27
Weird Shit on the M4

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

JOHN WILLIAMS – The Extraordinary Career of George Formby


   I avoided the news crews who were waiting for me at the SpecOps building and parked up at the rear. Major Drabb was waiting for me as I walked into the entrance lobby. He saluted smartly but I detected a slight reticence about him this morning. I handed him another scrap of paper.
   'Good morning, Major. Today's assignment is the Museum of the American Novel in Salisbury.'
   'Very . . . good, Agent Next.'
   'Problems, Major?'
   'Well,' he said, biting his lip nervously, 'yesterday you had me searching the library of a famous Belgian and today the Museum of the American Novel. Shouldn't we be searching more . . . well, Danish facilities?'
   I pulled him aside and lowered my voice.
   'That's precisely what they would be expecting us to do. These Danes are clever people. You wouldn't expect them to hide their books somewhere as obvious as the Wessex Danish Library, now, would you?'
   He smiled and tapped his nose.
   'Very astute, Agent Next.'
   Drabb saluted again, clicked his heels and was gone. I smiled to myself and pressed the elevator call button. As long as Drabb didn't report to Flanker I could keep this going all week.

   Bowden was not alone. He was talking to the last person I would expect to see in a LiteraTec office: Spike.
   'Yo, Thursday,' he said.
   'Yo, Spike.'
   He wasn't smiling. I feared it might be something to do with Cindy, but I was wrong.
   'Our friends in SO-6 tell us there's some seriously weird shit going down on the M4,' he announced, 'and when someone says "weird shit" they call—'
   '—you.'
   'Bingo. But the weird shit merchant can't do it on his own, so he calls—'
   '—me.'
   'Bingo.'
   There was another officer with them. He wore a dark suit typical of the upper SpecOps divisions, and he looked at his watch in an unsubtle manner.
   'Time is of the essence, Agent Stoker.'
   'What's the job?' I asked.
   'Yes,' returned Spike, whose somewhat laid-back attitude to life-and-death situations took a little getting used to, 'what is the job?'
   The suited agent looked impassively at us both.
   'Classified,' he announced, 'but I am authorised to tell you this:Unless we get |||||||| back in under |||||||| – ||||| hours then ||||||| will seize ultimate executive |||| and you can ||||| goodbye to any semblance of |||||||.'
   'Sounds pretty ****ing serious,' said Spike, turning back to me. 'Are you in?'
   'I'm in.'

   We were driven without explanation to the roundabout at Junction 16 of the M4 motorway. SO-6 were National Security, which made for some interesting conflicts of interest. The department that protected Formby also protected Kaine. And for the most part the SO-6 agents looking after Formby worked against Kaine's SO-6 operatives, who were more than keen to see him gone. SpecOps factions always fought, but rarely from within the same department. Kaine had a lot to answer for.
   In any case, I didn't like them and neither did Spike, and whatever it was they wanted it would have to be pretty weird. No one calls Spike until every avenue has been explored. He is the last line of defence before rationality starts to crumble.
   We pulled on to the verge, where two large black Bentley limousines were waiting for us. Parked next to them were six standard police cars, the occupants looking bored and waiting for orders. Something pretty big was going down.
   'Who's she?' demanded a tall agent with a humourless demeanour as soon as we stepped from the car.
   'Thursday Next,' I replied, 'SO-27.'
   'Literary Detectives?' he sneered.
   'She's good enough for me,' said Spike. 'If I don't get my own people you can do your own weird shit.'
   The SO-6 agent looked at the pair of us in turn.
   'ID.'
   I showed him my badge. He took it, looked at it for a moment, then passed it back.
   'My name is Colonel Parks,' said the agent, 'I'm head of Presidential Security. This is Dowding, my second-in-command.'
   Spike and I exchanged looks. The President. This really was serious.
   Dowding, a laconic figure in a dark suit, nodded his greeting as Parks continued:
   'Firstly I must point out to you both that this is a matter of great national importance and I am asking for your advice only because we are desperate. We find ourselves in a head-of-state deficit condition by virtue of a happenstance of a high other-worldliness possibility situation – and we hoped you might be able to reverse-engineer us out of it.'
   'Cut the waffle,' said Spike, 'what's going on?'
   Parks's shoulders slumped and he took off his dark glasses.
   'We've lost the President.'
   My heart missed a beat. This was bad news. Really bad news. The way I saw it, the President wasn't due to die until next Monday, after Kaine and Goliath had been neutered. Missing or dying early allowed Kaine to gain power and start the Third World War a week before he was meant to – and that was certainly not in the game plan.
   Spike thought for a moment and then said:
   'Bummer.'
   'Quite.'
   'Where?'
   Parks stretched his arm towards the busy traffic speeding past on the motorway.
   'Somewhere out there.'
   'How long ago?'
   'Twelve hours. Chancellor Kaine has got wind of it and he's pushing for a parliamentary vote to establish himself dictator at six o'clock this evening. That gives us less than eight hours.'
   Spike nodded thoughtfully.
   'Show me where you last saw him.'
   Parks snapped his fingers and a black Bentley drew up alongside. We climbed in and the limo joined the M4 in a westerly direction, the police cars dropping in behind to create a rolling roadblock. Within a few miles our lane of the busy thoroughfare was deserted and quiet. As we drove on, Parks explained what had happened. President Formby was being driven from London to Bath along the M4, and somewhere between Junctions 16 and 17 – where we now were – he vanished.
   The Bentley glided to a halt on the empty asphalt.
   'The President's car was the centre vehicle in a three-car motorcade,' explained Parks as we got out. 'Saundby's car was behind, I was with Dowding in front, and Mallory was driving the President. At this precise point I looked behind and noticed that Mallory was indicating to turn off. I saw them move on to the hard shoulder and we pulled over immediately.'
   Spike sniffed the air.
   'And then what happened?'
   'We lost sight of the car. We thought it had gone over the embankment but when we got there – nothing. Not a bramble out of place. The car just vanished.'
   We walked to the edge and looked down the slope. The motorway was carried above the surrounding countryside on an earth embankment; there was a steep slope that led down about fifteen feet through ragged vegetation to a fence. Beyond this was a field, a concrete bridge over a drainage ditch and beyond that, about half a mile distant, a row of white houses.
   'Nothing just vanishes,' said Spike at last. 'There is always a reason. Usually a simple one, sometimes a weird one – but always a reason. Dowding, what's your story

