‘Needs must, Thursday. SpecOps requires your support in these difficult times. President Formby has called for an inquiry into whether SpecOps are value for money—or even necessary at all.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘but this is the very last interview, yes?’
‘Of course,’ agreed Flakk a little too quickly, then added in an overdramatic manner, ‘Oh my goodness, is that the time? I have to catch the airship to Barnstaple in an hour. This is Adie; she’ll be looking after you and… and’—here Cordelia leaned just a little bit closer—’remember you’re SpecOps, darling!’
She nodded, told me she would see me later and then took to her heels in a cloud of expensive scent.
‘How could I forget?’ I muttered as a bouncy girl clutching a clipboard appeared from where she had been waiting respectfully out of earshot.
‘Hi!’ squeaked the girl, ‘I’m Adie. So pleased to meet you!’
She grasped my hand and told me repeatedly what a fantastic honour it was.
‘I don’t want to bug you or anything,’ she said shyly, ‘but was Edward Rochester really drop-dead gorgeous to die for?’
‘Not handsome,’ I answered as I watched Flakk slink off down the corridor, ‘but certainly attractive. Tall, deep voice and glowering looks, if you know the type.’
Adie turned a deep shade of pink.
‘Gosh!’
I was taken into make-up, where I was puffed and primped, talked at mercilessly and made to sign copies of the Femole I had appeared in. I was very relieved when Adie came to rescue me thirty minutes later. She announced into her wireless that we were ‘walking’ and then, after leading me down a corridor and through some swing-doors, asked:
‘What’s it like working in SpecOps? Do you chase bad guys, clamber around on the outside of airships, defuse bombs with three seconds to go, that sort of stuff?’
‘I wish I did,’ I replied good-humouredly, ‘but in truth it’s seventy per cent form-filling, twenty-seven per cent mind-numbing tedium and two per cent sheer terror.’
‘And the remaining one per cent?’
I smiled.
‘That’s what keeps us going.’
We walked the seemingly endless corridors, past large grinning photographs of Adrian Lush and assorted other Network Toad celebrities.
‘You’ll like Adrian,’ she told me happily, ‘and he’ll like you. Just don’t try to be funnier than him; it doesn’t suit the format of the show.’
‘What does that mean?’
She shrugged.
‘I don’t know. I’m meant to tell all his guests that.’
‘Even the comedians?’
‘Especially the comedians’
I assured her being funny was the last thing on my mind, and pretty soon she directed me on to the studio floor. Feeling unusually nervous and wishing that Landen were with me, I walked across the familiar front-room set of The Adrian Lush Show. But Mr Lush was nowhere to be seen—and neither were the ‘live studio audience’ a Lush show usually boasted. Instead, a small group of officials were waiting—the ‘others’ Flakk had told me about. My heart fell when I saw who they were.
‘Ah, there you are, Next!’ boomed Commander Braxton Hicks with forced bonhomie. ‘You’re looking well, healthy and, er, vigorous.’ He was my divisional chief back at Swindon, and despite being effectively head of the LiteraTecs was not that good with words.
‘What are you doing here, sir?’ I asked him, straining not to show my disappointment. ‘Cordelia told me the Lush interview would be uncensored in every way.’
‘Oh, it is, dear girl—up to a point,’ he said, stroking his large moustache. ‘Without benign intervention things can get very confused in the public mind. We thought we would listen to the interview and perhaps—if the need arose—offer practical advice as to how the proceedings should, er, proceed.’
I sighed. My untold story looked set to remain exactly that. Adrian Lush, supposed champion of free speech, the man who had dared to air the grievances felt by the Neanderthal, the first to suggest publicly that the Goliath Corporation ‘had shortcomings’, was about to have his nails well and truly clipped.
‘Colonel Flanker you’ve already met,’ went on Braxton without drawing breath.
I eyed the man suspiciously. I knew him well enough. He was at SpecOps 1, the division that polices SpecOps itself. He had interviewed me about the night I had first tried to tackle master criminal Acheron Hades—the night Snood and Tamworth died. He tried to smile several times but eventually gave up and offered his hand for me to shake instead.
‘This is Colonel Rabone,’ Braxton carried on. ‘She is head of Combined Forces Liaison.’ I shook hands with the colonel.
‘Always honoured to meet a holder of the Crimean Cross,’ she said, smiling.
‘And over here,’ continued Braxton in a jocular tone that was obviously designed to put me at ease—a ploy that failed spectacularly—’is Mr Schitt-Hawse of the Goliath Corporation.’
Schitt-Hawse was a tall, thin man whose pinched features seemed to compete for position in the centre of his face. His head tilted to the left in a manner that reminded me of an inquisitive budgerigar, and his dark hair was fastidiously combed back from his forehead. He put out his hand.
‘Would it upset you if I didn’t shake it?’ I asked him.
‘Well, yes,’ he replied, trying to be affable.
‘Good.’
Anyone from the vast multinational known as Goliath was about as welcome to me as an infestation of worms. The Corporation’s pernicious hold over the nation was not universally appreciated and I had a far greater reason to dislike them—the last Goliath employee I dealt with was an odious character by the name of Jack Schitt, who not only tried to kill me and my partner, but had also planned to prolong and escalate the Crimean War in order to create demand for the latest Goliath weaponry. We had tricked him into a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, a place in which I hoped he could do no harm.
‘Schitt-Hawse, eh?’ I said. ‘Any relation to Jack?’
‘He was—is—my half-brother,’ said Schitt-Hawse slowly, ‘and believe me, Ms Next, he wasn’t working for Goliath when he became involved with Hades and the Plasma Rifle.’
‘If he had been would you admit it?’
Schitt-Hawse scowled and said nothing. Braxton coughed politely and continued:
‘And this is Mr Chesterman of the Bronte Federation.’
Chesterman blinked at me uncertainly. The changes I had wrought upon Jane Eyre had split the Federation. I hoped he was one of those who preferred the happier ending.
‘Back there is Captain Marat of the ChronoGuard,’ continued Braxton. Marat looked at me with interest. The ChronoGuard were the SpecOps division that took care of Anomalous Time Ripplation—my father was one or is one or would be one, depending on how you looked at it.
‘Have we met before?’ I asked him.
‘Not yet,’ he replied.
‘Well!’ said Braxton, clapping his hands together. ‘I think that’s everyone. Next, I want you to pretend we’re just not here.’
‘Observers, yes?’
‘Absolutely. I—’
Braxton was interrupted by a slight disturbance off-stage.
‘The bastards!’ yelled a high voice. ‘If the Network dares to replace my Monday slot with reruns of Bonzo the Wonder Hound I’ll sue them for every penny they have!’
A tall man of perhaps fifty-five had walked into the studio accompanied by a small group of assistants. He had handsome chiselled features and a luxuriant swirl of white hair that looked as though it had been carved from polystyrene. He wore an immaculately tailored suit and his fingers were heavily weighed down with gold jewellery. He stopped short when he saw us.
‘Ah!’ said Adrian Lush disdainfully. ‘SpecOps!’