganda this past month. All Bang & Olufsen entertainment systems have been withdrawn owing to "safety" concerns and Lego has been banned pending "choking hazard" investigations. The list of outlawed Danish waters is becoming longer by the second. Kierkegaard's works have already been declared illegal under the Undesirable Danish Literature Act and will be burned. Hans Christian Andersen will be next, we're told – and after that, maybe even Karen Blixen.'
   'They can pull my copy of Out of Africa from my cold dead fingers.'
   'Mine too. You'd better make sure Hamlet doesn't tell anyone where he's from. Shhh. I think something's happening.'
   Something was happening. The floor manager had walked out on to the set and was explaining to us exactly what we should do. After a protracted series of technical checks, the host of the show walked on to applause from the audience. This was Tudor Webastow of The Owl, who had made a career out of being just inquisitive enough to be considered a realistic political foil for the press but not so inquisitive that he would be found in the Thames wearing concrete overshoes.
   He sat down at the middle of a table with two empty chairs either side of him and sorted his notes. Unusually for Evade the Question Time the show had two speakers instead of four, but tonight was special: Yorrick Kaine would be facing his political opposition, Mr Redmond van de Poste, of the Commonsense Party. Mr Webastow cleared his throat and began.
   'Good evening and welcome to Evade the Question Time, the nation's premier topical talk show. Tonight, as every night, a panel of distinguished public figures generally evade answering the audience's questions and instead tow the party line.'
   There was applause at this, and Webastow continued:
   'The show tonight comes from Swindon in Wessex. Sometimes called the third capital of England or the "Venice on the M4", the Swindon of today is a financial and manufacturing powerhouse, its citizens a cross-section of professionals and artists who are politically indicative of the country as a whole. I'd also like to mention at this point that Evade the Question Time is brought to you by Neat-Fit® Exhaust Systems, the tailpipe of choice.'
   He paused for a moment and shuffled his papers.
   'We are honoured to have with us tonight two very different speakers from opposite ends of the political spectrum. First I would like to introduce a man who was politically dead two years ago but has managed to pull himself up to the second-highest political office in the nation with a devoted following of many millions, not all of whom are deranged. Ladies and gentlemen, Chancellor Yorrick Kaine!'
   There was a mixed reception as Kaine walked on to the stage, and he grinned and nodded his head for the benefit of the crowd. I leaned forward in my seat. He didn't appear to have aged at all in the two years since I had last seen him, which is what I would expect from a fictioneer. Still looking to be in his late twenties with black hair swept neatly to the side, he might have been a male model from a knitting pattern. I knew he wasn't. I'd checked.
   'Thank you very much,' said Kaine, sitting at the table and clasping his hands in front of him. 'May I say that I always regard Swindon as a home away from home.'
   There was a brief twitter of delight from the front of the audience, mostly little old ladies who looked upon Kaine as the son they never had. Webastow went on:
   'And opposing him we are also honoured to welcome Mr Redmond van de Poste of the opposition Commonsense Party.'
   There was notably less applause as van de Poste walked in. He was older than Kaine by almost thirty years, looked tired and gaunt, wore round horn-rimmed spectacles and had a high-domed forehead that shone when it caught the light. He looked about furtively before sitting down stiffly. I guessed the reason. He was wearing a heavy flak vest beneath his suit – and with good reason. The last three Commonsense leaders had all met with mysterious deaths. The previous incumbent had been Mrs Fay Bentoss, who had died after being hit by a car. Not so unusual, you might think – except she had been in her front room when it happened.
   'Thank you, gentlemen, and welcome. The first question comes from Miss Pupkin.'
   A small woman stood up and said shyly:

  'Hello. A Terrible Thing was done by Somebody this week, and I'd like to ask the panel if they condemn this.'
   'A very good question,' responded Webastow. 'Mr Kaine, perhaps you'd like to start the ball rolling?'
