‘He’s my husband.’
There was a pause as she mulled this over.
‘Your sense of humour is severely lacking, Miss whoever-you-are,’ she retorted angrily, pointing towards the garden gate. ‘The way out is the same as the way in—only reversed.’
‘Wait a minute!’ I exclaimed, almost wanting to laugh at the situation. ‘If I didn’t marry Landen, then who gave me this wedding ring?’
I held up my left hand for them to see but it didn’t seem to have much effect. A quick glance told me why. I didn’t have a wedding ring.
‘Shit!’ I mumbled, looking around in a perplexed manner. ‘I must have dropped it somewhere—’
‘You’re very confused,’ said Houson, more in pity than anger. She could see I wasn’t dangerous—just positively, and irretrievably, insane. ‘Is there anyone we can call?’
‘I’m not crazy,’ I declared, trying to get a grip on the situation. ‘This morning—no, less than two hours ago—Landen and I lived in this very house—’
I stopped. Houson had moved to the side of the man at the door. As they stood together in a manner bred of long association, I knew exactly who he was; it was Landen’s father. Landen’s dead father.
‘You’re Billden,’ I murmured. ‘You died when you tried to rescue…’
My voice trailed off. Landen had never known his father. Billden Parke-Laine had died saving the two-year-old Landen from a submerged car thirty-eight years ago. My heart froze as the true meaning of this bizarre confrontation began to dawn. Someone had eradicated Landen.
I put out a hand to steady myself, then sat quickly on the garden wall and closed my eyes as a dull thumping started up in my head. Not Landen, not now of all times.
‘Billden,’ announced Houson, ‘you had better call the police—’
‘No!’ I shouted, opening my eyes and glaring at him.
‘You didn’t go back, did you?’ I said slowly, my voice cracking. ‘You didn’t rescue him that night. You lived, and he—’
I braced myself for his anger but it never came. Instead, Billden just stared at me with a mixture of pity and confusion on his face.
‘I wanted to,’ he said in a quiet voice.
I swallowed my emotion.
‘Where’s Landen now?’
‘If we tell you,’ said Houson in a slow and patronising tone, ‘will you promise to go away and never come back?’
She took my silence for assent and continued:
‘Swindon Municipal Cemetery—and you’re right, our son drowned thirty-eight years ago.’
‘Shit!’ I cried, my mind racing as I tried to figure out who might be responsible. Houson and Billden took a fearful step back. ‘Not you,’ I added hastily. ‘Goddammit, I’m being blackmailed.’
‘You should report that to SpecOps.’
‘They wouldn’t believe me any more than you—’
I paused and thought for a moment.
‘Houson, I know you have a good memory because when Landen did exist you and I were the best of pals. Someone has taken your son and my husband and, believe me, I’ll get him back. But listen to me, I’m not crazy, and here’s how I can prove it. He’s allergic to bananas, has a mole on his neck—and a birthmark the shape of a lobster on his bum. How could I know that unless—?’
‘Oh yes?’ said Houson slowly, staring at me with growing interest. ‘This birthmark. Which cheek?’.’
‘The left.’
‘Looking from the front, or looking from the back?’
‘Looking from the back,’ I said without hesitating.
There was silence for a moment. They looked at each other, then at me, and in that instant, they knew. When Houson spoke it was in a quiet voice, her temper replaced by a sadness all her own.
‘How… how would he have turned out?’
She started to cry, large tears that rolled uninhibited down her cheeks, tears of loss, tears for what might have been.
‘He was wonderful!’ I returned gratefully. ‘Witty and generous and tall and clever—you would have been so proud!’
‘What did he become?’
‘A novelist,’ I explained. ‘Last year he won the Armitage Shanks Fiction Award for Bad Sofa. He lost a leg in the Crimea. We were married two months ago.’
‘Were we there?’
I looked at them both and said nothing Houson had been there, of course, shedding tears of joy for us both—but Billden… well, Billden had swapped his life for Landen’s when he returned to the submerged car and ended up in the Swindon Municipal Cemetery instead. We stood for a moment or two, the three of us lamenting the loss of Landen Houson broke the silence.
