One of Our Thursdays Is Missing

23. The Stiltonista

Any attempt to describe the journey would have been futile, as the varying degrees of gravitational flux that I encountered during the trip were unpleasantly distracting. Suffice it to say that all the lurches, bumps, swerves and twists made me feel quite peculiar, and I wondered how anyone could undertake journeys on a regular basis and not only become ambivalent but actually enjoy them. Fortunately, this journey ended after not too long, and once the van came to a stop and I was rather impolitely hauled from the back and placed on a chair, the sack was pulled off.

I was in a deserted warehouse. There were puddles of water on the floor and holes in the ceiling—which probably accounted for the puddles on the floor. The windows were broken, and green streaks of algae had formed on the walls. In several places brambles had started to grow, and the odd pile of rubble and twisted metal sat in heaps. I wasn’t alone. Aside from the four men who had brought me in the van, there was a Rolls-Royce motorcar and three other men. Two of them seemed to be bodyguards, and the third was undoubtedly the leader. He was dressed in a mohair suit and greatcoat, and his features were drawn and sunken—he looked like a skull that someone had thrown some skin at.

“I am Keitel Potblack,” he said in the tone of someone who felt I should know who he was and not fail to be impressed, “head of the Wiltshire Stiltonista. Your failure to remain properly dead is becoming something of an inconvenience.”

I laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. This guy dealt in cheese, and he was acting as though he were a Bond villain.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I don’t kid,” said Mr. Potblack.

“Oh,” I said, “right.”

I looked at him, then at the men standing next to him, one of whom was carrying a spade. “Going gardening?”

They exchanged glances, as though this were the sort of comment they expected.

“It’s up to you. Now, are you the real Thursday or just another copy?”

“I’m not her,” I said, “so if you can take me home, I’d be really grateful.”

“If you’re not her,” said Potblack, “I have no further need of you.”

“Good. If you could tell your driver to go easy a bit on the way back, that would be—”

“Mr. Blue? Would you do the honors?”

The man with the spade walked towards me, and all of a sudden I realized that if he was digging anything over today, it would be me.

“You want to talk?” I said, the ease with which I stayed calm surprising even me. “Then let’s talk.”

“So you are Thursday?”

“Yes,” I replied, which was no lie—I was a Thursday.

The man with the spade walked back to his position to the left of his boss. I noticed as he did that one edge of the spade had been sharpened.

“Okay,” said Potblack, who seemed annoyed that I wasn’t more frightened than I was. Perhaps if I’d known who he was, I would have been. But this was Thursday’s life, not mine.

“In the past,” began Potblack in a slow, deliberate speech, “we may have had an ‘understanding’ over who deals what cheese where. Perhaps you think I was being too harsh when I started dealing in really strong cheeses, but I am a businessman. The stronger the cheese, the more people will pay. Business is good, and we want to keep it that way. If the government lifts the cheese ban as threatened, then it could be very bad business for all of us. The last thing we want is legal cheese.”

I vaguely knew what he was talking about, but not the details. I’d heard that cheese in the Outland was subject to a swingingly large amount of duty, but it seemed the government, in an attempt to control the burgeoning illegal-cheese market, had tried cheese prohibition. Judging from Potblack’s jewelry, car and ability to supply, the ban didn’t seem to be working.

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked. “It’s not like I have the ear of the president, now, is it?”

The Stiltonista looked at his henchman with the spade, who picked it up again. I was wrong—I did have the ear of the president. Landen had said so earlier.

“Anymore. I don’t have his ear anymore. But I’m sure I could give him a call and advise him to keep the prohibition in place.”

Potblack stared at me and narrowed his eyes. “You’re being uncharacteristically compliant.”

“But characteristically realistic,” I said cheerfully. “You’re the one with the sharpened spade.”

“Hmm,” said the Stiltonista, “very well. But I want to offer an incentive to make sure that once released you don’t ‘forget’ your part of the bargain.”

“Bargain?” I echoed. “You mean I get something from this?”

“You do. You get to keep your life, your husband gets to keep his, and your children get to keep their fingers.”

The man with the spade tapped it on the ground as if to emphasize the point, and the steel rang out with a threatening ting-ting-ting-ting sound. I stared at the Stiltonista for a moment, and when I spoke, I tried to convey as much menace as I could—surprisingly easy, for I was angry—and it wasn’t the sort of anger I get when I fluff my lines or my father misses a cue and comes in late. Or even the sort of anger I felt when Horace the goblin nicked all my stuff or Carmine went AWOL. This was real anger. The sort of “don’t shit with me” stuff that mothers feel when you threaten their children.

“Dear, oh, dear,” I said, sadly shaking my head, “and we were getting on so well. I said I’d help you out, and you respond by threatening my kids. That’s not only insulting, it’s impolite. There’s a new deal: You let me go right now and promise never to even look at my husband or children, and I will let you live to see tomorrow’s dawn.”

The Stiltonista bit his lip ever so subtly. It was clear that I had a reputation, and it moved in front of me like a bulldozer. Despite the fact that I was outnumbered six to one, the Stiltonista obviously considered that at the very least I should not be underrated. Thursday, it seemed, was a formidable foe—and highly dangerous if you got on the wrong side of her.

“You’re not in any position to be doing deals.”

“I don’t want anyone to think me unfair,” I said. “I’ll give you until the count of three. One.”

There was the sound of safety catches being released from the men behind me. They were quite obviously armed and, from the sound of it, heavily.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do any sort of deal, Miss Next,” said Potblack with renewed confidence. “Perhaps you would like to reconsider. My men will finish you before you get to three, and you’ll end up with all the others—six feet under the Savernake Forest, a feast for the worms. I apologize if I have been impolite, but as you understand, a lot rides on a lifted prohibition, and I speak not only for myself but for many cheese suppliers up and down the country. We can make this work to the best advantage for all of us, I’m sure—and perhaps even offer up some sort of compensatory payment.”