   'Pretty much the same. His car started to pull over, then just, well, vanished from sight.'
   'Vanished?'
   'More like melted, really,' said a confused Dowding.
   Spike rubbed his chin thoughtfully and bent down to pick up a handful of roadside detritus. Small granules of toughened glass, shards of metal and wires from the lining of a car tyre. He shivered.
   'What is it?' asked Parks.
   'I think President Formby's gone . . . deadside.'
   'Then where's the body? In fact, where's the car?'
   'There are three types of dead,' said Spike, counting on his fingers. 'Dead, undead, and semi-dead. Dead are what we call in the trade "spiritually bereft" – the life force is extinct. Those are the lucky ones. Undead are the "spiritually challenged" that I seem to spend most of my time dealing with. Vampires, zombies, bogles and what have you.'
   'And the semi-dead?'
   'Spiritually ambiguous. Those that are moving on from one state to another or are in a spiritual limbo – what you and I generally refer to as ghosts.'
   Parks laughed out loud and Spike raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign of indignation I had ever seen him make.
   'I didn't ask you along to listen to some garbage about ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties, Officer Stoker.'
   'Don't forget "things that go bump in the night",' countered Spike. 'You won't believe how bad a thing can bump if you don't deal with it quick.'
   'Whatever. As far as I can see there is one state of dead and that's "not living". Now, do you have anything useful to add to this investigation or not?'
   Spike didn't answer. He stared hard at Parks for a moment and then scrambled down the embankment towards a withered tree. It had leafless branches that looked incongruous among the summer greenery, and the plastic bags that had caught in its branches moved lazily in the breeze. Parks and I looked at one another then slid down the bank to join him. We found Spike examining the short grass with great interest.
   'If you have a theory you should tell us,' said Parks, leaning against the tree. 'I'm getting a bit bored with all this New Age mumbo-jumbo.'
   'We all visit the realm of the semi-dead at some point,' continued Spike, picking at the ground with his fingers like a chimp checking a partner for fleas, 'but for most of us it is only a millisecond as we pass from one realm to the next. Blink and you'll miss it. But there are others. Others who loiter around in the world of the semi-dead for years. The "spiritually ambiguous" who don't know they are dead, or, in the case of the President, are there by accident.'
   'And—?' asked Parks, who was becoming less keen on Spike with each second that passed. Spike carried on rummaging in the dirt so the SO-6 agent shrugged resignedly and started to walk back up the embankment.
   'He didn't stop for a leak at Membury or Chieveley services, did he?' announced Spike in a loud voice. 'I wonder if he even went at Reading.'
   Parks stopped and his attitude changed abruptly. He slid clumsily back down the embankment and rejoined us.
   'How did you know that?'
   Spike looked around at the empty fields.
   'There is a motorway services here.'
   'There was going to be one,' I corrected, 'but after Kington St– I mean, Leigh Delamere was built it wasn't considered necessary.'
   'It's here all right,' replied Spike, just occluded from our view. This is what happened: the President needs a leak and tells Mallory to pull over at the next services. Mallory is tired and his mind is open to those things usually hidden from our sight. He sees what he thinks are the services and pulls over. For a fraction of a second the two worlds touch – the presidential Bentley moves across – and then part again. I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that President Formby has accidentally entered a gateway to the underworld – a living person adrift in the abode of the dead.'
   There was deathly quiet.
   'That is the most insanely moronic story I have ever been forced to listen to,' announced Parks, not wanting to lose sight of reality for even one second. 'If I listened to a gaggle of lunatics for a month I'd not hear a crazier notion.'
   'There are more things in heaven and earth, Parks, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'
   There was a pause as the SO-6 agent weighed up the facts.
   'Do you think you can get him back?'
   'I fear not. The spirits of the semi-dead will be flocking to him like moths to a light, trying to feed off his life force and return themselves to the land of the living. Such a trip would almost certainly be suicidal.'
   Parks sighed audibly.
   'All right. How much?'
   'Ten grand. Realm-of-the-dead-certam-to-die work pays extra.'
   'Each?'
   'Since you mention it, why not?'
   'Okay, then,' said Parks with a faint grin, 'you'll get your blood money – but only on results.'
   'Wouldn't have it any other way.'
   Spike beckoned me to follow him and we climbed back over the fence, the SO-6 agents staring at us, unsure of whether to be impressed, have us certified, or what.
   'That really put the wind up them!' hissed Spike as we scrambled up the embankment, across bits of broken bumpers and shards of plastic mouldings. 'Nothing like a bit of that woo-woo crossing-over-into-the-spirit-world stuff to scare the crap out of them!'
   'You mean you were making all that up?' I asked, not without a certain degree of nervousness in my voice. I had been on two scams with Spike before. On the first I was nearly fanged by a vampire, on the second almost eaten by zombies.
   'I wish,' he replied, 'but if we make it look too easy then they don't cough up the big moolah. It'll be a cinch! After all, what do we have to lose?'
   'Our lives?'
   'Dahhhh! You must loosen up a bit, Thursday. Look upon it as an experience – part of death's rich tapestry. You ready?'
   'No.'
   'Good. Let's hit those semi-deads where it hurts!'
   By the fifth time we had driven the circuit between Junctions 16 and 17 without so much as a glimpse of anything other than bored motorists and a cow or two, I was beginning to wonder whether Spike really knew what he was doing.
   'Spike?'

