14. Lunch with Bowden

   ‘Bowden Cable is the sort of honest and dependable operative that is the backbone of SpecOps. They never win commendations or medals and the public has no knowledge of them at all. They are all worth ten of people like me.’

Thursday Next. A Life in SpecOps


   Bowden guided me to a transport cafe on the old Oxford road. I thought it was an odd choice for lunch; the seats were hard orange plastic and the yellowing Melamine-covered table-tops had started to lift at the edges. The windows were almost opaque with dirt and the nylon net curtains hung heavily with deposits of grease. Several flypapers dangled from the ceiling, their potency long worn off, the flies stuck to them long since desiccated to dust. Somebody had made an effort to make the interior slightly more cheery by sticking up a few pictures hastily cut from old calendars; a signed photo of the 1978 England soccer team was hung above a fireplace that had been filled in and then decorated with a vase full of plastic flowers.
   ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, sitting gingerly at a table near the window.
   ‘The food’s good,’ responded Bowden, as though that was all that mattered.
   A gum-chewing waitress came up to the table and put some bent cutlery in front of us. She was about fifty and was wearing a uniform that might have been her mother’s.
   ‘Hello, Mr Cable,’ she said in a flat tone with only a sliver of interest in her voice, ‘all well?’
   ‘Very well, thank you. Lottie, I’d like you to meet my new partner, Thursday Next.’
   Lottie looked at me oddly.
   ‘Any relation to Captain Next?’
   ‘He was my brother,’ I said loudly, as if wanting Lottie to know that I wasn’t ashamed of the connection, ‘and he didn’t do what they said he did.’
   The waitress stared at me for a moment, as if wanting to say something but not daring.
   ‘What will you lot have, then?’ she asked instead with forced cheerfulness. She had lost someone in the Charge; I could sense it.
   ‘What’s the special?’ asked Bowden.
   ‘Soupe d’Auverge au Fromage,’ replied Lottie, ‘followed by Rojoes Cominho.’
   ‘What’s that?’ I asked.
   ‘It’s braised pork with cumin, coriander and lemon,’ replied Bowden.
   ‘Sounds great.’
   ‘Two specials please and a carafe of mineral water.’
   She nodded, scribbled a note and gave me a sad smile before departing.
   Bowden looked at me with interest. He would have guessed eventually that I was ex-military. I wore it badly.
   ‘Crimea veteran, eh? Did you know Colonel Phelps was in town?’
   ‘I bumped into him on the airship yesterday. He wanted me to go to one of his rallies.’
   ‘Will you?’
   ‘You must be kidding. His idea of the perfect end to the Crimean conflict is for us to fight and fight until there is no one left alive and the peninsula’s a poisoned and mined land no good for anything. I’m hoping that the UN can bring both governments to their senses.’
   ‘I was called up in ‘78,’ said Bowden. ‘Even got past basic training. Fortunately it was the same year the Czar died and the Crown Prince took over. There were more pressing demands on the young Emperor’s time, so the Russians withdrew. I was never needed.’
   ‘I was reading somewhere that since the war started, only seven years of the one hundred and thirty-one have actually been spent fighting.’
   ‘But when they do,’ added Bowden, ‘they certainly make up for it.’
   I looked at him. He had taken a sip of water after offering the carafe to me first.
   ‘Married? Kids?’
   ‘No,’ replied Bowden. ‘I haven’t really had time to find myself a wife, although I am not against the idea in principle. It’s just that SpecOps is not really a great place for meeting people and I’m not, I confess, a great socialiser. I’ve been short-listed for a post opening the equivalent of a LiteraTec office in Ohio; it seems to me the perfect opportunity to take a wife.’
   ‘The money’s good over there and the facilities are excellent. I’d consider it myself given the opportunity,’ I replied. I meant it, too.
   ‘Would you? Would you really?’ asked Bowden with a flush of excitement that was curiously at odds with his slightly cold demeanour.
   ‘Sure. Change of scenery,’ I stammered, wanting to change the subject in case Bowden got the wrong idea. ‘Have you—ah—been a LiteraTec long?’
   Bowden thought for a moment.
   ‘Ten years. I came from Cambridge with a degree in nineteenth-century literature and joined the LiteraTecs straight away. Jim Crometty looked after me from the moment I started.’
   He stared out of the window wistfully. ‘Perhaps if I’d been there—‘
   ‘—then you’d both be dead. Anyone who shoots a man six times in the face doesn’t go to Sunday school. He’d have killed you and not even thought about it. There’s little to be gained in what ifs; believe me, I know. I lost two fellow officers to Hades. I’ve been over it all a hundred times, yet it would probably happen exactly the same way if I had another chance.’
   Lottie placed the soup in front of us with a basket of freshly baked bread.
   ‘Enjoy,’ said Lottie, ‘it’s on the house.’
   ‘But—!’ I began. Lottie silenced me.
   ‘Save your breath,’ she said impassively. ‘After the charge. After the shit hit the fan. After the first wave of death—you went back to do what you could. You went back. I value that.’ She turned and left.

   The soup was good; the Rojoes Cominho even better.
   ‘Victor told me you worked on Shakespeare up in London,’ said Bowden.
   It was the most prestigious area in which to work in the LiteraTec office. Lake poetry was a close second and Restoration comedy after that. Even in the most egalitarian of offices, a pecking order always established itself.
   ‘There was very little room for promotion in the London office so after a couple of years I was given the Shakespeare work,’ I replied, tearing at a piece of bread. ‘We get a lot of trouble from Baconians in London.’
   Bowden looked up.
   ‘How do you rate the Baconian theory?’
   ‘Not much. Like many people I’m pretty sure there is more to Shakespeare than just Shakespeare. But Sir Francis Bacon using a little-known actor as a front? I just don’t buy it.’
   ‘He was a trained lawyer,’ asserted Bowden. ‘Many of the plays have legal parlance to them.’
   ‘It means nothing,’ I replied, ‘Greene, Nashe and especially Ben Jonson use legal phraseology; none of them had legal training. And don’t even get me started on the so-called codes. ‘
   ‘No need to worry about that,’ replied Bowden. ‘I won’t. I’m no Baconian either. He didn’t write them.’
   ‘And what would make you so sure?’
   ‘If you read his De Augmentis Sdentarium you’ll find Bacon actually criticising popular drama. Furthermore, when the troupe Shakespeare belonged to applied to the King to form a theatre, they were referred to the commissioner for suits. Guess who was on that panel and most vociferously opposed the application?’
   ‘Francis Bacon?’ I asked.
   ‘Exactly. Whoever wrote the plays, it wasn’t Bacon. I’ve formulated a few theories of my own over the years. Have you ever heard of Edward De Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford?’
   ‘Vaguely.’
   ‘There is some proof that, unlike Bacon, he could actually write and write quite well—hang on.’
   Lottie had brought a phone to the table. It was for Bowden. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.
   ‘Yes?’
   He looked up at me.
   ‘Yes, she is. We’ll be right over. Thanks.’
   ‘Problems?’
   ‘It’s your aunt and uncle. I don’t know how to say this but… they’ve been kidnapped!’

