The Woman Who Died a Lot

“No, but Isle of the Cross is most definitely lost, and it was often assumed the survivor might have been a reworking of the lost original. It’s not a hundred-percent proof, but it’s the closest so far to establishing that the Dark Reading Matter exists. Write it all up and get a report over to Commander Bradshaw as soon as you can.”

It was an interesting development, but I had too much on my mind to be either excited or worried about it, and I saw it simply as an ongoing part of my continued interest in the BookWorld, even though I hadn’t been able to read myself into the BookWorld since my accident. It wasn’t simply being physically well enough to cross the the barrier between the real and the read, but also the mental concentration required.

I ordered Tuesday to her room to get some sleep, kissed her good night and then walked upstairs to my bedroom.

“I wonder if I could read myself into the BookWorld while a Day Player?” I mused as I brushed my hair.

“With a brain like that, I’d be seriously surprised if you couldn’t.”

I read until I fell asleep and slept soundly until I woke quite suddenly at four in the morning, thinking I’d heard a noise. I went downstairs to find the TV and the lights on, then made myself a sandwich and some hot chocolate and watched a rerun of The Streets of Wootton Bassett, which was every bit as bad as I remembered.

But the odd thing was, even though I’d made myself a sandwich and a hot chocolate, I couldn’t remember eating them, yet they were gone—so I made myself some more.

I didn’t sleep after that and was still awake when The Early Breakfast Show with Adrian Lush came on at 5:00 A.M. I threw my shoe at the television but missed.

30. Thursday: Budget

Budget meetings have never been interesting, ever, despite numerous attempts over the years to try to josh them up a bit. Notable uplifting techniques involved the use of fire-eaters and performing elephants, but it didn’t work. The dry proceedings are well known to bring on a form of lethargy that can stay for the rest of the week, and Budget Therapy was used with great success in the treatment of patients suffering an excess of good-natured perkiness.

Randolph Moles,

Modern Living

“You don’t look very well,” said Duffy.

I was sitting at my desk, head down on the cool walnut surface, my temples throbbing as though fit to burst. I was tired, annoyed, frustrated, and my leg hurt badly.

“I don’t feel very well,” I answered.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Painkillers or something?”

“It won’t work. I’ve got so many patches stuck on my arse that my cheeks look like a couple of shrink-wrapped turkeys.”

I was silent for a moment.

“Duffy,” I said, face still resting on the cool desktop, “I do need someone to go and score me some stronger painkillers. Not the stuff you get in chemists’ or from doctors—the sort you buy in a pub car park at night from a guy named Nobby who pretends he’s your best mate.”

Duffy gave a polite cough. “Commander Hicks is here, ma’am.”

I looked up to see that yes, Braxton was here, and presumably he must have heard my attempt to coerce my subordinate into scoring illegal patches on my behalf.

“It’s the pain talking,” I said quickly. “I wasn’t serious. What I really need is a new body—and that’s not as daft as you might imagine. Are you here for the meeting?”

He nodded and placed a copy of his budget proposal on my desk. It looked suspiciously thin.

“How’s the job going, Thursday?” he asked somewhat portentously.

“I got shot at yesterday morning. Mrs. Hilly of the Blyton Fundamentalist movement has made death threats, and Colonel Wexler of the SLS is none too pleased that I won’t sanction dawn raids for overdue books.”

“Librarying is a harder profession than the public realizes,” he said. “People think it’s all rubber stamps, knowing that Dewey 521 is celestial mechanics and saying. ‘Try looking under fiction’ sixty-eight times a day.”

“I was an assistant librarian when at uni,” I told him. “The Dewey system stays with you forever.”

“Listen,” said Braxton, suddenly becoming more serious, “I want you to know that despite what happens in there, I’m on your side.”

This did sound ominous.

“What is going to happen in there?”

“I’m on your side,” he repeated. “Just remember that. See you in there.”

He left to go through to the boardroom, and I heaved myself to my feet, wincing badly.

“Want a hand?” said Duffy, who was at my side.