The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“I had this done two weeks ago, and the only plausible explanation is that I was then the one with the mindworm. And if Aornis is still in Swindon, then it’s entirely possible she might be living under our very noses. In the house, perhaps.”

They were all silent and looked at one another.

“You have evidence for that?” asked Friday.

“None—but there is quite often stuff left out, fridges left open, doors closed when they should be opened, and the booze levels fall a bit quicker than they should. It’s the obvious place to hide. Where better than in plain sight?”

“But what can we do about it?” asked Tuesday. “I mean, if she’s in the house and can change our memories retrospectively, who’s to say we will even remember this?”

“There’s been a development,” I said. “For the past few days, I’ve been meaning to go into Image Ink and find out why I had this tattoo put on my hand. I forgot every time.”

“Senior moments,” opined Landen.

“Maybe not,” I said. “What if I did go in all those times and every time I did, I was met by an exasperated tattooist who told me the same thing all week? And how annoyed do you think I would be once I knew I’d know nothing about it after leaving the tattooist’s?”

“I’d imagine you’d be pretty annoyed.”

“Me, too. So annoyed, in fact, that I’d try to do something about it. In fact, I probably have been doing something about it all week. I woke up with a black eye and skinned knuckles on Tuesday.”

“One of my motorbikes had mud all over the wheels this morning,” said Friday, who was still writing the minutes furiously. “Someone was chasing me all over the estate on it on Wednesday night. The thing is, no one knows how to start that bike but me.”

“Then you were the one riding it. Chasing Aornis, I presume. You may even have caught her. But then she got to you. You forget you captured her, and she slinks away.”

“I had a bruise above my eye and skinned knuckles when I woke up this morning,” said Landen.

“I think we’ve all been battling Aornis all week—but just have no memory of it. We may even have had meetings like this. All attempts to capture her have failed. We may even have made the same mistakes again and again, because without any recall we can never learn.”

“Okay,” said Tuesday, “that sounds totally whacked, but yes, I sometimes get the feeling I’m being watched, and the clothes in my cupboard get moved and smell of Organza when I don’t use scent. The thing is, how do we capture someone like that?”

“Back at Image Ink, I probably asked myself the same question. I may even have been making preparations. I found this an hour ago.”

I held up my hand and peeled off the Band-Aid. There, in small letters was tattooed:

Secure family in kitchen for 7:00 P.M.

“You had that written?”

“I think so. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but what I do know is this: What is happening right now is not a memory. The only reliable course of action is one that we take instantly. We have to act compulsively, and without mercy.”

“Can we be sure that Aornis isn’t in here now?” asked Tuesday. “I mean, what if she’s making us forget her almost the same instant that we see her?”

There was no simple answer to this, and we all looked around nervously. Landen even opened the broom cupboard.

“If that is the case,” he added unhelpfully, “anything we said at the beginning of this conversation might not actually be what we said at all.”

“The minutes reflect pretty much my memory of what’s happened,” said Friday, scanning the handwritten sheet carefully.

“We’re safe in here,” I said. “At least for the time being.”

Tuesday picked up the cordless drill and stood.

“What are you doing?”

“Letting Jenny in.”

We exchanged glances.

“There is no Jenny, Tuesday.”