   'Thank you, Tudor. Yes, I condemn utterly and completely the Terrible Thing in the strongest possible terms. We in the Whig Party are appalled by the way in which Terrible Things are done in this great nation of ours with no retribution against the Somebody who did them. I would also like to point out that the current spate of Terrible Things being undertaken in our towns and cities is a burden we inherited from the Commonsense Party, and I would like to point out that in real terms the occurrence of Terrible Things has dropped by over twenty-eight per cent since we took office.'
   There was applause at this. Webastow then asked van de Poste for his comments.
   'Well,' said Redmond with a sigh, 'quite clearly my learned friend has got his facts mixed up. According to the way we massage the figures, Terrible Things are actually on the increase. But I'd like to stop playing party politics for a moment and state for the record that although this is of course a great personal tragedy for those involved, condemning out of hand these acts does not allow us to understand why they occur and more needs to be done to get to the root cause of—'
   'Yet again,' interrupted Kaine, 'yet again we see the Commonsense Party shying away from its responsibilities and failing to act toughly on unspecified difficulties. I hope all the unnamed people who have suffered unclearly defined problems will understand—'
   'I did say we condemned the Terrible Thing,' put in van de Poste, 'and I might add that we have been conducting a study into the entire range of Terrible Things all the way from Just Annoying to Outrageously Awful and will act on these findings – if we gain power.'
   'Trust the Commonsensers to do things by half measures!' scoffed Kaine, who obviously enjoyed these sorts of discussions. 'By going only so far as "Outrageously Awful" Mr van de Poste is selling his own nation short. We in the Whig Party have been looking at the Terrible Things problem and propose a zero-tolerance attitude to offences as low as Mildly Inappropnate. Only in this way can the Somebodies who commit Terrible Things be stopped before they move on to acts that are Obscenely Perverse.'
   There was another smattering of applause, presumably as the audience tried to figure out whether 'Just Annoying' was worse than 'Mildly Inappropriate'.
   'Succinctly put,' announced Webastow. 'At the end of the first round I will award three points to Mr Kaine for an excellent nonspecific condemnation, plus one bonus point for blaming the previous government, and another for successfully mutating the question to promote the party line. Mr van de Poste gets a point for a firm rebuttal, but only two points for his condemnation as he tried to inject an impartial and intelligent observation. So at the end of the first round, it's Kaine leading with five points, and van de Poste on three.'
   There was more applause as the numbers came up on the score-board.
   'On to the next stage of the show, which we call the "not answering the question" round. We have a question from Miss Ives.'
   A middle-aged woman put up her hand and asked:
   'Does the panel think that sugar should be added to rhubarb pie or the sweetness deficit made up by an additive, such as custard?'
   'Thank you, Miss Ives. Mr van de Poste, would you care to not answer this question first?'
   'Well,' said Redmond, eyeing the audience for any possible assassins, 'this question goes straight to the heart of government, and I'd like first to point out that the Commonsense Party, when we were in power, tried more ways of doing things than any other party in living memory, and in consequence came closer to the right way of doing something, even if we didn't know it at the time.'
   There was applause and Joffy and I exchanged looks.
   'Does it get any better?' I whispered.
   'Wait until they get on to Denmark.'
   'I utterly refute,' began Kaine, 'the implication that we aren't doing things the right way. To demonstrate this I'd like to wander completely off the point and talk about the Health Service Overhaul that we will launch next year. We want to replace the outdated "preventatlve" style of healthcare this country has relentlessly pursued with a "wait until it gets really bad" system which will target those most in need of medical treatment – the sick. Yearly health screenings for all citizens will end and will be replaced by a "tertiary" diagnostic regime which will save money and resources.'
   Again, there was applause.
   'Okay,' announced Webastow, 'I'm going to give van de Poste three points for successfully not answering that question at all, but five points to Kaine, who not only ignored the question but instead used it as a platform for his own political agenda. So with six rounds still to go, we have Kaine with ten points, and van de Poste with six. Next question please.'