‘I think it would really be better for all concerned if you left now,’ she said quietly, ‘and please don’t come back.’
‘Wait!’ I said. ‘Was there someone there, someone who stopped you from rescuing him?’
‘More than one,’ replied Billden. ‘Five or six—one woman; I was sat upon—’
‘Was one a Frenchman? Tall, distinguished looking? Named Lavoisier, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Billden sadly, ‘it was a long time ago.’
‘You really have to leave now,’ repeated Houson in a forthright tone.
I sighed, thanked them, and they shuffled back inside and closed the door.
I walked out through the garden gate and sat in my car, trying to contain the emotion within me so I could think straight. I was breathing heavily and my hands were clenched so tightly on the steering wheel my knuckles showed white. How could SpecOps do this to me? Was this Flanker’s way of compelling me to talk about my father? I shook my head. Futzing with the timestream was a crime punishable by almost unimaginable brutality. I couldn’t imagine Flanker would have risked his career—and his life—on a move so rash.
I took a deep breath and leaned forward to press the starter button.
As I did so I glanced into my wing mirror and saw a Packard parked on the other side of the road. There was a well-dressed figure leaning on the wing, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette and looking in my direction. It was Schitt-Hawse. He appeared to be smiling. Suddenly, the whole plan came into sharp focus. Jack Schitt. What had Schitt-Hawse threatened me with? Corporate impatience? My anger re-established itself.
Muttering ‘Bastard!’ under my breath. I jumped out of the car and walked briskly and purposefully towards Schitt-Hawse, who stiffened slightly as I approached. I ignored a car that screeched to a halt inches from me, and as Schitt-Hawse took a pace forward I put out both hands and pushed him hard against the car. He lost his footing and fell heavily to the ground; I was quickly upon him, grabbed his shirt lapels and raised a fist to punch him. But the blow never fell. In my blind anger I had failed to see that his associates Chalk and Cheese were close by, and they did their job admirably, efficiently and, yes, painfully too. I fought like hell and was gratified that in the confusion I managed to kick Schitt-Hawse hard on the kneecap—he yelped in pain. But my victory, such as it was, was short lived. I must have been a tenth of their combined weight and my struggles were soon in vain. They held me tightly, and Schitt-Hawse approached with an unpleasant smile etched upon his pinched features.
I did the first thing I could think of. I spat in his face. I’d never tried it before but it turned out delightfully, I got him right in the eye.
He raised the back of his hand to strike me but I didn’t flinch—I just stared at him, anger burning in my eyes. He stopped, lowered his hand and wiped his face with a crisply laundered pocket handkerchief.
‘You are going to have to control that temper of yours, Next.’
‘That’s Mrs Parke-Laine to you.’
‘Not any more. If you’d stop struggling perhaps we could talk sensibly, like adults. You and I need to come to an arrangement.’
I gave up squirming and the two men relaxed their grip. I straightened my clothes and glared at Schitt-Hawse, who rubbed his knee.
‘What sort of arrangement?’ I demanded.
‘A trade,’ he answered. ‘Jack Schitt for Landen.’
‘Oh yes?’ I retorted ‘And how do I know I can trust you?’
‘You don’t and you can’t,’ replied Schitt-Hawse simply, ‘but it’s the best offer you’re going to get.’
‘My father will help me.’
Schitt-Hawse laughed.
‘Your father is a washed-out clock jockey. I think you overestimate his chances—and his talents. Besides, we’ve got the summer of 1947 locked down so tight not even a trans-temporal gnat could get back there without us knowing about it. Retrieve Jack from The Raven and you can have your own dear hubby back.’
‘And how do you propose I do that?’
‘You’re a resourceful and intelligent woman—I’m sure you’ll think of something. Do we have a deal?’
I stared hard at him, shaking with fury. Then, almost without thinking, I had my automatic pressed against Schitt-Hawse’s forehead. I heard two safety catches click off behind me. Associates Chalk and Cheese were fast, too.
Schitt-Hawse seemed unperturbed; he smiled at me in a supercilious manner and ignored the weapon.
‘You won’t kill me, Next,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s not the way you do things. It might make you feel better but believe me it won’t get your Landen back and Mr Chalk and Mr Cheese would make quite sure you were dead long before you hit the asphalt.’
