The Woman Who Died a Lot

20. Tuesday: The Destiny Aware

Shazza and Jimmy-G had just finished setting out about a hundred chairs when we turned up, and I wondered just how many ex–potential employees might be coming. Although we knew that the ChronoGuard had employed about three thousand, it wasn’t known how many came from which era, and indeed the covering letter attached to the summaries indicated that the Letters of Destiny were only for the Swindon branch of the timeworkers union.

“This is Friday,” I said, introducing Friday to them both. “Jimmy-G, you would have worked together, and Shazza, you and Friday would have—”

“We know what we would have been. Thank you, Mum.”

They shook hands and looked at one another shyly. In another timeline they would have been lovers and inseparable, but in this one their future was considerably bleaker. Shazza marries a clot named Biff, and Friday spends his life in the slammer. It wasn’t the sort of circumstances in which romance could blossom, really—unless found in the pages of a Farquitt novel, in which case all would doubtless turn out well.

“We would have worked together closely,” said Jimmy-G, giving Friday a warm embrace, “on many exhilarating adventures, apparently.”

“Any idea what?” asked Friday.

“Nothing too specific,” said Jimmy-G, “just that we would.”

“Mine says the same.”

“And mine,” said Shazza, “but I like the idea of being known as the ‘Scourge of the Upper Triassic.’ ”

“Is this the ChronoGuard thing?” came a voice from the door. I turned and saw a moody-looking teenager with oily hair and a black eye. He looked as though he had just lost an argument about something and was plotting payback. More significantly, he was the one who had paid fifty p to see Tuesday’s boobs and more recently offered her a fiver for sex. He was also due to be murdered on Friday. It was Gavin Watkins. I didn’t want to be judgmental, despite his offer earlier to Tuesday, so instead I used that mildly condescending voice you reserve for acquaintances of your children. “You’re a friend of Tuesday’s aren’t you?”

“Not really friends,” he replied. “Our relationship is based more on a . . . business footing.”

I narrowed my eyes at his impertinence, my patience rapidly vanishing. “Is it, now? Listen, Gavin, I’m not so sure offering cash for sex is really appropriate behavior.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s disrespectful, insulting, and . . . she’s not that kind of girl.”

“This is what happened,” he said. “I asked her if theoretically speaking she would sleep with me for four point three million pounds, and she said she theoretically would, so then I asked her if she’d accept a fiver. So she is definitely that kind of girl. All we’re doing is discussing the price.”

I stared at him.

“Oh, c’mon,” he added with a sneer, “are you really going to stand there and tell me you haven’t sold yourself at least once? If not for cash, then certainly for influence.”

“You’re a nasty piece of work, aren’t you?” I said, although privately admitting that he was right. A long time ago, but he was right.

“Apologize, Gavin,” said Friday, who had heard enough. “You just crossed the line.”

“I wasn’t the one who drew the line,” he said in a low, controlled voice, “but I’m only telling the truth. Both your mother and sister are—”

“Don’t say it! I swear to God I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” said Gavin, taking a step closer so they were almost nose to nose. “Kill me?”

Friday took a step back, firmly rattled. He was going to kill Gavin, but not over name-calling. I hoped.

“Lost your appetite for a fight?” sneered Gavin.

“Okay, okay,” I said, before this got any more out of hand.

“Time out. Friday, cool it. And, Gavin, there’s tea and coffee and Kool-Aid on the side and some biscuits. You can help yourself.”

“Nothing stronger?” he asked.

“You could always not dilute the Kool-Aid, big guy.” He grunted and moved off.

“I kill him because he insulted my mother and sister?” said Friday as soon as Gavin was out of earshot. “No, that’s just crazy.”

“You don’t kill him until Friday,” I said. “A lot of time for stuff to happen—or not.”

“Everything all right?” asked Shazza as she walked up.

“Just Gavin.”

“He lives down our street,” said Shazza. “The corner shop won’t let him in because of all the stealing, and I know for a fact that he gets beaten up at school at least once a day simply for being Gavin.”

“Figures.” I looked at the kids who were entering in ones and twos. All of them were in their late teens. “Any idea of attendance numbers?”

“It’s not packed, I must confess,” said Shazza, regarding the small group, “but I’m willing to bet he’ll take careful note.” She indicated a middle-aged man in a turban who was standing by the door.

“And he is?”

“Mr. Akal Chowdry. He’s Swindon’s rep for the Asteroid Strike Likelihood Committee.”

“Oh.”

The ASLC relied heavily upon statisticians like Chowdry to compute an Ultimate Risk Factor for HR-6984.