   A young man with dyed red hair sitting in our row put his hand up.
   'I would like to suggest that the Danish are not our enemy, and this is nothing more than a cynical move by the Whigs to blame someone else for our own economic troubles.'
   'Ah!' said Webstow. 'The controversial Danish question. I'm going to let Mr van de Poste avoid this question first.'
   Van de Poste looked unwell all of a sudden and glanced nervously towards where Stricknene and Gayle were glaring at him.
   'I think,' he began slowly, 'that if the Danish are as Mr Kaine describes, I will offer my support to his policies.'
   He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief as Yorrick began:
   'When I came to power England was a nation in the grip of economic decline and social ills. No one realised it at the time and I took it upon myself to demonstrate by any means in my power the depths to which this great nation had fallen. With the support of my followers, I have managed to demonstrate reasonably clearly that things aren't as good as we thought they were, and what we imagined was peace and coexistence with our neighbours was actually a fool's paradise of delusion and paranoia. Anyone who thinks . . .'
   I leaned over to Joffy.
   'Do people believe this garbage?'
   'I'm afraid so. I think he's working on the "people will far more readily believe a big lie than a small one" principle. Still surprises me, though.'
   '. . . whoever disturbs this mission,' rattled on Kaine, 'is an enemy of the people, whether they be Danish or Welsh sympathisers eager to overthrow our nation, or ill-informed lunatics who do not deserve the vote, or a voice.'
   There was applause but a few boos, too. I saw Colonel Gayle make notes on a scrap of paper of who was shouting them, counting out the seat numbers as he did so.
   'But why the Danish?' continued the man with the red hair. 'They have a notoriously fair system of parliament, an impeccable record of human rights and a deserved reputation for upstanding charitable works in Third World nations – I think these are lies, Mr Kaine!'
   There were gasps and intakes of breath but a few head-noddings, too. Even, I think, from van de Poste.
   'For the moment at least,' began Kaine in a conciliatory tone, 'everyone is permitted an opinion, and I thank our friend for his candour. However, I would like to bring the audience's attention to an unrelated yet emotive issue that will turn the discussion away from the embarrassing shortcomings of my administration and back into the arena of populist politics. Namely: the disgraceful record of puppy and kitten death when the Commonsense Party were in power.'
   At the mention of puppies and kittens dying there were cries of alarm from the elder members of the audience. Confident that he had turned the discussion, Kaine went on:

   'As things stand at the moment, over one thousand unwanted puppies and kittens are destroyed each year by lethal injection which is freely available to veterinarians in Denmark. As committed humanitarians, the Whig Party has always condemned unwanted pet extermination.'
   'Mr van de Poste?' asked Webastow. 'How do you react to Mr Kaine's diversionary tactics regarding kitten death?'
   'Clearly,' began van de Poste, 'kitten and puppy death is regrettable, but we in the Commonsense Party must bring it to everyone's attention that unwanted pets have to be destroyed in this manner. If people were more responsible with their pets, then this sort of thing wouldn't happen.'
   'Typical of the Commonsense approach!' barked Kaine. 'Blaming the population as though they were feeble-minded fools with little personal responsibility! We in the Whig Party would never condone such an accusation, and are appalled by Mr van de Poste's outburst. I will personally pledge to you now that I will make the puppy home deficit problem my primary concern when I am made dictator.'
   There were loud cheers at this and I shook my head sadly.
   'Well,' said Webastow happily, 'I think I will give Mr Kaine a full five points for his masterful misdirection, plus a bonus two points for obscuring the Danish issue rather than facing up to it. Mr van de Poste, I'm sorry that I can only offer you a single point. Not only did you tacitly agree with Mr Kaine's outrageous foreign policy, but you answered the unwanted pet problem with an honest reply. So at the end of round three Kaine is galloping ahead with seventeen points, and van de Poste bringing up the rear with seven. Our next question comes from Mr Wedgwood.'
