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“I don’t know,” said Millon. “This is Swindon, remember.”
“Agreed,” replied Landen, “but ask around nonetheless.”
“And me?” I asked.
“You’re accompanying Friday to his Destiny Aware Support group meeting.”
20.
Tuesday: The Destiny Aware
After many years of employing operatives from within only a couple of hundred years around the end of the twentieth century, the ChronoGuard was forced by increased lobbying from the thirtieth and fortieth centuries to broaden its employment criteria. After threats of withdrawing transit rights through their time periods, the thirtieth and fortieth centuries successfully had the ChronoGuard implement an Equal Temporal Employment Policy. The success of this was short-lived, as the service was disbanded a few years later.
Norman Scrunge, Time Industry Historian
Shazza and Jimmy-G had just finished setting out about a hundred chairs when we turned up, and I wondered just how many ex–potential employees might be coming. Although we knew that the ChronoGuard had employed about three thousand, it wasn’t known how many came from which era, and indeed the covering letter attached to the summaries indicated that the Letters of Destiny were only for the Swindon branch of the timeworkers union.
“This is Friday,” I said, introducing Friday to them both. “Jimmy-G, you would have
worked together, and Shazza, you and Friday would have—”
“We know what we would have been. Thank you, Mum.”
They shook hands and looked at one another shyly. In another timeline they would have been lovers and inseparable, but in this one their future was considerably bleaker. Shazza marries a clot named Biff, and Friday spends his life in the slammer. It wasn’t the sort of circumstances in which romance could blossom, really—unless found in the pages of a Farquitt novel, in which case all would doubtless turn out well.
“We would have worked together closely,” said Jimmy-G, giving Friday a warm embrace, “on many exhilarating adventures, apparently.”
“Any idea what?” asked Friday.
“Nothing too specific,” said Jimmy-G, “just that we would.”
“Mine says the same.”
“And mine,” said Shazza, “but I like the idea of being known as the ‘Scourge of the Upper Triassic.’ ”
“Is this the ChronoGuard thing?” came a voice from the door. I turned and saw a moody-looking teenager with oily hair and a black eye. He looked as though he had just lost an argument about something and was plotting payback. More significantly, he was the one who had paid fifty p to see Tuesday’s boobs and more recently offered her a fiver for sex. He was also due to be murdered on Friday. It was Gavin Watkins. I didn’t want to be judgmental, despite his offer earlier to Tuesday, so instead I used that mildly condescending voice you reserve for acquaintances of your children. “You’re a friend of Tuesday’s aren’t you?”
“Not really friends,” he replied. “Our relationship is based more on a . . . business footing.”
I narrowed my eyes at his impertinence, my patience rapidly vanishing. “Is it, now? Listen, Gavin, I’m not so sure offering cash for sex is really appropriate behavior.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s disrespectful, insulting, and . . . she’s not that kind of girl.”
“This is what happened,” he said. “I asked her if theoretically speaking she would sleep with me for four point three million pounds, and she said she theoretically would, so then I asked her if she’d accept a fiver. So she is definitely that kind of girl. All we’re doing is discussing the price.”
I stared at him.
“Oh, c’mon,” he added with a sneer, “are you really going to stand there and tell me you haven’t sold yourself at least once? If not for cash, then certainly for influence.”
“You’re a nasty piece of work, aren’t you?” I said, although privately admitting that he was right. A long time ago, but he was right.
“Apologize, Gavin,” said Friday, who had heard enough. “You just crossed the line.”
“I wasn’t the one who drew the line,” he said in a low, controlled voice, “but I’m only telling the truth. Both your mother and sister are—”
“Don’t say it! I swear to God I’ll—”
