A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 by Jasper Fforde Page A

wound to open than a thousand new ones, eh?”
    â€œDon’t teach me morality, you little shit,” I said, my voice rising.
    It had the desired effect. She handed me a leaflet, took her boyfriend by the arm, and departed.
    I closed my eyes. My heart was beating like the crump-crump-crump of the Russian field artillery. I didn’t hear the squad car pull up beside me.
    â€œOfficer Next?—” asked a cheery voice.
    I turned and nodded gratefully, picked up my case and walked over. The officer in the car smiled at me. He had long dreadlocked hair and a pair of overly large dark glasses. His uniform was open at the collar in an uncharacteristically casual way for a SpecOps officer, and he wore a goodly amount of jewelry, also strictly against SpecOps guidelines.
    â€œWelcome to Swindon, Officer! The town where anything can happen and probably will!”
    He smiled broadly and jerked a thumb toward the rear of the car.
    â€œTrunk’s open.”
    The boot contained a lot of iron stakes, several mallets, a large crucifix and a pick and shovel. There was also a musty smell, the smell of mold and the long dead—I hurriedly threw in my bag and slammed the boot lid down. I walked around to the passenger door and got in.
    â€œ Shit !—” I cried out, suddenly noticing that in the back, pacing the rear seats behind a strong mesh screen, was a large Siberian wolf. The officer laughed loudly.
    â€œTake no notice of the pup, ma’am! Officer Next, I’d like you to meet Mr. Meakle. Mr. Meakle, this is Officer Next.”
    He was talking about the wolf. I stared at the wolf, which stared back at me with an intensity that I found disconcerting. The officer laughed like a drain and pulled away with a lurch and a squeal of tires. I had forgotten just how weird Swindon could be.
    As we drove off, the Will-Speak machine came to an end, reciting the last part of its soliloquy to itself:
    . . . Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, that I might see my shadow, as I pass.
    There was a clicking and whirring and then the mannequin stopped abruptly, lifeless again until the next coin.
    â€œBeautiful day,” I commented once we were under way.
    â€œEvery day is a beautiful day, Miss Next. The name’s Stoker—”
    He pulled out onto the Stratton bypass.
    â€œâ€”SpecOps-17: Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations. Suckers and biters, they call us. My friends call me Spike. You,” he added with a broad grin, “can call me Spike.”
    By way of explanation he tapped a mallet and stake that were clipped to the mesh partition.
    â€œWhat do they call you, Miss Next?”
    â€œThursday.”
    â€œPleased to meet you, Thursday.”
    He proffered a huge hand that I shook gratefully. I liked him immediately. He leaned against the door pillar to get the best out of the cooling breeze and tapped a beat out on the steering wheel. A recent scratch on his neck oozed a small amount of blood.
    â€œYou’re bleeding,” I observed.
    Spike wiped it away with his hand.
    â€œIt’s nothing. He gave me a bit of a struggle!—”
    I looked in the back seat again. The wolf was sitting down, scratching its ear with a hind leg.
    â€œâ€”but I’m immunized against lycanthropy. Mr. Meakle just won’t take his medication. Will you, Mr. Meakle?”
    The wolf pricked up its ears as the last vestige of the human within him remembered his name. He started to pant in the heat. Spike went on:
    â€œHis neighbors called. All the cats in the neighborhood had gone missing; I found him rummaging in the bins behind SmileyBurger. He’ll be in for treatment, morph back and be on the streets again by Friday. He has rights, they tell me. What’s your posting?”
    â€œI’m . . . ah . . . joining SpecOps-27.”
    Spike laughed loudly again.
    â€œA LiteraTec!? Always nice to meet someone as underfunded as I am. Some