   There were several police and SpecOps cars clustered around the entrance to my mother’s house when we pulled up. A small crowd had assembled and was peering over the fence. The dodos had gathered on the other side and were staring back, wondering what the fuss was all about. I showed my badge to the officer on duty.
   ‘LiteraTec?’ he said scornfully. ‘Can’t let you in, ma’am. Police and SpecOps 9 only.’
   ‘He’s my uncle—!’ I said angrily, and the officer reluctantly let me through. Swindon was the same as London: a LiteraTec’s badge held about as much authority as a bus pass. I found my mother in the living room surrounded by damp Kleenex. I sat beside her and asked her what had happened.
   She blew her nose noisily.
   ‘I called them in for dinner at one. It was snorkers, Mycroft’s favourite. There was no answer so I went down to his workshop. They were both gone and the double doors wide open. Mycroft wouldn’t have gone out without saying anything.’
   This was true. Mycroft never left the house unless it was absolutely necessary; since Owens had been meringued Polly did all his running around.
   ‘Anything stolen?’ I asked a SpecOps 9 operative who stared at me coldly. He didn’t relish being asked questions by a LiteraTec.
   ‘Who knows?’ he replied with little emotion. ‘I understand you’d been in his workshop recently?’
   ‘Yesterday evening.’
   ‘Then perhaps you can have a look around and tell us if there is anything missing?’
   I was escorted to Mycroft’s workshop. The rear doors had been forced and I looked around carefully. The table where Mycroft had kept all his bookworms had been cleared; all I could see was the massive two-pronged power lead that would have slotted into the back of the Prose Portal.
   ‘There was something right here. Several goldfish bowls full up with small worms and a large book a bit like a mediaeval church Bible—‘
   ‘Can you draw it?’ asked a familiar voice. I turned to see Jack Schitt lurking in the shadows, smoking a small cigarette and overseeing a Goliath technician who was passing a humming sensor over the ground.
   ‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘If it isn’t Jack Schitt. What’s Goliath’s interest in my uncle?’
   ‘Can you draw it?’ he repeated.
   I nodded, and one of the Goliath men gave me a pencil and paper. I sketched out what I had seen, the intricate combination of dials and knobs on the front of the book and the heavy brass straps. Jack Schitt took it from me and studied it with great interest as another Goliath technician walked in from outside.
   ‘Well?’ asked Schitt.
   The agent saluted neatly and showed Schitt a pair of large and slightly molten G-clamps.
   ‘Professor Next had jury-rigged his own set of cables to the electrical sub-station just next door. I spoke to the electricity board. They said they had three unexplained power drains of about 1.8 megawatts each late last night.’
   Jack Schitt turned to me.
   ‘You better leave this to us, Next,’ he said. ‘Kidnapping and theft are not part of the LiteraTec’s responsibility.’
   ‘Who did this?’ I demanded, but Schitt didn’t take crap from anyone—least of all me. He wagged a finger in my direction.
   ‘This investigation is nothing to do with you; we’ll keep you informed of any developments. Or not. As I see fit.’
   He turned and walked away.
   ‘It was Acheron, wasn’t it?’ I said, slowly and deliberately. Schitt stopped in mid-stride, and turned to face me.
   ‘Acheron is dead, Next. Burned to a crisp at Junction twelve. Don’t spread your theories around town, girl. It might make you seem more unstable than you actually are.’
   He smiled without the least vestige of kindness and walked out of the workshop to his waiting car.

15. Hello & Goodbye, Mr Quaverley

   ‘Few people remember Mr Quaverley any more. If you had read Martin Chuzzlewit prior to 1985 you would have come across a minor character who lived in Mrs Todger’s boarding house. He discoursed freely with the Pecksniffs on the subject of butterflies, of which he knew almost nothing. Sadly, he is no longer there. His hat is hanging on the hatrack at the bottom of page 235, but that is all that remains…’

Millon de Floss. Thursday Next Casebook Volume 6


   ‘Astounding!’ said Acheron quietly as he surveyed Mycroft’s Prose Portal. ‘Truly astounding!’
   Mycroft said nothing. He had been too busy wondering whether Polly was still alive and well since the poem closed on her. Against his protestations they had pulled the plug before the portal had reopened; he didn’t know if any human could survive in such an environment. They had blindfolded him during the journey and he was now standing in the smoking lounge of what had once been a large and luxurious hotel. Although still grand, the decor was tatty and worn. The pearl-inlaid grand piano didn’t look as though it had been tuned for years, and the mirror-backed bar was sadly devoid of any refreshment. Mycroft looked out of the window for a clue as to where he was being held. It wasn’t hard to guess. The large quantity of drab-coloured Griffin motor-cars and the absence of any advertising hoardings told Mycroft all he needed to know; he was in the People’s Republic of Wales, somewhere well out of reach of the conventional law enforcement agencies. The possibility of escape was slim, and if he could get away, “what then? Even if there was a chance he could make it back across the border, he would never be able to leave without Polly—she was still imprisoned in the poem, itself now little more than printed words on a scrap of paper that Hades had placed in his breast pocket. There seemed to be little chance of regaining the poem without a fearsome struggle, and besides, without the bookworms and the Prose Portal, Polly would stay in her Wordsworthian prison forever. Mycroft bit his lip nervously and turned his attention to the other people in the room. Besides himself and Hades there were four others—and two of them held guns.
   ‘Welcome, Professor Next,’ said Hades as he grinned broadly, ‘from one genius to another!’
   He gazed fondly at the machine. He ran a finger along the rim of one of the goldfish bowls. The worms were busy reading a copy of Mansfield Park and were discussing where Sir Thomas got his money from.
   ‘I can’t do this alone, you know,’ said Hades without looking up. One of the other men shuffled to get more comfortable on one of the few original upholstered armchairs.
   ‘The next step for me is to gain your full support.’ He looked at Mycroft with a serious expression. ‘You will help me, won’t you?’
   ‘I would sooner die!’ replied Mycroft coldly.
   Acheron looked at him, then broke into another broad grin.
   ‘I don’t doubt it for one moment, but I’m being rude! I have abducted you and stolen your life’s work and haven’t even introduced myself!’ He walked up to Mycroft and shook him warmly by the hand, a gesture that Mycroft didn’t return.
   ‘My name is Hades, Acheron Hades. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’
   ‘Acheron the extortionist?’ asked Mycroft slowly. ‘Acheron the kidnapper and the blackmailer?’
   Acheron’s smile didn’t leave his lips.
   ‘Yes, yes and yes. But you forgot murderer. Forty-two times a murderer, my friend. The first one is always the hardest. After that it doesn’t really matter, they can only hang you once. It’s a bit like eating a packet of shortbread; you can never just have one piece.’ He laughed again. ‘I had a run-in with your niece, you know. She survived, although,’ he added, in case Mycroft erroneously believed there was a vestige of goodness in his dark soul, ‘that wasn’t the way I had planned it.’
   ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Mycroft.
   ‘Why?’ repeated Acheron. ‘Why? Why, for fame, of course!’ he boomed. ‘You see, gentlemen—?’ The others nodded obediently. ‘Fame!’ he repeated. ‘And you can share that fame—!’
   He ushered Mycroft over to his desk and dug out a file of press clippings.
   ‘Look what the papers say about me!’
   He held up a cutting proudly.


