The Woman Who Died a Lot

30. Thursday: Budget

“You don’t look very well,” said Duffy.

I was sitting at my desk, head down on the cool walnut surface, my temples throbbing as though fit to burst. I was tired, annoyed, frustrated, and my leg hurt badly.

“I don’t feel very well,” I answered.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Painkillers or something?”

“It won’t work. I’ve got so many patches stuck on my arse that my cheeks look like a couple of shrink-wrapped turkeys.”

I was silent for a moment.

“Duffy,” I said, face still resting on the cool desktop, “I do need someone to go and score me some stronger painkillers. Not the stuff you get in chemists’ or from doctors—the sort you buy in a pub car park at night from a guy named Nobby who pretends he’s your best mate.”

Duffy gave a polite cough. “Commander Hicks is here, ma’am.”

I looked up to see that yes, Braxton was here, and presumably he must have heard my attempt to coerce my subordinate into scoring illegal patches on my behalf.

“It’s the pain talking,” I said quickly. “I wasn’t serious. What I really need is a new body—and that’s not as daft as you might imagine. Are you here for the meeting?”

He nodded and placed a copy of his budget proposal on my desk. It looked suspiciously thin.

“How’s the job going, Thursday?” he asked somewhat portentously.

“I got shot at yesterday morning. Mrs. Hilly of the Blyton Fundamentalist movement has made death threats, and Colonel Wexler of the SLS is none too pleased that I won’t sanction dawn raids for overdue books.”

“Librarying is a harder profession than the public realizes,” he said. “People think it’s all rubber stamps, knowing that Dewey 521 is celestial mechanics and saying. ‘Try looking under fiction’ sixty-eight times a day.”

“I was an assistant librarian when at uni,” I told him. “The Dewey system stays with you forever.”

“Listen,” said Braxton, suddenly becoming more serious, “I want you to know that despite what happens in there, I’m on your side.”

This did sound ominous.

“What is going to happen in there?”

“I’m on your side,” he repeated. “Just remember that. See you in there.”

He left to go through to the boardroom, and I heaved myself to my feet, wincing badly.

“Want a hand?” said Duffy, who was at my side.

“I’ll be fine. The muscles work, it’s the ragged nerve endings that are giving me hell.”

“What did Braxton mean by saying he was ‘on your side’?”

“Don’t know. Now, let’s kick some budget butt.”

***

The boardroom was down the corridor from my office, and I was stopped just outside it by Phoebe, who looked agitated.

“Can I have a word?” she said. “It’s important.”

“Okay.”

I told Duffy I’d only be a moment and moved a little way along the corridor. “So what’s up?”

Phoebe looked left and right and lowered her voice. “I’m thinking of killing Jack Schitt during the budget meeting.”

“We favor reasoned debate.”

“It’s not about the budget. It’s about Judith. Judith Trask.”

“Who?”

“The name I gave Jack when he asked me at the Adelphi. Judith Trask.”

“You mean it wasn’t a fake name?”

“No,” said Phoebe, her eyes wide with shock and the enormity of what had happened. I felt my heart fall, too.

“He killed her?”

“Someone did. Judith’s name was the first that popped into my head. She’s not even an active SpecOps agent—simply a logistics officer at SO-31. An accountant. Someone took her out at the junction of Goddard and Mill. She was married and had two children.”

“Okay,” I said, having come across this sort of thing before. “Firstly, that might not be Jack Schitt in there. Secondly, when you want to take on Goliath, you play the long game. Promise me you’ll do nothing.”

She looked at me. “But—”

“Promise me. If you want to be like me, this is one thing you have to do.”

“I promise.”

“Good. We’ll talk later.”

I patted her arm and walked into the boardroom.

