The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [548]
“You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!”
The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves but got up nonetheless and walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched, their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the motorway. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living, heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God’s name was I doing here?
I was interrupted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and pointed. On the far side of the canteen was a frail old man who was sitting by himself at a table. I’d seen President Formby once or twice before, but not for about a decade. According to Dad, he would die of natural causes in six days, and it wouldn’t be unkind to say that he looked it. He was painfully thin, and his eyes seemed sunken into his sockets. His teeth, so much a trademark, more protruding than ever. A lifetime’s entertaining can be punishing, a half lifetime in politics doubly so. He was hanging on to keep Kaine from power, and by the look of it, he was losing and knew it.
I moved to get up but Spike murmured:
“We might be too late. Look at his table.”
There was a “Number 33” sign in front of him. I felt Spike tense and lower his shoulders, as though he had seen someone he recognized but didn’t want them to see him.
“Thursday,” he whispered, “get the President to my car by whatever means you can before the waitress comes back. I have to take care of something. I’ll see you outside.”
“What? Hey, Spike!”
But he was away, moving slowly amongst the lost souls milling around the newsagent until he was gone from sight. I took a deep breath, got up and crossed to Formby’s table.
“Hullo, young lady!” said the President. “Where are me bodyguards?”
“I’ve no time to explain, Mr. President, but you need to come with me.”
“Oh, well,” he said agreeably, “if you say so—but I’ve just ordered pie and chips. Could eat a horse and probably will, too!” He grinned and laughed weakly.
“We must go,” I urged. “I will explain everything, I promise!”
“But I’ve already paid—”
“Table 33?” said the waitress, who had crept up behind me.
“That’s us,” replied the President cheerfully.
“There’s been a problem with your order. You’re going to have to leave for the moment, but we’ll keep it hot for you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t meant to be dead, and the staff knew it.
“Now can we go?”
“I’m not leaving until I get a refund,” he said stubbornly.
“Your life is in danger, Mr. President.”
“Been in danger many times, young lady, but I’m not leaving till I get my ten bob back.”
“I will pay it,” I replied. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
I heaved him to his feet and walked him to the exit. As we pushed open the doors and stumbled out, three disreputable-looking men appeared from the shadows. They were all armed.
“Well, well!” said the first man, who was dressed in a very tired and battered SpecOps uniform. He had stubble, oily hair and was pale to the point of cadaverousness. With one hand he held an aged SpecOps-issue revolver, and the other was planted firmly on the top of his head. “Looks like we’ve got some live ones here!”
“Drop your gun,” said the second.
“You’ll live to regret this,” I told him, but realized the stupidity of the comment as soon as I had said it.
“Way too late for that!” he replied. “Your gun, if you please.”
I complied, and he grabbed Formby and took him back inside while the first man picked up my gun and put it in his pocket.
“Now you,” said the first man again, “inside. We’ve got a little trading to do, and time is fleeting.”
I didn’t know where Spike was, but he had sensed the danger, that much was certain. I supposed he had a plan, and if I delayed, perhaps it would help.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing much,” laughed the man who had his hand pressed firmly