I ran up the queue and found Spike ten souls from the front.

  “Absolutely no way, Spike!”

  “Shhh!” said someone ahead of us.

  “Nuts to you, Thursday. Just look after Betty, would you?”

  “You are not taking my place, Spike.”

  “Let me do this, Thursday. You deserve a long life. You have many wonderful things in front of you.”

  “So do you.”

  “It’s debatable. Battling the undead was never a bowl of cherries. And without Cindy?”

  “She’s not dead, Spike.”

  “If she pulls through they’ll never let her out of jail. She was the Windowmaker. No, after the shit I’ve been through, this actually seems like a good option. I’m staying.”

  “You are not.”

  “Try and stop me.”

  “Shhh!” said the man in front again.

  “I won’t let you do it, Spike. Think of Betty. Besides, I’m the one that’s dead, not you. SECURITY!”

  A moldy skeleton holding a lance and dressed in rusty armor clanked up. “What’s going on here?”

  I stabbed a finger at Spike. “This man’s not dead.”

  “Not dead?” replied the guard in a shocked tone. The queue of people all turned around to stare as the guard drew a rusty sword and pointed it at Spike, who reluctantly raised his hands and, head shaking sadly, walked back towards the footbridge.

  “Tell Landen and Friday I love them!” I yelled at his departing form, suddenly realizing that I should have asked him who’d won the SuperHoop. I turned to the queue behind me that snaked amongst the boulder-strewn cavern and said, “Does anyone know the results of SuperHoop-88?”

  “Shhh!” said the man in front again.

  “Why don’t you poke your ‘shhh’ up your—Oh. Hello, Mr. President.”

  As soon as he recognized me, Formby gave me a broad toothy grin. “Eeee, Miss Next! Is this that theme park again?”

  “Sort of.”

  I was glad that the trip across the river led up as well as down. One thing was for sure: unless there had been some sort of dreadful administrative mix-up, Formby was certainly not bound for eternal torment within the all-consuming flames of hell.

  “So . . . how are you?” I asked, momentarily lost for words when confronted with the biggest—and last—celebrity I would be likely to meet.

  “Pretty good, lass. One moment I was giving a concert, next thing I was in the cafeteria ordering pie and chips for one.”

  Spike had said he’d driven for two days to get to me, so it must be the twenty-fourth—and, as Dad had predicted, Formby had died as he had been meant to, performing for the Lancaster Regiment Veterans. My heart fell as I realized that the days following Formby’s death would mark the beginning of World War III. Still, it was out of my hands now.

  The boat arrived for the ex-President, and he stepped in. The ferryman pushed the small craft into the limpid waters of the river and dropped his pole into the dark waters.

  “Mr. Formby, isn’t it?” said the ferryman. “I’m a big fan of yours. I had that Mr. Garrick in the back of my boat once. Do you do requests?”

  “Ooh, aye,” replied the entertainer, “but I don’t have me uke with me.”

  “Borrow mine,” said the ferryman. “I do a bit of entertaining myself, you know.”

  Formby picked up the ukulele and strummed the strings. “What would you like?”

  The ferryman told him, and the dour cavern was soon filled with a chirpy rendition of “We’ve Been a Long Time Gone.” It seemed a fitting way to go for the old man who had given so much to so many—not only as an entertainer but as freedom fighter and elder statesman. The boat, Formby and the ferryman disappeared into the mist that drifted across the river, obscuring the far bank and muting the sound. It was my turn next. What had Gran said? The worst bit about dying is not knowing how it all turns out? Still, at least I’d got Landen back, so Friday was in good hands.

  “Miss Next?”

  I looked up. The ferryman had returned. He was dressed in a sort of dirty muslin cloth; I couldn’t see his face.

  “You have the fare?”

  I dug out a coin and was about to hand it over when—

  “WAIT!!!”

  I turned around as a petite young woman trotted up, out of breath. She brushed the blond hair from her face and smiled shyly at me. It was Cindy.

