you about Jack Schitt and the Bronte Federation are hopping mad over the damage to the book. Was it
‘That was Hades—‘
‘And Rochester? Blinded and with a shattered hand? I suppose that was Hades too?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘This is the mother of all balls-ups, Thursday. You’d better come in and explain yourself to these Bronte people. I’ve got their Special Executive Committee with me and they are not here to pin a medal on your chest.’
There was a knock at the door. I told Victor I would be in directly and got unsteadily to my feet.
‘Hello?’ I called out.
‘Room service!’ replied a voice outside the door. ‘A Mr Parke-Laine rang in some coffee for you!’
‘Hang on!’ I said as I tried to shoo Pickwick back into the bathroom; the hotel had strict rules about pets. Unusually for him he seemed slightly aggressive; if he had possessed any wings he would probably have flapped them angrily.
‘This… is… no… time… to… be… a… pest!’ I grunted as I pushed the recalcitrant bird into the bathroom and locked the door.
I held my head for a moment as it thumped painfully, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and opened the door.
‘You’re going to need another two cups if you want to join me for coffee,’ I groaned.
‘Very funny,’ said the man dressed as the waiter.
‘Goliath?’
‘In one.’
He pulled back the hammer on the revolver. ‘Gloves are off, Next. Schitt is an important man and we need to know where he is. National security and the Crimea depend upon it and one lousy officer’s life isn’t worth diddly shit when you look at the big picture.’
‘I’ll take you to him,’ I gasped, trying to give myself some breathing space. ‘It’s a little way out of town.’
The Goliath agent relaxed his grip and told me to get dressed. A few minutes later we were walking out of the hotel. My head was still sore and a dull pain thumped in my temples, but at least I was thinking more clearly. There was a small crowd ahead of me, and I was delighted to see it was the Mutlar family preparing to return to London. Daisy was arguing with her father and Mrs Mutlar was shaking her head wearily.
‘Gold-digger!’ I yelled.
Daisy and her father stopped arguing and looked at me as the Goliath men tried to steer me past. ‘What did you say!?’
‘You heard. I can’t think who the bigger tart is, your daughter or your wife.’
It had the desired effect. Mr Mutlar turned an odd shade of crimson and threw a fist in my direction. I ducked and the blow struck one of the Goliath men fairly and squarely on the jaw. I bolted for the carpark. A shot whistled over my shoulder; I jinked and stepped into the road as a big black military-style Ford motor car screeched to a halt.
‘Get in!’ shouted the driver. I didn’t need to be asked twice. I jumped in and the Ford sped off as two bullet holes appeared in the rear windshield. The car screeched around the corner and was soon out of range.
‘Thanks,’ I murmured. ‘Any later and I might have been worm food. Can you drop me at SpecOps HQ?’
The driver didn’t say anything; there was a glass partition between me and him and all of a sudden I had that out-of-the-frying-pan-and-into-the-fire feeling.
‘You can drop me anywhere,’ I said. He didn’t answer. I tried the door handles but they were locked. I thumped on the glass but he ignored me; we drove past the SpecOps building and headed off to the old town. He was driving fast, too. Twice he went through a red light and once he cut up a bus; I was thrown against the door as he flew around a corner, just missing a brewer’s dray.
‘Here, stop this car!’ I shouted, banging again on the glass partition. The driver simply accelerated, clipping another car as he took a corner a little too fast.
I pulled hard at the door handles and was about to use my heels against the window when the car abruptly screeched to a halt; I slid off the seat and collapsed in a heap in the footwell. The driver got out, opened the door for me and said:
‘There you go, missy, didn’t want you to be late. Colonel Phelps’s orders.’
‘Colonel Phelps?’ I stammered. The driver smiled and saluted briskly as the penny dropped. Phelps had said he would send a car for me to appear at his talk, and he had.
I looked out of the door. We had pulled up outside Swindon Town Hall, and a vast crowd of people were staring at me.
‘Hello, Thursday!’ said a familiar voice.
‘Lydia?’ I asked, caught off guard by the sudden change of events.
And so it was. But she wasn’t the only TV news reporter; there were six or seven of them with their cameras trained on me as I sat sprawled inelegantly in the footwell. I struggled to get out of the car.
‘This is Lydia Startright of the Toad News Network,’ said Lydia in her best reporter’s voice, ‘here with Thursday Next, the SpecOps agent responsible for saving
‘What do you mean?’ I responded. ‘I loused it all up! I burned Thornfield to the ground and half maimed poor Mr Rochester!’
Miss Startright laughed.
‘In a recent survey ninety-nine out of a hundred readers who expressed a preference said they were delighted with the new ending. Jane and Rochester married! Isn’t that
‘But the Bronte Federation—?’
‘Charlotte didn’t leave the book to them, Miss Next,’ said a man dressed in a linen suit who had a large blue Charlotte Bronte rosette stuck incongruously to his lapel.
‘The Federation are a bunch of stuffed shirts. Allow me to introduce myself. Walter Branwell, chairman of the federation splinter group “Bronte for the People”.’
He thrust out a hand for me to shake and grinned wildly as several people near by applauded. A battery of flashguns went off as a small girl handed me a bunch of flowers and another journalist asked me what sort of a person Rochester
‘Colonel Phelps is waiting for you, Miss Next,’ murmured the man in an affable tone. The crowds parted as I was led into a large hall that was filled to capacity. I blinked stupidly and looked around. There was an excited buzz, and as I walked down the main aisle I could hear people whispering my name. There was an improvised press box in the old orchestra pit in which a sea of pressmen from all the major networks were seated. The meeting at Swindon had become the focus of the grassroots feeling about the war; what was said here would be highly significant. I made my way to the stage, where two tables had been set up. The two sides to the argument were clearly delineated. Colonel Phelps was sitting beneath a large English flag; his table was heavily festooned with bunting and several pot plants, flip-over pads and stacks of leaflets for ready distribution. With him were mostly uniformed members of the armed forces who had seen service on the peninsula. All of them were willing to speak vociferously about the importance of the Crimea. One of the soldiers was even carrying the new plasma rifle.
At the other end of the stage was the ‘anti’ table. This too was liberally populated by veterans, but none of them wore uniforms. I recognised the two students from the airship park and my brother Joffy, who smiled and mouthed ‘Wotcha, Dooms!’ at me. The crowd hushed; they had heard I was going to attend and had been awaiting my arrival.
The cameras followed me as I approached the steps to the stage and walked calmly up. Phelps rose to meet me, but I walked on and sat down at the ‘anti’ table, taking the seat that one of the students had given up for me. Phelps was appalled; he went bright red, but checked himself when he saw that the cameras were watching
