The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“Promise me. If you want to be like me, this is one thing you have to do.”

“I promise.”

“Good. We’ll talk later.”

I patted her arm and walked into the boardroom.

It was a large room with one wall entirely glazed so there was a somewhat precipitous view to the main lending floor five stories below. Settled neatly in a recessed alcove at one end of the room was a bust of Andrew Carnegie, and at the other end of the room was another of Sir Thomas Bodley. Everyone was there when I arrived but was yet to be seated. Jack Schitt caught my eye immediately, and we stared at each other. I was wondering if he was the real or the Synthetic, and he was doubtless wondering the same about me.

“Good morning,” I said as I lumbered to my seat. “I’m Thursday Parke-Laine-Next, the new Wessex Region chief librarian. We’ll run around the room briefly for anyone unfamiliar with who is present. On my left, Regional SpecOps Commander Braxton Hicks.”

He nodded a greeting to the room, but everyone knew who he was.

“Next to him is the newly appointed divisional chief of SO-27, Phoebe Smalls.”

She nodded a greeting and ignored Jack’s patronizing stare.

“Next to Miss Smalls is Mr. Jack Schitt, who is representing Goliath while Mr. Lupton Cornball is on . . . other duties. Just what are those duties, Mr. Schitt?”

Jack Schitt looked at me and smiled, then addressed the room.

“Mr. Cornball is currently liaising with the city council and Goliath subsidiary company Smite Solutions to spare Swindon’s downtown from the scheduled smiting tomorrow.”

“And how do they plan to do that, Mr. Schitt?”

He stared at me for a moment. Using convicted felons to avert a smiting would not be popular, even if they were ax murderers. It would be a sorry return to those dark, barbaric days when nations actually executed their own citizens. Jack looked at me and smiled.

“We have engaged the services of convicted felons, who have agreed to be vaporized in order that property be saved. Their considerable fee—over a million pounds per man—will be paid to their dependents and families as well as victims, if any are living. I would like to stress that this is entirely voluntary, and we will be erecting a marble tablet for those who sacrificed everything to bring about the saving of Swindon’s valuable architectural heritage.”

That didn’t go quite how I’d planned it. Miles hadn’t said they were volunteers. I looked around the table, and everyone nodded sagely at the felons’ selfless sacrifice. One of the city councilors wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Right,” I said. “Sitting next to Mr. Schitt is Mrs. Bunty Fairweather of the City Council, and her assistant, Mr. Banerjee. Next to them is the Wessex Library Service chief accountant Conrad Spoons, and Colonel Wexler of the SLS is sitting next to him.”

I had the six others introduce themselves, as I weren’t sure who they were, then ended up by explaining that Geraldine would be taking the minutes and that we could drop the “Fatso’s” part of the Wessex Library Service title, as we needed to be done by midday.

First up was Conrad Spoons, and he outlined in a drab monotone the annual budget of the Wessex Library Service, beginning with the current and projected running costs, then outlining his plans for capital expenditure. I was quite glad when Duffy sneaked into the room to whisper in my ear that Miles wanted to have a quick word.

“Carry on,” I said, making for the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

I found Miles in the corridor.

“Is Jack Schitt in there?” he asked.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Did you hear that the felons up at Wroughton actually agreed to be vaporized in exchange for some cash for their victims and family?”

“That’s a lie,” said Miles. “Goliath doesn’t give money to anyone, especially ax murderers. Besides, such an act of self-sacrifice would show considerable empathy and remorse, and that could engender a limited form of absolution—they would hardly be effective at all in drawing the fire from Swindon.”

Miles’s argument rang true—never believe anything Goliath says.

“What are you here for anyway?” I asked. “I’m in a really boring budget meeting, but it’s kind of important.”

“They nobbled him!”

“Nobbled who? Joffy?”