Lost in a Good Book

‘No.’

‘A sunset?’

‘No.’

‘Field of barley?’

‘No.’

‘I give up.’

‘Closest yet, Mr Flex. If you have to ask, then you never understand. To Neanderthal, sunset is only finish-day. Van Gogh’s Green Rye is merely poor depiction of a field. The only sapien painters we truly understand are Pollock or Kandinsky, they speak our language. Our paintings are not for you.’

I looked at the small gathering of Neanderthals who were staring at Zorf’s abstract paintings with emotion-filled wonderment, tears in their eyes. But Harry, a bullshitter to the end, had not yet given up hope.

‘Can I have another guess?’ he asked Zorf, who nodded.

He stared at the canvas and screwed up his eyes.

‘It’s a—’

‘Hope,’ said a voice close by. ‘It’s hope. Hope for the future of the Neanderthal. It is the fervent wish—for children.’

Zorf and all the other Neanderthals turned to stare at the speaker. It was Granny Next.

‘Exactly what I was about to say,’ said Flex, fooling no one but himself.

‘The esteemed lady shows understanding beyond her species,’ said Zorf, making a small grunting noise that I took to be laughter. ‘Would lady-sapien like to add to our painting?’

This was indeed an honour. Granny Next stepped forward, took the proffered brush from Zorf, mixed a subtle shade of turquoise and made a few fine brush strokes to the left of centre. There was a gasp from the Neanderthals and the women in the group hastily placed veils over their faces while the men—including Zorf—raised their heads and stared at the ceiling, humming quietly. Gran did likewise. Flex, Cordelia and I looked at one another, confused and ignorant of Neanderthal customs. After a while the staring and humming stopped, the women raised their veils and they all ambled slowly over to Gran and smelled her clothes and touched her face with large yet gentle hands. Within a few minutes it was all over; the Neanderthals returned to their seats and were staring at Zorf’s paintings again.

‘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.