“No thank you. It’s just that I’ve decided to . . .” I sighed and rubbed my temples.
“Decided to what, ma’am?”
“Nothing.”
And I slumped down into my seat, cursing the Thursday in me.
The train slowed to a halt at the border between Fantasy and Comedy and the off-duty clown started fidgeting.
“Identification, please.” One of the border guards was standing at the doorway, and we all rummaged for our identification papers.
“I’ll deal with this,” said a familiar voice, and Commander Bradshaw appeared in the corridor. He flashed his own ID at the border guard, who saluted smartly and moved on.
Sprockett and I both stood up politely, as did the clown, who didn’t want to be left out.
“Please,” said Bradshaw, “sit down. What’s this, a joke?” he asked, indicating the clown once we had all sat and Sprockett had offered Bradshaw a cocktail.
“A lance corporal in the Sixth Clown,” I said, “Supply and Gigglistics.”
“Oh, yes?” said Bradshaw with a smile. “And what would you be smuggling across the border?”
The clown sighed resignedly and opened his duffel bag to reveal boxes of military-grade custard pies. He wasn’t a very good smuggler. Few were.
“It’s jail for you, my lad,” said Bradshaw sternly. “CPs are banned in every genre outside Comedy. I’d turn you in, but I’m busy. If you can dispose of them all before we get to Gaiman Junction, I’ll overlook it.”
“How would I do that?”
“Do you have a spoon in your bag?”
So while the off-duty clown began to eat his way through four dozen custard pies, Bradshaw explained what he was there for.
“Please don’t ask Lorina to contact me,” he said. “That was just for Jobsworth to hear.”
“I figured.”
“Is she still a colossal pain in the butt, by the way?”
“Getting worse, if anything.”
Bradshaw looked at Sprockett, who took the cue and shimmered from the compartment with the clown, who was already on his ninth custard pie and groaning quietly to himself. Sprockett returned momentarily with the Chicago Fizz he had mixed for Bradshaw, then departed again.
Bradshaw leaned forward, looked left and right and whispered, “Are you her? The real one, I mean?”
“No.”
He stared at me for a while. “Are you sure? You’re not doing some sort of deep-cover double bluff or something?”
“Yes, quite sure. I think I know who I am.”
“Prove it.”
“I can’t. You’ll have to take my word for it. Believe me, I wish I were.”
Bradshaw seemed satisfied with this and stared at me some more for quite some time. He wasn’t here on a social visit.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“The thing is,” he began, taking a sip from his Chicago Fizz,