   'Yes,' said a very old man in the third row, 'I should like to know if the panel supports the Goliath Corporation's change to a faith-based corporate management system.'
   And so it dragged on for nearly an hour, Kaine making outrageous claims and most of the audience failing to notice or, even worse, care. I was extremely glad when the programme drew to a close with Kaine leading thirty-eight points to van de Poste's sixteen, and we filed out of the door.
   'What now?' asked Joffy.
   I took my Jurisfiction TravelBook from my pocket and opened it at the page that offered a paragraph of The Sword of the Zenobians, one of the many unpublished works Jurisfiction used as a prison. All I had to do was grab Kaine's hand and read.
   'I'm going to take Kaine back to the BookWorld with me. He's far too dangerous to leave out here.'
   'I agree,' said Joffy, leading me round to where two large limousines were waiting for the Chancellor. 'He'll want to meet his "adoring" public so you should have a chance.'
   We found the crowd waiting for him and pushed our way to the front. Most of the TV audience had turned up to see Kaine but not for the same purpose as me. There was excited chatter as Kaine appeared. He smiled serenely and walked down the line, shook hands and was presented with flowers and babies to kiss. Close by his side was Colonel Gayle with a phalanx of guards who stared into the crowd to make sure no one tried anything. Behind them all I could see was Stricknene still clinging on to the red briefcase. I partially hid myself behind an enthusiastic Kaine acolyte waving a Whig Party flag so Kaine didn't see me. We had crossed swords once before and he knew what I was capable of, much as I knew what he was capable of – the last time we met he had tried to have us all eaten by the Glatisant, a sort of hell-beast from the depths of mankind's most depraved imagination. If he could conjure up fictional beasts at will, I would have to be careful.
   But then, as the small group moved closer, I started to feel a curious impulse not to trap Kaine but to join in with the infectious enthusiasm. The atmosphere was electric, and being swept along with the crowd was something that just suddenly seemed right. Joffy had fallen under the spell already and was waving and whistling his support. I fought down a strong urge to stop what I was doing and perhaps give Yorrick the benefit of the doubt. He and his entourage were now upon us. His hand came out towards the crowd. I steadied myself, glanced at the opening lines of Zenobians and waited for the right moment. I would have to hold on tight as I read our way into the BookWorld but that didn't bother me as I'd done it many times before. What did worry me was the fact that my resolve was softening fast. Before the Kaine magnetism could take me over any further I took a deep breath, grabbed the outstretched hand and muttered quickly:
   'It was a time of peace within the land of the Zenobians . . .'
   It didn't take long for me to jump into the BookWorld. Within a few moments the bustling night-time crowd in the car park of the Toad News Network's studios had vanished from view to be replaced by a warm verdant valley where herds of unicorns grazed peacefully under the summer sun. Grammasites wheeled in the blue skies, riding the thermals that rose from the warm grassland.
   'So!' I said, turning to Kaine and receiving something of a shock. Beside me was not Yorrick but a middle-aged man holding a Whig Party flag and staring at the crystal-clear waters babbling through a gap in the rocks. I must have grabbed the wrong hand.
   'Where am I?' asked the man, who was understandably confused.
   'It's a near death experience,' I told him hastily, 'what do you think?'
   'It's beautiful!'
   'Good. Don't get too fond of it, I'm taking you back.'
   I grasped him again, muttered the password under my breath and jumped out of fiction, something I had a lot less trouble with. We arrived behind some dustbins just as Kaine and his entourage were driving off. I ran up to Joffy, who was still waving goodbye, and told him to snap out of it.
   'Sorry,' he said, shaking his head. 'What happened to you?'
   'Don't ask. C'mon, let's go home.'
   We left the scene as a very excited and confused middle-aged man tried to tell anyone who would listen about his 'near death' experience.