Schitt-Hawse was good. He’d done his homework and he hadn’t underestimated me one little bit. I’d do all I could to get Landen back and he knew it. I reholstered my pistol.
‘Splendid!’ he enthused. ‘We’ll be hearing from you in due course, I trust, hmm?’
10. A Lack of Differences
‘Landen Parke-Laine’s eradication was the best I’d seen since Veronica Golightly’s. They plucked him out and left everything else exactly as it was. Not a crude hatchet job like Churchill or Victor Borge—we got those sorted out eventually. What I never figured out was how they took him out and left her memories of him completely intact. Agreed, there would be no point to the eradication without her knowing what she had missed, but it still intrigued me over four centuries later. Eradication was never an exact art.’
COLONEL NEXT, QT, CG (non-exst.)—Upstream/Downstream (unpublished)
I stared after their departing car, trying to figure out what to do. Finding a way into The Raven to release Jack Schitt would be my first priority. It wasn’t going to be hard—it was going to be impossible. It wouldn’t deter me. I’d done impossible things several times in the past and the prospect didn’t scare me as much as it used to.
A patrol car drew up beside me and the driver rolled down his window. It was officer ‘Spike’ Stoker of SpecOps 17—the vampire and werewolf disposal operation, or ‘Suckers & Biters’ as they preferred to call themselves. I had helped him out once on a vampire stake-out; dealing with the undead is not a huge barrel of fun, but I liked Spike a great deal.
He saw the consternation in my face and asked in a friendly tone:
‘What happens, Next?’
‘Hi, Spike. Goliath happens, that’s what.’
‘Word is you lipped Flanker.’
‘Good news travels fast, doesn’t it?’
Spike thought about this for a moment, turned down the wireless and got out of his car.
‘If the shit hits the fan I can offer you some freelance staking for cash at Suckers & Biters; the minimum entry requirements have been reduced to “anyone mad enough to join me”.’
‘Sorry, Spike. I can’t. Not right now—I think I’ve had enough of the undead for a while. Tell me, am I still working at SO-27?’
‘Of course! Thursday? Are you in some sort of trouble?’
‘The worst sort,’ I said, showing him my empty ring finger. ‘Someone eradicated my husband.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ responded Spike. ‘My Uncle Bart was eradicated, but y’know, someone goofed, and they left some memories of him with my aunt. She lodged an appeal and had him reactualised a year later. Thing is, I never knew I ever had an uncle after he left, and never knew he had gone when he came back—I’ve only my aunt’s word that it ever happened at all. Does any of this make any sense to you?’
‘An hour ago it would have sounded insane. Right now it seems as clear as day.’
‘Hmm,’ grunted Spike, laying an affectionate hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ll get him back, don’t worry. Listen: I wish they’d sideslip all this vampire and werewolf crap and I could go and work at Sommeworld™ or something.’
‘Wouldn’t you miss it?’
‘Not for a second.’
I leaned against his car, SpecOps gossip a welcome distraction as I sought to calm my nerves.
‘Got a new partner yet?’ I asked him.
‘For this shit? You must be kidding—but there is some good news. Look at this.’
He pulled a photo from his breast pocket. It was of himself standing next to a very petite blonde girl who barely came up to his elbow.
‘Her name’s Cindy,’ he murmured affectionately. ‘A cracker—and smart too.’
‘I wish you both the best. How does she feel about all this vampire and werewolf stuff?’
‘Oh, she’s fine with all that—or at least she will be, when I tell her.’
His face fell.
‘Oh, craps. How can I tell her that I thrust sharpened stakes through the undead and hunt down werewolves like some sort of dog-catcher?’ He stopped and sighed, then asked, in a brighter tone: ‘You’re a woman, aren’t you?’
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Well, can’t you figure out some sort of a… I don’t know… strategy for me. I’d hate to lose this one as well.’
‘How long do they last when you tell them?’
‘Oh, they’re usually peachy about it,’ said Spike, laughing. ‘They hang about for, well, five, six, maybe more—’
‘Weeks?’ I asked. ‘Months?’