HADES 74 WEEKS AT TOP OF ‘MOST-WANTED’ LIST

   ‘Impressive, eh?’ he said proudly. ‘How about this one?’


TOAD READERS VOTE HADES ‘LEAST FAVOURITE PERSON’

   ‘The Owl said that execution was too good for me and The Mole wanted Parliament to reintroduce breaking on the wheel.’
   He showed the snippet to Mycroft.
   ‘What do you think?’
   ‘I think,’ began Mycroft, ‘that you could have used your vast intellect far more usefully by serving mankind instead of stealing from it.’
   Acheron looked hurt.
   ‘Where’s the fun in that? Goodness is weakness, pleasantness is poisonous, serenity is mediocrity, and kindness is for losers. The best reason for committing loathsome and detestable acts—and let’s face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field—is purely for their own sake. Monetary gain is all very well, but it dilutes the taste of wickedness to a lower level that is obtainable by almost anyone with an overdeveloped sense of avarice. True and baseless evil is as rare as the purest good—‘
   ‘I’d like to go home.’
   ‘Of course!’ said Acheron, smiling. ‘Hobbes, open the door.’
   The man nearest the door opened it and stepped aside. The large door led to the lobby of the old hotel.
   ‘I don’t speak Welsh,’ murmured Mycroft.
   Hobbes shut the door and rebolted it.
   ‘Bit of a drawback in Merthyr, old boy,’ said Acheron, smiling. ‘You’d not get far without it.’
   Mycroft looked at Hades uneasily.
   ‘But Polly—!’
   ‘Ah, yes!’ replied Hades. ‘Your delightful wife.’ He pulled out the copy of ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ and produced a large gold lighter, which he ignited with a flourish.
   ‘No—!’ cried Mycroft, taking several steps forward. Acheron arched an eyebrow, the flame nearly touching the paper.
   ‘I’ll stay and help you,’ said Mycroft wearily.
   A broad grin broke out on Hades’ features. He put the poem back in his pocket.
   ‘Stout fellow! You won’t regret this.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Actually, you probably will.’
   Mycroft sat unsteadily on a handy chair.
   ‘By the by,’ went on Hades, ‘have I introduced you to all my fiendish compatriots?’
   Mycroft shook his head sadly.
   ‘No? Most remiss. The man with the gun over there is Mr. Delamare. His obedience is matched only by his stupidity. He does everything I say and would die for me if necessary. A sort of human red setter, if you will. He has an IQ below that of a neanderthal and believes only what he reads in The Gadfly. Mr Delamare, my friend, have you committed your wicked act today?’
   ‘Yes, Mr Hades. I drove at seventy-three miles per hour.’
   Hades frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound very wicked.’
   Delamare chuckled. ‘Through the Arndale centre?’
   Hades wagged an approving finger and smiled a wicked smile. ‘Very good.’
   Thank you, Mr Hades.’
   ‘Over there is Mr Hobbes. He is an actor of some distinction whose talents the English Shakespeare Company foolishly decides to ignore. We will try and rectify that fault; is that not so, Mr Hobbes?’
   ‘It is, sire,’ responded Mr Hobbes, bowing low with a flourish. He was dressed in tights, a leather jerkin and codpiece. He had been passed over for every major part with the ESC for ten years, relegated to walk-ons and understudying. He had become so dangerously unstable that even the other actors noticed. He had joined up with Acheron shortly after his escape from a lengthy prison sentence; pushing thespian interpretation to the limits, he had killed Laertes for real while playing Hamlet.
   ‘The third man over there is Mьller, a doctor whom I befriended after he was struck off. The particulars are a bit sordid. We’ll talk about it over dinner some time, as long as we’re not eating steak tartar. The fourth man is Felix7, who is one of my most trusted companions. He can remember no farther than a week in the past and has no aspirations for the future. He thinks only of the work he has been assigned to carry out. He is without conscience, mercy or pity. A fine man. We should have more like him.’