  'Mmm?' he replied, concentrating on the empty field that he thought might contain the gateway to the dead.
   'What exactly are we looking for?'
   'I don't have the foggiest idea, but if the President can make his way in without dying, so can we. Are you sure you won't put Biffo on midhoop attack? He's wasted on defence. You could promote Johnno to striker and use Jambe and Snake to build up defence.'
   'If I don't find another five players, it might not matter anyway,' I replied. 'I managed to get Alf Widdershaine out of retirement to coach, though. You used to play county croquet, didn't you?'
   'No way, Thursday.'
   'Oh, go on.'
   'No.'
   There was a long pause. I stared out of the window at the traffic and Spike concentrated on driving, every now and then looking expectantly into the fields by the side of the road. I could see this was going to be a long day, so it seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject of Cindy. I wasn't keen to kill her and Spike, I knew, would be less than happy to see her dead.
   'So . . . when did you and Cindy tie the knot?'
   'About eighteen months ago. Have you ever visited the realm of the dead?'
   'Orpheus told me about the Greek version of it over coffee once – but only the highlights. Does she – er – have a job?'
   'She's a librarian,' replied Spike, 'part time. I've been there a couple of times; it's not half as creepy as you'd have thought.'
   'The library?'
   'The abode of the dead. Orpheus would have paid the ferryman but, you know, that's just a scam. You can easily do it yourself; those inflatable boats from Argos work a treat.'
   I tried to visualise Spike paddling his way to the underworld on a brightly coloured inflatable boat but quickly swept the image aside.
   'So . . . which library does Cindy work in?'
   'The one in Highclose. They have a creche so it's very convenient. I want to have another kid but Cindy's not sure. How's your husband, by the way – still eradicated?'
   'Wavering between "to be'' and "not to be" at the moment.'
   'So there's hope, then?'
   'There is always hope.'
   'My sentiments entirely. Ever had a near death experience?'
   'Yes,' I replied, recalling the time I was shot by a police marksman in an alternative future.
   'What was it like?'
   'Dark.'
   'That sounds like a plain old common-or-garden death experience,' replied Spike cheerfully. 'I get them all the time. No, we need something a bit better than that. To pass over into the dark realm we need to just come within spitting distance of the grim reaper and hover there, tantalisingly just out of his reach.'
   'And how are we going to achieve that?'
   'Haven't a clue.'
   He turned off the motorway at Junction 17 and took the slip road back on to the opposite carriageway to do another circuit.
   'What did Cindy do before you were married?'
   'She was a librarian then, too. She comes from a long line of dedicated Sicilian librarians – her brother is a librarian for the CIA.'
   'The CIA?'
   'Yes; he spends his time travelling the world – cataloguing their books, I presume.'
   It seemed as though Cindy was wanting to tell him what she really did but couldn't pluck up the courage. The truth about her might easily shock him, so I thought I'd better plant a few seeds of doubt. If he could figure it all out himself, it would be a great deal less painful.
   'Does it pay well, being a librarian?'
   'Certainly does!' exclaimed Spike. 'Sometimes she is called away to do freelance contract work – emergency card-file indexing or something – and they pay her in used notes, too – in suitcases. Don't know how they manage it, but they do.'
   I sighed and gave up.
   We drove around twice more. Parks and the rest of the SO-6 spooks had long since got bored and driven off, and I was beginning to get a little tired of this myself.
   'How long do we have to do this for?' I asked as we drove on to the Junction 16 roundabout for the seventh time, the sky darkening and small spots of rain appearing on the windscreen. Spike turned on the wipers, which squeaked in protest.
   'Why? Am I keeping you from something?'
   'I promised Mum she wouldn't have to look after Friday past five.'
   'What are grannies for? Anyway, you're working.'
   'Well, that's not the point, is it?' I answered. 'If I annoy her she may decide not to look after him again.'
   'She should be grateful. My parents love looking after Betty, although Cindy doesn't have any – they were both shot by police marksmen while being librarians.'
   'Doesn't that strike you as unusual?'
   He shrugged.
   'In my line of work, it's difficult to know what unusual is.'
   'I know the feeling. Are you sure you don't want to play in the Superhoop?'
   'I'd sooner attempt root canal work on a werewolf He pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and weaved around the traffic that was waiting to return to the westbound M4. 'I'm bored with all this. Death, drape your sable coat upon us!'
   Spike's car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped on to the motorway, so heavy that even with the wipers on full speed it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the headlights and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, passing through the spray of a juggernaut before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.
   'Don't you think you'd better slow down?' I yelled, but Spike just grinned maniacally and overtook a car on the inside. We were going at almost a hundred when Spike pointed out of the window and yelled:
   'Look!'
   I gazed out of my window at the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared I suddenly glimpsed a sliver of light as faint as a will-o'-the-wisp. It might have been anything, but to Spike's well-practised eye it was just what we'd been looking for – a chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.
   'Here we go!' yelled Spike, and pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4 greeted us in a flash and I had just the faintest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as we were airborne and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn't happen. A moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of night. The rain had stopped and the inky-black sky had no stars. We had arrived.

28
Dauntsey Services


'Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.'


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW –'A Psalm of Life'


   We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby's Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.
   'Looks like we're still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?'
   'Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well – and not looking back has something to do with it.'
   'Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: we locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?'
   'Wow!' I muttered. 'You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn't you?'
   'It has the benefit of simplicity.'
   Spike looked around at the people entering the motorway services building. He got out of the car.
   'This gateway isn't just for road accidents,' he muttered, opening the boot and taking out a pump-action shotgun. 'From the numbers I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as 'well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.'
   'So what's changed?'
   Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun.
   'The rise of secularism has a hand in it but mostly it's down to CPR. Death takes a hold – you come here – someone resuscitates you, you leave.'
   'Right. So what's the President doing here?'
   Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster.
   'An accident. He's not meant to be here at all – like us. Are you packing?'
   I nodded.
   'Then let's see what's going on. And act dead – we don't want to attract any attention.'
   We strode slowly across the car park towards the services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.
   We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring an RAC man who tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit, airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big difference. Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the burden of life were pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that although many people were walking in the main entrance, not so many people were walking out.
   We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the cafeteria, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking in low voices, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.
   'Are all these people dead?' I asked.
   'Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.' Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us – the southside services – to the other side, the north-side. I looked out of the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge which stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.
   'No one comes back, do they?'
   'The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns,' replied Spike. 'It's the last journey we ever make.'
   The waitress called out a number.
   'Thirty-two?'
   'Here!' said a couple quite near us.
   'Thank you, the northside is ready for you now.'
   'Northside?' echoed the woman. 'I think there's been some sort of mistake. We ordered fish, chips and peas for two.'
   'You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!'
   The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves, but got up nonetheless, walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the motorway. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living, heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God's name was I doing here?
   I was diverted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and pointed. On the far side of the cafeteria was a frail old man who was sitting by himself at a table. I'd seen President Formby once or twice before but not for about a decade. According to Dad he would die of natural causes in six days, and it wouldn't be unkind to say that he looked about ready. He was painfully thin and his eyes appeared to be sunken into his sockets. His teeth, so much a trademark, more protruding than ever. A lifetime's entertaining can be punishing, a half-lifetime in politics doubly so. He was hanging on to keep Kaine from power, and by the look of it he was losing and knew it.
   I moved to get up but Spike murmured:
   'We might be too late. Look at his table.'
   There was a '33' sign in front of him. I felt Spike tense and lower his shoulders, as though he had seen someone he recognised but didn't want them to see him.
   'Thursday,' he whispered, 'get the President to my car by whatever means you can before the waitress gets back. I have to take care of something. I'll see you outside '
   'What? Hey, Spike!'

