Something rotten

devoid of any decoration except a shabby Lola Vavoom calendar on the wall and a dead plant in a pot. The only window looked out on to a wall. He arranged some papers on his desk and spoke into the intercom.

'Mr Higgs, would you bring the Thursday Next file in, please?'

He looked at me earnestly and set his head at a slight angle, as though trying to affect some sort of apologetic demeanour.

'None of us quite realised,' he began in the sort of soft voice that undertakers use when attempting to persuade you to buy the deluxe coffin, just how appalling we had been until we started asking people if they were at all unhappy with our conduct.'

'Why don't we cut the cr—' I looked at Friday, who looked back at me. '—cut the, cut the . . . nonsense and go straight to the place where you atone for your crimes.'

He sighed and stared at me for a moment, then said:

'Very well. What did we do wrong again?'

'You can't remember?'

'I do lots of wrong things, Miss Next, you'll excuse me if I can't remember details.'

'You eradicated my husband,' I said through gritted teeth. 'Of course! And what was the name of the eradicatee?'

'Landen,' I replied coldly, 'Landen Parker-Laine.'

At that moment a clerk arrived with a file marked 'most secret' and laid it on his desk. Jack opened it and leafed through.

'The record shows that at the time you say your husband was eradicated your case officer was Operative Schitt-Hawse. It says here that he pressured you to release Operative Schitt — that's me — from within the pages of The Raven by utilising an unnamed ChronoGuard operative who volunteered his services. It says that you complied but our promise was revoked owing to an unforeseen and commercially necessary overriding blackmail continuance situation.'

'You mean corporate greed, don't you?'

'Don't underestimate greed, Miss Next — it's commerce's greatest motive force. In this context it was probably due to our plans to use the BookWorld to dump nuclear waste and sell our extremely high-quality goods and services to characters in fiction. You were then imprisoned in our most inaccessible vault from which you escaped, methodology unknown.'

He closed the file.

'What this means, Miss Next, is that we kidnapped you, tried to kill you, and then had you on our shoot- on-sight list for over a year. You may be in line for a generous cash settlement.'

'I don't want cash, Jack. You had someone go back in time to kill Landen, now you can just get someone to go back again and unkill him!'

Jack Schitt paused and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment.

'That's not how it works,' he replied testily. 'The apology and restitution rules are very clear — for us to repent we must agree as to what we have done wrong, and there's no mention of any Goliath-led illegal time- related jiggery-pokery in our report. Since Goliath's records are time-audited on a regular basis, I think that proves conclusively that if there was any timefoolery it was instigated by the ChronoGuard — Goliath's chronological record is above reproach.'

I thumped the table with my fist and Jack jumped. Without his henchmen around him he was a coward, and every time he flinched, I grew stronger.

'This is complete and utter sh—' I looked at Friday again. '—rubbish, Jack. Goliath and the ChronoGuard eradicated my husband. You had the power to remove him — you can be the ones that put him back.'

'That's not possible.'

'GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND!'

The anger in Jack returned. He also rose and pointed an accusing finger at me. 'Have you even the slightest idea how much it costs to bribe the ChronoGuard? More money than we care to spend on the sort of miserable half-hearted forgiveness you can offer us. And another thing, I . . . excuse me.'

The phone had rung and he picked it up, his eyes flicking instantly to me as he listened.

'Yes, it is . . . Yes, she is . . . Yes, we do . . . Yes, I will.'

His eyes opened wide.

'This is indeed an honour, sir . . . No, that would not be a problem at all, sir . . . Yes, I'm sure I can persuade her about that, sir . . . no, it's what we all want . . . And a very good day to you, sir. Thank you.'

He put the receiver down and fetched an empty cardboard box from the cupboard with a renewed spring in his step.

'Good news!' he exclaimed, taking some junk out of his desk and placing it in the box. 'The CEO of New Goliath has taken a special interest in your case and will personally guarantee the return of your husband.'

'I thought you said that timefoolery had nothing to do with you?'

'Apparently I was misinformed. We would be very happy to reactualise Libner.'

'Landen.'

'Right.'

'What's the catch?' I asked suspiciously.

'No catch,' replied Jack, picking up his desk nameplate and depositing it in the box along with the calendar, 'we just want you to forgive us and like us.'

'Like you?'

'Yes. Or pretend to, anyway. Not so very hard, now, is it? Just sign this Standard Forgiveness Release Form at the bottom here, and we'll reactualise your hubby. Simple, isn't it?'

I was still suspicious.

'I don't believe you have any intention of getting Landen back.'

'All right, then,' said Jack, taking some files out of the filing cabinet and dumping them in his cardboard box, 'don't sign and you'll never know. As you say, Miss Next — we got rid of him so we can get him back.'

'You stiffed me once before, Jack. How do I know you won't do it again?'

Jack paused in his packing and looked slightly apprehensive.

'Are you going to sign?'

'No.'

Jack sighed and started to take everything back out of the cardboard box and return it to its place.

'Well,' he muttered, 'there goes my promotion. But listen: whether you sign or not you walk out of here a free woman. New Goliath have no argument with you any longer. Besides, what do you have to lose?'

'All I want,' I replied, 'is to get my husband back. I'm not signing anything.'

Jack took his nameplate out of the cardboard box and put it back on his desk.

The phone rang again.

'Yes, sir . . . No, she won't, sir . . . I tried that, sir . . . very well, sir.'

He put the receiver down and picked up his nameplate again; it hovered over his box.

'That was the CEO. He wants to apologise to you personally. Will you go?'

I paused. Seeing the head honcho of Goliath was an almost unprecedented event for a non-Goliath official. If anyone could get Landen back, it was him.

'Okay.'

Jack smiled, dropped the nameplate in his box and then hurriedly threw everything else back in.

'Well,' he continued, 'must dash — I've just been promoted up three laddernumbers. Go to the main reception desk and someone will meet you. Don't forget your Standard Forgiveness Release Form, and if you could mention my name I'd be really grateful.'

He handed me my unsigned forms as the door opened and another Goliath operative walked in, also holding a cardboard box full of possessions.

'What if I don't get him back, Mr Schitt?'

'Well,' he said, looking at his watch, 'if you have any grievances about the quality of our contrition you had better take it up with your appointed Goliath apologist. I don't work here any more.'

And he smiled a supercilious smile, put on his hat and was gone.