  “I’m taking her place,” she told the ferryman, handing over a coin.

  “How can you?” I said in some surprise. “You’re almost dead yourself!”

  “No,” she corrected me, “I’m not. And what’s more, I pull through. I shouldn’t, but I do. Sometimes the devil looks after his own.”

  “But you’ll leave Spike and Betty—”

  “Listen to me for a moment, Thursday. I’ve killed sixty-eight people in my career.”

  “So you did do Samuel Pring.”

  “It was a fluke. But listen: sixty-eight innocent souls sent across this river before their time, all down to me. And I did it all for cash. You can play the self-righteous card for all I care, but the fact remains that I’ll never see the light of day when I recover, and I’ll never get to hold Betty again, or hug Spike. I don’t want that. You’re a better person than me, Thursday, and the world is far better off with you in it.”

  “But that’s not the point, surely?” I asked. “When it’s time to go—”

  “Look,” she interrupted angrily, “let me do one good thing to make up for even one-quarter of one percent of the misery I’ve caused.”

  I stared at her as the skeleton in rusty armor clanked up again. “More trouble, Miss Next?”

  “Give us a minute, will you?”

  “Please,” implored Cindy. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  I looked at the skeleton, who probably would have rolled his eyes if he had any.

  “It’s your decision, Miss Next,” said the guard, “but someone has to take that boat or I’m out of a job—and I’ve got a bony wife and two small skeletons to put through college.”

  I turned back to Cindy, put out my hand and she shook it, then pulled me forward and hugged me tightly while whispering in my ear, “Thank you, Thursday. Keep an eye on Spike for me.”

  She hopped quickly into the boat before I had a chance to change my mind. She gave a wan smile and sat in the bows as the ferryman leaned on his pole, sending the small boat noiselessly across the river. Against the burden of her sins, saving me was only small recompense, but she felt better for it, and so did I. As the boat containing Cindy faded into the mists of the river, I turned and walked back towards the pedestrian footbridge, the Southside of the Dauntsey services—and life.

  42.

  Explanations

  State Funeral Attracts World’s Leaders

  Millions of heartbroken citizens of England and the most important world leaders arrived in Wigan yesterday to pay tribute to President George Formby, who died two weeks ago. The funeral cortege was driven on a circuitous route of the Midlands, the streets lined with mourners, eager to bid a final good-bye to England’s President of the past thirty-nine years. At the memorial service in Wigan Cathedral, the new Chancellor, Mr. Redmond van de Poste, spoke warmly of the great man’s contribution to world peace. After the Lancashire Male Voice Choir sang “With My Little Stick of Blackpool Rock,” accompanied by two hundred ukuleles, the Chancellor invited the Queen of Denmark to sing with him a duet of “Your Way Is My Way,” something that “might well serve to patch the rift between our respective nations.”

  Article in The Toad, August 4, 1988

  It was touch and go for a moment,” said Landen, who was sitting by my hospital bed holding my hand. “There was a moment when we really didn’t think you’d make it.”

  I gave a wan smile. I had regained consciousness only the day before, and every movement felt like daggers in my head. I looked around. Joffy and Miles and Hamlet were there, too. “Hi, guys.”

  They smiled and welcomed me back.

  “How long?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Two weeks,” said Landen. “We really thought . . . thought—”

  I gently squeezed his hand and looked around.

  Land divined my thoughts perfectly. “He’s with his grand-mother.”

  I raised a hand to touch the side of my head but could feel only a heavy bandage. Landen took my hand and returned it to the sheet.

  “What . . . ?”

  “You were astonishingly lucky,” he said in a soothing tone. “The doctors say you’ll make a full recovery. The caliber was quite small, and it entered your skull obliquely; by the time it had gone through, most of the energy was gone.” He tapped the side of his head. “It lodged between your brain and the inside of the skull. Gave us quite a fright, though.”

  “Cindy died, didn’t she?”

  Joffy answered. “Looked to be improving, but then septicemia set in.”

  “They really loved one another, you know, despite their differences.”

