One of Our Thursdays Is Missing

by Jasper Fforde

  “We’ll ride this baby all the way into Fiction,” said the cabbie as she took out some knitting, “about twenty minutes. We could fly the whole way, but we’d probably be picked up by the book-traffic controllers and get busted.”

  “Don’t look now, but I think we just have.”

  The flashing red lights of a Jurispoetry squad car close by had alerted me to the fact that the cabbie wasn’t quite as good as I thought she was. We could have detached there and then and dropped the mile towards the Text Sea before leveling out and making a run for the coast, but it was a risky undertaking. Cutting and running meant only one thing: guilty.

  “Oh, crap,” said the cabbie, dropping a stitch in surprise. “I hope you’ve got some friends in high places.”

  “Hullo,” I said to the officer who was now standing outside the car. He was dressed in a baggy white shirt and smelled strongly of rhyming couplets. He stared at me with the supercilious look of someone who knew he had the upper hand and was certainly going to milk it.

  “Oh, to sneak across the border, when it’s plain you should not oughta?”

  I had to think quickly. Unlike the Poetry government officials who conversed in rhyme royal, this was a lowly traffic cop who spoke only the gutter doggerel of the streets. He was using a soft-rhyming AA and so was probably not that bright. I hit him with some AABCCB.

  “Au contraire, my friend, we did not intend to break any poetical code. We were waved through by others of your crew and simply took the upper road.”

  But he didn’t go for it.

  “I can see your little plan, but your stanzas barely scan. You, madam, I must nab, so get your butt from out the cab.”

  I climbed out and succumbed to a search. He soon found the box the Lady of Shalott had given me.

  “Well, lookee here, what have we got? Is this metaphor or is it not?”

  “Not one but other, I must confess, the situation’s now a mess.”

  He opened the box and stared. It wasn’t metaphor, but contraband nonetheless.

  “You’re in big trouble smuggling this junk. What else you got? Let’s pop the trunk.”

  We did, and there was Sprockett. The officer stared at him for a moment.

  “I’m sure you can explain away why a dead butler’s in your trunk today?”

  “He’s a clockwork butler, Duplex-5, and even paused he’s still alive.”

  The officer had seen enough and brought out a report sheet to take down some details.

  “Name?”

  “Thursday Next.”

  The officer looked at me, then at my New Agey clothes, then at Sprockett.

  “Now, which one could that be? The heroine or the one who likes to hug a tree?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. I had to hope that this guard could be fooled as easily as the Elvis back in Conspiracy.

  “I am she, the Thursday proper. Those that cross me come a cropper.”

  “That seems likely, but before I yield, let me check your Jurisfiction shield.”

  I passed it across. The officer took one look at it, put away his report sheet and told his partner that they were leaving. He smiled and handed me back my badge.

  “It’s an honor, I’ll be reckoned. Sorry to have kept you for even a second.”

  I signed my name in his autograph book and with growing confusion climbed back into the cab as the Jurispoetry car detached from the hull and fell away from the tanker, leaving us to continue our trip unmolested.

  “You’re Thursday Next?” said the cabbie, her attitude suddenly changed. “This ride is for free, kiddo. But listen, the next time you’re in the RealWorld, can you find out why there have to be over a hundred different brands of soap? I’d really like to know.”

  “Okay,” I muttered, “no problem.”

  The remainder of the journey was unremarkable, except for one thing: I spent the entire trip staring at the Jurisfiction shield that had allowed me not once but twice to squeak out of trouble. It wasn’t my shield at all. It was Thursday’s. The real Thursday’s. Someone had slipped it into my pocket that morning. And the more I thought about the morning’s events, the more I realized that I might have become involved—quite against my will—with a matter of some considerable consequence.

  9.

  Home

  Rumor has it that undiscovered genres were hidden among the thick vegetation and impenetrable canopy in the far north of the island. Primitive, anarchic, strange and untouched by narrative convention, they were occasionally discovered and inducted into the known BookWorld, where they started off fresh and exciting before ultimately becoming mimicked, overused, tired and then passé. BookWorld naturalists argued strongly that some genres should remain hidden in order to keep the BookWorld from homogenizing, but their voices went unheeded.

  Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (3rd edition)

  I had the most curious dream,” mused Sprockett as soon as I had rewound him completely, “in which I was a full-hunter silent repeater. There was also this gramophone—you know, one of those windup varieties—and she was running overspeed and playing ‘Temptation Rag.’ And then there was this monkey hitting cymbals together, and I—”

  He checked himself.

  “I’m frightfully sorry, ma’am. My protocol gearing can become a bit gummy during deactivation. You are not offended by my drivel?”

  “Not in the least. In fact, I didn’t know machines could dream.”

  “I dream often,” replied the butler thoughtfully. “Mostly about being a toaster.”

  “Dualit or KitchenAid?”

  He seemed mildly insulted that I should have to ask.

  “A Dualit four-slot, naturally. But perhaps,” he added, his eyebrow pointer clicking from “Indignant” to “Puzzled,” “I only believe I dream. Sometimes I think it is merely a construct to enable me to better understand humans.”

  “Listen, I should warn you about Pickwick,” I said as we walked up the garden path.

  “What is a Pickwick?”

  “It’s a dodo.”

  “I thought they were extinct.”

  “They may yet become so. She’s trouble, so be careful.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I shall.”

  I pushed open the front door and was met by the sound of laughter. Carmine was sitting at the table with Bowden Cable and Acheron Hades, two of the other costars from the series. They were all sharing a joke, or at least they were until I walked in, when everyone fell silent.

  “Hello, Thursday,” said Bowden, whom I’d never really gotten along with, despite the fact that his counterpart in the RealWorld was one of Thursday’s closest friends. “We were just telling Carmine the best way to play Thursday.”

  “The best way is the way I play her,” I said in a firm yet friendly manner. “Dignified.”

  “Of course,” said Bowden. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Sprockett,” I replied, “my butler.”

  “I didn’t know you needed a butler,” said Bowden.

  “Everyone needs a butler. He was going to be stoned, so I took him with me.”

  “What do cog-based life-forms get stoned with?” asked Bowden in an impertinent manner. “Vegetable oil?”

  “Actually, sir,” intoned Sprockett, “it’s sewing-machine lubricant for a mild tipple. Many feel that the exuberant effects of 3-in-One are worth pursuing, although I have never partaken myself. For those that have hit rock bottom, where life has become nothing more than a semiconscious slide from one partial winding to the next, it’s WD-40.”

  “Oh,” said Bowden, who had been put firmly in his place by Sprockett’s forthrightness, “I see.”

  “Hmm,” said Acheron, peering at Sprockett’s data plate with great interest. “Are you the Duplex-6?”

  “Five, sir. The Six’s release has been delayed. A series of mainspring failures have put beta testing back several months, and now I hear the Six has pressure compensation issues on the primary ethical escapement module.”

  “W
hat does that mean?”

  “I have to admit I’m not entirely sure, sir. The main problem with clockwork sentience is that we can never understand the level of our own complexity—for to do so would require an even greater level of complexity. At present we can deal with day-to-day maintenance issues, but all we can ever know for sure is that we function. We tick, therefore we are.”

  Pickwick asked me how I thought we could afford such an extravagance, but the real disapproval came from Mrs. Malaprop.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sprockett,” she said coldly. “I hope you are fully aquatinted with the specific roles of mousecreeper and butler?”

  “Indeed, Mrs. Malaprop,” replied Sprockett, bowing low. “And I don’t require much space—I can easily fit in the cupboard under the stairs.”

  “You will knot,” replied Mrs. Malaprop with great indignation. “I am resizing there. You may have the earring cupboard.”

  “Then with your permission I shall go and repack,” announced Sprockett.

  “You mean you’re leaving?” I asked.

  “Repack my knee bearings,” he explained. “With grease. Knees, despite much design work, continue to be the Duplex-5’s Achilles’ heel.”