It was a large room with one wall entirely glazed so there was a somewhat precipitous view to the main lending floor five stories below. Settled neatly in a recessed alcove at one end of the room was a bust of Andrew Carnegie, and at the other end of the room was another of Sir Thomas Bodley. Everyone was there when I arrived but was yet to be seated. Jack Schitt caught my eye immediately, and we stared at each other. I was wondering if he was the real or the Synthetic, and he was doubtless wondering the same about me.

“Good morning,” I said as I lumbered to my seat. “I’m Thursday Parke-Laine-Next, the new Wessex Region chief librarian. We’ll run around the room briefly for anyone unfamiliar with who is present. On my left, Regional SpecOps Commander Braxton Hicks.”

He nodded a greeting to the room, but everyone knew who he was.

“Next to him is the newly appointed divisional chief of SO-27, Phoebe Smalls.”

She nodded a greeting and ignored Jack’s patronizing stare.

“Next to Miss Smalls is Mr. Jack Schitt, who is representing Goliath while Mr. Lupton Cornball is on . . . other duties. Just what are those duties, Mr. Schitt?”

Jack Schitt looked at me and smiled, then addressed the room.

“Mr. Cornball is currently liaising with the city council and Goliath subsidiary company Smite Solutions to spare Swindon’s downtown from the scheduled smiting tomorrow.”

“And how do they plan to do that, Mr. Schitt?”

He stared at me for a moment. Using convicted felons to avert a smiting would not be popular, even if they were ax murderers. It would be a sorry return to those dark, barbaric days when nations actually executed their own citizens. Jack looked at me and smiled.

“We have engaged the services of convicted felons, who have agreed to be vaporized in order that property be saved. Their considerable fee—over a million pounds per man—will be paid to their dependents and families as well as victims, if any are living. I would like to stress that this is entirely voluntary, and we will be erecting a marble tablet for those who sacrificed everything to bring about the saving of Swindon’s valuable architectural heritage.”

That didn’t go quite how I’d planned it. Miles hadn’t said they were volunteers. I looked around the table, and everyone nodded sagely at the felons’ selfless sacrifice. One of the city councilors wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Right,” I said. “Sitting next to Mr. Schitt is Mrs. Bunty Fairweather of the City Council, and her assistant, Mr. Banerjee. Next to them is the Wessex Library Service chief accountant Conrad Spoons, and Colonel Wexler of the SLS is sitting next to him.”

I had the six others introduce themselves, as I weren’t sure who they were, then ended up by explaining that Geraldine would be taking the minutes and that we could drop the “Fatso’s” part of the Wessex Library Service title, as we needed to be done by midday.

First up was Conrad Spoons, and he outlined in a drab monotone the annual budget of the Wessex Library Service, beginning with the current and projected running costs, then outlining his plans for capital expenditure. I was quite glad when Duffy sneaked into the room to whisper in my ear that Miles wanted to have a quick word.

“Carry on,” I said, making for the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

I found Miles in the corridor.

“Is Jack Schitt in there?” he asked.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Did you hear that the felons up at Wroughton actually agreed to be vaporized in exchange for some cash for their victims and family?”

“That’s a lie,” said Miles. “Goliath doesn’t give money to anyone, especially ax murderers. Besides, such an act of self-sacrifice would show considerable empathy and remorse, and that could engender a limited form of absolution—they would hardly be effective at all in drawing the fire from Swindon.”

Miles’s argument rang true—never believe anything Goliath says.

“What are you here for anyway?” I asked. “I’m in a really boring budget meeting, but it’s kind of important.”

“They nobbled him!”

“Nobbled who? Joffy?”

“No—our righteous man. Goliath managed to infiltrate our defenses, and after forty minutes of careful argument they succeeded in persuading our man to pursue a life of hedonistic self-destruction. He’s currently down at a lap-dancing bar getting plastered and running up gambling debts while eating delicacies made from pandas’ ears.”

“That was quick work.”

