Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'AHHHHHHHHH!'

My mother jumped, painted a line of nail varnish up Melanie's hand and upset the bottle on to her polka-dot dress.

'Look what you've made me do!' she scolded. Melanie didn't look very happy either.

'Posh, Murray Posh, Daisy Posh, Daisy Mutlar – why did you . . . mention Daisy Mutlar a few minutes ago?'

'Well, because I thought you'd be annoyed she was still around.'

Daisy Mutlar, it must be understood, was someone whom Landen nearly married during our ten-year enforced separation. But that wasn't important. What was important was that without Landen there had never been any Daisy. And if Daisy was around, then Landen must be too—

I looked down at my hand. On my ring finger was ... a ring. A wedding ring. I pulled it forward to the knuckle to reveal a white ridge. It looked as though it had always been there. And if it had—

'Where's Landen now?'

'At his house, I shoul

d imagine,' said my mother. 'Are you staying here for supper?'

'Then . . . he's not eradicated?'

She looked confused.

'Good Lord no!'

I narrowed my eyes.

'Then I didn't ever go to Eradications Anonymous?'

'Of course not, darling. You know that myself and Mrs Beatty are the only people who ever attend – and Mrs Beatty is only there to comfort me. What on earth are you talking about? And come back! Where do you—'

I opened the door and was two paces down the garden path when I remembered I had left Friday behind, so went back to get him, found he had got chocolate down his front despite the bib, put his sweatshirt on over his T-shirt, found he had gllbbed down the front of it, got a clean one, changed his nappy and ... no socks.

'What are you doing, darling?' asked my mother as 1 rummaged in the laundry basket.

'It's Landen,' I babbled excitedly, 'he was eradicated and now he's back and it's as though he'd never gone and I want him to meet Friday but Friday is way, way too sticky right now to meet his father.'

'Eradicated? Landen? When?' asked my mother incredulously. 'Are you sure?'

'Isn't that the point about eradication?' I replied, having found six socks, none of them matching. 'No one ever knows. It might surprise you to know that Eradications Anonymous once had forty or more attendees. When I came there were less than ten. You did a wonderful job, Mother. They'd all be really grateful – if only they could remember.'

'Oh!' said my mother in a rare moment of complete clarity. 'Then . . . when eradicatees are brought back it is as if they had never gone. Ergo: the past automatically rewrites itself to take into account the non-eradication.'

'Well, yes – more or less.'

I slipped some odd socks on Friday's feet – he didn't help matters by splaying his toes – then found his shoes, one of which was under the sofa and the other right on top of the bookcase – Melanie had been climbing on the furniture, after all. I found a brush and tidied his hair, trying desperately to get an annoying crusty bit that smelt suspiciously of baked beans to lie flat. It didn't and I gave up, then washed his face, which he didn't like one bit. I was eventually on my way out of the door when I saw myself in the mirror and dashed back upstairs. I plonked Friday on the bed, put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt and tried to do something – anything – with my short hair.

'What do you think?' I asked Friday, who was now sitting on the dressing table staring at me.

'Aliquippa ex consequat.'

'I hope that means: "you look adorable, Mum".'

'Mollit anim est laborum.'

I pulled on my jacket, walked out of my room, came back to brush my teeth and fetch Friday's polar bear, then was out the door again, telling Mum that I might not be back that night.

My heart was still racing as I walked outside, ignoring the journalists, and popped Friday in the passenger seat of the Speedster, put down the hood – might as well arrive in style – and strapped him in. I inserted the key in the ignition and then—