   I went to bed past midnight, my head spinning from my experience of Kaine's almost hypnotic hold on the populace. Still, I wasn't out of ideas. I could try to grab him again and, failing that, use the eraserhead I had smuggled out of the BookWorld. Destroying him didn't bother me. I'd be no more guilty of murder than an author with a delete key. But while Formby opposed him Kaine would not become dictator, so I had a bit of time to work up a strategy. I could observe, and plan. 'Time spent doing renaissance,' Mrs Malaprop used to tell me, 'is never wasted.'

4
A Town Like Swindon

   FORMBY DENIES KAINE
   President-for-life George Formby vetoed Chancellor Kaine's attempts to make himself dictator of England yesterday during one of the most heated exchanges this nation has ever seen. Kaine's Ultimate Executive Power Bill, already passed by Parliament, requires only the presidential signature to become law. President Formby, speaking from the presidental palace in Wigan, told reporters: 'Eeee, I wouldn't have a ***** like that run a grocer's, let alone a country!' Chancellor Kaine. angered by the President's remark, declared Formby 'too old to have a say in this nation's future', 'out of touch' and 'a poor singer', the last of which he was forced to retract after a public outcry.'

Article in The Toad, 13 July 1988


   It was the morning following Evade the Question Time and I had slept badly, waking up before Friday, which was unusual. I stared at the ceiling and thought about Kaine. I'd have to follow him to his next public engagement before he discovered that I had returned. I was just thinking about why Joffy and I had nearly been sucked into the whole Yorrick circus when Friday awoke and blinked at me in a breakfast sort of way. I dressed quickly and took him downstairs.
   'Welcome to Swindon Breakfast with Toad' announced the TV presenter as we walked in, 'with myself, Warwick Fridge, and the lovely Leigh Onzolent—'
   'Hello—'
   '—bringing you two hours of news and views, fun and competitions to see you into the day. Breakfast with Toad is sponsored by Arkwright's Doorknobs, the finest door furniture in Wessex.'
   Warwick turned to Leigh, who was looking way too glamorous for eight in the morning. She smiled and continued:
   'This morning we'll be speaking to croquet captain Roger Kapok about Swindon's chances in Superhoop '88, and also to a man who claims to have seen unicorns in a near death experience. Network Toad's resident dodo whisperer will be on hand for your pet's psychiatric problems and our Othello backwards-reading competition reaches the quarter-finals. Later on we talk to Mr Joffy Next about tomorrow's potential resurrection with St Zvlkx, but first, the news. The CEO of Goliath has announced contrition targets to be attainable within—'
   'Morning, daughter,' said my mother, who had just walked into the kitchen, 'I never thought of you as an early riser.'
   'I wasn't until Junior turned up,' I replied, pointing at Friday, who was eyeing the porridge pot expectantly, 'but if there's one thing he knows how to do, it's eat.'
   'It's what you did best when you were his age. Oh,' added my mother absently, 'I have to give you something, by the way.'
   She hurried from the room and returned with a sheath of official-looking papers.
   'Mr Hicks left them for you.'
   Braxton Hicks was my old boss back at Swindon SpecOps. I had left abruptly, and from the look of his opening letter it didn't look as if he was very happy about it. I had been demoted to 'Literary Detective Researcher', and the letter demanded my gun and badge back. The second letter was an outstanding warrant of arrest relating to a trumped-up charge of possession of a small amount of illegally owned bootleg cheese.
   'Is cheese still overpriced?' I asked my mother.
   'Criminal!' she muttered. 'Over five hundred per cent duty. And it's not just cheese, either. They've extended the duty to cover all dairy products – even yogurt.'
   I sighed. I would probably have to go into SpecOps and explain myself. I could beg forgiveness, go to the stressperts and plead post-traumatic stress disorder or Xplkqulkiccasia or something and ask for my old job back. Perhaps if I were to get handy with a nine iron it might swing things with my golf-mad boss. Outside SpecOps was not a good place to be if I wanted to hunt Yorrick Kaine or lobby the ChronoGuard for my husband back; it would help to have access to all the SpecOps and police databases.