“Smite Solutions have a team of dedicated Debasers, specially trained to darken and pervert even the purest mind. If someone has a weakness, they’ll find it. Our man’s weakness was licorice, and once they knew that, it was a short hop to a life of immoral excess.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

Miles looked around and lowered his voice. “We thought this might happen, so we kept a righteous man in reserve—just in case. But since we’ve obviously got a mole at the GSD blabbing stuff to Goliath, we need someone we can trust to bring him in. Someone with guile, cunning and resourcefulness.”

“You want me to bring him in?”

“No, we wanted you to ask Phoebe Smalls for us. Just kidding. Yes, of course we want you to do it.”

I tried to tell him I was in no fit state to do anything, and he said that all I would have to do was to drive the righteous man up to Wroughton and get him to within twenty yards of the felons at midday on Friday. It seemed easy enough, so I agreed. He then said he would contact me tomorrow morning with an address and left. I was about to go back in when Duffy stopped me.

“Lucy got this from a guy loitering near the bins.”

It was an adhesive patch about the size of Post-it, upon which was printed a smiley face.

“Nice work,” I said, pulling up my shirt so he could stick it on my lower back. “Not a word to Braxton about this.”

“Sorry about that,” I said as I walked back into the boardroom. “Where have we got to?”

“We were just talking about Special Library Services’ budgetary requirements for next year,” said Colonel Wexler, “and extra staffing levels if we are to implement dawn raids for overdue books.”

“Is there a legal framework for that?”I asked.

“Indeed there is,” said Conrad Spoons. “The Library Act of 1923 specifically states that a library may do everything in its power to retrieve its property.”

“And I’ll need funding for an indoor water cannon,” continued Wexler. “The riot over Mr. Colwyn Baye’s new book nearly got out of hand.”

“The SLS should be under the jurisdiction of SO-27,” said Phoebe Smalls, “so their budget should be transferred across to me. That is, unless you have any objection?”

“Not at all,” said Colonel Wexler. “My duties will remain the same, yes?”

“Pretty much.”

“Will I be able to lead dawn raids for overdue books?”

“Dawn raids certainly. Not sure about overdue books—that will be outside our mandate.”

“Oh,” said Wexler, mildly disappointed.

Braxton confirmed that switching the Special Library Services to SO-27 made a lot of sense, and also that this was a good time to outline just how much of the Wessex Library’s budget should be transferred to SO-27, and he suggested as a starting point fifty million pounds, about a third of our current budget. I looked at Conrad Spoons, and he nodded. Without the policing budget, we could concentrate on core library activities, such as lending, the pursuit of knowledge and Finisterre’s antiquarianbook section.

While this had been going on, I’d been looking occasionally at Jack Schitt. Something about him seemed different, and since I knew that if he were a Synthetic, he’d have lightning reactions, I slipped off my shoe and lobbed it at him.

“Ow!” he said as the boot hit him a glancing blow on the forehead.

“Thursday, what on earth are you doing?” demanded Braxton.

“I thought I saw a mouse,” I said somewhat stupidly, and apologized to Jack, who seemed himself after all. He glared at me, and I shrugged. After my shoe had been returned, the meeting continued.

“Perhaps,” said Conrad Spoons, “we could ask the city council whether any extra cash will be given to the Wessex Library Service in order to fund the additional collections of books made available to us from the closure of the Lobsterhood?”

“Well,” said Bunty, “this is an excellent opportunity for us to go through what we think is correct for the fiscal year 2004–2005 and at the same time peg the funding for the next ten years.”

“Yes?” I said, for Duffy had walked in again and moved to whisper in my ear.

“Your son is on the phone.”

“What? Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“He says it’s most urgent.”

“Sorry,” I said, getting to my feet again, “another emergency. Family or something.”

Duffy told me the phone was in my office, so I went through to take it. It meant I could stretch my legs, too.

“This had better be good,” I said into the phone. “I’m right in the middle of a budget meeting.”

“Sorry, Mum, but it’s about something the Manchild said. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, and it doesn’t make sense.”