  “She was a hit woman, Thursday, a trained assassin. I don’t think she regarded death as anything more than an occupational hazard.”

  I nodded. He was right.

  Landen leaned forwards and kissed my nose.

  “Who shot me, Land?”

  “Does the name ‘Norman Johnson’ mean anything to you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The Minotaur. You were right. He’d been trying to slapstick me to death all week—steamroller, banana skin, piano—I was a fool not to see it. Mind you, a gun’s hardly slapstick, is it?”

  Landen smiled.

  “It had a large BANG sign that came out of the barrel, as well as the bullet. The police are still trying to make sense of it.”

  I sighed. The Minotaur was long gone but I’d still have to be careful. I turned to Landen. There was still something I needed to know.

  “Did we win?”

  “Of course. You pegged a foot closer than O’Fathens. Your shot has been voted Sporting Moment of the Century—in Swindon, at any rate.”

  “So we aren’t at war with Wales?”

  Landen shook his head and smiled. “Kaine’s finished, my darling—and Goliath has abandoned all attempts to become a religion. St. Zvlkx does indeed work in mysterious ways.”

  “Are you going to tell me?” I said with a wan smile. “Or do I have to beat it out of you with a stick?”

  Joffy unfolded the picture of St. Zvlkx and Cindy’s fatal pianoing on Commercial Road, the one from the Swindon Evening Globe that Gran had given me.

  “We found this in your back pocket,” said Miles,

  “And it got us to thinking,” continued Joffy, “exactly where Zvlkx was heading that morning and why he had the ticket for the Gravitube in his bedroom. He was cutting his losses and running. I don’t think even Zvlkx—or whoever he was—believed that Swindon could possibly win the SuperHoop. Dad had always said that time wasn’t immutable.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Miles leaned forward and showed me the picture again. “He died trying to get to Tudor Turf Accounting.”

  “So? Oldest betting shop in Swindon.”

  “No—in the world. We made a few calls. It had been trading continually since 1264.”

  I looked at Joffy quizzically. “What are you saying?”

  “That the Book of Revealments was nothing of the kind—it’s a thirteenth-century betting slip!”

  “A what?”

  He pulled Zvlkx’s Revealments from his pocket and opened it to the front page. There was a countersigned receipt for a farthing that we had thought was a bookbinder’s tax or something. The small arithmetical sum next to each revealment was actually the odds against that particular event’s coming true, each one countersigned by the same signature as on the front page. Joffy flicked through the slim volume.

  “The Spanish Armada revealment had been given the odds of 600-1, Wellington’s victory at Waterloo 420-1.” He flicked to the final page. “The outcome of the croquet match was set at 124,000-1. The odds were generous because Zvlkx was betting on things centuries before they happened—indeed, centuries before croquet was even thought of. No wonder the person who had underwritten the bet felt confident to offer such odds.”

  “Well,” I said, “don’t hold your breath. A hundred twenty-four thousand farthings only adds up to . . . up to . . .”

  “One hundred and thirty quid,” put in Miles.

  “Right. One hundred and thirty quid. Nelson’s victory would net Zvlkx only—what? Nine bob?”

  I still didn’t quite get it.

  “Thursday—it’s a totalizer. Each bet or event that comes true is multiplied by the winnings of the previous event—and any prophecy that didn’t come true would have negated the whole deal.”

  “So . . . how much are the revealments worth?”

  Joffy looked at Miles, who looked at Landen, who grinned and looked at Joffy.

  “One hundred and twenty-eight billion pounds.”

  “But Tudor Turf wouldn’t have that sort of cash!”

  “Of course not,” replied Miles, “but the parent company that underwrites Tudor Turf would be legally bound to meet all bets drawn up. And Tudor Turf is owned by Wessex Cashcow, which is itself owned by Tails You Lose, the wholly owned gaming division of Consolidated Glee, which is owned by—”

  “The Goliath Corporation,” I breathed.

  “Right.”

