‘Hello, young Thursday!’ said Gran, turning to me. ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet to have a chat!’
We walked off towards the church organ and sat on a pair of hard plastic chairs.
‘What did you paint on his picture?’ I asked her, and Gran smiled her sweetest smile.
‘Something a bit controversial,’ she confided, ‘yet supportive. I have worked with Neanderthals in the past and know many of their ways and customs. How’s hubby?’
‘Still eradicated,’ I said glumly.
‘Never mind,’ said Gran seriously, touching my chin so I would look into her eyes. ‘Always there is hope—you’ll find, as I did, that it’s really very funny the way things turn out.’
‘I know. Thanks, Gran.’
‘Your mother will be a tower of strength—never be in any doubt of that.’
‘She’s here if you want to see her.’
‘No, no,’ said Gran, slightly hurriedly. ‘I expect she’s a little busy. While we’re here,’ she went on, changing the subject without drawing breath, ‘can you think of any books that might be included in the “ten most boring classics”? I’m about ready to go.’
‘Gran!’
‘Indulge me, young Thursday!’
I sighed.
‘How about Paradise Lost?’
Gran let out a loud groan.
‘Awful! I could hardly walk for a week afterwards—it’s enough to put anyone off religion for good!’
‘Ivanhoe?’
‘Pretty dull but redeemable in places—it isn’t in the top ten, I think.’
‘Moby Dick?’
‘Excitement and action interspersed with mind-numbing dullness. Read it twice.’
‘A la recherche du temps perdu?’
‘English or French, its sheer tediousness is undimimshed.’
‘Pamela?’
‘Ah! Now you’re talking. Struggled through that when a teenager. It might have had resonance in 1741 but today the only resonance it possesses is the snores that emanate from those deluded enough to attempt it.’
‘How about The Pilgrim’s Progress?’
But Gran’s attention had wandered.
‘You have visitors, my dear. Look over there past the stuffed squid inside the piano and just next to the Fiat 500 carved from frozen toothpaste.’
There were two SpecOps agents in dark suits but they were not Dedmen and Walken. It looked as though SO-5 had suffered another mishap. I asked Gran whether she would be all right on her own and walked across to meet them. I found them looking dubiously at a flattened tuba on the ground entitled The indivisible thriceness of death.
‘What do you think?’ I asked them.
‘I don’t know,’ began the first agent nervously. ‘I’m… I’m… not really up on art.’
‘Even if you were it wouldn’t help here,’ I replied drily. ‘SpecOps 5?’
‘Yes, how did—’
He checked himself quickly and rummaged for a pair of dark glasses.
‘I mean no. Never heard of SpecOps, much less SpecOps 5. Don’t exist. Oh, blast. I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid.’
‘We’re looking for someone named Thursday Next,’ said his partner in a very obvious whisper from the side of her mouth, adding, in case I didn’t get the message: ‘Official business.’
I sighed. Obviously, SO-5 were beginning to run out of volunteers. I wasn’t surprised.
‘What happened to Dedmen and Walken?’ I asked them.
‘They were—’ began the first agent, but the second nudged him in the ribs and announced instead:
‘Never heard of them.’
‘I’m Thursday Next,’ I told them, ‘and I think you’re in more danger than you realise. Where did they get you from? SO-14?’
They took their sunglasses off and looked at me nervously.
‘I’m from SO-22,’ said the first. ‘The name’s Lamb. This is Slaughter; she’s from—’
‘SO-28,’ said the woman. ‘Thank you, Blake, I can talk, you know—and let me handle this. You can’t open your mouth without putting your foot in it.’
Lamb sank into a sulky silence.
‘SO-28? You’re an income tax assessor?’
‘So what if I am?’ retorted Slaughter defiantly. ‘We all have to risk things for advancement.’
‘I know that only too well,’ I replied, steering them towards a quiet spot next to a model of a matchstick made entirely out of bits of the Houses of Parliament. ‘Just so long as you know what you’re getting into. What happened to Walken and Dedmen?’
‘They were reassigned,’ explained Lamb.
‘You mean dead?’
‘No,’ exclaimed Lamb with some surprise. ‘I mean reas—Oh my goodness! Is that what it means?’
I sighed. These two weren’t going to last a day.
‘Your predecessors are both dead, guys—and the ones before that. Four agents gone in less than a week. What happened to Walken’s case notes? Accidentally destroyed?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Lamb laughed. ‘When recovered they were totally intact—they were then put through the shredder by a new member of staff who mistook it for a photocopier.’
‘Do you have anything at all to go on?’
‘As soon as they realised it was a shredder, I… sorry, they stopped and we were left with these.’
He handed two half-documents over. One was a picture of a young woman striding out of a shop laden down with carrier bags and parcels. Her face, tantalisingly enough, had been destroyed by the shredder. I turned the picture over. On the back was a pencilled note: ‘A.H. leaves Camp Hopson having shopped with a stolen credit card.’
‘The “AH” means Acheron Hades,’ explained Lamb in a confident tone. ‘We were allowed to read part of his file. He can lie in thought, deed and action.’
‘I know. I wrote it. But this isn’t Hades. Acheron doesn’t resolve on film.’
‘Then who is it that we’re after?’ asked Slaughter.
‘I have no idea. What was on the other document?’
This was simply a handwritten page of notes, compiled by Walken about whoever it was they were watching. I read:
‘…9.34: Contact with suspect at Camp Hopson sales. 11.03: Elevenses of carrot juice and flapjack—leaves without paying. 11.48: Dorothy Perkins. 12.57: Lunch. 14.45: Continues shopping. 17.20: Argues with manager of Tammy Girl about returned leg warmers. 17.45: Lost contact. 21.03: Re-established contact at the HotBox nightclub. 23.02: AH leaves the HotBox with male companion. 23.16: Contact lost…’
I put down the sheet.
‘It’s not exactly what I’d describe as the work of a master criminal, now, is it?’
‘No,’ replied Slaughter glumly.
‘What were your orders?’
‘Classified,’ announced Lamb, who was getting the hang of SpecOps 5 work, right at the point where I didn’t want him to.
‘Stick to you like glue,’ said Slaughter, who understood the situation a lot better, ‘and reports every half an hour sent to SO-5 HQ in three separate ways.’