Something Rotten

35 What Thursday Did Next

The news networks had a field day. The death of St Zvlkx so soon after his resurrection raised a few eyebrows, but the Windowmaker's somewhat bizarre accident while 'on assignment' became a sensation, supplanting even the upcoming Superhoop from the front pages. Incredibly, despite severe internal injuries and a devastating head wound, she didn't die. She was taken to St Septyk's, where they battled to stabilise her. Not from any great sense of moral duty, you understand, but because she could finger the sixty-seven or sixty-eight clients who had paid her to carry out her foul trade, and this was a prize the prosecutors were keen to claim. Within an hour of her coming out of surgery, three attempts by underworld bosses had been made to silence her for good. She was moved to the secure ward at the Kingsdown home for the criminally insane, and there she stayed, comatose, attached to a ventilator.

'Spike was right. I should have told him earlier,' I said to Gran, 'or tipped off the authorities or something!'

Granny Next was feeling a lot better today. Although greatly enfeebled by her advanced years, she had actually walked around for a bit this morning. When I arrived she had her reading glasses on and was surrounded by stacks of well-read tomes. The kind of thing one generally reads for study, and rarely for pleasure.

'But you didn't,' she replied, looking over the top of her spectacles, 'and your father knew you wouldn't when he told you.'

'He also said that I would decide whether she lived or died, but he was wrong — it's out of my hands now.' I rubbed my scalp and sighed. 'Poor Spike. He's taking it very badly.'

'Where is he?'

'Still being interviewed by SO-9. They got an agent down from London who's been after her for over ten years. I'd be there yet but for Flanker.'

'Flanker?' queried Gran. 'What did he do?'

'He came to thank me for leading SO-14 to a huge stockpile of hidden Danish literature.'

'I thought you were trying not to help them?'

I shrugged.

'So did I. How was I to know the Danish underground really were using the Australian Writers' Guild as a depository?'

'Did you tell them it was Kaine who had paid her to kill you?'

'No,' I said, looking down. 'I don't know who I can trust and the last thing I need is to be taken into protective custody or anything. If I'm not at the touchline tomorrow for the Superhoop, the Neanderthals won't play.'

'But there is good news, surely?'

'Yes,' I said, brightening somewhat. 'We got some Danish books out of the country, Hamlet is on the mend — and I got Landen back.'

Gran stared at me and lifted my face with her hand.

'For good''

I looked down at my wedding ring.

'Twenty-four hours and counting.'

'They did the same to me.' Gran sighed, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes with a bony hand. 'We were very happy for over forty years until he was taken away again — this time in a more natural and inevitable way. And that was over thirty years ago.'

She fell silent for a moment, and to distract her I told her about St Zvlkx, his death and his Revealments, and how little of it made any sense. Time-travelling paradoxes tended to make my head spin.

'Sometimes,' said Gran, holding up the cover of the Swindon Evening Globe, 'the facts are all in front of us — we just have to get them in the right order.'

I took the picture and stared at it. It had been taken a few seconds after the piano stool fell on Cindy. I hadn't realised how far the wreckage of the Steinway had scattered. A little way down the road the lonely figure of Zvlkx was still lying on the pavement, abandoned in the drama.

'Can I keep this?'

'Of course. Be careful, my dear — remember that your father can't warn you of every single one of your potential demises — invulnerability is reserved only for superheroes. The croquet final is far from won and anything can happen in the next twenty-four hours.'

I thanked her for her kind words, plumped up her pillows for her and then departed.

'A Neanderthal defence?' repeated Aubrey and Alf when I found them taking 'pegging out' practice at the croquet stadium. They had threatened to fire me if I didn't tell them what I was up to.

'Of course, any team would spend millions trying to get a Neanderthal on the side — but they just won't do it.'

'I've already got them. You can't pay them and I really don't know how they will work as a team with humans — I get the feeling that they'll be a team of their own within your team.'