   But he was away, moving slowly among the lost souls milling around the newsagent until he was gone from sight. I took a deep breath, got up and crossed to Formby's table.
   'Hullo, young lady!' said the President. 'Where are me bodyguards?'
   'I've no time to explain, Mr President, but you need to come with me.'
   'Oh well,' he said agreeably, 'if you say so – but I've just ordered pie and chips. Could eat a horse and probably will, too!'
   He grinned and laughed weakly.
   'We must go,' I urged. 'I will explain everything, I promise!'
   'But I've already paid—!'
   'Table thirty-three?' said the waitress, who had crept up behind me.
   'That's us,' replied the President cheerfully.
   'There's been a problem with your order. You're going to have to leave for the moment, but we'll keep it hot for you.'
   I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't meant to be dead and the staff knew it.
   'Now can we go?'
   'I'm not leaving until I get a refund,' he said stubbornly.
   'Your life is in danger, Mr President.'
   'Been in danger many times, young lady, but I'm not leaving till I get my ten bob back.'
   'I will pay it,' I replied, 'now let's get out of here.'
   I heaved him to his feet and walked him to the exit. As we pushed open the doors and stumbled out, three disreputable-looking men appeared from the shadows. They were all armed.
   'Well, well!' said the first man, who was dressed in a very tired and battered SpecOps uniform. He had stubble, oily hair and was pale to the point of cadaverous. In one hand he held an aged SpecOps-issue revolver, and the other was planted firmly on the top of his head. 'Looks like we've got some live ones here!'
   'Drop your gun,' said the second.
   'You'll live to regret this,' I told him, but realised the stupidity of the comment as soon as I had said it.
   'Way too late for that!' he replied. 'Your gun, if you please.'
   I complied and he grabbed Formby and took him back inside while the first man picked up my gun and put it in his pocket.
   'Now you,' he said, 'inside. We've got a little trading to do and time is fleeting.'
   I didn't know where Spike was but he had sensed the danger, that much was certain. I supposed he had a plan, and if I delayed, perhaps it would help.
   'What do you want?'
   'Nothing much.' The man who had his hand pressed firmly on his head laughed. 'Just. . . your soul.'
   'Looks like a good one, too,' said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and pointing it in my direction, 'lots of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run – we won't get a lot for that.'
   I didn't like the sound of this, not one little bit.
   'Move,' said the first man, indicating the doors.
   'Where to?'
   'Northside.'
   'Over my dead body.'
   'That's the po—'
   The third man didn't finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelled of mouldy vegetables. The first man whirled round and fired in the direction of the cafeteria but I seized the opportunity and ran back into the car park to take cover behind a parked car. After a few moments I peered cautiously round. Spike was inside, trading shots with the first man, who was pinned behind the presidential Bentley, still with his hand on his head. I cursed myself for giving up my weapon, but as I stared at the scene, the night-time, the motorway services, a sense of déjà vu welled up inside me. No, it was stronger than that – I had been here before, during a leap through time nearly three years ago. I witnessed the jeopardy I was in and left a gun for myself. I looked around. Behind me a man and a woman – Bowden and myself, in point of fact – were jumping into a Speedster – my Speedster. I smiled and dropped to my knees, feeling under the car tyre for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety catch and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover among the milling crowds, who scattered, terrified. I cautiously entered the now seemingly deserted services and rejoined Spike just inside the doorway of the shop. We had a commanding view of the stairs to the connecting bridge; no one was going northside without passing us. I dropped the magazine out of my automatic and reloaded.
   'The tall guy is Chesney, my ex-partner from SO-17,' announced Spike as he reloaded his shotgun. 'The necktie covers the decapitation wound I gave him. He has to hold his head to stop it falling off
   'Ah. I wondered why he was doing that. But losing his head – that makes him dead, right?'
   'Usually. He must be bribing the gateway guardians or something. It's my guess he's running some sort of soul reclamation scam.'
   'Wait, wait,' I said, 'slow down. Your ex-partner Chesney – who is dead – is now running a service pulling souls out of the netherworld?'
   'Looks like it. Death doesn't care about personalities – he's more interested in meeting quotas. After all, one departed soul is very like another.'
   'So—'
   'Right. Chesney swaps the soul of someone deceased for someone healthy and living.'
   'I'd say you're shitting me but I've got a feeling you're not.' 'I wish I was. Nice little earner, I'm sure. It looks like that's where Formby's driver Mallory went. Okay, here's the plan: we'll do a hostage swap for the President and once you're in their custody I'll get Formby to safety and return for you.'
   'I've got a better idea,' I replied, 'how about we swap you for Formby and I go to get help?'
   'I thought you knew all about the underworld from your bosom pal Orpheus?' countered Spike with a trace of annoyance.
   'It was highlights over coffee – and anyway, you've done it before. What was that about an inflatable boat from Argos to paddle yourself to the underworld?'
   'Well,' said Spike slowly, 'that was more of a hypothetical journey, really.'
   'You haven't a clue what you're doing, have you?'
   'No. But for ten grand, I'm willing to take a few risks.'
   We didn't have time to argue further as several shots came our way. There was a frightened scream from a customer as one of the bullets reduced a magazine shelf to confetti. Before I knew it Spike had fired his shotgun into the ceiling, where it destroyed a light fixture in a shower of bright sparks.
   'Who shot at us?' asked Spike. 'Did you see?'
   'I think it's fair to say that it wasn't the light fixture.'
   'I had to shoot at something. Cover me.'
   He jumped up and fired. I joined him, fool that I was. I had thought that being out of my depth was okay because Spike vaguely knew what he was doing. Now that I was certain this was not the case, escape seemed a very good option indeed. After firing several shots ineffectively down the corridor, we stopped and dropped back round the corner.

