Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

The elderly man seemed almost as stunned as I was.

'Me? Good heavens, no!' he snapped, and started to close the door. 'No one of that name lives here!'

I jammed my foot against the closing door. I'd seen it done in cop movies but the reality is somewhat different. I had forgotten I was wearing trainers and the weatherboard squashed my big toe. I yelped in pain, withdrew my foot and the door slammed shut.

'Buggeration!' I yelled as I hopped up and down. I pressed the doorbell long and hard but received only a muffled 'Clear off!' for my troubles. I was just about to bang on the door when I heard a familiar voice ring out behind. I turned to find Landen's mum staring at me.

'Houson!' I cried. 'Thank goodness! There's someone in our house and they won't answer … and … Houson?'

She was looking at me without a flicker of recognition.

'Houson?' I said again, taking a step towards her. 'It's me, Thursday!'

She hurriedly took a pace back and corrected me sharply:

'That's Mrs Parke-Laine to you. What do you want?'

I heard the door open behind me. The elderly Landen-that-wasn't had returned.

'She's been ringing the doorbell,' explained the man to Landen's mother. 'She won't go away.' He thought for a moment and then added in a quieter voice, 'She's been asking about Landen.'

'Landen?' replied Houson sharply, her glare becoming more baleful by the second. 'How is Landen any business of yours?

'He's my husband.'

There was a pause as she mulled this over.

'Your sense of humour is severely lacking, Miss whoever-you-are,' she retorted angrily, pointing towards the garden gate. 'The way out is the same as the way in – only reversed.'

'Wait a minute!' I exclaimed, almost wanting to laugh at the situation. 'If I didn't marry Landen, then who gave me this wedding ring?'

I held up my left hand for them to see but it didn't seem to have much effect. A quick glance told me why. I didn't have a wedding ring.

'Shit!' I mumbled, looking around in a perplexed manner. 'I must have dropped it somewhere—'

'You're very confused,' said Houson, more in pity than anger. She could see I wasn't dangerous – just positively, and irretrievably, insane. 'Is there anyone we can call?'

'I'm not crazy,' I declared, trying to get a grip on the situation. 'This morning – no, less than two hours ago — Landen and I lived in this very house—'

I stopped. Houson had moved to the side of the man at the door. As they stood together in a manner bred of long association, I knew exactly who he was; it was Landen's father. Landen's dead father.

'You're Billden,' I murmured. 'You died when you tried to rescue …'

My voice trailed off. Landen had never known his father. Billden Parke-Laine had died saving the two-year-old Landen from a submerged car thirty-eight years ago. My heart froze as the true meaning of this bizarre confrontation began to dawn. Someone had eradicated Landen.

I put out a hand to steady myself, then sat quickly on the garden wall and closed my eyes as a dull thumping started up in my head. Not Landen, not now of all times.

'Billden,' announced Houson, 'you had better call the police—'

'No!' I shouted, opening my eyes and glaring at him.

'You didn't go back, did you?' I said slowly, my voice cracking. 'You didn't rescue him that night. You lived, and he—'

I braced myself for his anger but it never came. Instead, Billden just stared at me with a mixture of pity and confusion on his face.

'I wanted to,' he said in a quiet voice.

I swallowed my emotion.