All cities had a representative from the Goliath Corporation to guide and lobby for the company’s interests, of which it had many. Because Goliath catered for everything from the cradle to the grave, it was hard to find a decision in which the corporation’s representative would not have some sort of opinion. Councils loved them. They were like a trade union, management consultancy, retailers’ association and consumer association all in one. You could, in fact, talk to one person about almost everything— except impartiality.

Milton Tablitt, A Guide to the Goliath Corporation

Duffy nodded to the Goliath representative who entered my office. He was immaculately turned out in a dark blue suit and carried with him the unmistakable air of supreme confidence that only connection to the planet’s dominant corporate enterprise could supply.

“Hello, Thursday.”

I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. It was Jack Schitt. “Well, well,” I said, “do I call you Jack Schitt or Adrian Dorset?”

“Either,” he replied, as the less polite epithet was the name by which he had become known in the ghostwritten Thursday books—to guard against lawsuits, apparently. I thought quickly. He would know that I had seen an empty Tupperware box at the Finis, but that would be all he could be sure about. I would have to be careful.

“Most people call me Jack these days. I think it’s a form of ironic humor. Can we speak alone?”

I nodded to Duffy, who went out and closed the door behind him. I heaved myself to my feet in a clumsy manner using the stick that Duffy had provided. I could see Jack looking at me with interest. My gait, my hand where I had drawn the tattoo on with a felt-tip, and the Band-Aids I had placed on my face— precisely in the places Real Me had been cut during the fight at the Lobsterhood. I lumbered to the coffee machine and poured him a cup.

“So where’s the usual rep?” I asked, offering him a seat on the sofa.

“Representative Cornball is engaged on . . . other duties. I’m taking over for a few days.”

“We’re honored,” I said, setting the coffee in front of him and then clumsily sitting down myself—a sort of controlled descent for two-thirds of the way, then a drop onto the cushions from there. If he was suspicious, he didn’t show it.

“We don’t often see any Goliath high-fliers in Swindon,” I added. “What position are you on the Ladder these days?”

“Ninety-one. The corporation rewards loyalty.”

“So? Starbucks rewards loyalty—and they’re not out to take over the world. Okay, that was a bad example. Tesco’s rewards loyalty, and they’re not out to . . . Okay, That’s a bad example, too. But you know what I mean.”