   Hades clapped his hands together happily.
   ‘Shall we get to work? I haven’t committed a singularly debauched act for almost an hour.’
   Mycroft reluctantly walked over to the Prose Portal and started to ready it. The bookworms were fed, watered and cleaned, power supplies were laid on, and all the details in the child’s exercise book neatly followed. As Mycroft worked, Acheron sat down and flicked through an old manuscript filled with spidery writing, replete with scribbled corrections and bound up with faded red ribbon. He skipped through various sections until he found what he was looking for.
   ‘Perfect!’ he chortled.
   Mycroft finished the testing procedure and stepped back.
   ‘It’s ready,’ he sighed.
   ‘Excellent!’ Acheron beamed as he handed over the aged manuscript.
   ‘Open the portal just here.’
   He tapped the page and smiled. Mycroft slowly took the manuscript and looked at the title.
   ‘Martin Chuzzlewit, Fiend!’
   ‘Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear professor.’
   ‘But,’ continued Mycroft, ‘if you alter anything in the original manuscript—!’
   ‘But that’s the point, isn’t it, my dear Mycroft,’ said Hades, clasping one of Mycroft’s cheeks between finger and thumb and shaking gently. ‘That’s… the… point. What good is extortion unless you show everyone what massive damage you could do if you wanted? And anyway, where’s the fun in robbing banks? Bang, bang, give me the money? Besides, killing civilians is never any real fun. It’s a bit like shooting rabbits that have been pegged to the ground. Give me a SWAT platoon to deal with any day.’
   ‘But the damage—!’ continued Mycroft. ‘Are you mad!?’
   Acheron’s eyes flashed angrily as he grasped Mycroft tightly by the throat.
   ‘What? What did you say? Mad, did you say? Hmm? Eh? What? What?’
   His fingers tightened on Mycroft’s windpipe; the professor could feel himself start to sweat in the cold panic of suffocation. Acheron was waiting for an answer that Mycroft was unable to utter. ‘What? What did you say?’
   Acheron’s pupils started to dilate as Mycroft felt a dark veil fall over his mind.
   ‘Think it’s fun being christened with a name like mine? Having to live up to what is expected of one? Born with an intellect so vast that all other humans are cretins by comparison?’
   Mycroft managed to give out a choke and Acheron slackened his grip. Mycroft fell to the floor, gulping for breath. Acheron stood over him and wagged a reproachful finger.
   ‘Don’t ever call me mad, Mycroft. I’m not mad, I’m just… well, differently moralled, that’s all.’
   Hades handed him Chuzzlewit again and Mycroft needed no second bidding. He placed the worms with the manuscript inside the heavy old book; within half an hour of feverish activity the device was primed and set.
   ‘It is ready,’ announced Mycroft miserably. ‘I have only to press this button and the door will open. It will stay open for ten seconds at most.’ He sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘May God forgive me—!’
   ‘I forgive you,’ replied Acheron. ‘It’s the closest you’ll get!’ Hades walked across to Hobbes, who was now dressed in black combat gear. He wore a webbing harness around his waist upon which hung all sorts of items that might be of use on an unplanned armed robbery—a large torch, bolt cutters, rope, handcuffs and an automatic.
   ‘You know who it is you are after?’
   ‘Mr Quaverley, sir.’
   ‘Splendid. I feel a speech coming on.’
   He climbed on to a carved oak table.
   ‘My friends!’ he began. ‘This is a very great day for science and a very bad one for Dickensian literature.’
   He paused for dramatic effect.
   ‘Comrades, we stand on the very brink of an act of artistic barbarism so monstrous that I am almost ashamed of it myself. All of you have been my faithful servants for many years, and although none of you possesses a soul quite as squalid as mine, and the faces I see before me are both stupid and unappealing, I regard you all with no small measure of fondness.’
   His four comrades mumbled their thanks.
   ‘Silence! I think it is fair to say that I am the most debased individual on this planet and quite the most brilliant criminal mind this century. The plan that we embark upon now is easily the most diabolical ever devised by man, and will not only take you to the top of everyone’s Most-Wanted list but will also make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams of avarice.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘So let the adventure begin, and here’s to the success of our finest criminal endeavour!’
   ‘Sir?’
   ‘What is it, Dr Mьller?’
   ‘All that money. I’m not so sure. I’d settle for a Gainsborough. You know—that one of the kid in the blue suit.’
   Acheron stared at him for a moment, a smile slowly breaking across his features.
   ‘Why not? Odious and art-loving! What a divine dichotomy! You shall have your Gainsborough! And now, let us—What is it, Hobbes?’
   ‘You won’t forget to make the ESC put on my improved version of the Scottish play—Macbeth: No More “Mr Nice Guy”?’
   ‘Of course not.’
   ‘A full eight-week run?’
   ‘Yes, yes, and Midsummer Night’s Dream with chainsaws. Mr Delamare, is there anything that you require?’
   ‘Well,’ said the man with the brain of a dog, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully, ‘could I have a motorway services named after my mum?’
   ‘Insufferably obtuse,’ remarked Acheron. ‘I don’t think that should be too difficult. Felix7?’
   ‘I require no payment,’ said Felix7 stoically. ‘I am merely your willing servant. To serve a good and wise master is the best that can be expected of any sentient being.’
   ‘I love that man!’ said Hades to the others. He chuckled to himself and then turned back to Hobbes, who was waiting to make the jump.
   ‘So you understand what it is you have to do?’
   ‘Perfectly.’
   ‘Then, Mycroft, open the portal and my dear Hobbes: Godspeed!’
   Mycroft pressed the green Open button and there was a bright flash and a strong electromagnetic pulse that had every compass for miles around spinning wildly. The portal opened rapidly and Hobbes took a deep breath and stepped through; as he did, Mycroft pressed the red Close button, the portal slid shut and a hush descended on the room. Acheron looked at Mycroft, who stared at the timer on the large book. Dr Mьller read a paperback of Martin Chuzzlewit to check Hobbes’s progress, Felix7 kept an eye on Mycroft, and Delamare looked at something sticky he had found inside his ear.
   Two minutes later Mycroft pressed the green Open button once more and Hobbes came back through, dragging a middle-aged man dressed in a badly fitting suit with high collar and necktie. Hobbes was quite out of breath and sat on a nearby chair panting. The middle-aged man looked around him in mystification.
   ‘My friends,’ he began, looking at their curious faces, ‘you find me in a disadvantaged state. Pray explain the meaning of what I can only describe as a bewildering predicament—‘
   Acheron walked up to him and placed a friendly arm round his shoulders.
   ‘Ah, the sweet, sweet smell of success. Welcome to the twentieth century and reality. My name is Hades.’
   Acheron extended a hand. The man bowed and shook it gratefully, mistakenly believing he had fallen among friends.
   ‘Your servant, Mr Hades. My name is Mr Quaverley, resident of Mrs Todger’s and a proctor by trade. I have to confess that I have no small notion of the large wonder that has been subjected to me, but pray tell me, since I see you are the master of this paradox, what has happened and how I can be of assistance.’
   Acheron smiled and patted Mr Quaverley’s shoulder affectionately.
   ‘My dear Mr Quaverley! I could spend many happy hours in discussion with you about the essence of Dickensian narrative, but it would really be a waste of my precious time. Felix7, return to Swindon and leave Mr Quaverley’s body where it will be found in the morning.’
   Felix7 took Mr. Quaverley firmly by the arm. ‘Yes, sir.’
   ‘Oh, and Felix7—‘
   ‘Yes, sir?’
   ‘While you’re out, why don’t you quieten down that Sturmey Archer fellow? He’s of no earthly use to us any more.’
   Felix7 dragged Mr Quaverley out of the door. Mycroft was weeping.

16. Sturmey Archer & Felix7

   ‘… The finest criminal mind requires the finest accomplices to accompany him. Otherwise, what’s the point? I always found that I could never apply my most deranged plans without someone to share and appreciate them. I’m like that. Very generous…’