  And leaving us all to muse upon his odd choice of words, he departed.

  “At least try to be nice to him,” I said to Mrs. Malaprop when he had gone. “And I want you to order some oils of varying grades to make him feel welcome—and make sure all the clocks are kept wound. Cog-based life-forms take great offense at stopped clocks.”

  “As madam washes,” replied Mrs. Malaprop, which was her way of telling me to get stuffed.

  “If you don’t need us, we’re going to go and rehearse Acheron’s death scene on the roof of Thornfield Hall,” said Carmine.

  “You’ll need to unlock Bertha,” I replied, handing her the key. “And don’t forget to put the bite mask on her.”

  I watched them go with an odd feeling that I couldn’t describe. Despite my being the protagonist, most of the characters were already here when I took over, and few of them were happy with my interpretation of Thursday, even though it was the one that Thursday herself had approved. They had all preferred the sex-and-violence Thursday who’d turned a blind eye to the many scams they had had cooking. Because of this, I hadn’t really gotten on with any of them. In fact, the out-of-book relationship with the rest of the cast could best be described as barely cordial. Carmine seemed to get on with them a lot better. I shouldn’t have minded, but I did.

  “She’s going to be trouble, that one,” said Pickwick, who was doing the crossword while perched on the dresser.

  “All she has to be is a good Thursday,” I murmured. “Everything else is immaterial. Mrs. Malaprop?”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Did you put anything in my pocket this morning? For a joke, perhaps?”

  “Joke, madam?” she inquired in a shocked tone. “Malaprops always keep well clear of potentially hummus situations.”

  “I didn’t think so. I’ll be in my study. Will you have Sprockett bring in some tea?”

  “Very good, madam.”

  “Pickwick? I need the paper.”

  “You’ll have to wait,” she said without looking up. “I’m doing the crossword.”

  I didn’t have time for this, so I simply took the paper, ripped off the crossword section and handed it back to her. I ignored her expression of outrage and walked into my study and shut the door.

  I moved quietly to the French windows and stepped out into the garden to release the Lost Positives that the Lady of Shalott had given me. She had a soft spot for the orphaned prefixless words and thought they had more chance to thrive in Fiction than in Poetry. I let the defatigable scamps out of their box. They were kempt and sheveled but their behavior was peccable if not mildly gruntled. They started acting petuously and ran around in circles in a very toward manner.

  I then returned to my study and spent twenty minutes staring at Thursday’s shield. The only way it could have gotten into my pocket was via the red-haired gentleman sitting next to me on the tram. And if that was the case, he had been in contact with Thursday quite recently—or at least sometime in the past week. It didn’t prove she was missing in the BookWorld any more than it proved she was missing in the RealWorld. I had only a telephone note, a husband’s tears and the word of a murderer.

  “Your tea and shortbread, ma’am,” said Sprockett, placing the tray upon my desk. “A very comfortable house you have. I must confess that in a weak moment, and quite against your advice, I lent that odd-looking bird twenty pounds for her kidney operation.”

  “I warned you about Pickwick,” I said with a sigh. “She doesn’t need a kidney operation, and her mother isn’t in ‘dire straits,’ no matter what she says.”

  “Ah,” replied Sprockett. “Do you think I might be able to get my money back?”

  “Not without a lot of squawking. Is Mrs. Malaprop causing you any trouble, by the way?”

  “No, ma’am. We agreed to arm-wrestle for seniority in the house, and even though she attempted to cheat, I believe that we are all square now.”

  “I was given this by someone on a tram,” I said, passing the real Thursday’s shield across to Sprockett.

  His eyebrow pointed to “Puzzled,” then “Thinking,” then “Worried.”

  “That would explain the ease by which I escaped the stoning in Conspiracy.”

  “And later, getting out of Poetry.”

  “I don’t recall that.”

  “You were dreaming about gramophones. Can you call the Jurisfiction front desk and ask for Thursday Next? Tell them it’s me and I need to speak to her.”