“Nothing he said made sense. Which part? About the beginning of the existence or who first thought about the elephant?”

“Neither. He told me not to worry about prison and the other fourteen will thank me—‘or won’t, as it turns out.’ Do you see?”

“No.”

“They won’t thank me because their murders won’t happen and no one will ever know they were going to happen. I’m going to change all their futures. Don’t you see? Gavin’s the killer but has no idea he will be. I murder him, and everyone gets to live normal lives.”

“Hmm,” I said, “it’s kind of a stretch—and besides, you can’t kill him for something he won’t even think about doing for another thirty-six years, no matter how unpleasant he is.”

“There’s something in what you say.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “The Manchild told you that ‘the other fourteen will thank you’?”

“Yes?”

“But it’s not fourteen, is it? With Gavin dead and you not thanking yourself, only thirteen could thank you. The Manchild sent the letters, so he must have known how many there were, and that means—”

“There were sixteen letters sent, not fifteen,” said Friday.

“Right,” I replied. “There’s someone else Destiny Aware in Swindon, and whoever its has decided not to come forward. Don’t kill anyone or anything until you find out who it is.”

“Hang on,” he said, “I’m just writing myself a note. Don’t . . . kill . . . anyone. Got it.”

He told me he was going to see the Manchild again, and I told him to be very careful, adding that if he insisted on going to the timepark, he should take one of Landen’s homemade cheddars and get the Manchild to age it for a year.

I returned to the boardroom and sat down.

“My apologies,” I said, “teenage sons and their problems. Tsk! What are we to do? Why are you all staring at me?”

“You better tell her,” said Phoebe to Conrad Spoons.

“Why me?” said Conrad.

“Because you’re our accountant?” I said.

He stood up, took a deep breath, and began. “The city council has reallocated to SO-27 more than Miss Smalls asked for,” said Conrad. “Funding has been reduced across the board and includes—but is not limited to—a cut on new books, staffing, maintenance, research and staff perks.”

“We could always lose the Michelin-starred chef, I suppose,” I said. “What are the numbers?”

“Hang on,” said Spoons, going through his hastily written calculations. “Okay, here it is: This year’s Wessex Library budget was for 156 million pounds, all of which goes to SO-27. The Wessex Library operating budget for next year will be . . . 321 pounds and .67 p.”

I stared at him for a moment. “That must be a mistake.”

Spoons looked at the figures again. “Sorry,” he said, “you’re right. It’s 322 pounds and 67 p.”

It wasn’t quite the level of mistake I was hoping for. At this rate I’d have to ask a hundred million times to make a difference, and I didn’t think that was going to happen. I looked around the table. Jack Schitt had a supercilious half grin on his face, and Braxton and Phoebe were looking elsewhere. Colonel Wexler was unconcerned, since her budget had not been affected in any way. Mrs. Fairweather was the only one returning my stare.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t stop all funding. That’s just . . . well, insane.”

“Not insane,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “stupid. There’s a big difference, and the Swindon City Council is taking the stupidity deficit issue very seriously—we have to meet our stupidity targets just like any other, and cutting all funding to the Wessex Library Service is an act of such astonishing idiocy that we need commit no additional dumb acts for at least five years. You should be honored that your department is discharging the surplus for the rest of us. It’s going to be hard, and we’re all in this together.”

“Commander,” I said, addressing Braxton, “you told me when I took this job that I had an operating budget of one hundred and fifty million pounds. Okay, I understand that SO-27 will have to take some of that as we relinquish security duties, but—”

“I didn’t lie,” said Braxton. “You do have that for this year— it’s next year we’re seeing reductions.”

I suddenly had a nasty thought. “When does the new financial year begin?”

“Midnight on Sunday,” replied Spoons. “Four days away.”

“That figures,” I said, glancing at Jack Schitt. “And how long will 322 pounds and 67 p keep us going?”

