The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“No.”

“Listen carefully. I’m outside the main gates. You have to let me in and then keep Aornis occupied in any way you can. She can delete on a ten-second horizon, so you cannot let her out of your sight for that long or she’ll be gone for good. Even if you’ve forgotten the plans we made earlier, you will still be able to access those erased memories by acting on impulse. Let your instincts take over.”

She then gave me some hurried instructions, told me not to fail, wished us good luck, and the phone clicked dead. I turned to look at everyone as the memories of Jenny learning to walk came creeping back.

“Was that the Cleaning Lady?” came Aornis’ voice from outside in the hall. I ignored her and beckoned Friday and Tuesday closer.

“I need you two to open the security gates,” I whispered, “so remind each other within a ten-second time frame. This is all you have to do, and if you feel the urge to do something random on instinct, then go with it— they’ll be forgotten recalls. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Landen, you’re to cause disorder in Aornis’ mind. Mnemonomorphs are highly attuned to recall, so I want you to just lose yourself in your memories. It’s only when we’re forming new memories that she has a pathway in. On constant recall you’ll be nothing but a distracting buzz in her head, and she can’t get to you. Do that from here.”

“I’m getting Jenny’s eighth birthday,” he said.

“We booked her a magician.”

“Who turned up drunk.”

“It seems so real.”

“It might as well be.”

“Where’s your pistol?” I asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“Blast,” I muttered, for Aornis was already putting a few safeguards in place. I handed Friday the cordless drill.

“Fed up with this. Let’s deal with Aornis for good.”

Friday, Tuesday and I positioned ourselves at the door. I turned back to look at Landen, who had his head in his hands and was thinking hard, deep in his own thoughts. I listened at the door for a moment, and when I couldn’t hear anything, I signaled to Friday, who unscrewed the door. As soon as it was open, they both dashed out.

“Open the security gate no matter what,” said Friday, “and repeat this order.”

“Open the security gate no matter what,” repeated Tuesday, “and repeat this order.”

“Open the gate no matter what,” continued Friday as they ran down the corridor, “and repeat this order.”

I trod quietly into the hall, then into the living room. There was no sign of life—nothing. I could feel the memories of Jenny coming back, and already a sense of confusion was rising on the edge of my conscious mind, the sort of feeling you get when waking from a deep slumber and you’re not sure where you are—mixed with having a word on the tip of one’s tongue and that odd empty feeling when you walk into a room not knowing what you’re doing there.

I walked to the fireplace simply because I thought I should, and I touched the cold marble. I picked up a vase and turned it upside down. A note fluttered out. My fingers might have been trembling slightly as I unfolded it. I already knew who it was from.

“I’ve been in New Zealand for the past six months,” the note read, “so no, I’m not in the house. Everything that has just happened to you—the Cleaning Lady, the sealing of the kitchen—it’s all merely memories, a time-released gift from me to make you realize the futility of even considering you can rid your mind of me. I’ll let you savor this frustration for the next half minute, and then it will fade. The joy of all this is that I can screw with you and your family as many times as I want and you’ll just never get it.”

It was signed “Aornis.”

“Hello, Mum,” said Tuesday as she walked in. “What are you doing?”

“Did you open the security gates?”

“You told us never to do that unless for a good reason.”

“I don’t suppose it matters now.” I sighed, sitting on one of the arms of the sofa in a dejected mood. The whole thing had been staged. And I had only half a minute to ponder on my own hopelessness before losing it altogether. I stared at the note again and prodded absently at the handwriting. I stopped, for the ink had smudged. I hobbled to the writing desk. A blue ballpoint was lying there, the stack of notepaper still with the impression of Aornis’ note upon it.

“Shit,” I said, “she’s still in here.”

“Who?” asked Tuesday.