The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

I looked at the alarm clock as a hammer banged inside my head.

“I’ve been better. How are things at work?”

“Not brilliant,” replied Victor with a certain reserve in his voice. “The Goliath Corporation want to speak to you about Jack Schitt and the Brontë Federation are hopping mad over the damage to the book. Was it absolutely necessary to burn Thornfield to the ground?”

“That was Hades—”

“And Rochester? Blinded and with a shattered hand? I suppose that was Hades too?”

“Well, yes.”

“This is the mother of all balls-ups, Thursday. You’d better come in and explain yourself to these Brontë people. I’ve got their Special Executive Committee with me and they are not here to pin a medal on your chest.”

There was a knock at the door. I told Victor I would be in directly and got unsteadily to my feet.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Room service!” replied a voice outside the door. “A Mr. Parke-Laine rang in some coffee for you!”

“Hang on!” I said as I tried to shoo Pickwick back into the bathroom; the hotel had strict rules about pets. Unusually for him he seemed slightly aggressive; if he had possessed any wings he would probably have flapped them angrily.

“This...is...no...time...to...be...a...pest!” I grunted as I pushed the recalcitrant bird into the bathroom and locked the door.

I held my head for a moment as it thumped painfully, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and opened the door. Big mistake. There was a waiter there but he wasn’t alone. As soon as the door was fully open two other men in dark suits entered and pressed me against the wall with a gun to my head.

“You’re going to need another two cups if you want to join me for coffee,” I groaned.

“Very funny,” said the man dressed as the waiter.

“Goliath?”

“In one.”

He pulled back the hammer on the revolver.

“Gloves are off, Next. Schitt is an important man and we need to know where he is. National security and the Crimea depend upon it and one lousy officer’s life isn’t worth diddly shit when you look at the big picture.”

“I’ll take you to him,” I gasped, trying to give myself some breathing space. “It’s a little way out of town.”

The Goliath agent relaxed his grip and told me to get dressed. A few minutes later we were walking out of the hotel. My head was still sore and a dull pain thumped in my temples, but at least I was thinking more clearly. There was a small crowd ahead of me, and I was delighted to see it was the Mutlar family preparing to return to London. Daisy was arguing with her father and Mrs. Mutlar was shaking her head wearily.

“Gold digger!” I yelled.

Daisy and her father stopped arguing and looked at me as the Goliath men tried to steer me past.

“What did you say!?”

“You heard. I can’t think who the bigger tart is, your daughter or your wife.”

It had the desired effect. Mr. Mutlar turned an odd shade of crimson and threw a fist in my direction. I ducked and the blow struck one of the Goliath men fairly and squarely on the jaw. I bolted for the car park. A shot whistled over my shoulder; I jinked and stepped into the road as a big black military-style Ford motor car screeched to a halt.

“Get in!” shouted the driver. I didn’t need to be asked twice. I jumped in and the Ford sped off as two bullet holes appeared in the rear windshield. The car screeched around the corner and was soon out of range.

“Thanks,” I murmured. “Any later and I might have been worm food. Can you drop me at SpecOps HQ?”

The driver didn’t say anything; there was a glass partition between me and him and all of a sudden I had that out-of-the-frying-pan-and-into-the-fire feeling.

“You can drop me anywhere,” I said. He didn’t answer. I tried the door handles but they were locked. I thumped on the glass but he ignored me; we drove past the SpecOps building and headed off to the old town. He was driving fast too. Twice he went through a red light and once he cut up a bus; I was thrown against the door as he flew around a corner, just missing a brewer’s dray.