The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [500]
“Not a lot to go on, then.”
“Not yet, but I’ll keep digging. You might be interested to know that he has been seen on several occasions with Lola Vavoom.”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Agreed. You wanted to know about Mr. Schitt-Hawse? He heads the Goliath tech division.”
“You sure?”
Millon looked dubious for a moment.
“In the conspiracy industry, the word ‘sure’ has a certain plasticity about it, but yes. We have a mole at Goliathopolis. Admittedly our mole only serves in the canteen, but you’d be surprised the sensitive information that one can overhear giving out shortbread fingers. Apparently Schitt-Hawse has been engaged in something called the Ovitron Project. We’re not positive, but it might be a development of your uncle’s Ovinator. Could it be something along the lines of The Midwich Cuckoos?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
I made a few notes, thanked Millon for his time and pushed Friday back to my car, my head full of potential futures, Ovinators and Kaine.
Ten minutes later we were in my Speedster, heading north towards Cricklade. My father had told me that Cindy would fail to kill me three times before she died herself, but there was a chance the future didn’t have to turn out that way—after all, I had once been shot dead by a SpecOps marksman in an alternative future, and I was still very much alive.
I hadn’t seen Spike for more than two years but had been gratified to learn he had moved out of his dingy apartment to a new address in Cricklade. I soon found his street—it was on a newly built estate of Cotswold stone that shone a warm glow of ocher in the sunlight. As we drove slowly down the road checking door numbers, Friday helpfully pointed out things of interest.
“Ipsum,” he said, pointing at a car.
I was hoping that Spike wasn’t there so I could speak to Cindy on her own, but I was out of luck. I parked up behind his SpecOps black-and-white and climbed out. Spike himself was sitting on a deck chair on the front lawn, and my heart fell when I saw that not only had he married Cindy but they had also had a child—a one-year-old girl was sitting on the grass next to him playing under a parasol. I cursed inwardly as Friday hid behind my leg. I was going to have to make Cindy play ball—the alternative wouldn’t be good for her and would be worse for Spike and their daughter.
“Yo!” yelled Spike, telling the person on the other end of the phone to hold it one moment and getting up to give me a hug. “How you doing, Next?”
“I’m good, Spike, you?”
He spread his arms, indicating the trappings of middle-England suburbia. The UPVC double glazing, the well-kept lawn, the drive, the wrought-iron sunrise gate.
“Look at all this, sister! Isn’t it the best?”
“Ipsum,” said Friday, pointing at a plant pot.
“Cute kid. Go on in. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I walked into the house and found Cindy in the kitchen. She had an apron on and her hair tied up.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound as normal as possible, “you must be Cindy.”
She stared me straight in the eye. She didn’t look like a professional assassin who had killed sixty-seven times—sixty-eight if she did Samuel Pring—yet the really good ones never do.
“Well, well, Thursday Next,” she said slowly, crouching down to pull some damp clothes out of the washing machine and tweaking Friday’s ear. “Spike holds you in very high regard.”
“Then you know why I’m here?”
She put down the washing and picked up a Fisher-Price Webster that was threatening to trip someone up, and passed it to Friday, who sat down to scrutinize it carefully.
“I can guess. Handsome lad. How old is he?”
“He was two last month. And I’d like to thank you for missing yesterday.”
She gave a wan