'Where's Landen now?'

'At his house, I should imagine,' said my mother. 'Are you staying here for supper?'

'Then . . . he's not eradicated?'

She looked confused.

'Good Lord no!'

I narrowed my eyes.

'Then I didn't ever go to Eradications Anonymous?'

'Of course not, darling. You know that myself and Mrs Beatty are the only people who ever attend — and Mrs Beatty is only there to comfort me. What on earth are you talking about? And come back! Where do you—'

I opened the door and was two paces down the garden path when I remembered I had left Friday behind, so went back to get him, found he had got chocolate down his front despite the bib, put his sweatshirt on over his T-shirt, found he had gllbbed down the front of it, got a clean one, changed his nappy and ... no socks.

'What are you doing, darling?' asked my mother as 1 rummaged in the laundry basket.

'It's Landen,' I babbled excitedly, 'he was eradicated and now he's back and it's as though he'd never gone and I want him to meet Friday but Friday is way, way too sticky right now to meet his father.'

'Eradicated? Landen? When?' asked my mother incredulously. 'Are you sure?'

'Isn't that the point about eradication?' I replied, having found six socks, none of them matching. 'No one ever knows. It might surprise you to know that Eradications Anonymous once had forty or more attendees. When I came there were less than ten. You did a wonderful job, Mother. They'd all be really grateful — if only they could remember.'

'Oh!' said my mother in a rare moment of complete clarity. 'Then . . . when eradicatees are brought back it is as if they had never gone. Ergo: the past automatically rewrites itself to take into account the non-eradication.'

'Well, yes — more or less.'

I slipped some odd socks on Friday's feet — he didn't help matters by splaying his toes — then found his shoes, one of which was under the sofa and the other right on top of the bookcase — Melanie had been climbing on the furniture, after all. I found a brush and tidied his hair, trying desperately to get an annoying crusty bit that smelt suspiciously of baked beans to lie flat. It didn't and I gave up, then washed his face, which he didn't like one bit. I was eventually on my way out of the door when I saw myself in the mirror and dashed back upstairs. I plonked Friday on the bed, put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt and tried to do something — anything — with my short hair.

'What do you think?' I asked Friday, who was now sitting on the dressing table staring at me.

'Aliquippa ex consequat.'

'I hope that means: "you look adorable, Mum".'

'Mollit anim est laborum.'

I pulled on my jacket, walked out of my room, came back to brush my teeth and fetch Friday's polar bear, then was out the door again, telling Mum that I might not be back that night.

My heart was still racing as I walked outside, ignoring the journalists, and popped Friday in the passenger seat of the Speedster, put down the hood — might as well arrive in style — and strapped him in. I inserted the key in the ignition and then—

'Don't drive, Mum.'

Friday spoke. I was speechless for a second, hand poised on the ignition.

'Friday?' I said. 'You're talking—?'

And then my heart grew cold. He was looking at me with the most serious look I had ever seen on a two-year-old before or since. And I knew the reason why. Cindy. It was the day of the second assassination attempt. In all the excitement I had completely forgotten. I slowly and very carefully took my hands off the key and left it where it was, trafficators blinking, oil and battery warning lights burning. I carefully unstrapped Friday, then, not wanting to open any of the doors, I climbed carefully out of the open top and took him with me. It was a close call.

'Thanks, baby, I owe you — but why did you wait until now to say anything?'

He didn't answer —just put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them innocently.

'Strong silent type, eh? Come on, wonder-boy, let's call SO-14.'

The police closed the road and the bomb squad arrived twenty minutes later, much to the excitement of the journalists and TV crews. They went live to the networks almost immediately, linking the bomb squad with my new job as the Mallets' manager, filling up any gaps in the story with speculation or, in one case, colourful invention.

The four pounds of explosives had been connected to the starter motor relay. One more second and Friday and I would have been knocking on the pearly gates. I was jumping up and down with impatience by the time I had given a statement. I didn't tell them this was the second of three assassination attempts, nor did I tell them there would be another attempt at the end of the week. But I wrote it on my hand so I wouldn't forget.

'Windowmaker,' I told them, 'yes, with an "N" — I don't know why. Well, yes — but sixty-eight if you count Samuel Pring. Reason? Who knows. I was the Thursday Next who changed the ending of Jane Eyre. Never read it? Preferred The Professor? Never mind. It'll be in my files. No, I'm with SO-27. Victor Analogy. His name's Friday. Two years old. Yes, he's very cute, isn't he? You do? Congratulations. No, I'd love to see the pictures. His aunt? Really? Can I go now?'

After an hour they said I could leave so I plonked Friday in his buggy and pushed him rapidly up to Landen's place. I arrived a bit puffed and had to stop and regain my breath and my thoughts. The house was back to how I remembered it. The tub of Tickia orologica on the porch had vanished along with the pogo stick. Beyond the more tasteful curtains I could see movement within. I straightened my shirt, attempted to smooth Friday's hair, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell. My palms felt hot and sweaty and I couldn't control a stupid grin that had spread all over my face. I was carrying Friday for greater dramatic effect and moved him to the other hip as he was a bit of a lump. After what seemed like several hours but was, I suspect, less than ten seconds, the door opened to reveal. . . Landen, every bit as tall and handsome and as large as life as I had wished to see him all these past years. He wasn't as I remembered him — he was way better than that. My love, my life, the father of my son — made human. I felt the tears start to well up in my eyes and tried to say something but all that came out was a stupid snorty cough. He stared at me and I stared at him, then he stared at me some more, and I stared at him some more, then I thought perhaps he didn't recognise me with the short hair, so I tried to think of something really funny and pithy and clever to say but couldn't, so I shifted Friday to the other hip as he was becoming even more of a lump with every passing second and said, rather stupidly:

'It's Thursday.'

'I know who it is,' he said unkindly. 'You've got a bloody nerve, haven't you?'

And he shut the door in my face.

I was stunned for a moment and had to recover my thoughts before I rang the doorbell again. There was another pause that seemed to last an hour but I suspect was only fractionally longer — thirteen seconds, tops — and the door opened again.

'Well,' said Landen, 'if it isn't Thursday Next.'

'And Friday,' I replied, 'your son.'

'My son,' replied Landen, deliberately not looking at him, 'right.'

'What's the matter?' I asked, tears starting to well up again in my eyes, 'I thought you'd be pleased to see me!'

He let out a long breath and rubbed his forehead.

'It's difficult—'

'What's difficult? How can anything be difficult?'

'Well,' he began, 'you disappear from my life two and a half years ago, I haven't seen hide nor hair of you. Not a postcard, not a letter, not a phone call, nothing. And then you just turn up on my doorstep as though nothing has happened and I should be pleased to see you!'