The Woman Who Died a Lot

40. Monday: End

So there we were, my husband, Landen, and I, sitting in the comfort of a Skyrail car, gliding effortlessly above the North Wessex countryside, heading back from Swindon. We’d just listened to the judge remand Friday into custody, “irrespective of his previous good character and his family’s high standing in the community.” Our lawyer had suggested he might do two years if we could plea the charge down to accidental wounding from grievous bodily harm, plus another six years for firearms offenses. He’d be out in three, with good behavior. It might have been worse. Any gunshot wound is potentially fatal, and if Gavin had died, Friday could have been in for life. He’d take the plea and do the time: After all, three years in the pokey was exactly as Friday’s Letter of Destiny had predicted.

So that’s pretty much how it all turnedout. A week that began with Landen and I taking a trip into Swindon and ended with a pillar of fire cleansing the world of an evil it could well do without, and my daughter Tuesday with a husband and soul mate, and the knowledge they would both live a long and eventful life and have three kids. We also knew from his summary that Gavin remained constant and true despite his tiresomely vulgar demeanor. We’d probably get to like him in our own way, so long as we never invited him to dinner with other people present. Or if we did, we’d make sure they were fully briefed and supplied with earplugs.

“I still don’t know why he came to shoot the other Gavin by mistake,” said Landen, “or even how he knew there was another Gavin.”

“Friday doesn’t know either. A moment of inexplicable madness. So let’s just move on.”

My cell phone rang. It was John Duffy. He spoke a few words, and I thanked him and snapped the mobile shut.

“News from the hospital: Gavin in Liddington lost his leg above the knee. The bullet did too much damage as it passed through for him to keep it.”

“Poor bastard,” said Landen. “Do I have to start this foundation for people with missing limbs? I’ve never really had a problem losing mine.”

“Yes,” I said sarcastically, “you never complained. Not once. One-legged Gavin will run it when he’s well enough. His Letter of Destiny says so.”

“I’m glad someone found a function out of this fiasco.”

“Friday will find his,” I said, laying my hand on Landen’s. “He’ll just not be able to start looking for another two years.”

“I have the oddest feeling he might already have done so,” said Landen. “Something about all those Letters of Destiny just doesn’t ring true. If your could send your younger self a message revealing you how it would all turn out, would you?”

“Not in a million years.”

“No,” said Landen, “neither would I. But I have an idea that the shadowy potential future Friday might still have some surprises in store for us—kind of looking after his younger self, y’know?”

“I hope you’re right.”

The Skyrail car sped over the M4 as it headed toward Aldbourne and home.

I took a deep breath.

“Landen?”

“Yes?”

“Would you be really annoyed if I did some . . . exploration in my spare time?”

“What, like in Tierra del Fuego? Someone said there might be an undiscovered continent somewhere around the theoretical South Pole.”

“No, somewhere further, deeper—into things lost and forgotten.”

“You want to take the last Day Player into the Dark Reading Matter, don’t you?”

“The DRM is in trouble. God only knows what Goliath is up to in there—and besides, I need to get Pickwick back.”

The absence of our pet dodo had confused us until Tuesday’s Encephalovision started to send back images of giant marshmallows and more scenes from The Dukes of Hazzard, interspersed with the best pictures we’d so far seen of the Dark Reading Matter. Pickwick went across the night before the shooting. The Wingco put forward the theory that an Imaginary Childhood Friend might have moved across about that time and taken Pickwick with her.

We questioned the Wingco closely, as he seemed to know something we didn’t, but if he knew anything, he wasn’t being very forthcoming.

“The DRM is the new frontier,” I said now. “When you’re talking human imagination, there are really no limits. I’ll take the last Day Player and be back in twenty-four hours.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ll probably need a flashlight and a length of rope—but I won’t bother with a packed lunch.”

We sat in silence for a while until the Skyrail car passed Aldbourne’s church, and the yew tree with the warm sunny spot beneath it, and a memorial stone.

“Do you ever think of Jenny?” I asked, staring out the window.

“All the time.”

“Me, too.”