Acheron Hades. Degeneracy for Pleasure and Profit


   ‘So who is this guy we’re going to see?’
   ‘Fellow named Sturmey Archer,’ replied Bowden as I pulled my car into the kerb. We found ourselves opposite a small factory unit that had a gentle glow of light showing through the windows.
   ‘A few years ago Crometty and myself had the extreme good fortune to arrest several members of a gang which had been attempting to peddle a rather poorly forged sequel to Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”. It was entitled “Rime II—the Mariner Returneth” but no one had been fooled. Sturmey avoided jail by turning state’s evidence. I’ve got some dirt on him about a Cardenio scam. I don’t want to use it, but I will if I have to.’
   ‘What makes you think he has anything to do with Crometty’s death?’
   ‘Nothing,’ said Bowden simply, ‘he’s just next on the list.’
   We walked across in the gathering dusk. The streetlights were flickering on and the stars were beginning to appear in the twilit sky. In another half-hour it would be night.
   Bowden thought about knocking but didn’t bother. He opened the door noiselessly and we crept in.
   Sturmey Archer was a feeble-looking character who had spent too many years in institutions to be able to look after himself properly. Without designated bath times he didn’t wash and without fixed mealtimes he went hungry. He wore thick glasses and mismatched clothes and his face was a moonscape of healed acne. He made part of his living these days by casting busts of famous writers in plaster of Paris, but he had too much bad history to be kept on the straight. Other criminals blackmailed him into helping them and Sturmey, already a weak man, could do little to resist. It wasn’t surprising that, out of his forty-six years, only twenty had been spent at liberty.
   Inside the workshop we came across a large workbench on which were placed about five hundred foot-high busts of Will Shakespeare, all of them in various states of completion. A large vat of plaster of Paris lay empty next to a rack containing twenty rubber casts; it seemed Sturmey had a big order on.
   Archer himself was at the back of the shop indulging in his second profession, repairing Will-Speak machines. He had his hand up the back of an Othello as we crept up behind him.
   The mannequin’s crude voice-box crackled as Sturmey made some trifling adjustments:
   It is the cause, it is the cause, (click) yet I’ll not shed a drop of her blood, (click) nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow…
   ‘Hello, Sturmey,’ said Bowden.
   Sturmey jumped and shorted out the Othello’s controls. The dummy opened its eyes wide and gave out a terrified cry of MONUMENTAL ALABASTER! before falling limp. Sturmey glared at Bowden.
   ‘Creeping around at night, Mr Cable? Hardly like a LiteraTec, is it?’
   Bowden smiled.
   ‘Let’s just say I’m rediscovering the joys of fieldwork. This is my new partner, Thursday Next.’
   Archer nodded at me suspiciously. Bowden continued:
   ‘You heard about Jim Crometty, Sturmey?’
   ‘I heard,’ replied Archer with feigned sadness.
   ‘I wondered if you had any information you might want to impart?’
   ‘Me?’
   He pointed at the plaster busts of Will Shakespeare.
   ‘Look at those. A fiver each wholesale to a Jap company that wants ten thou. The Japanese have built a seven-eighths-scale replica of Stratford-upon-Avon near Yokohama and love all this crap. Fifty grand, Cable, that’s literature I can relate to.’
   ‘And the Chuzzlewit manuscript?’ I asked. ‘How do you relate to that?’
   He jumped visibly as I spoke.
   ‘I don’t,’ shrugged Sturmey in an unconvincing manner.
   ‘Listen, Sturmey,’ said Bowden, who had picked up on Archer’s nervousness, ‘I’d be really, really sorry to have to pull you in for questioning about that Cardenio scam.’
   Archer’s lower lip trembled; his eyes darted between the two of us anxiously.
   ‘I don’t know anything, Mr Cable,’ he whined. ‘Besides, you don’t know what he would do.’
   ‘Who would do what, Sturmey?’
   Then I heard it. A slight click behind us. I pushed Bowden in front of me; he tripped and collapsed on top of Sturmey, who gave a small cry that was drowned out by the loud concussion of a shotgun going off at close quarters. We were lucky; the blast hit the wall where we had been standing. I told Bowden to stay down and dashed low behind the workbench, trying to put some distance between myself and our assailant. When I reached the other side of the room I looked up and saw a man dressed in a black greatcoat holding a pump-action shotgun. He spotted me and I ducked as a blast from the shotgun scattered plaster fragments of Shakespeare all over me. The concussion of the shot had started up a mannequin of Romeo, who intoned pleadingly: He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. But soft! What light through yonder… until a second shot from the shotgun silenced him. I looked across at Bowden, who shook the plaster out of his hair and drew his revolver. I ran across to the far wall, ducking as our assailant fired again, once more shattering Archer’s carefully painted plaster statues. I heard Bowden’s revolver crack twice. I stood up and fired at our attacker, who had secreted himself in an office; my shots did nothing except splinter the wood on the door frame. Bowden fired again and his shot ricocheted off a cast-iron spiral staircase and hit a Will-Speak machine of Lord and Lady Macbeth; they started whispering to one another about the wisdom of murdering the King. I caught a glimpse of the man running across the room to outflank us. I had a clear view of him when he stopped, but as he did so Sturmey Archer stood up between us, blocking my shot. I couldn’t believe it.
   ‘Felix!’ cried Archer desperately. ‘You must help me! Dr. Mьller said—‘
   Archer, sadly, had mistaken Felix7’s intentions but had little time to regret them as our assailant dispatched him swiftly at close range, then turned to make his escape. Bowden and I must have opened fire at once; Felix7 managed three paces before stumbling under the shots and falling heavily against some packing cases.
   ‘Bowden!’ I yelled. ‘You okay?’
   He answered slightly unsteadily but in the affirmative. I advanced slowly on the fallen figure, who was breathing in short gasps, all the time watching me with a disconcertingly calm face. I kicked away the shotgun then ran a hand down his coat while holding my gun a few inches from his head. I found an automatic in a shoulder holster and a Walther PPK in an inside pocket. There was a twelve-inch knife and a baby Derringer in his other pockets. Bowden arrived at my side.
   ‘Archer?’ I asked.
   ‘Finished.’

   ‘He knew this clown. He called him Felix. Mentioned something about a Dr Mьller, too.’
   Felix7 smiled up at me as I took out his wallet.
   ‘James Crometty!’ demanded Bowden. ‘Did you kill him?’
   ‘I kill a lot of people,’ whispered Felix7. ‘I don’t remember names.’
   ‘You shot him six times in the face.’
   The dying killer smiled.
   ‘That I remember.’
   ‘Six times! Why?’
   Felix7 frowned and started to shiver.
   ‘Six was all I had,’ he answered simply.
   Bowden pulled the trigger of his revolver two inches from Felix7’s face. It was lucky for Bowden that the hammer fell harmlessly on the back of a spent cartridge. He threw the gun aside, picked up the dying man by the lapels and shook him.
   ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ he demanded.
   ‘I don’t even know myself,’ said Felix7 placidly. ‘I was married once, I think; and I had a blue car. There was an apple tree in the house where I grew up and I think I had a brother named Tom. The memories are vague and indistinct. I fear nothing because I value nothing. Archer is dead. My job is done. I have served my master; nothing else is of any consequence.’
   He managed a wan smile.
   ‘Hades was right.’
   ‘About what?’
   ‘About you, Miss Next. You’re a worthy adversary.’
   ‘Die easy,’ I told him. ‘Where is Hades?’
   He smiled for the last time and shook his head slowly. I had been trying to plug his wounds as he lay dying, but it was no good. His breathing became more laboured and finally stopped altogether.
   ‘That’s Mr Schitt to you, Next!’ said a voice behind us. We turned to see my second-least favourite person and two of his minders. He didn’t look in a terribly good mood. I surreptitiously pushed Felix7’s wallet under a workbench with my foot and stood up.
   ‘Move to the side.’
   We did as we were told. One of Schitt’s men reached down and felt Felix7’s pulse. He looked up at Schitt and shook his head.
   ‘Any ID?’
   The minder started to search him.
   ‘You’ve really screwed things up here, Next,’ said Schitt with barely concealed fury. ‘The only lead I’ve got is flatline. When I’ve finished with you, you’ll be lucky to get a job setting cones on the M4.’
   I put two and two together.
   ‘You knew we were in here, didn’t you?’
   He glared at me.
   ‘That man could have taken us to the ringleader and he has something that we want,’ asserted Schitt.
   ‘Hades?’
   ‘Hades is dead, Miss Next.’
   ‘Horseshit, Schitt. You know as well as I do that Hades is alive and well. What Hades has belongs to my uncle. And if I know my uncle, he would sooner destroy it for ever than sell out to Goliath.’
   ‘Goliath don’t buy, Next. They appropriate. If your uncle has developed a machine that can help in the defence of his country, then it is his duty to share it.’
   ‘Is it worth the life of two officers?’
   ‘Most certainly. SpecOps officers die pointlessly every day. If we can, we should try our best to make those deaths worthwhile.’
   ‘If Mycroft dies through your negligence, I swear to God—!’
   Jack Schitt was unimpressed. ‘You really have no idea who you are talking to, do you, Next?’
   ‘I’m talking to someone whose ambition has throttled his morality.’
   ‘Wrong. You’re talking to Goliath, a company that has the welfare of England foremost in its heart; everything that you see about you has been given to this country by the benevolence of Goliath. Is it little wonder that the Corporation should expect a small amount of gratitude in return?’
   ‘If Goliath is as selfless as you suggest, Mr Schitt, then they should expect nothing in return.’
   ‘Fine words, Miss Next, but cash is always the deciding factor in such matters of moral politics; nothing ever gets done unless motivated by commerce or greed.’
   I could hear sirens approaching. Schitt and his two minders made a quick exit, leaving us with Felix7 and Archer’s bodies. Bowden turned to me.
   ‘I’m glad that he’s dead and I’m glad that I’m the one that pulled the trigger. I thought it might be hard but I did not have the slightest hesitation.’
   He said it as though it were an interesting experience, nothing less; as though he had just been on the rollercoaster at Alton Towers and was describing the experience to a friend.
   ‘Does that sound wrong?’ he added.
   ‘No,’ I assured him. ‘Not at all. He would have killed until someone stopped him. Don’t even think about it.’
   I reached down and picked up Felix7’s wallet. We examined the contents. It contained everything you might expect to find, such as banknotes, stamps, receipts and credit cards—but they were all just plain white paper; the credit cards were simply white plastic with a row of zeros where the numbers usually were.
   ‘Hades has a sense of humour.’
   ‘Look at this,’ said Bowden, pointing at Felix7’s fingertips. ‘Wiped clean by acid. And see here, this scar running down behind the scalp line.’
   ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘it might not even be his face.’
   There was a screech of tyres from downstairs. We put down our weapons and held our badges in the air to avoid any misunderstandings. The officer in charge was a humourless man named Franklin who had heard slightly garbled stories in the canteen about the new LiteraTec.
   ‘You must be Thursday Next. Heard about you. LiteraTec, eh? Kind of a drop from SO-5?’
   ‘At least I made it up there in the first place.’
   Franklin grunted and looked at the two bodies.
   ‘Dead?’
   ‘Very.’

