Something rotten (38 page)

We sped up the road, drove back through the rock cutting and headed towards the wood.

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” remarked Shgakespeafe in an ominous tone of voice, “something wicked this way comes!”

“There!” yelled Millon, pointing a quivering finger out the window. I caught a glimpse of a large beast before it vanished behind a fallen oak, then another jumping from one tree to another. They didn’t hide themselves anymore. We could all see them as we drove down the wooded road, past the abandoned cars. Lolloping beasts of a ragged shape flitted through the woods, experimental creations of an industry before regulation. We heard a thump as one leapt out of the woods, sprung upon the steel roof of the car and then disappeared with a whoop into the forest. I looked out of the rear window and saw something unspeakably nasty scrabble across the road behind us. I drew my automatic, and Stig wound down the window to have his tranquilizer gun at the ready. We rounded the next corner, and Bowden stomped on the brakes. A row of chimeras had placed themselves across the road. Bowden threw the car into reverse, but a tree came crashing down behind us, cutting off our escape. We had driven into the trap, the trap was sprung—and all that remained was for the
trappers
to do with the
trapped
whatever they wished.

“How many?” I asked.

“Ten up front,” said Bowden.

“Two dozen behind,” answered Stig.

“Lots either side!” quivered Millon, who was more used to making up facts to fit his bizarre conspiracy theories than actually witnessing any firsthand.

“What a sign it is of evil life,” murmured Shgakespeafe. “Where death’s approach is seen so terrible!”

“Okay,” I muttered, “everyone stay calm, and when I say, open fire.”

“We will not survive,” said Stig in a matter-of-fact tone. “Too many of them, not enough of us. We suggest a different strategy.”

“And that is?”

Stig was momentarily lost for words. “We do not know. Just
different.
”

The chimeras slavered and emitted low moans as they moved closer. Each one was a kaleidoscope of varying body parts, as though the beasts’ creators had been indulging in some sort of perverse genetic mix-and-match one-upmanship.

“When I count to three, rev up and drop the clutch,” I instructed Bowden. “The rest of you open up with everything we’ve got.” I handed Bowden’s gun to Floss. “Know how to use one of these?”

He nodded and flipped off the safety.

“One . . . two . . .”

I stopped counting because a cry from the woods had startled the chimeras. Those that had ears pricked them up, paused, then began to depart in fright. It wasn’t an occasion for relief. Chimeras are bad, but something that frightened chimeras could only be worse. We heard the cry again.

“It sounds human,” murmured Bowden.

“
How
human?” added Millon.

There followed several more cries from more than one individual, and as the last of the terrified chimeras vanished into the brush, I breathed a sigh of relief. A group of men appeared out of the undergrowth to our right. They were all extremely short and wore the faded and tattered uniform of what appeared to be the French army. Some wore shabby cockaded hats, others had no jackets at all, and some wore only a dirty white linen shirt. My relief was short-lived. They stood at the edge of the forest and regarded us suspiciously, heavy cudgels in their hands.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
said one, pointing at us.

“Anglais?”
said another.

“Les rosbifs? Ici, en France?”
said a third in a shocked tone.

“Non, ce n’est pas possible!”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were.

“A gang of
Napoleons,
” hissed Bowden. “Looks like Goliath wasn’t just trying to eternalize the Bard. The military potential of cloning a Napoleon in his prime would be considerable.”

The Napoleons stared at us for a moment and then talked amongst themselves in low tones, had an argument, gesticulated wildly, raised their voices and generally disagreed with one another.

“Let’s go,” I whispered to Bowden.

But as soon as the car clunked into gear, the Napoleons leapt into action with cries of
“Au secours! Les rosbifs s’échappent! N’oubliez pas Agincourt! Vite! Vite!”
and then rushed the car. Stig got off a shot and managed to tranq a particularly vicious-looking Napoleon in the thigh. They smashed their cudgels against the car, broke the windows and sent a cascade of broken glass all over us. I thumped the central door-locking mechanism with my elbow as a Napoleon grappled with my door handle. I was just about to fire at point-blank range into the face of another Napoleon when there was a tremendous explosion thirty yards in front. The car was rocked by the blast and enveloped momentarily in a drifting cloud of smoke.

