‘Seems to me you’re in such deep shit your eyes will turn brown, Next.’

‘My eyes are already brown, Flanker.’

‘Then you’re halfway there already. I’ll come straight to the point. You earned six hundred pounds last night to pay back rent.’

‘And?’

‘The service takes a dim view of moonlighting.’

‘It was Stoker at SO-17,’ I told him. ‘I was deputised—all above board.’

Flanker went quiet. His intelligence-gathering had obviously let him down badly.

‘Can I go?’

Flanker sighed.

‘Listen here, Thursday,’ he began in a more moderate tone of voice, ‘we need to know what your father is up to.’

‘What’s the problem? Industrial action standing in the way of next week’s cataclysmic event?’

‘Freelance navigators will sort it out, Next.’

He was bluffing.

‘You have no more idea about the nature of the armageddon than Dad, me, Lavoisier, or anyone else, do you?’

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Flanker, ‘but we at SpecOps are far better suited to having no clue at all than you and that chronupt father of yours.’

‘Chronupt?’ I said angrily, getting to my feet. ‘My father? That’s a joke! What is your golden boy Lavoisier doing eradicating my husband, then?’

There was silence for a moment.

‘That’s a very serious accusation,’ observed Flanker. ‘Have you any proof?’

‘Of course not; isn’t that the point of eradication?’

‘I have known Lavoisier for longer than I would care to forget,’ intoned Flanker gravely, ‘and I have never had anything but the highest regard for his integrity. Making wild accusations isn’t going to help your cause one iota.’

I sat down again and sighed. Dad had been right. Accusing Lavoisier of any wrongdoing was pointless.

‘Can I go?’

‘I have nothing to hold you on, Next. But I’ll find something. Every agent is on the make. It’s just a question of digging deep enough.’

‘How did it go?’ asked Bowden when I got back to the office.

‘I got an “F”,’ I muttered, sinking into my chair.

‘Flanker,’ said Bowden, trying on his Eat More Toast cap. ‘Has to be.’

‘How did the stand-up go?’

‘Very well, I think,’ answered Bowden, dropping the cap in the bin. ‘The audience seemed to find it very funny indeed. So much so that they want me to come back as a regular… What are you doing?’

I hurriedly hid under the table, slithering to the floor as quickly as I could. I would have to trust Bowden’s quick wits.

‘Hello!’ said Miles Hawke. ‘Has anyone seen Thursday?’

‘I think she’s at her monthly assessment meeting,’ replied Bowden, whose deadpan delivery was obviously as well suited to lying as it was to stand-up. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘No. Just ask her to get in contact, if she could.’

‘Why don’t you stay and wait?’ said Bowden. I kicked him under the table

‘No, I’d better run along,’ replied Miles. ‘Just tell her I called, won’t you?’

He walked off and I stood up. Bowden, very unusually for him, was giggling.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing—why don’t you want to see him?’

‘Because I might be carrying his baby.’

‘You’re going to have to speak up, I can hardly hear you.’

‘I might,’ I repeated in a hoarse whisper, ‘be carrying his baby!’

‘I thought you said it was Land—What’s the matter now?’

I had dropped to the ground again as Cordelia Flakk walked in. She was scanning the office for me in annoyance, hands on hips.

‘Have you seen Thursday about?’ she asked Bowden. ‘She’s got to meet these people of mine.’

‘I’m really not sure where she is,’ replied Bowden.

‘Really? Then who was it I saw ducking under this table?’

‘Hello, Cordelia,’ I said from beneath the table. ‘I dropped my pencil.’

‘Sure you did.’

I clambered out and sat down at my desk.

‘I expected more from you, Bowden,’ said Flakk crossly, then turned to me. ‘Now, Thursday. We promised these two people they could meet you. Do you really want to disappoint them? Your public, you know.’

‘They’re not my public, Cordelia, they’re yours. You made them for me.’

‘I’ve had to keep them at the Finis for another night,’ said Cordelia. ‘Costs are escalating. They’re downstairs right now. I knew you’d be in for your assessment. How did you do, by the way?’

‘Don’t ask.’

I looked at Bowden, who shrugged. Looking for some sort of rescue, I twisted on my seat, looking over to where Victor was running a possible unpublished sequel to 1984 entitled 1985 through the Prose Analyser. All the other members of the office were busy at their various tasks. It looked as if my PR career was just about to restart.

I sighed. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’

‘Better than hiding under the desk,’ said Bowden. ‘All that jumping around is probably not good for the baby.’

He clapped his hand over his mouth but it was too late.

‘Baby?’ echoed Cordelia. ‘What baby?’

‘Thanks, Bowden.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, congratulations!’ said Cordelia, hugging me. ‘Who is the lucky father?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You mean you haven’t told him yet?’

‘No, I mean I don’t know. My husband, hopefully.’

‘You’re married?’

‘No’

‘But you said—?’

‘Yes, I did,’ I retorted as drily as I could. ‘Confusing, isn’t it?’

‘This is very bad PR,’ muttered Cordelia darkly, sitting on the edge of the desk to steady herself. ‘The leading light of SpecOps knocked up in a bus shelter by someone she doesn’t even know!’

‘Cordelia, it’s not like that, and I wasn’t “knocked up”—and who mentioned anything about bus shelters? Perhaps the best thing would be if you kept this under your hat and we pretended that Bowden never said anything.’

‘Sorry.’

Cordelia leapt to her feet.

‘Good thinking, Next. We can tell everyone you have water retention or an eating disorder brought on by stress.’ Her face fell. ‘No, that won’t work. The Toad will see through it like a shot. Can’t you get married really quickly to someone? What about Bowden? Bowden, would you do the decent thing for the sake of SpecOps?’

‘I’m seeing someone over at SpecOps 13,’ replied Bowden hurriedly.

‘Blast!’ muttered Flakk. ‘Thursday, any ideas?’

But this was an aspect of Bowden I knew nothing about.

‘You never told me you were seeing someone over at SO-13!’

‘I don’t have to tell you everything.’

‘But I’m your partner, Bowden!’

‘Well, you never told me about Miles.’

‘Miles?’ exclaimed Cordelia. ‘The oh-so-handsome-to-die-for Miles Hawke?’

‘Thanks, Bowden.’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ exclaimed Cordelia, clapping her hands together. ‘A dazzling couple! “SpecOps wedding of the year!” This is worth soooooo much coverage! Does he know?’

‘No. And you’re not going to tell him. And what’s more—Bowden—it might not even be his.’

‘Which puts us back to square one again!’ responded Cordelia in a huff. ‘Stay here. I’m going to fetch this chap and his daughter. Bowden, don’t let her out of your sight!’

And she was gone.

Bowden stared at me for a moment and then asked:

‘Do you really believe the baby is Landen’s?’

‘I’m hoping.’

‘You’re not married, Thurs. You might think you are but you’re not. I looked at the records Landen Parke-Laine died in 1947.’

‘This time he did. My father and I went—’

‘You don’t have a father, Thursday. There is no record of anyone on your birth certificate. I think maybe you should speak to one of the stressperts.’

‘And end up doing comedy stand-up, arranging pebbles or counting blue cars? No thanks.’

There was a pause.

‘He is very handsome,’ said Bowden.

‘Who?’

‘Miles Hawke, of course.’

‘Oh. Yes, yes, I know he is.’

‘Very polite, very popular.’

‘I know that.’

‘A child without a father—’