The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

“Hades.”

“Acheron? Flatline, sister. The man’s toast. Crashed and burned at J-twelve on the four.”

“So we’re led to believe. If you hear anything?—”

“No problem, Thursday.”

“And we can keep this between ourselves?”

He smiled.

“After staking, secrets is what I do best.”

“Hang on—”

I had caught sight of a brightly colored sports car in a second-hand car lot on the other side of the road. Spike slowed down.

“What’s up?”

“I . . . er . . . need a car. Can you drop me over there?”

Spike executed an illegal U-turn, causing the following car to brake violently and slew across the road. The driver started to hurl abuse until he saw that it was a SpecOps black and white, then wisely kept quiet and drove on. I retrieved my bag.

“Thanks for the lift. I’ll see you about.”

“Not if I see you first!” said Spike. “I’ll see what I can dig up on your missing friend.”

“I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

“Good-bye.”

“So long.”

“Cheerio,” said a timid-sounding voice from the back. We both turned and looked into the rear of the car. Mr. Meakle had changed back. A thin, rather pathetic-looking man was sitting in the back seat, completely naked and very

muddy. His hands were clasped modestly over his genitals.

“Mr. Meakle! Welcome back!” said Spike, grinning broadly as he added in a scolding tone: “You didn’t take your tablets, did you?”

Mr. Meakle shook his head miserably.

I thanked Spike again. As he drove off I could see Mr. Meakle waving to me a bit stupidly through the rear window. Spike did another U-turn, causing a second car to brake hard, and was gone.

I stared at the sports car on the front row of the lot under a banner marked BARGAIN. There could be no mistake. The car was definitely the one that had appeared before me in my hospital room. And I had been driving it. It was me who had told me to come to Swindon. It was me who had told me that Acheron wasn’t dead. If I hadn’t come to Swindon then I wouldn’t have seen the car and wouldn’t have been able to buy it. It didn’t make a great deal of sense, but what little I did know was that I had to have it.

“Can I help you, madam?” asked an oily salesman who had appeared almost from nowhere, rubbing his hands nervously and sweating profusely in the heat.

“This car. How long have you had it?”

“The 356 Speedster? About six months.”

“Has it ever been up to London in that time?”

“London?” repeated the salesman, slightly puzzled. “Not at all. Why?”

“No reason. I’ll take it.”

The salesman looked slightly shocked.