“Two.”

“You really don’t understand, do you?” said the Stiltonista in a voice that now carried an echo of uncertainty. “It doesn’t have to end for you like this.”

I didn’t have a plan of action, but that didn’t seem to be a problem, for the plan of action had me, and before I knew what had happened, I had the barrel of my pistol pressed hard against the Stiltonista’s throat and the man with the spade was flat on his back unconscious. The goon next to me had managed to get his hand to the butt of his automatic, but no farther. The rest were just blinking stupidly. Oddly, I didn’t feel nervous in the least. It felt like I was someone else. Someone else inside me.

“You see what happens when you’re impolite?” I said. “And don’t struggle. This an armor piercer. Once it’s gone through, only Exxon will be able to retrieve it—or you.”

He stopped struggling.

“Tell them to drop their weapons.”

He did, and they did.

“Right,” I said, unsure what to do next. “This is the plan. . . . ”

If there was a plan, I never found out what it was, for a voice rang out from one corner of the warehouse.

“ Armed police! You are surrounded. Do exactly as we tell you. Carefully and slowly, put your hands behind your heads.”

The Stiltonista’s goons did as the voice asked and seemed to know the drill, as they also lay flat on their faces without being asked.

“And you, Next.”

I set my pistol on the floor, kicked it away and then obediently placed my hands on the back of my head and lay on the ground quite close to where Potblack now lay.

“I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do, Next.”

He said it without looking at me, his voice a low growl.

“Really?” I replied evenly. “Try to get me or my family and I’ll happily ensure that it is.”

He grumbled and faced the other way.

I heard the patter of feet, and within a few seconds I felt my arms pulled behind me and bound with a plastic tie. They weren’t rough, though—they were almost gentle.

“Got a weapon here,” said a voice, quickly followed by, “Got several weapons here.”

“Thursday, Thursday,” came the voice that had been behind the bullhorn. It was deep and earthy and was exactly how I expected Spike to sound. He was one of Thursday’s SpecOps pals—someone who had been more than happy to feature in the series. It was the only recognition he’d ever got.

“Spike?”

“Hello, old friend,” he said. “What have you got for us?”

“Keitel Potblack, head of the Swindon Stiltonistas,” I said,

“threatened to kill me, wanted to bribe me to block the repeal of prohibition and is also guilty of putting three of Goliath’s synthetic Thursdays under the Savernake Forest.”

“You’ve nothing to connect me with the Stiltonistas,” said Mr. Potblack. “I happened to be here pursuing a potential property development when I was set upon by this madwoman.”

“We’ve got a trunkful of Gorgonzola here,” said one of the armed officers. “At least fifty kilos.”

“For personal use,” said Potblack in an unconvincing tone of voice.

“And your armed associates?”

“I employed them as decorators this morning. I am shocked, shocked to discover they are armed.”

Spike helped me to my feet and walked me across to the front of the Rolls-Royce.

“It’s good to see you again, Thursday. The Cheese Squad will have a field day with this lot. How in heaven’s name did you nail Potblack of all people? We’ve been after him for years.”

“Let’s just say I have a magnetic personality.”

Spike laughed. “Still the same. Tell me, do you want to do some moonlighting? The undead are about to be culled again, and there aren’t many with Class IV zombie hunters’ licenses about—or at least none who don’t drool a lot and mumble.”

I thought carefully. “If I’m around tomorrow, I’m totally up for it.”

It was quite fun being her. I had a sudden thought.

“Spike, if you weren’t here to arrest Potblack, what were you here for?”

“We’ve been trailing you for the past hour, Thursday.”

“Why?”

“Because if we know you’re here, so will they.”

“‘They’ being . . . ?”

“Who else? Goliath.”

“I can handle them.”

“I don’t think so,” said Spike. “You’ve been gone a month, right?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Three weeks ago SpecOps announced it had been privatized. The Goliath Corporation now runs not only SpecOps but the police as well. Almost the first thing Goliath did was charge you with crimes against humanity, murder, theft, illegal possession of a firearm, the discharge of a weapon in a public place, murder, impersonating a SpecOps officer, cheese smuggling, assorted motoring offenses and murder. It’s quite a list. They must really hate you to dream up so many spurious charges.”

“I think the feeling’s pretty much mutual. Does that mean I’m under arrest?”

“We tried to, but you escaped.” He smiled and removed the plastic cuffs with a flick knife. “Now go before Flanker gets here.”

It was too late. A group of blue-suited individuals had arrived, brandishing Goliath IDs and a lot of attitude. Their leader I recognized from the description I had in the series—Commander Flanker, once head of SO-1, the police who police the police, now presumably answering to Goliath.

“Thank you, Officer Stoker,” said Flanker, “for securing our prisoner.”

“You can have her once we’re done,” said Spike, pulling himself up to his full height—he was well over six feet six. “Miss Next is charged with the illegal possession of a firearm, and I need to process her.”

“The charge of crimes against humanity has precedence, Stoker.”

“Your bullshit charge is bigger than my bullshit charge?”

“We could argue this all night, but the outcome remains the same. She is coming with me to be interrogated at Goliathopolis.”

“Over my dead body,” said Spike.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

They growled at each other, but there was little, it seemed, that Spike could do. Within a half hour, I was in the back of a large automobile being driven to the Clary-LaMarr Travelport to be put on a private bullet train to Goliathopolis.

I took a deep breath. Being Thursday was exciting and was certainly distracting. I’d hardly thought about Whitby at all.