Flanker shut my file with a snap, grabbed his hat, removed both interview tapes and was gone without another word.
As soon as the door closed I breathed a sigh of relief. My heart was going like a trip hammer but at least I still had my liberty.
‘I’m sorry about Mr Kaylieu.’
Stiggins shrugged.
‘He was not happy, Miss Next. He did not ask to come back.’
‘You lied for me,’ I added in a disbelieving tone. ‘I thought Neanderthals couldn’t lie?’
He stared at me for a moment or two.
‘It’s not that we can’t,’ he said at last. ‘We just have no reason to. We helped because you are a good person. It is enough. If you need help again, we will be there.’
Stiggins’s normally placid and unmoving face curled up into a grimace that showed two rows of widely-gapped teeth. I was fearful for a moment until I realised that what I was witnessing was a Neanderthal smile.
‘Miss Next—’
‘—Yes?’
‘Our friends call us Stig.’
‘Mine call me Thursday.’
He put out a large hand and I shook it gratefully.
‘You’re a good man, Stig.’
‘Yes,’ he replied slowly, ‘we were sequenced that way.’
He gathered up his notes and left the room.
I left the SpecOps building ten minutes later and looked for Landen in the cafe opposite. He wasn’t there so I ordered a coffee and waited twenty minutes. He didn’t turn up so I left a message with the cafe owner and drove home, musing that with death by coincidence, the world ending in a fortnight, court charges for I don’t know what and a lost play by Shakespeare, things couldn’t get much stranger. But I was wrong. I was very wrong.
9. The More Things Stay the Same…
‘…Minor changes to soft furnishings are the first indications of a sideslip. Curtains, cushion covers and lampshades are all good litmus indicators for a slight diversion in the timestream—the way canaries are used down the mines or goldfishes to predict earthquakes. Carpet and wallpaper patterns and changes in paint hues can also be used, but this requires a more practised eye. If you are within the sideslip then you will notice nothing, but if your pelmets change colour for no good reason, your curtains switch from festoon to swish or your antimacassars have a new pattern on them, I should be worried, and if you’re the only one who notices, then worry some more. A great deal more…’
Landen’s absence made me feel unsettled. All sorts of reasons as to why he wasn’t waiting for me ran through my head as I pushed open the gate and walked up to our front door. He could have lost track of time, gone to pick up his running leg from the menders or dropped in to see his mum. But I was fooling myself. Landen said he would be there and he wasn’t. And that wasn’t like him. Not at all.
I stopped abruptly halfway up the garden path. For some reason Landen had taken the opportunity to change all the curtains. I walked on more slowly, a feeling of unease rising within me. I stopped at the front door. The boot-scraper had gone. But it hadn’t been taken recently—the hole had been concreted over long ago. There were other changes, too. A tub of withered Tickia orologica had appeared in the porch next to a rusty pogo stick and a broken bicycle. The dustbins were all plastic rather than steel, and a copy of Landen’s least favourite paper, The Mole, was resting in the newspaper holder. I felt a hot flush rise in my cheeks as I fumbled in vain to find my door key. Not that it would have mattered if I had found it—the lock I used that morning had been painted over years ago.
I must have been making a fair amount of noise because all of a sudden the door opened to reveal an elderly version of Landen complete with paunch, bifocals and a shiny bald pate.
‘Yes?’ he enquired in a slow Parke-Laine sort of baritone.
Filbert Snood’s time aggregation sprang instantly—and unpleasantly—to mind.
‘Oh my God. Landen? Is that you?’
The elderly man seemed almost as stunned as I was.
‘Me? Good heavens, no!’ he snapped, and started to close the door. ‘No one of that name lives here!’
I jammed my foot against the closing door. I’d seen it done in cop movies but the reality is somewhat different. I had forgotten I was wearing trainers and the weatherboard squashed my big toe. I yelped in pain, withdrew my foot and the door slammed shut.
‘Buggeration!’ I yelled as I hopped up and down. I pressed the doorbell long and hard but received only a muffled ‘Clear off!’ for my troubles. I was just about to bang on the door when I heard a familiar voice ring out behind. I turned to find Landen’s mum staring at me.
‘Houson!’ I cried. ‘Thank goodness! There’s someone in our house and they won’t answer… and… Houson?’
She was looking at me without a flicker of recognition.
‘Houson?’ I said again, taking a step towards her. ‘It’s me, Thursday!’
She hurriedly took a pace back and corrected me sharply:
‘That’s Mrs Parke-Laine to you. What do you want?’
I heard the door open behind me. The elderly Landen-that-wasn’t had returned.
‘She’s been ringing the doorbell,’ explained the man to Landen’s mother. ‘She won’t go away.’ He thought for a moment and then added in a quieter voice, ‘She’s been asking about Landen.’
‘Landen?’ replied Houson sharply, her glare becoming more baleful by the second. ‘How is Landen any business of yours?
‘He’s my husband.’
There was a pause as she mulled this over.
‘Your sense of humour is severely lacking, Miss whoever-you-are,’ she retorted angrily, pointing towards the garden gate. ‘The way out is the same as the way in—only reversed.’
‘Wait a minute!’ I exclaimed, almost wanting to laugh at the situation. ‘If I didn’t marry Landen, then who gave me this wedding ring?’
I held up my left hand for them to see but it didn’t seem to have much effect. A quick glance told me why. I didn’t have a wedding ring.
‘Shit!’ I mumbled, looking around in a perplexed manner. ‘I must have dropped it somewhere—’
‘You’re very confused,’ said Houson, more in pity than anger. She could see I wasn’t dangerous—just positively, and irretrievably, insane. ‘Is there anyone we can call?’
‘I’m not crazy,’ I declared, trying to get a grip on the situation. ‘This morning—no, less than two hours ago—Landen and I lived in this very house—’
I stopped. Houson had moved to the side of the man at the door. As they stood together in a manner bred of long association, I knew exactly who he was; it was Landen’s father. Landen’s dead father.
‘You’re Billden,’ I murmured. ‘You died when you tried to rescue…’
My voice trailed off. Landen had never known his father. Billden Parke-Laine had died saving the two-year-old Landen from a submerged car thirty-eight years ago. My heart froze as the true meaning of this bizarre confrontation began to dawn. Someone had eradicated Landen.
I put out a hand to steady myself, then sat quickly on the garden wall and closed my eyes as a dull thumping started up in my head. Not Landen, not now of all times.
‘Billden,’ announced Houson, ‘you had better call the police—’
‘No!’ I shouted, opening my eyes and glaring at him.
‘You didn’t go back, did you?’ I said slowly, my voice cracking. ‘You didn’t rescue him that night. You lived, and he—’
I braced myself for his anger but it never came. Instead, Billden just stared at me with a mixture of pity and confusion on his face.