“Sacre bleu!”
shrieked a Napoleon, breaking off the attack.
“Le Grand Nez! Avancez, mes amis! Mort aux ennemis de la République!”

“Go!” I shouted to Bowden, who, despite having been struck a glancing blow by a Napoleon, was still just about conscious. The car juddered away, and I grabbed the steering wheel to avoid a band of twenty or so Wellingtons of varying shabbiness who were streaming past the car in their haste to dispose of Napoleons.

“Up, guards, and at them!” I heard a Wellington shout as we gathered speed down the road, past a smoking artillery piece and the abandoned cars we had seen on the way in. Within a few minutes, we were clear of the wood and the battling factions, and Bowden slowed down.

“Everyone okay?”

Although not unscathed, they all answered in the affirmative. Millon was still ashen, and I took Bowden’s gun off him just in case. Stig had a bruise coming up on his cheek, and I had several cuts on my face from the glass.

“Mr. Shgakespeafe,” I asked, “are you okay?”

“Look about you,” he said grimly. “Security gives way to conspiracy.”

We drove to the gates, out of Area 21 and through the darkening evening sky to the Welsh border and home.

34.

St. Zvlkx and Cindy

Kaine “Fictional,” Claims Bournemouth Man

Retired gas-fitter Mr. Martin Piffco made the ludicrous comment yesterday, claiming that the beloved leader of the nation was simply a fictional character “come to life.” Speaking from the Bournemouth Home for the Exceedingly Odd where he has been committed “for his own protection,” Mr. Piffco was more specific and likened Mr. Yorrick Kaine to a minor character with an over-inflated opinion of himself in a Daphne Farquitt book entitled
At Long Last Lust
. The Chancellor’s office dubbed the report “a coincidence,” but ordered the Farquitt book be confiscated nonetheless. Mr. Piffco, who faces unspecified charges, made news last year when he made a similar outrageous claim regarding Kaine and Goliath investing in “mind-control experiments.”

Article in the
Bournemouth Bugle,
March 15, 1987

I
awoke and gazed at Landen in the early-morning light that had started to creep around the bedroom. He was snoring ever so softly, and I gave him a long hug before I got up, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and tiptoed past Friday’s room on my way downstairs to make some coffee. I walked into Landen’s study as I waited for the kettle to boil, sat down at the piano and played a very quiet chord. The sun crept above the roof of the house across the way at that precise moment and cast a finger of orange light across the room. I heard the kettle click off and returned to the kitchen to make the coffee. As I poured the hot water on the grounds, there was a small wail from upstairs. I paused to see if another would follow it. A single wail might be only a stirring, and Friday could be left alone. Two wails or more would be Hungry Boy, eager for a gallon or two of porridge. There was a second wail ten seconds later, and I was just about to go and get him when I heard a thump and a scraping as Landen pulled on his leg and then walked along the corridor to Friday’s room. There were more footsteps as he returned to his room, then silence. I relaxed, took a sip of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, deep in thought.

The SuperHoop was tomorrow and I had my team—the question was, would it make a difference? There was a chance we might find a copy of
At Long Last Lust,
too—but I wasn’t counting on this, either. Of equal chance and equal risk of failure was Shgakespeafe’s being able to unravel
The Merry Wives of Elsinore,
and Mycroft’s coming up with an Ovi-negator at short notice. But none of these pressing matters was foremost in my mind: most important to me was that at eleven o’clock this morning Cindy would try to kill me for the third and final time. She would fail, and she would die. I thought of Spike and Betty and picked up the phone. I figured he’d be a heavy sleeper, and I was right—Cindy answered the phone.

“It’s Thursday.”

“This is professionally very unethical,” said Cindy in a sleepy voice. “What’s the time?”

“Half six. Listen, I rang to suggest that it’d be a good idea if you stayed at home today and didn’t go to work.”

There was a pause. “I can’t do that,” she said at last. “I’ve arranged child care and everything. But there’s nothing to stop you getting out of town and never returning.”

“This is my town, too, Cindy.”

“Leave now, or the Next family crypt will be up for a dusting.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Then,” replied Cindy with a sigh, “we’ve got nothing else to discuss. I’ll see you later—although I doubt you’ll see me.”

The phone went dead, and I gently replaced the receiver. I felt sick. The wife of a good friend would die, and it didn’t feel good.

