The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“I’m going to need a walking stick, a red felt marker and a box of Band-Aids—and you’re going to have to be quick.”

“Certainly, ma’am. But I must say I’m concerned. Your behavior seems somewhat . . . erratic.”

“Ha!” I said with a grin. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

22.

Wednesday: Goliath

All cities had a representative from the Goliath Corporation to guide and lobby for the company’s interests, of which it had many. Because Goliath catered for everything from the cradle to the grave, it was hard to find a decision in which the corporation’s representative would not have some sort of opinion. Councils loved them. They were like a trade union, management consultancy, retailers’ association and consumer association all in one. You could, in fact, talk to one person about almost everything— except impartiality.

Milton Tablitt, A Guide to the Goliath Corporation

Duffy nodded to the Goliath representative who entered my office. He was immaculately turned out in a dark blue suit and carried with him the unmistakable air of supreme confidence that only connection to the planet’s dominant corporate enterprise could supply.

“Hello, Thursday.”

I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. It was Jack Schitt. “Well, well,” I said, “do I call you Jack Schitt or Adrian Dorset?”

“Either,” he replied, as the less polite epithet was the name by which he had become known in the ghostwritten Thursday books—to guard against lawsuits, apparently. I thought quickly. He would know that I had seen an empty Tupperware box at the Finis, but that would be all he could be sure about. I would have to be careful.

“Most people call me Jack these days. I think it’s a form of ironic humor. Can we speak alone?”

I nodded to Duffy, who went out and closed the door behind him. I heaved myself to my feet in a clumsy manner using the stick that Duffy had provided. I could see Jack looking at me with interest. My gait, my hand where I had drawn the tattoo on with a felt-tip, and the Band-Aids I had placed on my face— precisely in the places Real Me had been cut during the fight at the Lobsterhood. I lumbered to the coffee machine and poured him a cup.

“So where’s the usual rep?” I asked, offering him a seat on the sofa.

“Representative Cornball is engaged on . . . other duties. I’m taking over for a few days.”

“We’re honored,” I said, setting the coffee in front of him and then clumsily sitting down myself—a sort of controlled descent for two-thirds of the way, then a drop onto the cushions from there. If he was suspicious, he didn’t show it.

“We don’t often see any Goliath high-fliers in Swindon,” I added. “What position are you on the Ladder these days?”

“Ninety-one. The corporation rewards loyalty.”

“So? Starbucks rewards loyalty—and they’re not out to take over the world. Okay, that was a bad example. Tesco’s rewards loyalty, and they’re not out to . . . Okay, That’s a bad example, too. But you know what I mean.”

He stared at me thoughtfully, and his diamond tiepin caught the light. We’d first crossed swords almost twenty years ago, and although there was a deep enmity between us, there was also a certain strained respect. Though his death would not fill me with any sense of sadness, I would probably feel the loss. Even enemies are part of one. I shifted my position with a wince of faux pain while at the same time resting my hand close to the butt of my pistol. He picked up on it instantly.

“I’m not here to murder you, dear girl,” he said in a kindly manner. “Protocol 451 is still very much in force. Now that you’re effectively out to grass, we can look forward to a rosy Thursdayfree future. We respect you greatly and mean you no harm.”

I pointed to one of the Band-Aids on my face. “So what was this all about, then?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The Stout Denial Technique, eh?”

“If you’d like the Stout Denial with Faux Shock Outrage, you can have that, too. If you really want it, I can play the ever-popular Lawyers to File Suit for Defamation Gambit as well.”

“I’m no longer SO-27,” I told him. “I’m a respected member of the establishment running one of the pillars of modern society. Do you really think you’d win a PR war against a bunch of committed librarians?”

He thought about this, but he knew I was right. The libraries were a treasured institution and so central to everyday life that government or commerce rarely did anything that might upset them. Some say they were more powerful than the military or, if not, then certainly quieter. As they say, Don’t mess with librarians. Only they use a stronger word than “mess.”

“Okay,” said Jack, looking down for a moment, “off the record?”

“Sure.”

“You have my sincere apologies for yesterday. I voluntarily downgraded myself three Laddernumbers as a sign of corporate penance.”