   ‘You lot are becoming quite action-packed. I can’t remember the last time a shot was fired in anger by a LiteraTec. Let’s not make it a habit, eh? We don’t want Swindon turning into a killing field. And if you want a piece of advice, go easy with Jack Schitt. We hear the man’s a psychopath.’
   ‘Thanks for the tip, Franklin,’ I said. ‘I’d never have noticed.’
   It was after nine when we were finally allowed to leave. Victor had turned up to ask us a few questions out of earshot of the police.
   ‘What the deuce is going on?’ he asked. ‘I’ve had Braxton yelling on the phone for half an hour; it takes something serious to get him away from his golf club AGM. He wants a full report on the incident on his desk first thing tomorrow morning.’
   ‘It was Hades,’ I said. ‘Jack Schitt was here with the intention of following one of Acheron’s killers after he’d dispatched us both.’
   Victor looked at me for a moment and was about to comment further when a call came over the wireless for an officer in need of assistance. It was the unmistakable voice of Spike. I went to pick up the microphone but Victor grabbed me by the wrist with a surprising turn of speed. He looked at me grimly.
   ‘No, Thursday. Not with Spike.’
   ‘But an officer in need of assistance—?’
   ‘Don’t get involved. Spike is on his own and it’s best that way.’
   I looked at Bowden, who nodded agreement and said:
   ‘The powers of darkness are not for everyone, Miss Next. I think Spike understands that. We hear his calls from time to time but I see him in the canteen the following morning, as regular as clockwork. He knows what he’s doing.’
   The wireless was silent; the channel was an open one and perhaps upward of sixty or seventy officers had heard the call. No one had answered.
   Spike’s voice came over the airwaves again: ‘For God’s sake, guys—!’
   Bowden moved to switch the wireless off but I stopped him. I got into my car and keyed the mike.
   ‘Spike, this is Thursday. Where are you?’
   Victor shook his head. ‘It was nice knowing you, Miss Next.’
   I glared at them both and drove off into the night.
   Bowden moved across to where Victor was standing.
   ‘Quite a girl,’ murmured Victor.
   ‘We’re going to be married,’ answered Bowden matter-of-factly.
   Victor frowned and looked at him. ‘Love is like oxygen, Bowden. When’s the happy day?’
   ‘Oh, she doesn’t know yet,’ replied Bowden, sighing. ‘She is everything a woman should be. Strong and resourceful, loyal and intelligent.’
   Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘When do you suppose you’ll ask her?’
   Bowden was staring after the tail-lights of the car. ‘I don’t know. If Spike is in the sort of trouble that I think he is, perhaps never.’

17. SpecOps 17: Suckers & Biters

   ‘… I made the assistance calls as a matter of course; had done since Chesney was pulled to the shadows. Never expected anyone to come; was just my way of saying “Ho, guys! I’m still out here!” Nope, never expected it. Never expected it at all…”

