The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel (32 page)

“We favor reasoned debate.”

“It’s not about the budget. It’s about Judith. Judith Trask.” 

“Who?”

“The name I gave Jack when he asked me at the Adelphi. Judith Trask.”

“You mean it
wasn’t
a fake name?”

“No,” said Phoebe, her eyes wide with shock and the enormity of what had happened. I felt my heart fall, too.

“He killed her?”

“
Someone
did. Judith’s name was the first that popped into my head. She’s not even an active SpecOps agent—simply a logistics officer at SO-31. An accountant. Someone took her out at the junction of Goddard and Mill. She was married and had two children.”

“Okay,” I said, having come across this sort of thing before. “Firstly, that might not be Jack Schitt in there. Secondly, when you want to take on Goliath, you play the long game. Promise me you’ll do nothing.”

She looked at me. “But—”

“Promise me. If you want to be like me, this is one thing you have to do.”

“I promise.”

“Good. We’ll talk later.”

I patted her arm and walked into the boardroom.

It was a large room with one wall entirely glazed so there was a somewhat precipitous view to the main lending floor five stories below. Settled neatly in a recessed alcove at one end of the room was a bust of Andrew Carnegie, and at the other end of the room was another of Sir Thomas Bodley. Everyone was there when I arrived but was yet to be seated. Jack Schitt caught my eye immediately, and we stared at each other. I was wondering if he was the real or the Synthetic, and he was doubtless wondering the same about me.

“Good morning,” I said as I lumbered to my seat. “I’m Thursday Parke-Laine-Next, the new Wessex Region chief librarian. We’ll run around the room briefly for anyone unfamiliar with who is present. On my left, Regional SpecOps Commander Braxton Hicks.”

He nodded a greeting to the room, but everyone knew who he was.

“Next to him is the newly appointed divisional chief of SO-27, Phoebe Smalls.”

She nodded a greeting and ignored Jack’s patronizing stare.

“Next to Miss Smalls is Mr. Jack Schitt, who is representing Goliath while Mr. Lupton Cornball is on . . . other duties. Just what are those duties, Mr. Schitt?”

Jack Schitt looked at me and smiled, then addressed the room.

“Mr. Cornball is currently liaising with the city council and Goliath subsidiary company Smite Solutions to spare Swindon’s downtown from the scheduled smiting tomorrow.”

“And how do they plan to do that, Mr. Schitt?”

He stared at me for a moment. Using convicted felons to avert a smiting would not be popular, even if they were ax murderers. It would be a sorry return to those dark, barbaric days when nations actually executed their own citizens. Jack looked at me and smiled.

“We have engaged the services of convicted felons, who have agreed to be vaporized in order that property be saved. Their considerable fee—over a million pounds per man—will be paid to their dependents and families as well as victims, if any are living. I would like to stress that this is entirely voluntary, and we will be erecting a marble tablet for those who sacrificed everything to bring about the saving of Swindon’s valuable architectural heritage.”

That didn’t go
quite
how I’d planned it. Miles hadn’t said they were volunteers. I looked around the table, and everyone nodded sagely at the felons’ selfless sacrifice. One of the city councilors wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Right,” I said. “Sitting next to Mr. Schitt is Mrs. Bunty Fairweather of the City Council, and her assistant, Mr. Banerjee. Next to them is the Wessex Library Service chief accountant Conrad Spoons, and Colonel Wexler of the SLS is sitting next to him.”

I had the six others introduce themselves, as I weren’t sure who they were, then ended up by explaining that Geraldine would be taking the minutes and that we could drop the “Fatso’s” part of the Wessex Library Service title, as we needed to be done by midday.

First up was Conrad Spoons, and he outlined in a drab monotone the annual budget of the Wessex Library Service, beginning with the current and projected running costs, then outlining his plans for capital expenditure. I was quite glad when Duffy sneaked into the room to whisper in my ear that Miles wanted to have a quick word.

“Carry on,” I said, making for the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

I found Miles in the corridor.

“Is Jack Schitt in there?” he asked.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Did you hear that the felons up at Wroughton actually
agreed
to be vaporized in exchange for some cash for their victims and family?”