'I don't care,' said Aubrey, leaning on his mallet and sweeping a hand in the direction of the squad. 'I was fooling myself. Biffo's too old, Smudger has a drink problem and Snake is mentally unstable. George is okay and I can handle myself but a fresh crop of talent has infused the Whackers' team. They'll be fielding people like "Bonecrusher" McSneed.'

He wasn't kidding. A mysterious benefactor — probably Goliath — had given a vast amount of money to the Whackers. Enough for them to buy almost anyone they wanted. Goliath were taking no chances that the seventh Revealment would be fulfilled.

'So we're still in the game with five Thais?'

'Yes,' said Aubrey with a smile, 'we're still in the game.'

I dropped in to see Mum on the way home, ostensibly to take Hamlet and the dodos round to Landen's place. I found my mother in the kitchen with Bismarck, who seemed to be in the middle of telling her a joke.

'. . . and then the white horse he says: "What, Erich?'"

'Oh, Herr B!' said my mother, giggling and slapping him on the shoulder. 'You are a wag!'

She noticed me standing there.

'Thursday! Are you okay? I heard on the radio there was some sort of accident involving a piano . . .'

'I'm fine, Mum, really.' I stared coldly at the Prussian Chancellor, who, I had decided, was taking liberties with my mother's affections. 'Good afternoon, Herr Bismarck. So, you haven't sorted out the Schleswig-Holstein question yet?'

'I am waiting still for the Danish prime minister,' replied Bismarck, rising to greet me, 'but I am growing impatient.'

'I expect him very soon, Herr Bismarck,' said my mother, putting the kettle on the stove. 'Would you like a cup of tea while you're waiting?'

He bowed politely again.

'Only if Battenberg cake we will be having.'

'I'm sure there's a bit left over if that naughty Mr Hamlet hasn't eaten it!' Her face dropped when she discovered that, indeed, naughty Mr Hamlet had eaten it. 'Oh dear! Would you like an almond slice instead?'

Bismarck's eyebrows twitched angrily.

'Everywhere I turn the Danish are mocking my person and the German confederation,' he intoned angrily, smacking his fist into his open palm. 'The incorporation of the Duchy of Schleswig into the Danish state overlooked I might have, but personal Battenberg insult I will not. It is war!'

'Hang on a minute, Otto,' said my mother, who, having brought up a large family almost single-handed, was well placed to sort out the whole Battenberg-Schleswig-Holstein issue, 'I thought we'd agreed that you weren't going to invade Denmark?'

'That was then, this is now,' muttered the Chancellor, puffing out his chest so aggressively that one of his brass buttons shot across the room and struck Pickwick a glancing blow on the back of the head. 'Choice: Mr Hamlet for his behaviour apologises on behalf of Danish people, or we go to war!'

'He's talking to that nice conflict resolution man at the moment,' replied my mother in an anxious tone.

'Then it is war,' announced Bismarck, sitting down at the table and having an almond slice anyway. 'More talk is pointless. Return I wish to 1863.'

But then the door opened. It was Hamlet. He stared at us all and looked, well, different.

'Ah!' he said, drawing his sword. 'Bismarck! Your aggressive stance against Denmark is at an end. Prepare ... to die!'

The conflict resolution talk had obviously affected him deeply. Bismarck, unmoved by the sudden threat to his life, drew a pistol.

'So! Battenberg you finish behind my back, yes?'

And they might have killed one another there and then if Mum and I hadn't intervened.

'Hamlet!' I said. 'Killing Bismarck won't get your father back, now, will it?'

'Otto!' said Mum. 'Killing Hamlet won't alter the feelings of the Schleswiggers, now, will it?'

I took Hamlet into the hall and tried to explain why sudden retributive action might not be such a good idea after all.

'I disagree,' he said, swishing his sword through the air. 'The first thing I shall do when I get home is kill that murdering uncle of mine, marry Ophelia and take on Fortmbrass. Better still, I shall invade Norway in a pre-emptive bid, and then Sweden and — what's the one next to that?'

'Finland?'