Officer ‘Spike’ Stoker interview in Van Helsing’s Gazette


   ‘Where are you, Spike?’
   There was a pause and then: ‘Thursday, think hard before you do this—‘
   ‘I have, Spike. Give me your location.’
   He told me and after a quarter of an hour I pulled up outside the senior school at Haydon.
   ‘I’m here, Spike. What do you need?’
   His voice came back on the wireless, but this time slightly strained.
   ‘Lecture Room four, and hurry; in the glove box of my black & white you’ll find a medical kit—‘
   There was a yell and he stopped transmitting.
   I ran across to where Spike’s squad car stood in the dark entrance of the old college. The moon passed behind a cloud and blackness descended; I felt an oppressive hand fall across my heart. I opened the car door and rummaged in the glove box. I found what I was looking for: a small zippered leather case with ‘Stoker’ embossed on the front in faded gold lettering. I grabbed it and ran up the front steps of the old school. The interior was gloomily lit by emergency lighting; I flicked a panel of switches but the power was out. In the meagre light I found a signboard and followed the arrows towards Lecture Room Four. As I ran down the corridor I was aware of a strong odour; it matched the sullen smell of death I had detected in the boot of Spike’s car when we had first met. I stopped suddenly, the nape of my neck twitching as a gust of cold wind caught me. I turned around abruptly and froze as I noticed the figure of a man silhouetted against the dim glow of an exit light.
   ‘Spike?’ I murmured, my throat dry and my voice cracking.
   ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the figure, walking softly towards me and playing a torch on my face. ‘It’s Frampton; I’m the janitor. What are you doing here?’
   ‘Thursday Next, SpecOps. There’s an officer in need of assistance in Lecture Room four.’
   ‘Really?’ said the janitor. ‘Probably followed some kids in. Well, you’d better come with me.’
   I looked at him carefully; a glint from one of the exit lights caught the metallic gold of a crucifix around his throat. I breathed a sigh of relief.
   He walked swiftly down the corridor; I followed closely.
   ‘This place is so old it’s embarrassing,’ muttered Frampton, leading me down a second corridor off the first. ‘Who did you say you were looking for?’
   ‘An officer named Stoker.’
   ‘What does he do?’
   ‘He looks for vampires.’
   ‘Really? Last infestation we had was in ‘78. Student by the name of Parkes. Went backpacking in the Forest of Dean and came back a changed man.’
   ‘Backpacking in the Forest of Dean?’ I repeated incredulously, ‘Whatever possessed him to do that?’
   The janitor laughed. ‘Good choice of words. Symonds Yat wasn’t as secure then as it is now; we’ve taken precautions too. The whole college was consecrated as a church.’
   He flashed his torch at a large crucifix on the wall.
   ‘We won’t have that sort of problem here again. This is it, Lecture Room four.’
   He pushed open the door and we entered the large room. Frampton’s torch flicked across the oak-panelled walls but a quick search revealed nothing of Spike.
   ‘Are you sure he said number four?’
   ‘Certain,’ I replied. ‘He—‘
   There was a sound of breaking glass and a muffled curse a small way distant.
   ‘What was that?’
   ‘Probably rats,’ said Frampton.
   ‘And the swearing?’
   ‘Uncultured rats. Come, let’s—‘
   But I had moved off to a doorway beyond the lecture room, taking Frampton’s torch with me. I pushed the door open wide and an appalling stench of formaldehyde greeted me. The room was an anatomy lab, dark except for the moonlight coming in through the window. Against the wall were rack upon rack of pickled specimens: mostly animal parts, but a few human parts too, things for the boys to frighten the girls with during sixth-form biology lessons. There was the sound of a jar smashing, and I flicked the torch across to the other side of the room. My heart froze. Spike, his self-control having apparently abandoned him, had just thrown a specimen jar to the floor and was now scrabbling in the mess. Around his feet were the smashed remnants of many jars; it had obviously been quite a feast.
   ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, the revulsion rising in my throat.
   Spike turned to me, his eyes gaping, his mouth cut from the glass, a look of horror and fear in his eyes.
   ‘I was hungry!’ he howled. ‘And I couldn’t find any mice—!’
   He closed his eyes for a moment, gathered his thoughts with a Herculean effort, then stammered:
   ‘My medication—!’
   I forced down a foul gagging sensation and opened the medical kit to reveal a Biro-like syringe. I undipped the pen and moved towards Spike, who had collapsed in a heap and was sobbing silently. There was a hand on my shoulder, and I whirled round. It was Frampton, and he had an unpleasant smile on his lips.
   ‘Let him carry on. He’s happier this way, believe me.’
   I pushed his hand off my shoulder and for an instant my flesh touched his. It was icy cold and I felt a shiver ran through me. I backed away hastily and tripped over a stool, falling heavily and dropping Spike’s injector. I drew my gun and pointed it at Frampton, who seemed to be gliding towards me without walking. I didn’t shout a warning; I just pulled the trigger and a bright flash illuminated the lab. Frampton was catapulted across the floor towards the blackboard and fell in a heap. I scrabbled around for the injector, found it and ran towards Spike, who had picked up a particularly large jar with a very recognisable and unspeakably unpleasant specimen in it. I flashed the torch into his frightened eyes and he mumbled:
   ‘Help me!’
   I pulled the cap off the injector and jabbed it in his leg, giving him two clicks. I took the jar from him and he sat down looking confused.
   ‘Spike? Say something.’
   ‘That really hurt.’
   But it wasn’t Spike talking. It was Frampton. He had picked himself up from the floor and was tying what looked like a lobster bib around his neck.
   ‘Time for dinner, Miss Next. I won’t trouble you with the menu because… well, you’re it!’
   The door of the biology lab slammed shut and I looked at my gun; it was now about as much use as a water pistol.
   I got up and backed away from Frampton, who once more seemed to glide towards me. I fired again but Frampton was ready for it; he simply winced and continued.
   ‘But the crucifix—!’ I shouted, backing towards the wall. ‘And this college—it’s a church!’
   ‘Little fool!’ replied Frampton. ‘Do you really suppose that Christianity has a monopoly on people like me?’
   I looked around desperately for some kind of weapon, but apart from a chair—which drew out of my grasp as I reached for it—there was nothing.
   ‘Thoon be over.’ Frampton grinned. He had sprouted an inordinately long single front tooth which grew over his bottom lip and gave him a lisp.
   ‘Thoon you will be joining Thpike for a little thnack. After I have finithed!’
   He smiled and opened his mouth wider; impossibly so—it seemed almost to fill the room. Quite suddenly Frampton stopped, looked confused and rolled his eyes up into his sockets. He grew grey, then black, then seemed to slough away like burned pages in a book. There was a musty smell of decay that almost blotted out the reek of formaldehyde, and soon there was nothing at all except Spike, who was still holding the sharpened stake that had so quickly destroyed the abomination that had been Frampton.
   ‘You okay?’ he asked with a triumphant look on his face.
   ‘I’m good,’ I replied shakily. ‘Yuh, I feel okay. Well, now I do, anyway.’
   He lowered the stake and drew me up a chair as the lights flickered back on.
   ‘Thanks for that,’ I murmured. ‘My blood is my own and I aim to keep it that way. I guess I owe you.’
   ‘No way, Thursday. I owe you. No one’s ever answered a call of mine before. The symptoms came on as I was sniffing out Fang here. Couldn’t get to my injector in time…’

   His voice trailed off as he looked forlornly at the broken glass and spilled formaldehyde.
   ‘They’ll not believe this report,’ I murmured.
   ‘They don’t even read my reports, Thursday. Last person who did is now in therapy. So they just file ‘em and forget ‘em. Like me, I guess. It’s a lonely life.’
   I hugged him on an impulse. It seemed the right thing to do. He returned it gratefully; I didn’t expect that he had touched another human for a while. He had a musty smell about him—but it wasn’t unpleasant; it was like damp earth after a spring rain shower. He was muscular and at least a foot taller than me, and as we stood in each other’s arms I suddenly felt as though I really wouldn’t mind if he made a move on me. Perhaps it was the closeness of the experience that we had just shared; I don’t know—I don’t usually act in this manner. I moved my hand up his back and on to his neck, but I had misjudged the man and the occasion. He slowly let me go and smiled, shaking his head softly. The moment had passed.
   I paused for a second and then holstered my automatic carefully.
   ‘What about Frampton?’
   ‘He was good,’ admitted Spike, ‘real good. Didn’t feed on his own turf and was never greedy; just enough to sate his thirst.’
   We walked out of the lab and back down the corridor.
   ‘So how did you get on to him?’ I asked.
   ‘Luck. He was behind me in his motor at the lights. Looked in the rear-view mirror—empty car. Followed him and pow; I knew he was a sucker soon as he spoke. I would have staked him earlier ‘cept for my trouble.’
   We stopped at his squad car.
   ‘And what about you? Any chance of a cure?’
   ‘Top virologists are doing their stuff but for the moment I just keep my injector handy and stay out of the sunlight.’
   He stopped, took out his automatic and pulled the slide back, ejecting a single shiny bullet.
   ‘Silver,’ he explained as he gave it to me. ‘I never use anything else.’ He looked up at the clouds. They were coloured orange by the streetlamps and moved rapidly across the sky. There’s weird shit about; take it for luck.’
   ‘I’m beginning to think there’s no such thing.’
   ‘My point precisely. God keep you, Thursday, and thanks once again.’
   I took the shiny bullet and started to say something but he was gone already, rummaging in the boot of his squad car for a vacuum cleaner and a bin-liner. For him, the night was far from over.