“I thought you might ask,” said Conrad, checking his notepad. “If we assume a hundred-million-pound budget without Colonel Wexler and the SLS, 322 pounds equates to about one minute and forty-two seconds. If we cut everything to the bone and buy only seven books next year, we might stretch that same 322 pounds to last eight minutes and nine seconds.”

“What about if we lose the Michelin-starred chef?”

He checked his notes. “Eight minutes and twelve seconds.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Come Monday morning there won’t be any libraries open in Wessex at all?”

“Not a single one,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “but don’t take it personally. To make this even more idiotic, you’ll receive a final salary pension after less than a week’s work, and a hefty bonus for surpassing your own stupidity target.”

There was silence in the room. I asked if there was anything I could do about this and was told there wasn’t. It was a done deal, probably agreed well before any of us had entered the room, and with Goliath’s connivance.

“Okay,” I said slowly, “any other business?”

Astonishingly, there wasn’t.

“Then I call this meeting adjourned.”

Everyone got up and left. Phoebe and Braxton apologized to me and said that they didn’t like it either, but it was out of their hands. Conrad Spoons shrugged at me across the table and said he was off to the job center and would be back in an hour if there was nothing suitable available.

“I’ll be here Monday,” said Duffy, “and every day you need me until I collapse from starvation.”

“Me, too,” added Geraldine, “although I’ll probably last longer than Mr. Duffy, as I’m carrying a little extra weight at the moment.”

I gathered them closer so the others couldn’t hear.

“I appreciate the loyalty, guys. Does the library have anything to sell? Spare books or Finisterre’s tiltrotor or a private airship or something?”

“The books are owned by the nation,” said Duffy, “but we’ll have a look at everything else. What are you thinking of? A garage sale?”

“Pretty much. For breathing space. See what you can find.”

They told me they would and filed out, leaving only myself and Jack Schitt in the room.

“Well,” I said, “did that meet all your expectations?”

“Surpassed them, old girl,” he said. “I wonder what the press will make of your generous pension and bonus.”

“This is all your doing, isn’t it?”

“Of course! Do you think for one moment I would pass up on an opportunity to cause trouble for you?”

“Protocol 451 really has been canceled, hasn’t it?”

“Most definitely. Call this partial payback for the trouble you’ve caused us over the years. I hate to kick an old dog when it’s down, but we knew you’d have blunted teeth one day. I’m just glad I lived long enough to see it.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve lost none of your charm, Jack. But these teeth aren’t as blunt as you think.”

“Look at you,” he sneered, “a shambling wreck, sent out to grass as a librarian. Believe me, my girl, you are well and truly blunted.”

I stared at him, my anger rising. Not because of his taunts but because he was probably right.

“Now,” he continued, “I want you to take me downstairs to see your friend Finisterre. I need to look at some St. Zvlkx books, and as chief librarian you have access to the vaults.”

I felt my heart sink. “You’re another Day Player, aren’t you?”

“I could have ducked the shoe,” he said with a smile, “but I purposefully chose not to in the quarter of a second it took to leave your hand and arrive at my head. I love being a better me. So strong, so smart, so perfect. Do you know the cube root of seventeen?”

“It must have slipped my mind.”

“I do. It’s 2.57128159. Do you want the next seventy-two decimal places?”

But I had more important things on my mind.

“Why did you have Judith Trask killed?” I asked. “She was innocent of everything.”

“To show your youthful protégée that lying to a Top One Hundred is not to be tolerated and that actions have consequences. Phoebe Smalls has trouble stamped all over her. Now, take me downstairs to the vaults.”

“I’ll not help you, Jack.”

“I think you will. If you don’t, I will pick you up and throw you through that window.”

He indicated the glass panel that led to a five-story drop onto the main lending floor.

“You’d land somewhere between the books of Helen Fielding and that author with the beard whose name I can never remember.”