“That’s a lie,” said Miles. “Goliath doesn’t give money to anyone,
especially
ax murderers. Besides, such an act of self-sacrifice would show considerable empathy and remorse, and that could engender a limited form of absolution—they would hardly be effective at all in drawing the fire from Swindon.”

Miles’s argument rang true—
never
believe anything Goliath says.

“What are you here for anyway?” I asked. “I’m in a really boring budget meeting, but it’s kind of important.”

“They nobbled him!”

“Nobbled who? Joffy?”

“No—our righteous man. Goliath managed to infiltrate our defenses, and after forty minutes of careful argument they succeeded in persuading our man to pursue a life of hedonistic self-destruction. He’s currently down at a lap-dancing bar getting plastered and running up gambling debts while eating delicacies made from pandas’ ears.”

“That was quick work.”

“Smite Solutions have a team of dedicated Debasers, specially trained to darken and pervert even the purest mind. If someone has a weakness, they’ll find it. Our man’s weakness was licorice, and once they knew that, it was a short hop to a life of immoral excess.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

Miles looked around and lowered his voice. “We thought this might happen, so we kept a righteous man in reserve—just in case. But since we’ve obviously got a mole at the GSD blabbing stuff to Goliath, we need someone we can trust to bring him in. Someone with guile, cunning and resourcefulness.”

“You want
me
to bring him in?”

“No, we wanted you to ask Phoebe Smalls for us. Just kidding. Yes, of
course
we want you to do it.”

I tried to tell him I was in no fit state to do anything, and he said that all I would have to do was to drive the righteous man up to Wroughton and get him to within twenty yards of the felons at midday on Friday. It seemed easy enough, so I agreed. He then said he would contact me tomorrow morning with an address and left. I was about to go back in when Duffy stopped me.

“Lucy got this from a guy loitering near the bins.”

It was an adhesive patch about the size of Post-it, upon which was printed a smiley face.

“Nice work,” I said, pulling up my shirt so he could stick it on my lower back. “Not a word to Braxton about this.”

“Sorry about that,” I said as I walked back into the boardroom. “Where have we got to?”

“We were just talking about Special Library Services’ budgetary requirements for next year,” said Colonel Wexler, “and extra staffing levels if we are to implement dawn raids for overdue books.”

“Is there a legal framework for that?”I asked.

“Indeed there is,” said Conrad Spoons. “The Library Act of 1923 specifically states that a library may do everything in its power to retrieve its property.”

“And I’ll need funding for an indoor water cannon,” continued Wexler. “The riot over Mr. Colwyn Baye’s new book nearly got out of hand.”

“The SLS should be under the jurisdiction of SO-27,” said Phoebe Smalls, “so their budget should be transferred across to me. That is, unless you have any objection?”

“Not at all,” said Colonel Wexler. “My duties will remain the same, yes?”

“Pretty much.”

“Will I be able to lead dawn raids for overdue books?”

“Dawn raids certainly. Not sure about overdue books—that will be outside our mandate.”

“Oh,” said Wexler, mildly disappointed.

Braxton confirmed that switching the Special Library Services to SO-27 made a lot of sense, and also that this was a good time to outline just how much of the Wessex Library’s budget should be transferred to SO-27, and he suggested as a starting point fifty million pounds, about a third of our current budget. I looked at Conrad Spoons, and he nodded. Without the policing budget, we could concentrate on core library activities, such as lending, the pursuit of knowledge and Finisterre’s antiquarianbook section.

While this had been going on, I’d been looking occasionally at Jack Schitt. Something about him seemed different, and since I knew that if he were a Synthetic, he’d have lightning reactions, I slipped off my shoe and lobbed it at him.

“Ow!” he said as the boot hit him a glancing blow on the forehead.

“Thursday, what on earth are you doing?” demanded Braxton.

“I thought I saw a mouse,” I said somewhat stupidly, and apologized to Jack, who seemed himself after all. He glared at me, and I shrugged. After my shoe had been returned, the meeting continued.

“Perhaps,” said Conrad Spoons, “we could ask the city council whether any extra cash will be given to the Wessex Library Service in order to fund the additional collections of books made available to us from the closure of the Lobsterhood?”

