The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [547]
28.
Dauntsey Services
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
“A Psalm of Life”
We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby’s Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.
“Looks like we’re still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?”
“Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well—and not looking back has something to do with it.”
“Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: We locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?”
“Wow!” I muttered. “You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn’t you?”
“It has the benefit of simplicity.”
Spike looked around at the number of people entering the motorway services building. “This gateway isn’t just for road accidents,” he muttered, opening the boot of the car and taking out a pump-action shotgun. “From the numbers, I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.”
“So what’s changed?”
Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun. “The rise of secularism has a hand in it, but mostly it’s down to CPR. Death takes a hold—you come here, someone resuscitates you, you leave.”
“Right. So what’s the President doing here?”
Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster. “An accident. He’s not meant to be here at all—like us. Are you packing?”
I nodded.
“Then let’s see what’s going on. And act dead—we don’t want to attract any attention.”
We strode slowly down the parking lot towards the motorway services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.
We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring a Royal Automobile Club man who tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit, airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big difference. Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the burden of life was pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that although many people were walking in the main entrance, not so many people were walking out.
We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the canteen, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking softly, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.
“Are all these people dead?” I asked.
“Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.” Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us—the Southside services—to the other side, the Northside. I looked out the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge that stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.
“No one comes back, do they?”
“ ‘The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns, ’ ” replied Spike. “It’s the last journey we ever make.”
The waitress called out a number. “Thirty-two?”
“Here!” said a couple quite near us.
“Thank you, the Northside is ready for you now.”
“Northside?” echoed the woman. “I think there’s been