The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“You’ll what?” said Gavin, taking a step closer so they were almost nose to nose. “Kill me?”

Friday took a step back, firmly rattled. He was going to kill Gavin, but not over name-calling. I hoped.

“Lost your appetite for a fight?” sneered Gavin.

“Okay, okay,” I said, before this got any more out of hand.

“Time out. Friday, cool it. And, Gavin, there’s tea and coffee and Kool-Aid on the side and some biscuits. You can help yourself.”

“Nothing stronger?” he asked.

“You could always not dilute the Kool-Aid, big guy.” He grunted and moved off.

“I kill him because he insulted my mother and sister?” said Friday as soon as Gavin was out of earshot. “No, that’s just crazy.”

“You don’t kill him until Friday,” I said. “A lot of time for stuff to happen—or not.”

“Everything all right?” asked Shazza as she walked up.

“Just Gavin.”

“He lives down our street,” said Shazza. “The corner shop won’t let him in because of all the stealing, and I know for a fact that he gets beaten up at school at least once a day simply for being Gavin.”

“Figures.” I looked at the kids who were entering in ones and twos. All of them were in their late teens. “Any idea of attendance numbers?”

“It’s not packed, I must confess,” said Shazza, regarding the small group, “but I’m willing to bet he’ll take careful note.” She indicated a middle-aged man in a turban who was standing by the door.

“And he is?”

“Mr. Akal Chowdry. He’s Swindon’s rep for the Asteroid Strike Likelihood Committee.”

“Oh.”

The ASLC relied heavily upon statisticians like Chowdry to compute an Ultimate Risk Factor for HR-6984.

“Any significant data from a meeting of ex-timeworkers,” added Jimmy-G, “might allow the ASLC to update the Ultimate Risk Factor.”

We were currently at 34 percent likelihood, and this figure was derived from many sources—astronomical observation, computer modeling, level of divine concern, guesswork and archaeology—future archaeology. Artifacts from the future had been found, but dating was contentious, as it is difficult to say when something was to be invented or built. Of course, something with a date on it beyond 2041 would be conclusive, but the fossil record—both forward and back—is sketchy at best, and so far nothing like that had turned up.

Three other members walked in. They were all clutching their Letters of Destiny and didn’t look too happy. We waited another five minutes, but when no one else turned up, Jimmy-G called the meeting to order.

“I was hoping for more than fifteen,” he said, scanning the small group. “Perhaps we’ll see more as the weeks go past.” He cleared his throat and began.

“A fortnight ago the future was the undiscovered country. None of us knew what we would do or how we would do it. As part of the Union of Federated Timeworkers severance package, we now have a clear idea of what might have happened and what will. If anyone in here is in any doubt over the truth of these summarizations, I bring your attention to Gerald Speke, who received his papers three days ago. They predicted he would lose an arm to a gorilla in Swindon Zoo, and within six hours he had.”

There was some murmuring at this.

“His name was Bongo,” said Gerald, who was sitting at the back with a large bandage wrapped around his upper body. “But if I hadn’t received the Letter of Destiny, I never would have gone to the zoo to see if there was a gorilla.”

“That’s how it works,” said Jimmy-G. “the Letters of Destiny and the effect they have on you are now included in your Letter of Destiny. But we’re sorry for your loss nonetheless. I suggest we begin with introductions.”

He looked out over the gathering. No one moved. “I’ll start,” said Friday, standing up to face the group. “I would have been the sixth director general of the ChronoGuard. My first major feat was in the Armageddon Avoidance division, where I ensured our survival of HR-6984, but I have no idea how. After a long and apparently eventful career, I retire at eighty-two the most decorated ChronoGuard operative ever. Now it’s a bit different. I spend thirty-seven years in prison for murder. Three days after release, on the third of February, 2041, I’m beaten to death by persons unknown with a baseball bat up in the Old Town.”

There was a pause, and everyone clapped. Presumably not because they liked what they’d heard but for his honesty. I was just relieved he hadn’t mentioned that Gavin was his victim.

“My name’s Sharon deWitt,” said Shazza. “I would have had a dazzling career in the timestream. I’d be pioneering transPaleozoic jumps by age thirty and a full colonel by forty-two. I’d have retired third in command at the ChronoGuard with four citations for bravery and be Flux magazine’s Woman for all Time, then comfortably retired in fourteenth-century Florence at age eighty. The way things stand at the moment, I’m a receptionist for twenty years, marry a guy I don’t much like, have two kids who turn out so-so and then get hit by a Vauxhall KP-13 at age fifty-five, late one rainy night near t

he library. They never find the driver.”