Sunday

(The first day of the rest of their lives)

A

t around half past ten the paper boy brought the Sunday papers to the front door of Jasmine Cottage. He had to make three trips.

The series of thumps as they hit the mat woke up Newton Pulsifer.

He left Anathema asleep. She was pretty shattered, poor thing. She'd been almost incoherent when he'd put her to bed. She'd run her life according to the Prophecies and now there were no more Prophecies. She must be feeling like a train which had reached the end of the line but still had to keep going, somehow.

From now on she'd be able to go through life with everything com­ing as a surprise, just like everyone else. What luck.

The telephone rang.

Newt dashed for the kitchen and picked up the receiver on the second ring.

"Hello?" he said.

A voice of forced friendliness tinted with desperation gabbled at him.

"No," he said, "I'm not. And it's not Devissey, it's Device. As in Nice. And she's asleep."

"Well," he said, "I'm pretty sure she doesn't want any cavities insulated. Or double glazing. I mean, she doesn't own the cottage, you know. She's only renting it."

"No, I'm not going to wake her up and ask her," he said. "And tell me, Miss, uh . . . right, Miss Morrow, why don't you lot take Sundays off, like everybody else does?"

"Sunday,

" he said. "Of course it's not Saturday. Why would it be Saturday? Saturday was yesterday. It's honestly Sunday today, really. What do you mean, you've lost a day? 1 haven't got it. Seems to me you've got a bit carried away with selling . . . Hello?"

He growled, and replaced the receiver.

Telephone salespeople! Something dreadful ought to happen to them.

He was assailed by a moment of sudden doubt. Today was Sunday, wasn't it? A glance at the Sunday papers reassured him. If the Sunday Times said it was Sunday, you could be sure that they'd investigated the matter. And yesterday was Saturday. Of course. Yesterday was Saturday, and he'd never forget Saturday for as long as he lived, if only he could remember what it was he wasn't meant to forget.

Seeing that he was in the kitchen, Newt decided to make breakfast.

He moved around the kitchen as quietly as possible, to avoid wak­ing the rest of the household, and found every sound magnified. The an­tique fridge had a door that shut like the crack of doom. The kitchen tap dribbled like a diuretic gerbil but made a noise like Old Faithful. And he couldn't find where anything was. In the end, as every human being who has ever breakfasted on their own in someone else's kitchen has done since nearly the dawn of time, he made do with unsweetened instant black cof­fee[54].

On the kitchen table was a roughly rectangular, leather‑bound cin­der. He could just make out the words 'Ni a and Ace' on the charred cover. What a difference a day made, he thought. It turns you from the ultimate reference book to a mere barbecue briquette.

Now, then. How, exactly, had they got it? He recalled a man who smelled of smoke and wore sunglasses even in darkness. And there was other stuff, all running together . . . boys on bikes . . . an unpleasant buzzing . . . a small, grubby, staring face . . . It all hung around in his mind, not exactly forgotten but forever hanging on the cusp of recollection, a memory of things that hadn't happened. How could you have that[55]?

He sat staring at the wall until a knock at the door brought him back to earth.

There was a small dapper man in a black raincoat standing on the doorstep. He was holding a cardboard box and he gave Newt a bright smile.

"Mr."‑he consulted a piece of paper in one hand‑"Pulzifer?"

"Pulsifer," said Newt. "It's a hard ess"

"I'm ever so sorry," said the man. "I've only ever seen it written down. Er. Well, then. It would appear that this is for you and Mrs. Pul­sifer."

Newt gave him a blank look.

"There is no Mrs. Pulsifer," he said coldly.

The man removed his bowler hat.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said.

"I mean that . . . well, there's my mother," said Newt. "But she's not dead, she's just in Dorking. I'm not married."

"How odd. The letter is quite, er, specific."

"Who are you?" said Newt. He was wearing only his trousers, and it was chilly on the doorstep.

The man balanced the box awkwardly and fished out a card from an inner pocket. He handed it to Newt.

It read:

Giles Baddicombe

Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance

Solicitors

13 Demdyke Chambers,

PRESTON

"Yes?" he said politely. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Baddicombe?"

"You could let me in," said Mr. Baddicombe.

"You're not serving a writ or anything, are you?" said Newt. The events of last night hung in his memory like a cloud, constantly changing whenever he thought he could make out a picture, but he was vaguely aware of damaging things and had been expecting retribution in some form.

"No," said Mr. Baddicombe, looking slightly hurt. "We have peo­ple for that sort of thing."

He wandered past Newt and put the box down on the table.

"To be honest," he said, "we're all very interested in this. Mr. Bychance nearly came down himself, but he doesn't travel well these days."

"Look," said Newt, "I really haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"This," said Mr. Baddicombe, proffering the box and beaming like Aziraphale about to attempt a conjuring trick, "is yours. Someone wanted you to have it. They were very specific."

"A present?" said Newt. He eyed the taped cardboard cautiously, and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife.

"I think more a bequest," said Mr. Baddicombe. "You see, we've had it for three hundred years. Sorry. Was it something I said? Hold it under the tap, I should."

"What the hell is this all about?" said Newt, but a certain icy suspicion was creeping over him. He sucked at the cut.

"It's a funny story‑do you mind if I sit down?‑and of course I don't know the full details because I joined the firm only fifteen years ago, but . . ."

. . . It had been a very small legal firm when the box had been cautiously delivered; Redfearn, Bychance and both the Robeys, let alone Mr. Baddicombe, were a long way in the future. The struggling legal clerk who had accepted delivery had been surprised to find, tied to the top of the box with twine, a letter addressed to himself.

It had contained certain instructions and five interesting facts about the history of the next ten years which, if put to good use by a keen young man, would ensure enough finance to pursue a very successful legal career.

All he had to do was see that the box was carefully looked after for rather more than three hundred years, and then delivered to a certain address . . .

". . . although of course the firm had changed hands many times over the centuries," said Mr. Baddicombe. "But the box has always been part of the chattels, as it were."