  There was a stunned silence. I wanted to jump out of bed and laugh and scream and run around, but that, I knew, would have to be postponed until I was in better health. For now I just smiled.

  “So how much of Goliath does the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx actually own?”

  “Well,” continued Joffy, “it doesn’t actually own any of it. If you recall, we sold all his wisdom to the Toast Marketing Board. They now own fifty-eight percent of Goliath. We told them what we wanted, and they wholeheartedly agreed. Goliath has dropped its plans to become a religion and decided to support another political party other than the Whigs. There was something in the deal about a new cathedral to be built, too. We won, Thursday—we won!”

  Kaine’s fall, I discovered, had been rapid and humiliating. Once he was without Goliath’s backing and minus his Ovinator, parliament suddenly started wondering why they had been following him so blindly, and those who had supported him turned against him with the same enthusiasm. In less than a week he realized just what it was to be human. All the vanity and plotting and conniving that worked so well for him when fictional didn’t seem to have the same power at all when spoken with a real tongue, and he was removed from office within three days of the SuperHoop. Ernst Stricknene, questioned at length over calls made to Cindy Stoker from his office, decided to save as much of his skin as he could and talked at great length about his former boss. Kaine now had to face the biggest array of indictments ever heaped upon a public figure in the history of England. So many, in fact, that it was easier to list the offenses he wasn’t indicted for—which were: “working as an unlicensed nanny” and “using a car horn in a built-up area during the hours of darkness.” If found guilty on all charges, he was facing more than nine hundred years in prison.

  “I almost feel sorry for him,” said Joffy, who was a lot more forgiving than I. “Poor Yorrick.”

  “Yes,” replied Hamlet sarcastically, “alas.”

  43.

  Recovery

  Toast Party Unveils Manifesto

  Mr. Redmond van de Poste, whose ruling Toast (formerly Commonsense) Party took control of the nation last week, announced the party’s manifesto to raise the country from economic and social collapse. Mr. van de Poste began by announcing mandatory toast-eating requirements for all citizens on a sliding scale based on age, then proposed a drive to place a new toaster in every home within a year. “In the long term,” continued Mr. van de Poste, “we will instigate a five-year plan to upgrade all our manufacturing facilities to build a new brand of supertoaster that will sweep aside all competition and make England the toast capital of the world.” Critics of the Toast manifesto indicated alarm at Poste’s strident calls for a North Atlantic Toast Alliance, and pointed out that by excluding non-toast-eating nations it would create unnecessary international tension. Mr. van de Poste has not yet responded, and has called for a reform of parliament.

  Article in The Toad, August 4, 1988

  I went home two weeks later to a house that was so full of flowers it looked like Kew Gardens. I still didn’t have complete command of the right-hand side of my body but every day it seemed a little bit more like part of me, a little less numb. I sat and looked out the open French windows into the garden. The air was heavy with the scents of summer and the breeze gently played upon the net curtains. Friday was drawing with some crayons on the floor and I could hear the clacketty-clack of Landen’s old Underwood typewriter next door, and in the kitchen Louis Armstrong was on the wireless singing “La Vie en Rose.” It was the first time I had been able to relax for almost as long as I could remember. I was going to need an extended convalescence but would go back to work eventually—perhaps at SpecOps, perhaps at Jurisfiction, perhaps both.

  “I came to say good-bye.”

  It was Hamlet. I had learned from him earlier that William Shgakespeafe had managed to extricate Hamlet from The Merry Wives of Windsor, and both plays were as they should be. The one enigmatic, the other a spin-off.

  “Are you sure you’re—”

  He silenced me with a wave of his hand and sat down on the sofa while Alan gazed at him adoringly.

  “I’ve learned a lot of things while I’ve been here,” he said. “I’ve learned that there are many Hamlets, and we love each one of them for their different interpretation. I liked Gibson’s because it has the least amount of dithering, Orson because he did it with the best voice, Gielgud for the ease in which he placed himself within the role and Jacobi for his passion. By the way, have you heard of this Branagh fellow?”