“I have problems with his name, too. Think you can get out of the building without being seen?”

“Already taken care of, girl. Look there.”

He pointed at a figure dressed in identical clothes walking toward the exit. The figure stopped for a moment and looked up. It was Jack Schitt—or a copy, at any rate.

“The real you?”

“No, I’m in a coma at present. That was just a standard Mark Vb ‘Alibi’ Model. By the time anyone got up here following your fatal fall, I would have zipped myself up in a body bag and hidden in the roof space just behind the water tank. I’d probably not be discovered for years. The point is that with the ‘through the window’ plan, you’d be dead and I’d be in the clear to try another method to get to the vaults. From my position it’s win half-win, and from yours it’s lose-lose. So think again.”

I did. In fact, I desperately tried to think up a plan of action. I would probably be able to get to my pistol, since he was on the other side of the room, but then I realized with a falling heart that he probably already had it. He guessed my thoughts and showed me the revolver he had lifted from me earlier.

“I took it from you when you entered. And don’t even think about going for the Beretta on your ankle. I can have you through the window before you get even halfway there.”

He was doubtless right, and the situation was looking increasingly desperate. But just at that moment, I suddenly felt different. My leg was no longer hurting me—in fact, I felt no pain at all, and a warm feeling of euphoria suddenly swept over me. I felt better, stronger and fitter, and I even had some of those feelings for Landen, too. I must have been replaced during one of the two visits out of the boardroom—probably when on the phone to Friday. Knowing that changed the game plan. I would be as fast as Jack and get off at least three shots before he’d even touched me—and all the shots would make the same entry hole, even if he was moving. I was that good.

I made a swift lunge for the Beretta in my ankle holster.

It didn’t quite work out the way I’d planned. The limited mobility in my back and leg stopped my hand four inches from the pistol, and I misjudged the position of the table on the way down and hit my forehead. Now momentarily off balance, I grabbed the chair behind me, which had casters and slid away from me, causing me to completely lose my balance and collapse in an undignified heap on the floor.

“Shit,” I said, glancing at the mindworm tattoo on the back of my hand for confirmation. “I’m still me.”

Jack had watched the pathetic spectacle and simply walked up, took the Beretta from my ankle and then dragged me to my feet by the scruff of the neck and pressed my face hard against the glass.

“Are you an idiot or something?” he demanded angrily, his sickly-sweet breath hot on my face. “Why are you taking such foolhardy risks in the face of such overwhelming odds?”

I didn’t know either, until everything started to change colors and I heard birds singing.

“Oops,” I said, “my PA gave me an illegal patch from some guy loitering near the bins.”

“You are a sad, pathetic little creature,” said Jack, “and I pity you. Now: We’re going to the vaults. If you don’t come, I’ll make sure that it’s not just you who suffers but your family, too—even the imaginary ones.”

“Hang on,” I said, trying to reach my smiley patch to pull it off but failing, since they’re buggers to get off when you’ve just stuck one on. “Would you mind?”

He ripped it off, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing did, in fact.

“My hands have gone numb,” I said with a giggle, and my tongue feels too big.”

“Come on,” he said as he handed me my stick and pushed me to the door. “And make it convincing if anyone talks to us.”

We met Duffy in the corridor outside, although I had to assume it was Duffy, as his head looked more like a jack-o’-lantern.

“I’ve got a list of things we could possibly sell,” he said, “and your husband is on the line to remind you not to miss Tuesday’s keynote address at MadCon2004 at two.”

“I’ll call him back,” I said. “Mr. Schitt is being shown the antiquarian section.”

I was going to add some semiambiguous statement that would alert Duffy to what was going on so he would in turn alert Colonel Wexler, but it was difficult to concentrate with a Haysi Fantayzee track going around in my head at full volume, and in a moment Duffy was gone.

“Which way?” said Jack.

“That way,” I said, pointing down the corridor. “First left after the lizards.”