  Sprockett stood in the corner to make the calls. A request like this would be better coming from my butler.

  “They tell me that she is ‘on assignment’ at present,” replied Sprockett after talking quietly to himself for a few seconds.

  “Tell them it’s the written Thursday and I’ll call again.”

  I wondered quite how she could be on assignment without her shield and idly turned over the newspaper. I stopped. The banner headline read, FAMED JURISFICTION AGENT TO LEAD PEACE TALKS. Thursday was due to table the talks on Friday, less than a week away. All of a sudden, her “absent” status took on a more menacing angle. If she was missing now, things could get very bad indeed.

  For the past three years, Racy Novel and its leader, Speedy Muffler, had been causing trouble far in excess of his size, readership or importance. Sandwiched precariously between Women’s Fiction and Outdated Religious Dogma, with Erotica to the far north and Comedy to the south, the large yet proudly anarchic genre had been troublesome ever since it was declared a member of the Axis of Unreadable along with Misery Memoirs and Celebrity Bio. Muffler, stung by the comparison to voyeuristic drivel or the meaningless nonadventures of celebrities, decided to expand his relevance within Fiction by attempting to push out his borders. The CofG responded to his aggression by transferring Lady Chatterley’s Lover out of Racy Novel and into Human Drama, then moving The History of Tom Jones to Erotica. Sanctions soon followed that prevented anyone from supplying Racy Novel with good dialogue, plot or characterization. This did nothing to appease Speedy Muffler, and he claimed that the sanctions were preventing him from developing as a genre—quite against BookWorld law and the Character’s Charter. The trouble was, Muffler and Racy Novel couldn’t be ignored, since they were amongst the major exporters of metaphor. When Muffler claimed to possess a dirty bomb capable of hurling scenes of a gratuitously sexual nature far into Women’s Fiction, the BookWorld finally took notice and the peace talks were set. Thursday Next would be the chief negotiator, and she had good form. When Scandinavian Detectives threatened to cede from Crime, it was she who brought them back.

  “You seem perturbed,” remarked Sprockett. “Is anything the matter?”

  “I have reason to believe that the real Thursday Next might be missing,” I replied guardedly. “And that’s not good for all
sorts of reasons.”

  “Has she gone missing before?” asked Sprockett.

  “Many times.”

  “Then it’s probably one of those . . . again.”

  I hoped he was right, but even if he wasn’t, I wasn’t quite sure what could be done about it. I was an underread A-8 character with no power and less influence. Besides, Jurisfiction was doubtless onto it. Commander Bradshaw, the head of Jurisfiction, was one of Thursday’s closest friends.

  There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Malaprop came in.

  “Miss Next? There awesome gentlemen to see you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They didn’t give their gnomes.”

  The visitors didn’t wait either, and strode in. They weren’t the sort of people I wanted to see, but their presence might well reinforce my theories about Thursday. They were the Men in Plaid.

  Several things seemed to happen at once. Sprockett’s eyebrow quivered at Mrs. Malaprop, who got his meaning and knocked over an ornamental vase, which fell to the floor with a crash. The Men in Plaid turned to see what was going on, and at that very moment Sprockett grabbed Thursday’s shield from the desk and threw it hard into the ceiling, where it stuck in the plasterboard. By the time the Men in Plaid looked back towards us, Sprockett was tidying my papers on the desk.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said in a friendly tone. “What can I do for you?”

  Like trousers, pear pips, twins and bookends, MiP always came in pairs. They were without emotion and designed to ensure that no personal ambiguity would muddy their operating parameters. MiP were designed to do what they were told to do, and nothing else.

  “So,” said the Man in Plaid, “you are Thursday Next A8-V-67987-FP?”

  “Yes.”

  “Date of composure?”

  “Third June, 2006. What is this about?”

  “Routine, Miss Next,” said the second MiP. “We are looking for some property stolen from a leading Jurisfiction agent, and we thought you might be able to help us. I won’t mince my words. We think you have it.”