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“Thursday!—” cried the driver with a sense of urgency in her voice.
I frowned. It all looked real and I was definitely sure I had seen the driver somewhere before. The passenger, a young man in a suit whom I didn’t know, waved cheerily.
“He didn’t die!” said the woman, as though she wouldn’t have long to speak. “The car crash was a blind! Men like Acheron don’t die that easily! Take the Litera Tec job in Swindon!”
“Swindon?—” I echoed. I thought I had escaped that town—it afforded me a few too many painful memories.
I opened my mouth to speak but there was another screech of rubber and the car departed, folding up rather than fading out until there was nothing left but the echo of the tires and the faint smell of exhaust. Pretty soon that had gone too, leaving no clue as to its strange appearance. I held my head in my hands. The driver had been very familiar. It had been me.
My arm was almost healed by the time the internal inquiry circulated its findings. I wasn’t permitted to read it but I wasn’t bothered. If I had known what was in it, I would probably only have been more dissatisfied and annoyed than I was already. Boswell had visited me again to tell me I had been awarded six months’ sick leave before returning, but it didn’t help. I didn’t want to return to the Litera Tec’s office; at least, not in London.
“What are you going to do?” asked Paige. She had turned up to help me pack before I was discharged from the hospital.
“Six months’ leave can be a long time if you’ve got no hobbies or family or boyfriend,” she went on. She could be very direct at times.
“I have lots of hobbies.”
“Name one.”
“Painting.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I’m currently painting a seascape.”
“How long has it taken you so far?”
“About seven years.”
“It must be very good.”
“It’s a piece of crap.”
“Seriously, though,” said Turner, who had become closer to me in these past few weeks than during the entire time we had known each other, “what are you going to do?”
I handed her the SpecOps 27 gazette; it outlined postings around the country. Paige looked at the entry that I had circled in red ink.
“Swindon?”
“Why not? It’s home.”
“Home it might be,” replied Turner, “but weird it definitely is.” She tapped the job description. “It’s only for an operative— you’ve been acting inspector for over three years!”
“Three and a half. It doesn’t matter. I’m going.”
I didn’t tell Paige the real reason. It could have been a coincidence, of course, but the advice from the driver of the car had been most specific: Take the LiteraTec job in Swindon! Perhaps the vision had been real after all; the gazette with the job offer had arrived after the visitation by the car. If it had been right about the job in Swindon, it stood to reason that perhaps the news about Hades was also correct. Without any further thought, I had applied. I couldn’t tell Paige about the car; if she had known, friendship notwithstanding, she would have reported me to Boswell. Boswell would have spoken to Flanker and all sorts of unpleasantness might have happened. I was getting quite good at concealing the truth, and I felt happier now than I had for months.
“We’ll miss you in the department, Thursday.”
“It’ll pass.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Thanks, Paige, I appreciate it. I’ll miss you too.”
We hugged, she told me to keep in touch, and left the room, pager bleeping.
I finished packing and thanked the nursing staff, who gave me a brown paper parcel as I was about to leave.