'That's the one.'

He placed his left hand on his hip and lunged aggressively with his sword at some imaginary foe. Pickwick made the mistake of walking into the corridor at that precise moment and made a startled plooock noise as the point of Hamlet's rapier stopped two inches from her head. She looked unsteady for a moment, then fainted clean away.

'That conflict management specialist really taught me a thing or two, Miss Next. Apparently, my problem was an unresolved or latent conflict — the death of my father — that persists and festers in an individual — me. To face up to problems we must meet those conflicts head on and resolve them to the best of our ability!'

It was worse than I thought.

'So you won't pretend to be mad and talk a lot, then?'

'No need,' replied Hamlet, laughing. 'The time for talking is over. Polomus will be for the high jump, too. As soon as I marry his daughter he'll be fired as adviser and made chief librarian or something. Yes, we're going to have some changes around my play, I can tell you.'

'What about building tolerances between opponents for a longstanding peaceful and ultimately rewarding coexistence between the conflicting parties?'

'I think he was going to cover that in the second session. It doesn't matter. By this time tomorrow Hamlet will be a dynamic tale of one man's revenge and rise to power as the single greatest king Denmark has ever seen. It's the end of Hamlet the ditherer and the beginning of Hamlet the man of action! There's something rotten in the state of Denmark and Hamlet says. . . it's payback time!'

This was bad. I couldn't send him back until Mrs Tiggy-Winkle and Shgakespeafe had sorted his play out, and in this state there was no saying what he was capable of. I had to think fast.

'Good idea, Hamlet. But before that I think you might like to know that Danish people are being insulted and maligned here in England, and that Kierkegaard, Andersen, Branner, Blixen and Farquitt are having their books burned.'

He went quiet and stared at me with dumbstruck horror in his eyes.

'I am doing what I can to stop this,' I went on, 'but—'

'Daphne's books are being burned?'

'You know of her?'

'Of course. I'm a big fan. We have to have something to do during those long winters at Elsinore. Mum's a big fan, too -although my uncle prefers Catherine Cookson. But enough talk,' he carried on, his post-prevarication non-hesitative brain clicking over rapidly, 'what shall we do about it?'

'Everything hinges on us winning the Superhoop tomorrow, but we need a show of force in case Kaine tries anything. Can you get together as many Danish supporters as you can?'

'Is it very important?'

'It could be vital.'

Hamlet's eyes flashed with steely resolution. He picked his skull off the hall table, placed a hand on my shoulder and struck a dramatic pose.

'By tomorrow morning, my friend, you will have more Danes than you know what to do with. But stay this idle chitter-chatter; I must away!'

And without another word he was out of the door. From all-talk-no-action he was now all-action-no-talk. I should never have brought him into the real world.

'By the way,' said Hamlet, who had popped his head back around the door, 'you won't tell Ophelia about Emma, will you?' 'My lips are sealed.'

I gathered up the dodos and popped them in the car, then drove home. I had called Landen to say I was unhurt soon after Cindy's accident. He said he'd known all along I'd come to no harm, and I promised that I'd avoid assassins where possible from now on. I couldn't pull up outside the house as there were at least three news vans, so I parked round the back, walked through the alleyway, nodded a greeting to Millon and walked across the back lawn to the French windows.

'Lipsum!' said Friday, running up to give me a hug. I picked him up as Alan sized up his new home, trying to work out the areas of highest potential mischief.

'There's a telegram for you on the table,' said Landen, 'and if you're feeling masochistic the press would love you to reiterate how the Mallets will win tomorrow.'

'Well, I'm not,' I replied, tearing open the telegram. 'How was your . . .'

My voice trailed off as I read the telegram. It was clear and to the point.

'Darling?' I called out.

'Yes?' came Landen's voice from upstairs.

'I have to go out.'

'Assassins?'

'No — megalomaniac tyrants keen on global domination.'

'Do you want me to wait up?'

'No, but Friday needs a bath — and don't forget behind the ears.'