“Any significant data from a meeting of ex-timeworkers,” added Jimmy-G, “might allow the ASLC to update the Ultimate Risk Factor.”

We were currently at 34 percent likelihood, and this figure was derived from many sources—astronomical observation, computer modeling, level of divine concern, guesswork and archaeology—future archaeology. Artifacts from the future had been found, but dating was contentious, as it is difficult to say when something was to be invented or built. Of course, something with a date on it beyond 2041 would be conclusive, but the fossil record—both forward and back—is sketchy at best, and so far nothing like that had turned up.

Three other members walked in. They were all clutching their Letters of Destiny and didn’t look too happy. We waited another five minutes, but when no one else turned up, Jimmy-G called the meeting to order.

“I was hoping for more than fifteen,” he said, scanning the small group. “Perhaps we’ll see more as the weeks go past.” He cleared his throat and began.

“A fortnight ago the future was the undiscovered country. None of us knew what we would do or how we would do it. As part of the Union of Federated Timeworkers severance package, we now have a clear idea of what might have happened and what will. If anyone in here is in any doubt over the truth of these summarizations, I bring your attention to Gerald Speke, who received his papers three days ago. They predicted he would lose an arm to a gorilla in Swindon Zoo, and within six hours he had.”

There was some murmuring at this.

“His name was Bongo,” said Gerald, who was sitting at the back with a large bandage wrapped around his upper body. “But if I hadn’t received the Letter of Destiny, I never would have gone to the zoo to see if there was a gorilla.”

“That’s how it works,” said Jimmy-G. “the Letters of Destiny and the effect they have on you are now included in your Letter of Destiny. But we’re sorry for your loss nonetheless. I suggest we begin with introductions.”

He looked out over the gathering. No one moved. “I’ll start,” said Friday, standing up to face the group. “I would have been the sixth director general of the ChronoGuard. My first major feat was in the Armageddon Avoidance division, where I ensured our survival of HR-6984, but I have no idea how. After a long and apparently eventful career, I retire at eighty-two the most decorated ChronoGuard operative ever. Now it’s a bit different. I spend thirty-seven years in prison for murder. Three days after release, on the third of February, 2041, I’m beaten to death by persons unknown with a baseball bat up in the Old Town.”

There was a pause, and everyone clapped. Presumably not because they liked what they’d heard but for his honesty. I was just relieved he hadn’t mentioned that Gavin was his victim.

“My name’s Sharon deWitt,” said Shazza. “I would have had a dazzling career in the timestream. I’d be pioneering transPaleozoic jumps by age thirty and a full colonel by forty-two. I’d have retired third in command at the ChronoGuard with four citations for bravery and be Flux magazine’s Woman for all Time, then comfortably retired in fourteenth-century Florence at age eighty. The way things stand at the moment, I’m a receptionist for twenty years, marry a guy I don’t much like, have two kids who turn out so-so and then get hit by a Vauxhall KP-13 at age fifty-five, late one rainy night near the library. They never find the driver.”

There was more applause, and she sat down. There was a longer pause, so Jimmy-G stood up again.

“My name is Jimmy-G, and I would have worked alongside both Shazza and Friday. I would have been time-engine policy director from 2014 until 2032, when a gravity surge in the auxiliary Time Room dumped me in the forty-fifth century. I was stuck there for sixteen years and upon my return ran the enloopment facilities. These days I work in retail and have a happy if unexciting life with a good wife and a fine son. I don’t see him graduate, though, since I die in mysterious circumstances in 2040.”

He sat down again, and, heartened by his contribution, the remainder of the ex–potential timeworkers joined in. There was someone who would have worked as part of the Retrosnatch Squad who was unhappily not going to see his sixtieth year due to a car accident, and a youthful Bendix Scintilla, whose future self we had met a few years back when he was giving a ChronoGuard recruitment talk. He was eighteen and would now work in engineering until vanishing without trace in Kettering not long before his fifty-fifth birthday. Braxton’s son Gordon was also here, to give a much-needed positive take on the proceedings. He was slated to suffer a fatal time aggregation when his gravity suit leaked, first day at cadet school. Now he gets to be fifty-six. He wasn’t the only one. A girl named Lauren would have been fed alive to pterosaur infants next April during an assignment in the Cretaceous that went badly wrong, but now she succumbs to gruppling bongitiasis at age forty-four.

“Go, me!” she announced happily at the end of it. “I would have suffered a fatal time aggregation,” said another attendee, “twenty-two years from now. Now I die falling from the roof while attempting to adjust the TV aerial—on exactly the same day. Whoop-de-do.”

