One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“Is that all?”

“No. I found out what ghosts are. They’re childhood memories. Oh, and the president wants to see me tomorrow to discuss the Anti-Smite Strategic Defense Shield—I think it’s what the whole ‘secret plans’ deal is all about.”

“Are you sure you’re not Thursday?”

“Positive. Hey, listen: Jack Schitt’s real name is Adrian Dorset. How weird is that?”

“Not weird at all. You and I have known for years. Jack Schitt is a daft pseudonym—not to mention actionable.”

“Perhaps so—but he wrote The Murders on the Hareng Rouge, the book I was asking you about.”

“And the significance of this is . . . ?”

“I don’t know, but the RealWorld’s kind of wild with all this strange stuff going on, although it’s a good thing this isn’t Fiction—it wouldn’t really make any sense.”

I was becoming quite animated by now—randomness has an intoxicating effect on the preordained.

“By the way,” I added, “do you want thirty grand?”

Landen raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You earned thirty thousand pounds this afternoon . . . as well?”

“From a Vole.”

“What the . . . ? No, I don’t want to know. But yes, we could do with the cash, so long as it’s not illegally earned.”

“Here you go,” I said, handing him the crumpled check.

I’d have to make good on my side of the bargain, but I felt sure I could drop some Toast Marketing Board references into the series without much problem.

“Oh, and if you see anyone who looks like NSA or SpecOps watching the house, don’t be alarmed. The president is protecting us—I don’t think Goliath is too keen on me right now.”

“Were they ever?”

“Not really. But I know what they’re up to, and it’s particularly unpleasant. In fact, I shouldn’t really hang around. I’ll only make things dangerous for you.”

“Until we prove you’re not my wife,” he said, “you’re staying.”

It seemed like a generous sentiment, so I accepted gracefully.

“Listen,” he said, “just in case I’m wrong and you really are written, you should know something.”

“Yes?”

“You know I said I didn’t know where she was?”

I nodded.

“That’s not strictly true. I didn’t know whether I could trust you. You see, when Thursday went to the BookWorld, she always came and went via her office at Acme Carpets. Bowden is the manager over there, and when she went missing, I asked him to go and look for her.”

“She wasn’t in her office?”

“No—and the door was locked from the inside.”

He let this information sink in. She had gone to the BookWorld four weeks ago—and not returned.

“So,” he said, “if you’re not her, it’s where you need to be looking. If you are her, it’s where you need to go to find out what has happened to you.”

I stared at him and bit my lip. Thursday was definitely somewhere in the BookWorld. Lost, alone, perhaps hurt—who knows? But at least I had somewhere to start. My mission, such as it was, was at least a partial success.