‘I’Il see what I can do.’
I moved to the back of the shuttle and picked up the emergency phone.
‘Hello?’ I said to the operator. ‘This is Thursday Next, SO-27. We have a situation in shuttle number, ah, 6-1-7-4.’
When I told the operator what was going on she breathed in sharply and asked how many people were with me and whether anyone was hurt.
‘Seven females, myself and the driver; we are all fine.’
‘Don’t forget Pixie Frou-Frou,’ said the large woman.
‘And one Pekinese.’
The operator told me they were clearing all the tracks ahead; we would have to keep calm and she would call back. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t a bad situation, but she had rung off.
I sat down next to the Neanderthal again. Jaw fixed, he was staring intently ahead, knuckles white on the throttle lever. We approached the Wanborough junction, crossed the M4 and were diverted west. One of the younger passengers caught my eye; she looked frightened.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.
‘Irma,’ she replied, ‘Irma Cohen.’
‘Poppycock!’ said the umbrella woman. ‘I’m Irma Cohen!’
‘So am I,’ said the woman with the Peke.
‘And me!’ exclaimed the thin woman at the back. It was clear after a short period of frenzied cries of ‘Ooh, fancy that!’ and ‘Well I never!’, that everyone in the Skyrail except me and Kaylieu and Pixie Frou-Frou were called Irma Cohen. Some of them were even vaguely related. It was quite a coincidence—for today, the best yet.
‘Thursday,’ said the squat woman.
‘Yes?’
But she wasn’t talking to me; she was writing in the answer: Day’s hurt—Thursday. It was an anagram.
The emergency phone rang.
‘This is Diana Thuntress, trained negotiator for SpecOps 9,’ said a businesslike voice. ‘Who is this?’
‘Di, it’s me, Thursday.’
There was a pause.
‘Hello, Thursday. Saw you on the telly last night. Trouble seems to follow you around, doesn’t it? What’s it like in there?’
I looked at the small and unconcerned crowd of commuters, who were showing each other pictures of their children. Pixie Frou-Frou had fallen asleep and the Irma Cohen with the crossword was puzzling on six across: The parting bargain.
‘They’re fine. A little bored, but not hurt.’
‘What does the perp want?’
‘He wants to talk to someone at Goliath about species self-ownership.’
‘Wait—he’s a Neanderthal?
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not possible’ A Neanderthal being violent?’
‘There’s no violence up here, Di—just desperation.’
‘Shit,’ muttered Thuntress. ‘What do I know about dealing with Thals? We’ll have to get one of the SpecOps Neanderthals in.’
‘He also wants to see a reporter from Toad News.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘Di?’
‘Yes?’
‘What can I tell Kaylieu?’
‘Tell him that—er—Toad News are supplying a car to take him to the Goliath Genetic Labs in the Preselh mountains where Goliath’s Governor, Chief Geneticist and a team of lawyers will be waiting to agree terms.’
As lies go, it was a real corker.
‘But is that right?’ I asked.
‘There is no “right”, Thursday,’ snapped Diana. ‘Not since he took control of the Skyrail. There are eight lives in there. It doesn’t take the winner of Name That Fruit! to figure out what we have to do. Pacifist Neanderthal or not, there is a chance he could harm the passengers.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! No Neanderthal has ever harmed anyone!’
‘We’re not going to take that risk, Next. This is how it’s going to be. We’re going to divert you back up along the Cirencester line. We’ll have SO-14 agents in position at Cricklade. As soon as he stops I’m afraid we will have no alternative but to take him out. I want you to make sure the passengers are all in the back of the car.’
‘Diana, that’s crazy! You’d kill him because he took a few lamebrained commuters for a merry trip round the Swindon loop?’
‘The law is very strict on hijackers, Next.’
‘He’s nothing of the sort, Di. He’s just a confused extinctee!’
‘Sorry, Thursday—this is out of my hands.’
I hung up as the shuttle was diverted back up towards Cirencester. We flew through Shaw station, much to the surprise of the waiting commuters, and were soon heading north again. I returned to the driver.
‘Kaylieu, you must stop at Purton.’
He grunted in reply but showed little sign of being happy or sad—Neanderthal facial expressions were mostly lost on us. He stared at me for a moment and then asked:
‘You have childer?’
I hastily changed the subject. Being sequenced infertile was the Neanderthals’ biggest cause of complaint against their sapien masters. Within thirty years or so the last of the experimental Neanderthals would die of old age. Unless Goliath sequenced some more, that would be it. Extinct again—it was unlikely even we would manage that
‘No, no, I don’t,’ I replied hastily.
‘Nor us,’ returned Kaylieu, ‘but you have a choice. We don’t. We should never have been brought back. Not to this. Not to carry bags for Sapien, no childer and umbrellas jab-jab.’
He stared bleakly into the middle distance—perhaps to a better life thirty thousand years ago when he was free to hunt large herbivores from the relative safety of a draughty cave. Home for Kaylieu was extinction again—at least for him. He didn’t want to hurt any of us and would never do so. He couldn’t hurt himself either, so he would rely on SpecOps to do the job for him.
‘Goodbye’
I jumped at the finality of the pronouncement but upon turning found that it was merely the crossword Mrs Cohen filling in the last clue.
‘The parting bargain,’ she muttered happily. ‘Good buy. Goodbye. Finished!’
I didn’t like this; not at all. The three answers to the crossword clues had been ‘meddlesome’, ‘Thursday’ and ‘goodbye’. More coincidences. Without the dual blowout and the fortuitous day ticket, I wouldn’t be here at all. Everyone was called Cohen and now the crossword. But goodbye? If all went according to SpecOps plans, the only person worthy of that interjection would be Kaylieu. Still, I had other things to worry about as we passed Purton without stopping. I asked everyone to move to the back of the car and, once they had, joined Kaylieu at the front.
‘Listen to me, Kaylieu. If you don’t make any threatening movements they may not open fire.’
‘We thought of that,’ said the Neanderthal as he pulled an imitation automatic from his tunic.
‘They will fire,’ he said, as Cricklade station hove into view a half-mile up the line. ‘We carved it from soap—Dove soap,’ he added. ‘We thought it ironic.’
We approached Cricklade at full speed; I could see SpecOps 14 vehicles parked on the road and black-uniformed SWAT teams waiting on the platform. With a hundred yards to run, the power to the Skyrail abruptly cut out and the shuttle skidded, power off, towards the station. The door to the driver’s compartment swung open and I squeezed in. I grabbed Kaylieu’s soapy gun and threw it to the floor. He wasn’t going to die—at least, not if I could help it. We rumbled into the station. The doors were opened by SO-14 operatives and all the Irma Cohens were rapidly evacuated. I put my arm round Kaylieu.
‘Move away from the Thal!’ said a voice through a bullhorn.
‘So you can shoot him?’ I yelled back.
‘He threatened the lives of commuters, Next. He is a danger to civilised society!’
‘Civilised?’ I shouted angrily. ‘Look at you!’
‘Next!’ said the voice. ‘Move aside. That is a direct order!’
‘You must do as they say,’ said the Neanderthal.