“What’s the matter?” said a voice close at hand. “You seem upset.”

It was Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

“No,” I replied, “everything’s just as it should be. Thanks for dropping round; I’ve found us a William Shakespeare. He’s not the original, but close enough for our purposes. He’s in this cupboard.”

I opened the cupboard door, and a very startled Shgakespeafe looked up from where he’d been scribbling by the light of a candle end he had stuck upon his head. The wax had begun to run down his face, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Mr. Shgakespeafe, this is the hedgehog I was telling you about.”

He shut his notebook and stared at Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. He wasn’t the slightest bit afraid or surprised—after the abominations he’d dodged on an almost daily basis in Area 21, I suspect a six-foot-high hedgehog was something of a relief.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle curtsied gracefully. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Shgakespeafe,” she said politely. “Will you come with me, please?”

“Who was that?” Landen called out as he walked downstairs a little later.

“It was Mrs. Tiggy-winkle picking up a William Shakespeare clone in order to save
Hamlet
from permanent destruction.”

“You can’t ever be serious, can you?” he laughed as he gave me a hug. I had smuggled Shgakespeafe into the house without Landen’s seeing. I know you’re meant to be honest and truthful to your spouse, but I thought there might be a limit, and if there was, I didn’t want to reach it too soon.

Friday came down to breakfast ten minutes later. He looked tousled, sleepy and a bit grumpy.

“Quis nostrud laboris,” he moaned. “Nisi ut aliquip ex consequat.”

I gave him some toast and rummaged in the cupboard under the stairs for my bulletproof vest. All my stuff was now back in Landen’s house as if I had never moved out. Sideslips are confusing, but you can get used to almost anything.

“Why are you wearing a bulletproof vest?”

It was Landen. Drat. I should have put it on at the station.

“What bulletproof vest?”

“The one you’re trying to put on.”

“Oh,
that
one. No reason. Listen, if Friday gets hungry you can always give him a snack. He likes bananas—you may have to buy some more, and if a gorilla calls, it’s only that Mrs. Bradshaw I was telling you about.”

“Don’t change the subject. How can you go to work wearing a vest for ‘no reason’?”

“It’s a precaution.”

“Insurance is a precaution. A vest means you’re taking unnecessary risks.”

“I’d be taking a bigger one without it.”

“What’s going on, Thursday?”

I waved a hand vaguely in the air and tried to make light of it. “Just an assassin. A small one. Barely worth thinking about.”

“Which one?”

“I can’t remember. Window . . .
something.
”

“The Windowmaker? A contract with her and stick to reading short stories? Sixty-seven known victims?”

“Sixty-eight if she did Samuel Pring.”

“That’s not important.
Why didn’t you tell me?
”

“I . . . I . . . didn’t want you to worry.”

He rubbed his face with his hands and stared at me for a moment, then sighed deeply. “This is the Thursday Next I married, isn’t it?”

I nodded my head.

He wrapped his arms around me and held me tightly. “Will you be careful?” he whispered in my ear.

“I’m always careful.”

“No,
really
careful. The sort of careful that you should be when you have a husband and son who’d be supremely pissed off if they were to lose you?”

“Ah,” I whispered back, “
that
sort of careful. Yes, I will.”

We kissed and I Velcroed up the vest, put my shirt over the top of it and my shoulder holster on top of this. I kissed Friday and told him to be good, then kissed Landen again.

“I’ll see you this evening,” I told him, “and that’s a promise.”

I drove to Wanborough to find Joffy. He was officiating at a GSD civil-union ceremony, and I had to wait in the back of the temple until he had finished. I had some time before I had to deal with Cindy, and looking more closely into St. Zvlkx seemed like a good way to fill it. Millon’s idea that Zvlkx wasn’t a seer but a rogue member of the ChronoGuard involved in some sort of timecrime seemed, on the face of it, unlikely. You couldn’t hide from the ChronoGuard. They would
always
find you. Perhaps not here and now, but then and there—when you least expected it. Long before you even
thought
about doing something wrong. Plus, the ChronoGuard left no trace. With the perpetrator gone, then the timecrime never happened either. Very neat, very clever. But with the historical record so closely scrutinized and the ChronoGuard itself giving Zvlkx the seal of approval, how on earth did Zvlkx—if he
was
a fake—get around the system?