The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

They had. Everyone had. Ex-SLS could get a job in security anywhere in the world. Half of President-for-Life Vera Lynn’s bodyguard had been SLS at one time. The driver looked momentarily worried, and there were some mumblings between the two in the backseat.

“The SLS has no interest in righteous men,” said the driver, “or people like you.”

“Wrong,” I said. “I’m the chief librarian of Wessex. The SLS cares very much what happens to me, and right now you’re surrounded by a half dozen SLS. Make a wrong move and you’ll have more holes in you than a lump of Emmentaler.” The driver and the front-seat passenger looked around. They couldn’t see the SLS, of course, for the simple reason that they weren’t there. I wasn’t here on library business and had no right to ask the SLS to risk their lives. It rattled the mercenaries in the car, though.

“Bullshit,” said the driver at last.

“Okay,” I said. “Watch.”

I pointed at one of the many lamp standards that were dotted around the periphery of the forecourt. I had to just hope that Phoebe had seen the car pull in and had positioned herself well.

She had. The lamp fitting on the standard exploded into fragments from a carefully placed shot. I’d told her to bring a sniper rifle.

“So,” I said as the train heaved into sight along the tracks, “you’re going to leave now, aren’t you?”

The driver didn’t answer and instead drove out of the forecourt a lot faster than he’d come in and was soon lost to view. I gave a cheery wave to wherever Phoebe might have been hidden, then walked across to the station and pushed open the gate to the platform.

The train pulled in, paused briefly, then pulled away again. I thought for a moment that I had been mistaken, as no one had alighted, but as the carriages moved out, they revealed a middleaged man standing on the platform opposite the single-track line. He had a beard, a kindly face and was wearing a brown suit and carrying a small suitcase.

“Hello,” he called across cheerily. “You must be Joffy’s sister.”

“Thursday,” I said, and beckoned him to the crossing point so I could take his case and escort him to the car. I learned that his name was Tim and that he had managed to fit this job in only because there had been a late cancellation.

“All requests are treated equally,” he explained. “No one person is more important than another. What’s the job?”

“See that?” I said, pointing to the sky, where the clouds were swirling in a circular pattern above the city. “There’s going to be a smiting, and a group of sinful men have been gathered in order to attract the pillar of fire away from the town.”

“There must be a lot of them,” he said, being something of an expert. “That’s almost four miles off.”

“Twenty convicts, I believe.”

“Poor things,” he said. “They must be terribly frightened.”

“I don’t think they know anything about it. All we need is to place you near them to shift the smiting back to the city.”

“No problemo,” replied Tim cheerfully. “Goodness! A Sportina. I haven’t ridden in one of these for years.”

I started the engine and took the back road to Wroughton Airfield. The time was 11:42, and the sky darkened as a circular void began to open in the center of the swirling mass. There’d be some hail most likely, then a ripple of thunder.

We sped along the back roads to avoid Wroughton town, and although I was a Day Player and more able to think clearly under stress, I could feel my heart beat faster and an odd sense of nervousness that was positioned not in my stomach but wholly in the mind. I was driving faster than was necessary in the narrow lanes while at the same time keeping a careful lookout for the distinctive glint of a rifle barrel. We were vulnerable in the open countryside, and I’d be a fool to think that the mercenaries were the only people employed to stop

me. The righteous man, for his part, just chatted amiably about things in general. If he felt any danger, he didn’t show it.

I looked in the rearview mirror for perhaps the umpteenth time and noted with relief that Phoebe’s red Mini was now behind us at a distance of perhaps two hundred yards. The relief was short-lived, however, as a car pulled out of a side road and blocked her way. I put my foot down, and we picked up more speed, then turned a corner—to be greeted by the sight of two cars parked end to end, blocking the road. Since the smiting was intended to be here, there was an exclusion zone around the airfield. Smite Solutions might not care two hoots about the sinful, but they certainly cared about civilian collateral damage—it would be bad for business.

I didn’t pause nor lift my foot off the throttle, and we thumped our way through the roadblock, sending the two cars flying into the ditch. This was the reason I’d brought the Sportina, after all. We carried on, this time with cars in pursuit and with the harsh ring of bullet hits striking—but not puncturing— the heavy steel of the Sportina. The manufacturers of the car had worked not only to a longevity criterion but to a military one—all Griffin motorcars could withstand a standard-velocity round from fifty yards.

“Should we stop and see what they want?” asked the righteous man. “Those gentlemen seem very upset about something.”

“They’ve been paid money to kill us,” I said, negotiating a tight corner. “I don’t think talking is high on their agenda—or skill base.”

“Oh, dear,” said the righteous man, “how frightfully disagreeable. But I forgive them. Probably the result of an unhappy childhood.”

The cars behind had been gaining on us, then abruptly stopped as we passed a pole with an amber flag attached to it. I wasn’t sure why this was so until we passed a red flag a few hundred yards on, and the reason they’d stopped became apparent. We were now in the Smite Zone of complete destruction, and there was less then thirteen minutes to go. As far as any of the guards were concerned, we were dead meat, and they were, too, if they followed us in. I didn’t stop, took a left through a gate, bumped across a field and then found a particularly dilapidated section of the perimeter fence and drove through it, the broken wire clawing long scratches in the car’s finish.

The large marquee that contained the sinful was in the center of the deserted runway, and we pulled up outside the tent with nine minutes to go. The sky had darkened more by now, and the brightest part of it was the circular hole in the clouds through which a beam of sunlight was shining vertically downwards illuminating the center of Swindon as a graphic precursor of what was to happen next.

“Do I have to do anything?” asked Tim.