18. Landen again

   ‘When I first heard that Thursday was back in Swindon I was delighted. I never fully believed that she had gone for good. I had heard of her problems in London and I also knew how she reacted to stress. All of us who returned from the Peninsula were to become experts on the subject whether we liked it or not…’

Landen Parke-Laine. Memoirs of a Crimean Veteran


   ‘I told Mr Parke-Laine that you had haemorrhagic fever but he didn’t believe me,’ said Liz on reception at the Finis.
   ‘The flu would have been more believable.’
   Liz was unrepentant.
   ‘He sent you this.’
   She passed across an envelope. I was tempted just to throw it in the bin, but I felt slightly guilty about giving him a hard time when we had met the previous night. The envelope contained a numbered ticket for Richard III which played every Friday evening at the Ritz Theatre. We used to attend almost every week when we were going out together. It was a good show; the audience made it even better.
   ‘When did you last go out with him?’ asked Liz, sensing my indecision.
   I looked up. ‘Ten years ago.’
   ‘Ten years? Go, darling. Most of my boyfriends would have trouble even remembering that long.’
   I looked at the ticket again. The show began in an hour.
   ‘Is that why you left Swindon?’ asked Liz, keen to be of some help.
   I nodded.
   ‘And did you keep a photo of him all those years?’
   I nodded again.
   ‘I see,’ replied Liz thoughtfully. ‘I’ll call a cab while you go and change.’
   It was good advice, and I trotted off to my room, had a quick shower and tried on almost everything in my wardrobe. I put my hair up, then down again, then up once more, muttered ‘too boyish’ at a pair of trousers and slipped into a dress. I selected some earrings that Landen had given me and locked my automatic in the room safe. I just had time to put on a small amount of eyeliner before I was whisked through the streets of Swindon by a taxi-driver, an ex-Marine involved in the retaking of Balaclava in ‘61. We chatted about the Crimea. He didn’t know where Colonel Phelps was going to talk either, but when he found out, he said, he would heckle for all his worth.
   The Ritz looked a good deal shabbier. I doubted whether it had been repainted at all since we were last here. The gold-painted plaster mouldings around the stage were dusty and unwashed, the curtain stained with the rainwater that had leaked in. No other play but Richard HI had been performed here for over fifteen years, and the theatre itself had no company to speak of, just a backstage crew and a prompter. All the actors were pulled from an audience who had been to the play so many times they knew it back to front. Casting was usually done only half an hour before curtain-up.
   Occasionally seasoned actors and actresses would make guest appearances, although never by advance booking. If they were at a loose end late Friday night, perhaps after their performance at one of Swindon’s three other theatres, they might come along and be selected by the manager as an impromptu treat for audience and cast. Just the week before, a local Richard III had found himself playing opposite Lola Vavoom, currently starring in the musical stage version of Fancy-free in Ludlow at the Swindon Crucible. It had been something of a treat for him; he didn’t need to buy dinner for a month.
   Landen was waiting for me outside the theatre. It was five minutes to curtain-up and the actors had already been chosen by the manager, plus one in reserve in case anybody had a bad attack of the nerves and started chucking up in the loo.
   ‘Thanks for coming,’ said Landen.
   ‘Yeah,’ I replied, kissing him on the cheek and taking a deep breath of his aftershave. It was Bodmin; I recognised the earthy scent.
   ‘How was your first day?’ he asked.
   ‘Kidnappings, vampires, shot dead a suspect, lost a witness to a gunman, Goliath tried to have me killed, puncture on the car. Usual shit.’
   ‘A puncture? Really?’
   ‘Not really. I made that bit up. Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday. I think I’m taking my work a bit too seriously.’
   ‘If you weren’t,’ agreed Landen with an understanding smile, ‘I’d really start worrying. Come on, it’s nearly curtain-up.’
   He took my arm in a familiar gesture that I liked and led me inside. The theatregoers were chattering noisily, the brightly coloured costumes of the unchosen actors in the audience giving a gala flavour to the occasion. I felt the electricity in the air and realised how much I had missed it. We found our seats.
   ‘When was the last time you were here?’ I asked when we were comfortable.
   ‘With you,’ replied Landen, standing up and applauding wildly as the curtain opened to a wheezing alarum. I did the same.
   A compere in a black cloak with red lining swept on to the stage.
   ‘Welcome, all you Will-loving R3 fans, to the Ritz at Swindon, where tonight (drum roll), for your DELECTATION, for your GRATIFICATION, for your EDIFICATION, for your JOLLIFICATION, for your SHAKESPEARIFICATION, we will perform Will’s Richard III, for the audience, to the audience, BY THE AUDIENCE!’
   The crowd cheered and he held up his hands to quieten them.
   ‘But before we start—! Let’s give a big hand to Ralph and Thea Swanavon who are attending for their two-hundredth time!!’
   The crowd applauded wildly as Ralph and Thea walked on. They were dressed as Richard and Lady Anne and bowed and curtsied to the audience, who threw flowers on to the stage.
   ‘Ralph has played Dick the shit twenty-seven times and Creepy Clarence twelve times; Thea has been Lady Anne thirty-one times and Margaret eight times!’
   The audience stamped their feet and whistled.
   ‘So to commemorate their bicentennial, they will be playing opposite each other for the first time!’
   They respectively bowed and curtsied once more as the audience applauded and the curtains closed, jammed, opened slightly and closed again.
   There was a moment’s pause and then the curtains reopened, revealing Richard at the side of the stage. He limped up and down the boards, eyeing the audience malevolently past a particularly ugly prosthetic nose.
   ‘Ham!’ yelled someone at the back.
   Richard opened his mouth to speak and the whole audience erupted in unison:
   ‘ When is the winter of our discontent?’
   ‘Now,’ replied Richard with a cruel smile, ‘is the winter of our discontent…’
   A cheer went up to the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The play had begun. Landen and I cheered with them. Richard III was one of those plays that could repeal the law of diminishing returns; it could be enjoyed over and over again.
   ‘… made glorious summer by this son of York,’ continued Richard, limping to the side of the stage. On the word ‘summer’ six hundred people placed sunglasses on and looked up at an imaginary sun.