“What was the program you would be wanting to watch?” The attendee looked at his summary. “Er . . . a repeat of, The Very Best of ‘The Adrian Lush Show Repeats Again,’ Part 7. Serious bummer.”

In this way those in the room told of their differing destinies, and we offered as many encouraging noises as we could, although the practical help this afforded was questionable. The last person to speak was Gavin Watkins.

“I might be unique in this room,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “in that according to my summary, I would not have been a distinguished member of the ChronoGuard. After an early career helping to map the twenty-fifth century, I see that my later career seems to consist mostly of disciplinary hearings and suspensions. Bored and in need of cash due to an expensive Precambrian tourism habit, I accept a hefty bribe in 2028 to undertake an illegal eradication.”

“What sort of bribe?” said someone.

“A Titian—The Battle of Cadore.”

“You hate Titian,” said someone else. “You’d have had nowhere to hang it.”

“I change my mind and grow to love him, apparently,” said Gavin, “and I guess I must have had somewhere to hang it . . . moron.”

“Okay, okay,” said Jimmy-G soothingly, “this won’t happen, and what’s more, it won’t happen twenty-four years from now. Go on, Gavin.”

“Right. Well, I was caught—we all were, of course—and spent two years in an enloopment facility before being released due to a technicality. Not a great career, but better than what I get now. Friday Next will murder me in three days’ time!”

There was a sharp intake of breath as he said it, and he glared at Friday.

“Why are you going to kill me, Friday? Because I insulted your mum and sister?”

Friday took a deep breath and stood up to face Gavin.

“I don’t know. I have no real motive. But you can stop me. Take a random Tube ride. You can be anywhere on the planet in under six hours. If I can’t find you, it won’t happen.”

“As soon as my destiny papers arrived, my parents put me on the Deep Drop to Sydney,” said Gavin. “I checked in under a false name to a crappy motel near Dame Edna International. I even hid in the cupboard. My summarization papers hadn’t changed—you were still due to kill me. So I came home. If I was going to be murdered, I’d rather it happened near family and friends.”

“Friends?” said Shazza.

“Family then. Body repatriations are pricey these days, and they always seem to go astray.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” said Friday.

“You will,” said Gavin, “and what’s more I know for a fact you won’t get away with it.”

“It’s Tuesday night,” returned Friday, “and I’ve got sixty-six hours to figure out a way to bend the eventline.”

“Maybe the eventline did bend,” said Shazza thoughtfully. “It’s possible that once you were in the hotel cupboard, your Letter of Destiny changed to say you survived. You probably then wondered why you had flown all that way to hide in a cupboard, but as soon as you returned, so did your death.”

Everyone fell silent at this. Shazza was right. It was entirely possible that the eventline was vibrating like a rubber band and that what was written on the Letters of Destiny right now was not what had been on them even ten seconds ago.

“Okay, then,” said Friday, “I need to find a way of permanently changing our destinies. Right now things don’t look very good.”

There was silence after this, and Jimmy-G thought it a good time to call the meeting to an end and to meet again the same place next week, unless the smiting went ahead, in which case he’d let everyone know. The small party dispersed without much talk; the proceedings had been pretty joyless. Gavin glared at us both as he filed out, and as Jimmy-G walked up to speak to us, I noted Mr. Chowdry pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he turned to leave.

“That was seriously strange,” said Friday as we walked back to the car. Shazza was with us, as she and Friday were going to have a drink together to see if any of their future spark could be preignited, and Jimmy-G was with us because his car was parked next to ours.

“Time-travel stuff generally is.”

“No,” said Friday, “I mean murderously seriously strange.”

“In what way?”

“Didn’t you notice?” he asked, and when I said I didn’t, he counted out the people at the group on his fingers. “Only three of us die seemingly natural deaths. I’m murdered in 2041, as are Shazza and Bendix, Miranda, Joddy and Sarah. The other six die in ‘unexplained’ deaths, all of them in 2040. Can you see a pattern?”

“None of us live beyond February 2041,” said Shazza in a quiet voice.

“Right,” said Friday. “I’m the last to die—three days before HR-6984 is scheduled to strike the earth. No one lives long enough to be killed by the meteorite that’s hurtling our way.”

“Does that mean the HR-6984 will definitely happen?” asked Shazza.

“It means we can’t prove it won’t,” said Friday, “since none of us live beyond it.”

“Why would anyone want to murder someone just before everyone is about to die anyway?” asked Jimmy-G. “It raises vindictiveness to a whole new level.”

They all looked at one another in a confused and dejected manner. It must be like having an itch and not being able to scratch it. Nevertheless, I thought I should be a mother rather than a colleague, so I said the first thing that came into my head. “Fish and chips, anyone?”