   I looked through the papers. I had apparently been found guilty of the cheese transgression and fined £5,000 plus costs.
   'Did you pay this?' I asked my mother, showing her the court demand.
   'Yes.'
   'Then I should pay you back.'
   'No need,' she replied, adding before I could thank her: 'I paid it out of your overdraft – which is quite big, now.'
   'How . . . thoughtful of you.'
   'Don't mention it. Bacon and eggs?'
   'Please.'
   'Coming up. Would you get the milk?'
   I went to the front door to fetch the milk and as I bent down to pick it up there was a whang-thop noise as a bullet zipped past my ear and thudded into the door frame next to me. I was about to slam the door and grab my automatic when an unaccountable stillness took hold, like a sudden becalming. Above me a pigeon hung frozen in the air, its wingtip feathers splayed as it reached the bottom of a downstroke. A motorcyclist on the road was balancing, impossibly still, and passers-by were now as stiff and unmoving as statues – even Pickwick had stopped in mid-waddle. Time, for the moment at least, had frozen. I knew only one person who had a face that could stop the clock like this – my father. The question was – where was he?
   I looked up and down the road. Nothing. Since I was about to be assassinated I thought it might help to know who was doing the assassinating, so I walked down the garden path and across the road to the alley where de Floss had hidden himself so badly the previous day. It was here that I found my father looking at a small and very pretty blonde woman no more than five foot high who was time-frozen halfway through the process of disassembling a sniper's rifle. She was probably in her late twenties and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail held tight with a flower hair tie. I noted with a certain detached amusement that there was a lucky gonk attached to the trigger guard and that the stock was covered with pink fur. Dad looked younger than me but he was instantly recognisable. The odd nature of the time business tended to make operatives live nonlinear lives – every time I met him he was a different age.
   'Hello, Dad.'
   'You were correct,' he said, comparing the woman's frozen features with those on a series of photographs, 'it's an assassin all right.'
   'Never mind that for the moment!' I cried happily. 'How are you? I haven't seen you for years!'
   He turned and stared at me.
   'My dear girl, we spoke only a few hours ago!'
   'No we didn't.'
   'We did, actually.'
   'We did not.'
   He stared at me for a moment and looked at his watch, shook it and listened to it, then shook it again.
   'Here,' I said, handing him the chronograph I was wearing, 'take mine.'
   'Very nice – thank you. Ah! I stand corrected. Three hours from now. It's an easy mistake to make. Did you have any thoughts about that matter we discussed?'
   'No, Dad,' I said in an exasperated tone, 'it hasn't happened yet, remember?'
   'You're always so linear,' he muttered, returning to comparing the pictures with the assassin. 'I think you ought to try and expand your horizons a bit – bingo!'
   He had found a picture that matched my assassin and read the label on the back.
   'Expensive hit-woman working in the Wiltshire—Oxford area. Looks petite and bijou but is as deadly as the best of them. She trades under the name the Windowmaker.' He paused. 'Should be Widowmaker, shouldn't it?'
   'But I heard the Windowmaker was lethal,' I pointed out. 'A contract with her and you're deader than corduroy.'
   'I heard that too,' replied my father thoughtfully. 'Sixty-seven victims; sixty-eight if she was the one that did Samuel Pring. She must have meant to miss. It's the only explanation. In any event, her real name is Cindy Stoker.'
   This was unexpected. Cindy was married to Spike Stoker, an operative over at SO-17 whom I had worked with a couple of times. I had even given him advice on how best to tell Cindy that he hunted down werewolves for a living – not the choicest profession for a potential husband.
   'Cindy is my assassin? Cindy is the Windowmaker?'
   'You know her?'