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'What's your name?' I asked her.
'Irma,' she replied, 'Irma Cohen.'
'Poppycock!' said the umbrella woman. 'I'm Irma Cohen!'
'So am I,' said the woman with the Peke.
'And me!' exclaimed the thin woman at the back. It was clear after a short period of frenzied cries of 'Ooh, fancy that!' and 'Well I never!', that everyone in the Skyrail except me and Kaylieu and Pixie Frou-Frou were called Irma Cohen. Some of them were even vaguely related. It was quite a coincidence – for today, the best yet.
'Thursday,' said the squat woman.
'Yes?'
But she wasn't talking to me; she was writing in the answer: Day's hurt – Thursday. It was an anagram.
The emergency phone rang.
'This is Diana Thuntress, trained negotiator for SpecOps 9,' said a businesslike voice. 'Who is this?'
'Di, it's me, Thursday.'
There was a pause.
'Hello, Thursday. Saw you on the telly last night. Trouble seems to follow you around, doesn't it? What's it like in there?'
I looked at the small and unconcerned crowd of commuters, who were showing each other pictures of their children. Pixie Frou-Frou had fallen asleep and the Irma Cohen with the crossword was puzzling on six across: The parting bargain.
'They're fine. A little bored, but not hurt.'
'What does the perp want?'
'He wants to talk to someone at Goliath about species self-ownership.'
'Wait – he's a Neanderthal?
'Yes.'
'It's not possible' A Neanderthal being violent?'
'There's no violence up here, Di —just desperation.'
'Shit,' muttered Thuntress. 'What do I know about dealing with Thals? We'll have to get one of the SpecOps Neanderthals in.'
'He also wants to see a reporter from Toad News.'
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
'Di?'
'Yes?'
'What can I tell Kaylieu?'
'Tell him that – er – Toad News are supplying a car to take him to the Goliath Genetic Labs in the Preselh mountains where Goliath's Governor, Chief Geneticist and a team of lawyers will be waiting to agree terms.'
As lies go, it was a real corker.
'But is