   'Chesney!' shouted Spike. 'I want to talk to you!'
   'What do you want here?' came a voice. 'This is my patch!'
   'Let's have a head-to-head,' replied Spike, stifling a giggle. 'I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement!'
   There was a pause, then Chesney's voice rang out again:
   'Hold your fire. We're coming out.'
   Chesney stepped out into the open, just next to the children's helicopter ride and a Coriolanus Will-Speak machine. His remaining henchman joined him, holding the President.
   'Hello, Spike,' said Chesney. He was a tall man who looked as though he didn't have a drop of liquid blood in his entire body. 'I haven't forgiven you for killing me.'
   'I kill vampires for a living, Dave. You became one – I had to.'
   'Had to?'
   'Sure. You were about to sink your teeth into an eighteen-year-old virgin's neck and turn her into a lifeless husk willing to do your every bidding.'
   'Everyone should have a hobby.'
   'Train sets I tolerate,' Spike replied, 'spreading the seed of vampirism I do not.'
   He nodded towards Chesney's neck.
   'Nasty scratch you have there.'
   'Very funny. What's the deal?'
   'Simple. I want President Formby back.'
   'And in return?'
   Spike turned the shotgun towards me.
   'I give you Thursday. She's got bags of life left in her. Give me your gun, sweetheart.'
   'What?' I yelled in a well-feigned cry of indignation.
   'Do as I say. The President must be protected at all costs – you told me so yourself
   I handed the gun over.
   'Good. Now move forward.'
   We walked slowly up the concourse, the cowering visitors watching us with a sort of morbid fascination. We stopped ten yards from Chesney just near the arcade game area.
   'Send the President to me.'
   Chesney nodded to his henchman, who let him go. Formby, a little confused by now, tottered up to us.
   'Now send me Thursday.'
   'Whoa!' said Spike. 'Still using that old SpecOps-issue revolver? Here, have her automatic – she won't need it any more.'
   And he tossed my gun towards his ex-partner. Chesney, in an unthinking moment, went to catch the gun – but with the hand he used to keep his head on. Unrestrained, his head wobbled dangerously. He tried to grab it but this made matters worse and his head tumbled off to the front, past his flailing hands, and hit the floor with the sound of a large cabbage. This unseemly situation had distracted Chesney's number two, who was disarmed by a blast from Spike's shotgun. I didn't see why Spike should have all the fun so I ran forward and caught Chesney's head on the bounce and expertly booted it through the door of the arcade, where it scored a direct hit on the SlamDunk! basketball game, earning three hundred points. Spike had thumped the now confused and headless Chesney in the stomach and retrieved both my automatics. I grabbed the President and we legged it for the car park while Chesney's head screamed obscenities from where he was stuck upside down in the SlamDunk! basket.
   Spike smiled as we reached his car. 'Well, Chesney really lost his—'
   'No,' I said, 'don't say it. It's too corny.'
   'Is this some sort of theme park?' asked Formby as we bundled him into Spike's car.
   'Of a sort, Mr President,' I replied as we reversed out of the car park with a squeal of tyres and tore towards the exit ramp. No one tried to stop us and a couple of seconds later we were blinking in the daylight – and the rain – of the M4 westbound. The time, I noticed, was 5.03 – lots of time to get the President to a phone and oppose Kaine's vote in Parliament. I put out my hand to Spike, who shook it happily and returned my gun, which was still covered in the desiccated dust of Chesney's hoodlum friend.
   'Did you see the look on his face when his head started to come off?' Spike asked, chuckling. 'Man, I live for moments like that!'

29
The Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire

   DANISH KING IN TIDAL COMMAND FIASCO
   In another staggering display of Danish Cupidity, King Canute of Denmark attempted to use his authority to halt the incoming tide, our reporters have discovered. It didn't, of course, and the Dopey Monarch was soaked Danish authorities were quick to deny the story and rushed with obscene haste to besmirch the excellent and unbiased English press with the following hies: 'For a start it wasn't Canute, it was Cnut,' began the wild and wholly unconvincing tirade from the Danish minister of propaganda. 'You English named him Canute to make it sound less like you were ruled by foreigners for two hundred years. And Cnut didn't try to command the sea – it was to demonstrate to his overly flattering courtiers that the tide wouldn't succumb to his will. And it all happened nine hundred years ago – if it happened at all.' King Canute himself was unavailable for comment.

Article in The Toad, 18 July 1988


   We told the President that yes, he was right – the whole thing was some sort of motorway services theme park. Dowding and Parks were genuinely pleased to get their President back, and Yorrick Kaine cancelled the vote in Parliament. Instead, he led a silent prayer to thank providence for returning Formby to our midst. As for Spike and me, we were each given a post-dated cheque and told we would be sure to receive the 'Banjulele with Oak Clusters' for our steadfast adherence to duty.

   Spike and I parted after the tiring day's work and I returned to the SpecOps office, where I found a slightly annoyed Major Drabb waiting for me near my car.
   'No Danish books found again, Agent Next!' he said through clenched teeth, handing me his report. 'More failure and I will have to take the matter to higher authority.'
   I glared at him, took a step closer and prodded him angrily in the chest. I needed Flanker off my case until the Superhoop at the very least.
   'You blame me for your failings?'
   'Well,' he said, faltering slightly and taking a nervous step backward as I moved even closer, 'that is to say—'
   'Redouble your efforts, Major Drabb, or I will have you removed from your command. Do you understand?'
   I shouted the last bit, which I didn't want to do – but I was getting desperate. I didn't want Flanker on my back in addition to everything else that was going on.
   'Of course,' croaked Drabb, 'I take full responsibility for my failure.'
   'Good,' I said, straightening up. 'Tomorrow you are to search the Australian Writers' Guild in Wootton Bassett.'
   Drabb dabbed his brow and made another salute.
   'As you say, Miss Next.'
   I tried to drive past the mixed bag of journalists and TV news crews but they were more than insistent so I stopped to say a few words.
   'Miss Next,' said a reporter from ToadSports, jostling with the five or six other TV crews trying to get the best angle, 'what is your reaction to the news that five of the Mallets have withdrawn from the side following death threats?'
   This was news to me but I didn't show it.
   'We are in the process of signing new players to the team—'
   'Miss Manager, with only five players in your team, don't you think it better just to withdraw?'
   'We'll be playing, I assure you.'
   'What is your response to the rumour that the Reading Whackers have signed ace player "Bonecrusher" McSneed to play forward hoop?'
   'The same as always – the Superhoop will be a momentous victory for Swindon.'
   'And what about the news that you have been declared "unfit to manage" given your highly controversial decision to put Biffo in defence?'
   'Positions on the field are yet to be decided and are up to Mr Jambe. Now if you'll excuse me . . .'
   I started the engine again and drove away from the SpecOps building, the news crews still shouting questions after me. I was big news again, and I didn't like it.

