The Woman Who Died a Lot

“If he was Laddernumber ninety-one,” said Phoebe, “then there are probably about ninety worse than him. With Jack dead, the object of my hatred has moved to Goliath. What would you say to a merger of our departments? Your funding would be restored. We can recruit from within the library service and then really start to hit Goliath where it hurts.”

“Let’s see: run the Wessex Library Services, assist at the new SO-27 and kick some Goliath butt?”

“How about it?” asked Phoebe.

I smiled. “I am so totally on board.”

I gave her my hand to shake, and she squeezed it gratefully.

We drove back to my house in silence, and I let her take the Sportina into town. Phoebe, I reflected, was a good sort, reliable in a scrap, driven, and she disliked big business and all that it stood for—particularly Goliath. We’d make a good team.

I pushed open the doors to be greeted by Landen and the others. My erstwhile assassin was being carted off by the local police.

“What happened to your arm?” asked Landen.

“Long story.”

I related the day’s events over lunch and described as best I could what it was like to be within spitting distance when a truly sinful man is vaporized by the all-consuming wrath of God.

“Cool,” said Gavin once I’d finished the story. “So all’s well that ends well?”

“Not precisely,” I replied, glancing at the clock. “It’s now one-thirty. Destiny is heading toward you and Friday and will be with them in thirty-two minutes and four seconds. If it can be sidestepped, so much the better.”

“How do you sidestep destiny?”

“It depends what sort of mood she’s in—warm and forgiving or cold and immovable.”

“How do we tell?”

“We can’t—until afterward.”

Gavin’s face fell. “Bummer.”

39. Friday: Destiny

Of all the implausible notions with which the unconventional scientist has to battle, destiny is the one that gives the most trouble. The notion of predestination, that the future might be already fixed, irrespective of the billions of random interactions that precede it, sits poorly within the laws of physics and probability. But from a spiritual point of view, destiny sits very comfortably and in some cases is the sole guide to a sentient being. A beacon to follow, a guiding light in an otherwise empty existence.

Millon de Floss, Intelligent-Sounding Stuff to Spout, from The Hermiting Manual (edition 2)

“Okay,” I said once everyone had gathered in Tuesday’s lab, only because it was conveniently large, “let’s just talk this through point by point. Friday, you’re not due to kill Gavin for”—I looked at my watch—“another twenty-six minutes.”

“I think I might stand in front of him if you try,” said Tuesday.

“And I think I might let you,” said Gavin, who was clearly eager to add “coward” to his long list of personal failings.

“It won’t help,” I said. “Both your Letters of Destiny say this will happen.”

“Agreed,” replied Friday. “So let’s talk out the problem. First, some evidence.”

He opened a briefcase and produced a plastic wallet that contained some yellowed scraps of paper.

“This is what the Manchild unearthed up at the Kemble Timepark yesterday. Despite the murders not happening for another thirty-six years, parts of the investigation records survive.”

“You have records for things that haven’t happened yet?” asked Tuesday.

“Certainly. There had to be something from which to compose the Letters of Destiny. But, annoyingly for us, the records were kept near the engines. The leaking flux has aged them almost three and a half thousand years.”

He placed some of the aged documents on the table.

“What we have offers compelling evidence for what we’ve suspected—that Gavin will definitely be behind the murders. We have the remains of witness statements, a security-camera image of the Vauxhall KP-16 that kills Shazza and a registration document with Gavin’s name on it. On the remains of the interview logs, we see that Gavin would have worked for the Goliath Corporation and as Laddernumber 2789—pretty high up.”

“I’d never work for those losers,” said Gavin. “In the same way as I’d never own a Vauxhall.”

“We all do things we never thought we’d do,” said Landen. “People change.”

“Not me,” said Gavin cheerfully. “I’m a tosser for life— however long or short that might be.”

There was silence for a moment.