“What? Hey, Spike!”

  But he was away, moving slowly amongst 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 33?” 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 cadaverousness. With 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 realized 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,” said the first man again, “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,” laughed the man who had his hand pressed firmly on his head, “just . . . your soul.”

  “Looks like a good one, too,” said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and was pointing it in my direction. “Lots of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run—we won’t get much 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 poi—”

  The third man didn’t finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelt of moldy vegetables. The first man whirled around 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 car. After a few moments, I peered out cautiously. 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 nighttime, the motorway services—a strong 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 had 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 tire for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover amongst 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 position 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 the soul of 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 Wal-Mart 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, do 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 my 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 behind 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, and 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 WillSpeak 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.”

  I walked slowly up the concourse, the cowering visitors watching us with a sort of morbid fascination. We stopped ten yards apart just near the game-arcade 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 anymore.”

  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, where it hit the floor with the sound of a large cabbage. This unseemly situation had distracted Chesney’s number two, who was then 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 into 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.

  “Well . . .” Spike smiled as we reached his car. “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 parking lot with a squealing of tires 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 stupidity, King Canute of Denmark attempted to use his authority to halt the incoming tide, our reporters have uncovered. 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 lies: “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, July 18, 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 canceled 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 postdated check 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 back until the SuperHoop at the very least.

  “You blame me for your failings?”

  “Well,” he said, faltering slightly and taking a nervous step backwards 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 Wooten 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 team members have withdrawn 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 to just withdraw?”

  “We’ll be playing, I assure you.”

  “What is your response to the rumor 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 move of putting Biffo on defense?”

  “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 paycheck 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 labore,” he replied enigmatically, “et do-lore 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.

  “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 in 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. He didn’t appear instantly, either—he faded in from the tip of his tail all the way up to his 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 überlibrarian—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.