   I arrived home just in time to rescue Mother from having to make more tea for Friday.
   'Eight fish fingers!' she muttered, shocked by his greed. 'Eight!'
   'That's nothing,' I replied, putting my pay cheque into a novelty teapot and tickling Friday on the ear. 'You wait until you see how many beans he can put away.'
   'The phone's been ringing all day. Aubrey somebody or other about death threats or something?'
   'I'll call him. How was the zoo?'
   'Ooh!' she cooed, touched her hair and tripped out of the kitchen. I waited until she was gone then knelt down close to Friday.
   'Did Bismarck and Gran . . . kiss?'
   'Tempor incididunt ut labors,' he replied enigmatically, 'et dolore magna aliqua.'
   'I hope that's a "definitely not", darling,' I murmured, filling up his beaker. As I did so I caught my wedding ring on the lip of the cup, and I stared at it in a resigned manner. Landen was back again. I clasped it tightly and picked up the phone and dialled.
   'Hello?' came Landen's voice.
   'It's Thursday.'
   'Thursday!' he said with a mixture of relief and alarm. 'What happened to you? I was waiting for you in the bedroom and then I heard the front door close! Did I do something wrong?'
   'No, Land, nothing. You were eradicated again.'
   'Am I still?'
   'Of course not.'
   There was a long pause. Too long, in fact. I looked at my hand. My wedding ring had gone again. I sighed, replaced the receiver and went back to Friday, heavy of heart.
   I called Aubrey as I was giving Friday his bath and tried to reassure him about the missing players. I told him to keep training and I'd deliver. I wasn't sure how, but I didn't tell him that. I just said it was 'in hand'.
   'I have to go,' I told him at last. 'I've got to wash Friday's hair and I can't do it with one hand.'

  That evening, as I was reading Pinocchio to Friday, a large tabby cat appeared on the wardrobe in my bedroom. It didn't appear instantly, either – it faded in from the tip of its tail, all the way up to its very large grin. When he first started working in Alice in Wonderland he was known as 'The Cheshire Cat' but the authorities moved the Cheshire county boundaries and he thus became 'The Unitary Authority of Warrington Cat', but that was a bit of a mouthful so he was known more affectionately as 'The Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire' or, more simply, 'The Cat'. His real name was 'Archibald' but that was reserved for his mother when she was cross with him.
   He worked very closely with us at Jurisfiction, where he was in charge of the Great Library, a cavernous and almost infinite depository of every book ever written. But to call the Cat a librarian would be an injustice. He was an Uberlibrarian – he knew about all the books in his charge. When they were being read, by whom – everything. Everything, that is, except where Yorrick Kaine was a featured part. Friday giggled and pointed as the Cat stopped appearing and stared at us with a grin etched on his features, eagerly listening to the story.
   'Hello!' he said as soon as I had finished, kissed Friday and put out the bedside light. 'I've got some information for you.'
   'About?'
   'Yorrick Kaine.'
   I took the Cat downstairs, where he sat on the microwave as I made some tea.
   'So what have you found out?'
   'I've found out that an alligator isn't someone who makes allegations – it's a large reptile a bit like a crocodile.'
   'I mean about Kaine.'
   'Ah. Well, I've had a careful trawl and he doesn't appear anywhere in the character manifests either in the Great Library or the Well of Lost Plots. Wherever he's from, it isn't from published fiction, poetry, jokes, non-fiction or knitting patterns.'
   'I don't believe you'd come out here to tell me you've failed, Chesh,' I said. 'What's the good news?'
   The Cat's eyes flashed and he twitched his whiskers.
   'Vanity publishing!' he announced with a flourish.
   It was an inspired guess. I'd never even considered he might be from there. The realm of the self-published book was a bizarre mix of quaint local histories, collections of poetry, magna opera of the truly talentless – and the occasional gem. The thing was, if they became officially published they were welcomed into the Great Library with open arms – and that hadn't happened.
   'You're sure?'
   The Cat handed me an index card.
   'I knew this was important to you so I called in a few favours.'
   I read the card aloud.
   'At Long Last Lust, 1931. Limited edition run of one hundred. Author: Daphne Farquitt.'
   1 looked at the Cat. Daphne Farquitt. Writer of nearly five hundred romantic novels and darling of the Romance genre.
   'Before she was famous writing truly awful books she used to write truly awful books that were self-published,' explained the Cat. 'In At Long Last Lust, Yorrick plays a local politician eager for self-advancement. He isn't a major part, either. He's only mentioned twice and doesn't even warrant a description.'
   'Can you get me into the vanity publishing library?' I asked.
   'There is no vanity library,' the Cat said with a shrug. 'We have figures and short reviews gleaned from vanity publishers' manifests and Earnest Scribbler Monthly, but little else. Still, we need only to find one copy and he's ours.'
   He grinned again but I didn't join him.
   'Not that easy, Cat. Take a look at this.'
   I showed him the latest issue of The Toad. The Cat carefully put on his spectacles and read: 'Danish book-burning frenzy reaches new heights with Copenhagen-born Farquitt's novels due to be consigned to flames.'
   'I don't get it,' said the Cat, placing a yearning paw on a Moggilicious Cat Food advert, 'what's he up to burning all her books?'
   'Because,' I said, 'he obviously can't find all the original copies of At Long Last Lust and in desperation has whipped up anti-Danish feeling as a cover. With luck his book-burning idiots will do the job for him. I'm a fool not to have realised. After all, where would you hide a stick?'
   There was a long pause.
   'I give up,' said the Cat, 'where would you hide a stick?'
   'In a forest.'
   I stared out of the window thoughtfully. At Long Last Lust. I didn't know how many of the hundred copies still remained, but with Farquitt's books still being consigned to the furnaces I figured there had to be at least one. An unpublished Farquitt novel the key to destroying Kaine. I couldn't make this stuff up.
   'Why would you hide a stick in a forest?' asked the Cat, who had been pondering this question for some moments in silence.
   'It's an analogy,' I explained. 'Kaine needs to get rid of every copy of At Long Last Lust but doesn't want us to get suspicious, so he targets the Danes – the forest - rather than Farquitt – the stick. Get it?'
   'Got it.'
   'Good.'
   'Well, I'd better be off, then,' announced the Cat, and he vanished.
   I was not much surprised at this for the Cat usually left in this manner. I poured the tea, added some milk and then put some mugs on a tray. I was just pondering where I might find a copy of At Long Last Lust and, more importantly, thinking of calling Julie again to ask her how long her husband flicked on and off 'like a light bulb' when the Cat reappeared balanced precariously on the Kenwood mixer.
   'By the by,' he said, 'the Gryphon tells me that the sentencing for your fiction infraction is due in two weeks' time. Do you want to be present?'
   This related to the time I had changed the ending to Jane Eyre. They found me guilty at my trial but the law's delay in the BookWorld just dragged things on and on.
   'No,' I said after a pause. 'No, tell him to come and find me and let me know what my sentence will be.'
   'I'll tell him. Well, toodle-oo,' said the Cat, and vanished, this time for good.