‘Seconds,’ replied Spike mournfully, ‘and those were the ones that really liked me.’
He sighed deeply.
‘I think you should tell her the truth. Girls don’t like being lied to—unless it’s about surprise holidays and rings and stuff.’
‘I thought you’d say something like that,’ replied Spike, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, ‘but the shock—!’
‘You don’t have to tell her outright. You could always scatter a few copies of Van Helsing’s Gazette around the house.’
‘Oh, I get it!’ replied Spike, thinking hard. ‘Sort of build her up to it—stakes and crucifixes in the garage—’
‘And you could drop werewolves into the conversation every now and then.’
‘It’s a great plan, Thurs,’ replied Spike happily. ‘I don’t want to lose Cindy—I’ve a family I want to start.’
‘...’
‘What’s the matter, Thurs? You look kind of shocked.’
The fear and panic that had only just diminished reasserted themselves. Did I still have Landen’s baby? I muttered a short reply to Spike, jumped into my car and screeched off into town, startling a few Great Auks who were picking their way through a nearby garbage can.
I was heading for the doctor’s surgery on Shelley Street. Every shop I passed seemed to stock either prams or highchairs, toys or something else baby related, and all the toddlers and infants, heavily pregnant women and prams in Swindon seemed to be crowding the route—and all staring at me. I skidded to a halt outside the surgery. It was a double yellow line and a traffic warden looked at me greedily.
‘Hey!’ I said, pointing a finger at her. ‘Expectant mother. Don’t even think about it.’
I dashed in and found the nurse I’d seen the day before
‘I was in here yesterday,’ I blurted out. ‘Was I pregnant?’
She looked at me without even the least vestige of surprise. I guess she was used to this sort of thing.
‘Of course!’ she replied. ‘Confirmation is in the post. Are you okay?’
I sat down heavily on a chair. The sense of relief was indescribable. It looked as if I had more than just Landen’s memories—I had his child, too. I rubbed my face with my hands. I’d been in a lot of difficult and dangerous life-or-death situations both in the military and law enforcement—but nothing even comes close to the tribulations of emotion. I’d face Hades again twice rather than go through that little charade again.
‘Yes, yes,’ I assured her happily, ‘I really couldn’t be better!’
‘Good.’ The nurse beamed. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Where do I live?’
The shabby block of flats in the old town didn’t look like my sort of place but who knew what I might be doing without Landen. I trotted briskly up the stairs to the top landing and Flat 6. I took a deep breath, unlocked and opened the door. There was a brief scrabble of activity from the kitchen and Pickwick was there to greet me as usual, bearing a gift that turned out to be the torn cover off last month’s SpecOps 27 Gazette. I closed the door with my foot as I tickled her under the chin and looked cautiously about. I was relieved to discover that despite the shabby exterior my apartment was south facing, warm and quite comfortable. I couldn’t remember a thing about any of it, of course, but I was glad to see that Pickwick’s egg was still in residence. It seemed I painted a lot more without Landen about, and the walls were covered with half-finished canvases. There were several of Pickwick and the family which I could remember painting, and a few others that I couldn’t—but none, sadly, of Landen. I looked at the other canvases and wondered why several included images of amphibious aircraft. I sat on the sofa, and when Pickwick came up to nuzzle me I put my hand on her head.
‘Oh, Pickers,’ I murmured, ‘what shall we do?’
I sighed, tried to get Pickwick to stand on one leg with the promise of a marshmallow, failed, then made a cup of tea and something to eat before searching the rest of the apartment in an inquisitive sort of way. Most things were where I would expect to find them; there were more dresses in the closet than usual and I even found a few copies of The Femole stashed under the sofa. The fridge was well stocked with food, and it seemed in this non-Landen world that I was a vegetarian. There were a lot of things that I couldn’t remember ever having acquired, including a table light shaped like a pineapple, a large enamel sign advertising Dr Spongg’s Footcare Remedies and—slightly more worryingly—a size-twelve pair of socks in the laundry and some boxer shorts. I rummaged further and found two toothbrushes in the bathroom, a large Swindon Mallets jacket on the hook and several XXL-sized T-shirts with SpecOps 14 Swindon written on them. I called Bowden straight away.
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