I left my partner looking confused and walked briskly up to the station, showed my ticket to the inspector and climbed the steel steps to the platform fifty feet above ground. I was alone apart from a young woman sitting by herself on a bench, checking her make-up in a mirror. She looked up at me for a moment before the doors of the shuttle hissed open and I stepped inside, wondering what events were about to unfold.
4. Five Coincidences, Seven Irma Cohens and One Confused Neanderthal
‘The Neanderthal experiment was conceived in order to create the euphemistically entitled “medical test vessels”, living creatures that were as close as possible to humans without actually being human within the context of the law. Re-engineered from cells discovered in a Homo Llysternef neanderthalensis forearm preserved in a peat bog near Llysternef in Wales, the experiment was an unparalleled success. Sadly for Goliath, even the hardiest of medical technicians balked at experiments conducted upon intelligent and speaking entities, so the first batch of Neanderthals were trained instead as “expendable combat units”, a project that was shelved as soon as the lack of aggressive instincts in the Neanderthal was noted. They were subsequently released into the community as cheap labour and became a celebrated tax write-off. Infertile males and an expected lifespan of fifty years meant they would soon be relegated to the re-engineerment industries’ ever-growing list of “failures”.’
Coincidences are strange things. I like the one about Sir Edmund Godfrey, who was found murdered in 1678 and left in a ditch on Greenberry Hill in London. Three men were arrested and charged with the crime—Mr Green, Mr Berry and Mr Hill. My father told me that for the most part coincidences could be safely ignored: they were merely the chance discovery of one pertinent fact from a million or so possible daily interconnections. ‘Stop a stranger in the street,’ he would say, ‘and delve into each other’s past. Pretty soon an astounding, too-amazing-to-be-chance coincidence will appear.’
I suppose he was right, but that didn’t help explain how a twin puncture outside the station, a broken wireless, one fortuitous ticket and an approaching Skyrail could all turn up together out of the blue.
I stepped into the single Skyrail car and took a seat at the front. The doors sighed shut and we were soon gliding effortlessly above the Cerney lakes as we crossed into Wessex. I was here for a purpose, I thought, and looked around carefully to see what that might be. The Neanderthal Skyrail operator had his hand on the throttle and gazed absently at the view. His eyebrows twitched and he sniffed the air occasionally. The car was almost empty, seven people, all of them women and no one familiar.
‘Three down,’ exclaimed a short woman who was staring at a folded-up newspaper, half to herself and half to the rest of us. ‘Well decorated for prying, perhaps? Ten letters.’
No one answered as we sailed past Cricklade station without stopping, much to the annoyance of a large, expensively dressed lady who huffed loudly and pointed at the operator with her umbrella.
‘You there!’ she boomed like a captain before the storm. ‘What are you doing? I wanted to get off at Cricklade, damn you!’
The operator seemed unperturbed at the insult and muttered an apology. This obviously wasn’t good enough for the loud and objectionable woman, who jabbed the small Neanderthal violently in the ribs with her umbrella. He didn’t yell out in pain; he just flinched, pulled the driver’s door closed behind him and locked it. I snatched the umbrella from the woman, who seemed shocked and outraged at my actions.
‘What the—!’ she said indignantly.
‘Don’t do that,’ I told her, ‘it’s not nice.’
‘Poppycock!’ she guffawed in a loud and annoying manner. ‘He’s only a Neanderthal!’
‘Meddlesome,’ said one of the other passengers with an air of finality, staring at an advert for the Gravitube that was pinned at eye level.
The objectionable lady and I stared at her, wondering who she was referring to. She looked at us both, flushed, and said:
‘No, no. Ten letters, three down Well decorated for prying. Meddlesome.’
‘Very good,’ muttered the lady with the crossword as she scribbled in the answer.
I glared at the well-heeled woman, who eyed me back malevolently.
‘Jab the Neanderthal again and I’ll arrest you for assault.’
‘I happen to know,’ announced the woman tartly, ‘that Neanderthals are legally classed as animals. You cannot assault a Neanderthal any more than you can a mouse!’
My temper began to rise—always a bad sign. I would probably end up doing something stupid.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied, ‘but I can arrest you for cruelty, bruising the peace and anything else I can think of.’
But the woman wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
‘My husband is a Justice of the Peace,’ she announced, as if it were a hidden trump. ‘I can make things very tricky for you. What is your name?’
‘Next,’ I told her unhesitantly. ‘Thursday Next. SO-27.’
Her eyelids flickered slightly and she stopped rummaging in her bag for a pencil and paper.
‘The Jane Eyre Thursday Next?’ she asked, her mood changing abruptly.
‘I saw you on the telly,’ said the woman with the crossword. ‘You seem a bit obsessed with your dodo, I must say. Why couldn’t you talk about Jane Eyre, Goliath or ending the Crimean War?’
‘Believe me, I tried.’
The Skyrail swept on past Broad Blunsdon station and the passengers all sighed, made tut-tut noises and shrugged at one another.
‘I am going to complain to the Skyrail management about this,’ said a heavy-set woman with make-up like woad who carried a disgruntled-looking Pekinese. ‘A good cure for insubordination is—’
Her speech came to an abrupt end as the Neanderthal suddenly increased the speed of the car. I knocked on the heavy acetate door and shouted:
‘What’s going on, pal?’
‘Open this door immediately!’ demanded the well-heeled woman, brandishing her umbrella. But the Neanderthal had taken about as much umbrella jabbing as he could that day.
‘We are going home now,’ he said simply, staring straight ahead.
‘We?’ echoed the woman. ‘No we’re not. I live at Crick—’
‘He means I,’ I told her. ‘Neanderthals don’t use the singular personal pronoun.’
‘Damn stupid!’ she replied, yelling a few more insults for good measure before she harrumphed back to her seat. I settled closer to the driver.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kaylieu,’ he replied.
‘Good. Now, Kaylieu, I want you to tell me what the problem is.’
He paused for a moment as the Swindon airship stop came and went. I saw another shuttle that had been diverted to a siding and several Skyrail officials waving at us, so it was only a matter of time before the authorities knew what was going on.
‘We want to be real.’
‘Day’s hurt?’ murmured the squat woman at the back, still sucking the end of her pencil and staring at the crossword.
‘What did you say?’ I said.
‘Day’s hurt?’ she repeated. ‘Nine down; eight letters—I think it’s an anagram.’
‘I have no idea,’ I replied before turning my attention back to Kaylieu. ‘What do you mean, real?’
‘We are not animals,’ announced the small and once extinct strand of human. ‘We want to be a protected species—like dodo, mammoth—and you. We want to speak to head man at Goliath and someone from Toad News.’