One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [78]
If I thought he would be surprised or shocked, however, I was mistaken. I guess when you’re married to Thursday, the nature of weird becomes somewhat relative. Landen smiled.
“That’s a novel approach. Mind you, there’s nothing you’ve told me that I couldn’t find out by rereading First Among Sequels. Goliath has access to that book, too, so if you were one of the synthetic Thursdays, I’d expect you to come up with something like that.”
“Commander Bradshaw of Jurisfiction sent me.”
He stared at me. The relevance wasn’t lost on him. Jurisfiction and Bradshaw were never mentioned in the books.
“I’m not yet convinced,” he said, giving nothing away, “but let’s suppose Thursday is missing—you want my help to find her?”
“If she’s missing, then you and I can help each other. I’ll be going home in less than twelve hours. Any information learned out here might be helpful.”
He took a deep breath. “She’s been gone four weeks, that much is common knowledge. Everyone wants to find her. It’s a national obsession. The Mole, The Toad, Goliath, SO-5, the police, the Cheese Squad, the government, the NSA—and now you claim the BookWorld, too.”
“Do you have any idea where she is?”
He poured the boiling water into the teapot.
“No. And the thing is,” he added, looking at the clock, “we need to resolve this one way or another pretty soon.”
“Because of the police and the NSA and whatnot?”
Landen laughed. “No, not them. The kids. Friday won’t get away from his shift at B&Q until six, but Tuesday will be home in two hours, and although my mind has been rendered as supple as custard when it comes to things Thursday, the kids are still at an impressionable age—besides, I don’t think the doors in the house will take much more slamming.”
And he smiled again, but it was sadder, and more uncertain.
“I understand.”
“Do you? Can you?”
“I think so.”
“Hmm,” he said, pondering carefully, “does anyone else know you’re here?”
“Cordelia Flakk’s the only one we need to worry about.”
“That’s bad,” he murmured. “Flakk’s the worst gossip in the city. I’ve a feeling you’ve less than forty minutes before the press starts to knock at the door, two hours before the police arrive with an arrest warrant and three hours before President van de Poste demands you hand over the plans.”
“What plans?”
“The secret plans.”
“I don’t have any secret plans.”
“I’d keep that to yourself.”
He poured out the tea and placed it in front of me. He was standing close to me, and I felt myself shiver within his proximity. I wanted to take him in my arms and hug him tightly and breathe in great lungfuls of Landen with my face buried in his collar. I’d dreamed of the moment for years. Instead I did nothing and cursed my restraint.
“Does Thursday know the president?”
“He often seeks her counsel. Thursday?”
“Yes?”
“How like her are you?”
I rolled up my sleeve to reveal a long scar on my forearm. “I don’t know how I got that one.”
“That was Tiger.”
“Was Tiger a tiger?”
“No, Tiger was a leopard. Your mother’s. Only Mrs. Next would name a leopard Tiger. May I?”
“Please do.”
He looked at my scalp where there was another scar, just above my hairline.
“That was Norman Johnson at the close of the 1989 Super-Hoop,” I said. “Something Rotten, page 351.
He went and sat at the other end of the table and stared at me for a while.
“You even smell like her,” he said, “and rub your forehead in the same way when you’re thinking. I have a lot of respect for Goliath, but they never got synthetics this good.”
“So you believe I’m the written one?”
“There’s another possible explanation.”
“Who would I be if not Goliath or the written one?”
He looked at me for a long time, an expression of concern on his face. I understood what he was trying to say.
“You