The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [189]
I leaned against his car, SpecOps gossip a welcome distraction.
“Got a new partner yet?” I asked him.
“For this shit? You must be kidding. But there is some good news. Look at this.”
He pulled a photo from his breast pocket. It was of himself standing next to a petite blond girl who barely came up to his elbow.
“Her name’s Cindy,” he murmured affectionately. “A cracker— and smart, too.”
“I wish you both the best. How does she feel about all this vampire and werewolf stuff?”
“Oh, she’s fine with all that—or at least she will be, when I tell her.” His face fell. “Oh, craps. How can I tell her that I thrust sharpened stakes through the undead and hunt down werewolves like some sort of dogcatcher?” He stopped and sighed, then asked, in a brighter tone, “You’re a woman, aren’t you?”
“Last time I looked.”
“Well, can’t you figure out some sort of a—I don’t know— strategy for me? I’d hate to lose this one as well.”
“How long do they last when you tell them?”
“Oh, they’re usually peachy about it,” said Spike, laughing. “They hang about for, well, five, six, maybe more—”
“Weeks?” I asked. “Months?”
“Seconds,” replied Spike mournfully, “and those were the ones that really liked me.”
He sighed deeply.
“I think you should tell her the truth. Girls don’t like being lied to—unless it’s about surprise holidays and rings and stuff like that.”
“I thought you’d say something like that,” replied Spike, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But the shock—!”
“You don’t have to tell her outright. You could always scatter a few copies of Van Helsing’s Gazette around the house.”
“Oh, I get it!” replied Spike, thinking hard. “Sort of build her up to it—stakes and crucifixes in the garage—”
“And you could drop werewolves into the conversation every now and then.”
“It’s a great plan, Thurs,” replied Spike happily. “Hang on.”
The wireless had started to report an occurrence of unspeakable nastiness up near Banbury. He started the engine.
“I’ve got to go. Think about my offer. Always some work if you need it!”
And he was gone in a screech of tires.
I smuggled Pickwick back to my apartment and read the paper—I was glad to see the discovery of Cardenio had not yet broken in the press, but I was distracted. I stared out of the window for a moment, trying to formulate some sort of plan to get Landen back. Get into books? I didn’t know where to even begin. On reflection, that wasn’t quite right. It was time to go and visit the closest thing to the Delphic Oracle I would ever know: Granny Next.
Gran was playing Ping-Pong at the SpecOps Twilight Homes when I found her. She was thrashing her opponent, who was at least twenty years her junior—but still about eighty. Nervous nurses looked on, trying to stop her before she fell over and broke a bone or two. Granny Next was old. Really old. Her pink skin looked more wrinkled than the most wrinkled prune I had ever seen, and her face and hands were livid with dark liver spots. She was dressed in her usual blue gingham dress and hailed me from the other side of the room as I walked in.
“Ah!” she said. “Thursday! Fancy a game?”
“Don’t you think you’ve played enough today?”
“Nonsense! Grab a paddle and we’ll play to the first point.”
I picked up a paddle as a ball careened past me.
“Wasn’t ready!” I protested as another ball came over the net. I swiped at it and missed.
“Ready is as ready does, Thursday. I’d have thought you knew that more than most!”
I grunted and returned the next ball, which was deftly deflected back to me.
“How are you, Gran?”
“Old,” she replied, behaving quite the opposite as she skipped nimbly sideways and whacked the ball towards me with savage backspin. “Old and tired, and I need looking after. The grim reaper is lurking close by—I can almost smell him!”
“Gran!”
She missed my shot and declared, “No ball,” before pausing for a moment.
“Do you want to know a secret, young Thursday?” she asked, leaning on the table.
“Go on then,” I replied, taking the opportunity