'Is this some sort of theme park?' asked Formby as we bundled him into Spike's car.

'Of a sort, Mr President,' I replied as we reversed out of the car park with a squeal of tyres and tore towards the exit ramp. No one tried to stop us and a couple of seconds later we were blinking in the daylight — and the rain — of the M4 westbound. The time, I noticed, was 5.03 — lots of time to get the President to a phone and oppose Kaine's vote in Parliament. I put out my hand to Spike, who shook it happily and returned my gun, which was still covered in the desiccated dust of Chesney's hoodlum friend.

'Did you see the look on his face when his head started to come off?' Spike asked, chuckling. 'Man, I live for moments like that!'

29

The Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire

We told the President that yes, he was right — the whole thing was some sort of motorway services theme park. Dowding and Parks were genuinely pleased to get their President back, and Yorrick Kaine cancelled the vote in Parliament. Instead, he led a silent prayer to thank providence for returning Formby to our midst. As for Spike and me, we were each given a post-dated cheque and told we would be sure to receive the 'Banjulele with Oak Clusters' for our steadfast adherence to duty.

Spike and I parted after the tiring day's work and I returned to the SpecOps office, where I found a slightly annoyed Major Drabb waiting for me near my car.

'No Danish books found again, Agent Next!' he said through clenched teeth, handing me his report. 'More failure and I will have to take the matter to higher authority.'

I glared at him, took a step closer and prodded him angrily in the chest. I needed Flanker off my case until the Superhoop at the very least.

'You blame me for your failings?'

'Well,' he said, faltering slightly and taking a nervous step backward as I moved even closer, 'that is to say—'

'Redouble your efforts, Major Drabb, or I will have you removed from your command. Do you understand?'

I shouted the last bit, which I didn't want to do — but I was getting desperate. I didn't want Flanker on my back in addition to everything else that was going on.

'Of course,' croaked Drabb, 'I take full responsibility for my failure.'

'Good,' I said, straightening up. 'Tomorrow you are to search the Australian Writers' Guild in Wootton Bassett.'

Drabb dabbed his brow and made another salute.

'As you say, Miss Next.'

I tried to drive past the mixed bag of journalists and TV news crews but they were more than insistent so I stopped to say a few words.

'Miss Next,' said a reporter from ToadSports, jostling with the five or six other TV crews trying to get the best angle, 'what is your reaction to the news that five of the Mallets have withdrawn from the side following death threats?'

This was news to me but I didn't show it.

'We are in the process of signing new players to the team—'

'Miss Manager, with only five players in your team, don't you think it better just to withdraw?'

'We'll be playing, I assure you.'

'What is your response to the rumour that the Reading Whackers have signed ace player "Bonecrusher" McSneed to play forward hoop?'

'The same as always — the Superhoop will be a momentous victory for Swindon.'

'And what about the news that you have been declared "unfit to manage" given your highly controversial decision to put Biffo in defence?'

'Positions on the field are yet to be decided and are up to Mr Jambe. Now if you'll excuse me . . .'

I started the engine again and drove away from the SpecOps building, the news crews still shouting questions after me. I was big news again, and I didn't like it.

I arrived home just in time to rescue Mother from having to make more tea for Friday.

'Eight fish fingers!' she muttered, shocked by his greed. 'Eight!'

'That's nothing,' I replied, putting my pay cheque into a novelty teapot and tickling Friday on the ear. 'You wait until you see how many beans he can put away.'

'The phone's been ringing all day. Aubrey somebody or other about death threats or something?'

'I'll call him. How was the zoo?'

'Ooh!' she cooed, touched her hair and tripped out of the kitchen. I waited until she was gone then knelt down close to Friday.

'Did Bismarck and Gran . . . kiss?'

'Tempor incididunt ut labors,' he replied enigmatically, 'et dolore magna aliqua.'

'I hope that's a "definitely not", darling,' I murmured, filling up his beaker. As I did so I caught my wedding ring on the lip of the cup, and I stared at it in a resigned manner. Landen was back again. I clasped it tightly and picked up the phone and dialled.

'Hello?' came Landen's voice.

'It's Thursday.'

'Thursday!' he said with a mixture of relief and alarm. 'What happened to you? I was waiting for you in the bedroom and then I heard the front door close! Did I do something wrong?'

'No, Land, nothing. You were eradicated again.'

'Am I still?'

'Of course not.'

There was a long pause. Too long, in fact. I looked at my hand. My wedding ring had gone again. I sighed, replaced the receiver and went back to Friday, heavy of heart.

I called Aubrey as I was giving Friday his bath and tried to reassure him about the missing players. I told him to keep training and I'd deliver. I wasn't sure how, but I didn't tell him that. I just said it was 'in hand'.

'I have to go,' I told him at last. 'I've got to wash Friday's hair and I can't do it with one hand.'

That evening, as I was reading Pinocchio to Friday, a large tabby cat appeared on the wardrobe in my bedroom. It didn't appear instantly, either — it faded in from the tip of its tail, all the way up to its very large grin. When he first started working in Alice in Wonderland he was known as 'The Cheshire Cat' but the authorities moved the Cheshire county boundaries and he thus became 'The Unitary Authority of Warrington Cat', but that was a bit of a mouthful so he was known more affectionately as 'The Cat Formerly Known as Cheshire' or, more simply, 'The Cat'. His real name was 'Archibald' but that was reserved for his mother when she was cross with him.

He worked very closely with us at Jurisfiction, where he was in charge of the Great Library, a cavernous and almost infinite depository of every book ever written. But to call the Cat a librarian would be an injustice. He was an Uberlibrarian — he knew about all the books in his charge. When they were being read, by whom — everything. Everything, that is, except where Yorrick Kaine was a featured part. Friday giggled and pointed as the Cat stopped appearing and stared at us with a grin etched on his features, eagerly listening to the story.