   I pushed open the door of Mycroft's workshop with my toe, held it open for Pickwick to follow me in, then closed it before Alan could join us and placed the tray on a worktop. Mycroft and Polly were staring intently at a small and oddly shaped geometric solid made of brass.
   'Thank you, pet,' said Polly. 'How are things with you?'
   'Fair to not very good at all, Auntie.'
   Polly was Mycroft's wife of some forty-two years and although seemingly in the background was actually almost as brilliant as her husband. She was a bouncy seventy and managed Mycroft's often irascible and forgetful nature with a patience that I found inspiring. 'The trick,' she told me once, 'is to regard him like a five-year-old with an IQ of two hundred and sixty.' She picked up her tea and blew on it.
   'Still thinking about whether to put Smudger on defence?'
   'I was thinking of Biffo, actually.'
   'Smudger and Biffo would both be wasted on defence,' muttered Mycroft, making a fine adjustment on one face of the brass polyhedron with a file. 'You ought to put Snake on defence. He's untried, I admit, but he plays well and has youth on his side.'
   'Well, I'm really leaving team strategy to Aubrey.'
   'I hope he's up to it. What do you make of this?'
   He handed me the solid and I turned the grapefruit-sized object over in my hands. Some of the faces were odd sided and some even sided – and some, strangely enough, appeared to be both. My eyes had trouble making sense of it.
   'Very . . . pretty,' I replied. 'What does it do?'
   'Do?' Mycroft smiled. 'Put it on the worktop and you'll see what it does!'
   I placed it on the surface but the oddly shaped solid, unstable on the face I had placed it upon, tipped on to another. Then, after a moment's pause, it wobbled again and fell on to a third. It carried on in this jerky fashion across the worktop until it fell against a screwdriver, where it stopped.
   'I call it a Nextahedron,' announced Mycroft, picking up the solid and placing it on the floor, where it continued its random perambulations, watched by Pickwick, who thought it might be chasing her, and ran away to hide. 'Most irregular solids are only unstable on one or two faces. The Nextahedron is unstable on all its faces – it will continue to fall and tip until a solid object impedes its progress.'
   'Fascinating!' I murmured, always surprised by the ingenuity of Mycroft's inventions. 'But what's the point?'
   'Well,' explained Mycroft, warming to the subject, 'you know those inertia! generator things that self-wind a wristwatch?'
   'Yes?'
   'If we have a larger one of those inside a Nextahedron weighing six hundred tons, I calculate we could generate as much as a hundred watts of power.'
   'But. . . but that's only enough for a light bulb!'
   'Considering the input is nil, I think it's a remarkable achievement,' replied Mycroft somewhat sniffily. 'To generate significant quantities of power we'd have to carve something of considerable mass – Mars, say – into a huge Nextahedron with a flat plate falling around the exterior, held firm by gravity. The power could be transmitted to earth using Tesla beams and . . .'
   His voice trailed off as he started to sketch ideas and equations in a small notebook. I watched the Nextahedron fall and rock and jiggle across the floor until it fell against a roll of wire.
   'On a more serious note,' confided Polly, putting down her tea, 'you could help us identify some of the devices in the workshop. Since both Mycroft and I have taken the Big Blank you might be able to help.'
   'I'll try,' I said, looking around the room at the bizarre devices. 'That one over there guesses how many pips there are in an unopened orange, the one with the horn is an Olfactrograph for measuring smells, and the small box thing there can change gold into lead.'
   'What's the point of that?'
   'I'm not entirely sure.'
   Polly made notes against her inventory and I spent the next ten minutes trying to name as many of Mycroft's inventions as I could. It wasn't easy. He didn't tell me everything.
   'I'm not sure what this one is, either,' I said, pointing at a small machine about the size of a telephone directory lying on a workbench.
   'Oddly enough,' replied Polly, 'this is one we do have a name for. It's an ovinator.'
   'How do you know if you can't remember?'
   'Because,' said Mycroft, who had finished his notes and now rejoined us, 'it has "ovinator" engraved on the case just there. We think it's either a device for making eggs without the need of a chicken, or for making chickens without the need of an egg. Or something else entirely. Here, I'll switch it on.'
   Mycroft flicked a switch and a small red light came on.
   'Is that it?'
   'Yes,' replied Polly, staring at the small and very unexciting metallic box thoughtfully.
   'No sign of any eggs or chickens,' I observed.
   'None at all.' Mycroft sighed. 'It might just be a machine for making a red light come on. Drat my lost memory! Which reminds me: any idea which device actually is the memory eraser?'
   We looked around the workshop at the odd-looking and mostly anonymous contraptions. Any one of them may have been used to erase memories, but then any one of them may have been a device for coring apples, too.
   We stood in silence for a moment.
   'I still think you ought to have Smudger on defence,' said Polly, who was probably the biggest croquet fan in the house.
   'You're probably right,' I said, suddenly feeling that it would be easier just to go with the flow. 'Uncle?'
   'Polly knows best,' he replied. 'I'm a bit tired. Who wants to watch Name That Fruit on the telly?'
   We all agreed that it would be a relaxing way to end the day and I found myself watching the nauseating quiz show for the first time in my life. I realised just how bad it was halfway through, and went to bed, temples aching.

