"High Tension Cable" (PG-13) Bowden
Well, it necessitated re-reading Something Rotten, but I have finished that last Thursday Next fic to bring me up to the 3 stories over 500 limit. While I'm at it I want to profess that I find Landen an incredibly likable character. Now I'm off to sign up for remix.
Title: High Tension Cable
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Set midway through Something Rotten, before the meeting at the Neanderthal Nation.
Summary: “You live with a woman whom you don’t truly love but need for the stability. You are suspicious that she is seeing someone else and that anger and suspicion hang heavily on your shoulders. You feel passed over for promotion and the one woman whom you truly love is inaccessible to you-“ the observations of one Bartholomew Stiggens, Neanderthal.
“Bowden. Bowden, honey. Come on, its time for you to wake up.”
“Hmmm.” His growl emerged from beneath the covers.
“I know you’re tired, and you were at work late, but you need to get up. I have to leave for school in twenty minutes.”
“Karen?”
“Ah, you awaken.” The tall brunette grabbed his hand had pulled him upright. “Marmalade or Nutella on your toast?”
“Neither. I’ll just eat it plain.” Bowden had finally woken from his haze of sleep, and shrugged of his dream about Grendel breaking into the office and attempting to eat everyone until placated with contraband Welsh cheese.
“I’m giving the year 11s a practice test today,” Karen told him from the kitchen. “They really need to start revising for GCSE’s, but I don’t think they will until they see a failing grade on paper.” She handed him his dry toast as he entered the crampted. He gave her a good morning kiss in return. “What will you do today?”
“Set up the next round of anti-doping testing, most likely.”
“Well,” she added, distracted as she buttoned her denim blazer and smoothed her slacks, “stay safe.”
“I will, the authors usually submit pretty easily. It’s the historians you have to watch out for.”
“Oh, I may be late tonight. I’m not sure, but I might need to referee the B-team’s croquet match. I should be home before you are, anyways.”
“I’ll make dinner,” Bowden offered.
“Thanks, that’s sweet of you.” She bent down to kiss him, her bangs tickling his forehead. She was out the door when Bowden gathered up his briefcase and sidearm, before catching the bus into downtown Swindon.
Passing through the columns into the entrance of the Spec Ops town headquarters, Bowden caught Otto Bohn chatting with Georgia Peach. From what he could hear, over the plocking of the nearby feral dodos, Lou Egi had been moved from SO-32, Horticultural Enforcement Agency, all the way up to SO-26, the Pasta Police.
He’d barely had time to sit down at his desk and plan the day when a report about a disturbance down on Verona Street sent him out. Since the recent outbreaks of violence among the gangs, he and Victor had repeatedly pensioned the city to change it to something less fractious, Ellsinore Lane perhaps, but the head of the Montague’s had bought the vote of the city planner and that was the only name he’d consider authorizing, which would only increase the violence from the Capulets.
On his way back inhe stopped by Thursday’s office to check about the Shakespeare clones, but she was out.
It was onto lunchtime by then, having spent an hour dropping Benvolio2893, Mercutio4280, and Abram124, a rare one, at the station. Driving past the many Indian places as he’d gone to stop the incident had really put him in the mood for a curry, though, but Karen could be finicky about spicy foods, so he rang her office.
She was usually lunched at her desk from one to half past so any kids needing extra tutoring could use her office hours.
Today the phone just rang. He tried again after he’d finished his sandwich but she was still out. She seemed to out a lot recently and the T. S. Elliot Appreciation Club had really intensified their meeting schedule during the past term.
He tried not to think about it, and inside concentrated on contacting Terry Pratchett to set up his test for performing enhancing drugs. The man’s most recent book had certainly been wyrd. Then Victor returned from a meeting with Braxton mumbling about nine irons and assumed the calling duties, leaving Bowden to deal with the highly illegal contraband sitting in his desk beneath a dictionary and comics page from a two month old edition of The Toad.
He’d come into ten extra copies of work by Henrik Pontoppidan and Karl Gjellerup. How anyone could even consider burning books appalled him. Books were what made their society exist. English culture was built on prose and verse. Iambic pentameter formed their bedrock. But to steal foreign influences away, soon they too would fall. Nothing is made from a vacuum. Where would Shakespeare and Webster have been without their sources?
And not just to deprive the people, but to destroy the books so brutally! Something had to be done.
Having packed the books away, Bowden returned to the map that had become his best friend in the past month. His fingers traced the familiar roads.
What if they went up to Chester, then faked west, in through the Northern Marches, somewhere around Oswestry, perhaps? It was less likely to have the heavy patrols sometimes seen around Hay-on-Wye.
He’d have to suggest that to Thursday, provided she wasn’t out. It was nice to have her back. It seemed they did so much more when she was around. It had been surprising when she’d disappeared. Bowden had missed her.
Rounding the corner, he wondered once again who Friday’s father was. He wasn’t aware of any boyfriends she’d had before disappearing. Friday didn’t really resemble anyone he knew.
Stig passed him in the hall.
“How is the research on the Shakespeare going?”
“We are waiting for the results of the molar cross-section.”
“Well,” Bowden offered, “that’s better than nothing.”
“But that is nothing, as of yet.”
“I guess so. Thank you for inviting me along tomorrow evening.”
“We shall see you then.” Stig finished, and continued walking.
Bowden continued to Thursday’s office, but looking through her window confirmed that she was working, her head bent over the desk, reading some file intently.
She did look over her left hand every few seconds.
Bowden stood watching the back of her head turning, her short brown hair shaking. She reached her right arm over and he startled, thinking she’d heard him, but instead she started twisting her wedding ring around her fourth finger. He felt an involuntary rush of jealousy towards Landen Parke-Laine, author and Crimean War vet, and decided it might be better to wait on offering his plan.
The day ended swiftly and Tesco’s was fairly quiet as he picked up the chicken for dinner except for the crowd in the row of pro-Swindon Superhoop decorations. The bus stalled a little as it tured about the Magic roundabout, but he still made it home with plenty of time to cook.
Stepping into the flat he could hear Name that Fruit on in the background.
“I’m home.”
“Hi honey.”
“How was your day?” He asked, then remembering his lunchtime efforts asked, “Busy?”
“No,” she declared with a satisfied smile, “with the exception of one of the girls trying to get out of her test by claiming that ‘Goliath religion outlawed testing on Tuesday mornings’ it was actually fairly slow.”
“Oh. That’s good. We’re having curry for dinner.”