“Well,” said Bunty, “this is an
excellent
opportunity for us to go through what we think is correct for the fiscal year 2004–2005 and at the same time peg the funding for the next ten years.”

“Yes?” I said, for Duffy had walked in again and moved to whisper in my ear.

“Your son is on the phone.”

“What? Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“He says it’s
most
urgent.”

“Sorry,” I said, getting to my feet again, “another emergency. Family or something.”

Duffy told me the phone was in my office, so I went through to take it. It meant I could stretch my legs, too.

“This had better be good,” I said into the phone. “I’m right in the middle of a budget meeting.”

“Sorry, Mum, but it’s about something the Manchild said. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, and it doesn’t make sense.”

“
Nothing
he said made sense. Which part? About the beginning of the existence or who first thought about the elephant?”

“Neither. He told me not to worry about prison and the other fourteen will thank me—‘
or won’t, as it turns out.
’ Do you see?”

“No.”

“They won’t thank me because their murders won’t happen and no one will ever know they were going to happen. I’m going to change all their futures. Don’t you see? Gavin’s the killer but has no idea he will be. I murder him, and everyone gets to live normal lives.”

“Hmm,” I said, “it’s kind of a stretch—and besides, you can’t kill him for something he won’t even
think
about doing for another thirty-six years, no matter how unpleasant he is.”

“There’s something in what you say.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “The Manchild told you that ‘the other fourteen will thank you’?”

“Yes?”

“But it’s not fourteen, is it? With Gavin dead and you not thanking yourself, only
thirteen
could thank you. The Manchild sent the letters, so he must have known how many there were, and that means—”

“There were
sixteen
letters sent, not fifteen,” said Friday.

“Right,” I replied. “There’s someone else Destiny Aware in Swindon, and whoever its has decided not to come forward. Don’t kill anyone or anything until you find out who it is.”

“Hang on,” he said, “I’m just writing myself a note. Don’t . . . kill . . . anyone. Got it.”

He told me he was going to see the Manchild again, and I told him to be very careful, adding that if he
insisted
on going to the timepark, he should take one of Landen’s homemade cheddars and get the Manchild to age it for a year.

I returned to the boardroom and sat down.

“My apologies,” I said, “teenage sons and their problems. Tsk! What are we to do? Why are you all staring at me?”

“You better tell her,” said Phoebe to Conrad Spoons.

“Why me?” said Conrad.

“Because you’re our accountant?” I said.

He stood up, took a deep breath, and began. “The city council has reallocated to SO-27
more
than Miss Smalls asked for,” said Conrad. “Funding has been reduced across the board and includes—but is not limited to—a cut on new books, staffing, maintenance, research and staff perks.”

“We could always lose the Michelin-starred chef, I suppose,” I said. “What are the numbers?”

“Hang on,” said Spoons, going through his hastily written calculations. “Okay, here it is: This year’s Wessex Library budget was for 156 million pounds,
all
of which goes to SO-27. The Wessex Library operating budget for next year will be . . . 321 pounds and .67 p.”

I stared at him for a moment. “That
must
be a mistake.”

Spoons looked at the figures again. “Sorry,” he said, “you’re right. It’s 322 pounds and 67 p.”

It wasn’t quite the level of mistake I was hoping for. At this rate I’d have to ask a hundred million times to make a difference, and I didn’t think that was going to happen. I looked around the table. Jack Schitt had a supercilious half grin on his face, and Braxton and Phoebe were looking elsewhere. Colonel Wexler was unconcerned, since her budget had not been affected in any way. Mrs. Fairweather was the only one returning my stare.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t stop all funding. That’s just . . . well,
insane.
”

“Not insane,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “
stupid.
There’s a big difference, and the Swindon City Council is taking the stupidity deficit issue very seriously—we have to meet our stupidity targets just like any other, and cutting all funding to the Wessex Library Service is an act of such astonishing idiocy that we need commit no additional dumb acts for at least five years. You should be honored that your department is discharging the surplus for the rest of us. It’s going to be hard, and we’re all in this together.”