30
Neanderthal Nation

   NEANDERTHALS 'OF USE' AT POLITICIANS' TRAINING COLLEGE
   Neanderthals, the re-engineered property of the Goliath Corporation, found unexpected employment at the Chipping Sodbury College for Politicians yesterday when four selected individuals were inducted as part of the 'Public Office Veracity Economies' class. Neanderthals, whose high facial acuity skills make them predisposed to noticing an untruth, are used by students to hone their lying skills – something that trainee politicians might find useful once in office. 'Man, those Thals can spot everything!' declared Mr Richard Dixon. a first-year student. 'Nothing gets past them – even a mild embellishment or a tactical omission!' The lecturers at the college declared themselves wholly pleased with the Neanderthals and privately admitted that: 'If the proletariat were even half as good at spotting lies, we'd really be in the soup!"

Article in The Toad (political section). 4 July 1988


   The hunt for At Long Last Lust had been going on all morning but with little success. Kaine had almost two years' head start on us. Of the one hundred copies in the print run, sixty-two had changed hands within the past eighteen months. Initially they had been for modest sums of a thousand pounds or so, but there is nothing like a mystery buyer with deep pockets to push up the price and the last copy sold was for £720,000 at Agatha's Auction House – an unprecedented sum, even for a pre-war Farquitt.
   The likelihood of finding a copy of Lust was looking increasingly slim. I called Farquitt's agent, who said that the author's entire library had been confiscated and the septuagenarian author questioned at length about pro-Danish political activism before being released. Even a visit to the Library of Farquitt in Didcot didn't bear any fruit – their original manuscript of At Long Last Lust and a signed copy had both been seized by 'government agents' nearly eighteen months before. The librarian met us in the sculpted marble hall and, after telling us not to talk so loudly, reported that representative copies of all Farquitt's works were packed and ready for removal 'as soon as we wanted'. Bowden responded that we'd be heading towards the border just as soon as we finalised the details. He didn't look at me as he said it but I knew what he was thinking – I still needed to figure out a way to get us across the border.

   We drove back to the LiteraTecs' office in silence, and as soon as we got in I called Landen. My wedding ring, which had been appearing and disappearing all morning, had been solid for a good twenty minutes.
   'Yo, Thursday!' he said enthusiastically. 'What happened to you yesterday? We were talking and you just went quiet.'
   'Something came up.'
   'Why don't you come round for lunch? I've got fish fingers, beans and peas – with mashed banana and cream for pudding.'
   'Have you been discussing the menu with Friday?'
   'Whatever made you think that?'
   'I'd love to, Land. But you're still a bit existentially unstable at the moment, so I'd only end up embarrassing myself in front of your parents again – and I've got to go and meet someone to talk about Shakespeares.'
   'Anyone I know?'
   'Bartholomew Stiggins.'
   'The Neanderthal?'
   'Yes.'
   'Hope you like beetles. Call me when I exist next. I lo—'
   The line went dead. My wedding ring had gone again too.
   I listened to the dial tone for a moment, tapping the receiver thoughtfully on my forehead.
   'I love you too, Land,' I said softly.
   'Your Welsh contact?' asked Bowden, walking up with a fax from the Karen Blixen Appreciation Society.
   'Not exactly.'
   'New players for the Superhoop, then?'
   'If only. Goliath and Kaine have frightened every player in the country except Penelope Hrah, who'll play for food and doesn't care what anyone says, thinks or does.'
   'Didn't she have a leg torn off during the Newport Strikers versus Dartmoor Wanderers semi-final a few years back?'
   'I'm in no position to be choosy, Bowd. If I put her on back-hoop defence she can just growl at anyone who comes close. Ready for lunch?'

   The Neanderthal population of Swindon numbered about three hundred and they all lived in a small village to the west known as 'The Nation'. Because of their tool-using prowess, they were just given six acres of land, water and sewage points and told to get on with it, as if they needed to be asked, which they didn't.
   The Neanderthals were not human nor descendants of ours, but cousins. They had evolved at the same time as us, then been forced into extinction when they failed to compete successfully with the more aggressive human. Brought back to life by Goliath Bioengineering in the late thirties and early forties, they were as much a part of modern life as dodos or mammoths. And since they had been sequenced by Goliath, each individual was actually owned by the corporation. A less than generous 'buy-back' scheme to be able to purchase oneself hadn't been well received.
   We parked a little way down from the Nation and got out of the car.
   'Can't we just park inside?' asked Bowden.
   'They don't like cars,' I explained. 'They don't see the point in travelling any distance. To Neanderthal logic, anywhere that couldn't be reached in a day's walk isn't worth visiting. Our Neanderthal gardener used to walk the four miles to our house every Tuesday, and then walk back again, resisting all offers of a lift. Walking was, he maintained, "the only decent way to travel – if you drive you miss the conversations in the hedgerows".'
   'I can see his point,' replied Bowden, 'but when I need to be somewhere in a hurry—'
   'That's the difference, Bowd. You've got to get away from the human way of thinking. To Neanderthals, nothing is so urgent that it can't be done another time – or not done at all. By the way, did you remember not to wash this morning?'
   He nodded. Because scent is so important to Neanderthal communications, the soapy cleanliness of humans reads more like some form of suspicious subterfuge. Speak to a Neanderthal while wearing scent and they'll instantly think you have something to hide.
   We walked through the grassy entrance of the Nation and encountered a lone Neanderthal sitting on a chair in the middle of the path. He was reading the large-print Neanderthal News. He folded up the paper and sniffed the air delicately before staring at us for a moment or two and then asking:
   'Who do you wish to visit?'
   'Next and Cable. Lunch with Mr Stiggins.'