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Thursday looked at Thursday’s outstretched hand and raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve had the misfortune to read The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco,” she said in an unfriendly tone. “If you took the ‘Samuel Pepys’ out of the title, it would be a lot more honest. A bigger crock of shit I’ve yet to find. I kept on waiting for the shoot-outs to begin, and there weren’t any—just a load of hugging, vitamins and people saying they love one another.”
“There’s nothing wrong with hugging,” retorted Thursday5 defensively. “Perhaps if you were to try…?”
She put out her arms but was met with the curt response, “Lay your muesli-smelling paws on me and I’ll break your nose.”
“Well!” said Thursday5 in an indignant huff. “I’m almost sorry I wished you a happy birthday—and I’m very glad I didn’t bake you a cake.”
“I’m devastated.”
“Listen,” I said before this descended into blows, “I’m not going to ask you to get along, I’m telling you to get along. Okay?”
Thursday1–4 gave a lackadaisical shrug.
“Right,” I began, addressing Thursday1–4. “There are three simple rules if you want to train with me. Rule One: You do exactly as I tell you. Rule Two: You speak when you’re spoken to. Rule Three: I shall call you ‘Thursday1–4’ or ‘Thur1–4’ or Onesday or…anything I want, really. You will call me ‘ma’am.’ If I summon you, you come running. Rule Four: You give me any crap and you’re history.”
“I thought you said there were only three rules.”
“I make it up as I go along. Do you have any problem with that?”
“I suppose not.”
“Good. Let’s start at the beginning. How much classroom theory have you done?”
“Six weeks. Took my finals last Tuesday and came in third.”
“That’s not bad.”
“How many in the class?” asked Thursday5, who was still smarting over the possibility that her hands smelled of muesli, let alone the threat of a broken nose.
Thursday1–4 glared at her and mumbled, “Three, and two percent above the minimum pass mark, before you ask. But I scored ninety-nine percent on the range. Pistols, rifle, machine gun, grenade launcher—you name it.”
This was the main reason I didn’t like the Thursday Next series—far, far too many guns and a body count that would be the envy of the cinematic Rambo. Thursday1–4 unholstered an aggressive-looking automatic and showed it to us both.
“Glock nine-millimeter,” she said proudly. “Sixteen in the clip and one up the spout. Severe stopping power. I carry two to make quite sure.”
“Only two?” I murmured sarcastically.
“No, since you’re asking.” She lifted up the back of her leather greatcoat to show me a large, shiny revolver stuffed down the back of her trousers.
“What do you carry?” she asked. “Beretta? Browning? Walther?”
“None,” I said. “Charge into a room with a gun and someone ends up dead.”
“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”
“In your books, perhaps. If someone dies during an assignment, then the assignment was a failure. No exceptions.”
“Diplomacy and using your head,” put in Thursday5 bravely, “are better than waving a gun around.”
“And what would you know about it, your supreme bogusness?”
“You don’t have to insult me all the time,” she replied, visibly upset. “And besides, I’m not sure ‘bogusness’ is a word.”
“Well, listen here, veggieburger,” said the leather-clad Thursday in a sneering tone of voice, “I do have to insult you all the time. Firstly because it’s fun, and secondly because…No, I don’t need a second reason.”
“Jeez,” I said, shaking my head sadly as all patience left me. “You’re still revolting, aren’t you?”
