Something Rotten

by Jasper Fforde

  'Peace is what Goliath do best, Miss Next. Just fill out a form and see one of our trained apologists. I'm sure they can get your husband back in a jiffy!'

  I took the mocha-with-extra-cream and latte and sat by the window, staring at the SpecOps building in silence. Hamlet sensed my disquiet and busied himself with a list of things he wanted to tell Ophelia but didn't think he would be able to, then another list of things he should tell her, but wouldn't. Then a list of all the different lists he had written about Ophelia, and finally a letter of appreciation to Sir John Gielgud.

  'I'm going to sort out a few things,' I said after a while. 'Don't move from here and don't tell anyone who you really are. Understand?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who are you?'

  'Hamlet, Prince of . . . just kidding. I'm your cousin Eddie.'

  'Good. And you have cream on your nose.'

  6

  SpecOps

  'The Special Operations Network was the agency that looked after areas too specialised to be undertaken by the regular police. There were over thirty SpecOps divisions. SO-1 policed us all, SO-12 were the ChronoGuard and SO-13 dealt with re-engineered species. SO-17 were the ''Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations" and SO-32 the Horticultural Enforcement Agency. I had been in SO-27, the Literary Detectives. Ten years authenticating Milton and tracking down forged Shakespeareana. After my work actually within fiction it all seemed a bit tame. At Jurisfiction I could catch a horse as it bolted – in the Literary Detectives it was like wandering around a very large field armed with only a halter and a photograph of a carrot.'

  THURSDAY NEXT – Private Journals

  I pushed open the door to the station and walked in. The building was shared with Swindon's regular force and seemed slightly shabbier than I remembered. The walls were the same dismal shade of green and I could smell the faint aroma of boiled cabbage from the canteen on the second floor. In truth, my stay here in late '85 had not actually been that long – most of my SpecOps career had been undertaken in London.

  I walked over to the main desk, expecting to see Sergeant Ross. He had been replaced by someone who seemed too young to be a police officer, much less a desk sergeant.

  'I'm here to get my old job back,' I announced.

  'Which was?'

  'Literary Detective.'

  He chuckled. Unkindly, I thought.

  'You'll need to see the commander,' he replied without taking his gaze from the book he was scribbling in. 'Name?'

  'Thursday Next.'

  A hush descended slowly on the room, beginning with those closest to me and moving outwards with my whispered name like ripples in a pool. Within a few moments I was being stared at in silence by at least two dozen assorted police and SpecOps officers, a couple of Gaskell impersonators and an ersatz Colendge. I gave an embarrassed smile and looked from blank face to blank face, trying to figure out whether to run, or to fight, or what. My heart beat faster as a young officer quite close to me reached into his breast pocket and pulled out . . . a notebook.

  'Please,' he said, 'I wonder if I might have your autograph?'

  'Well, of course.'

  I breathed a sigh of relief, and pretty soon I was having my back slapped and being congratulated on the whole Jane Eyre adventure. I'd forgotten the celebrity thing but also noticed that there were officers in the room who were interested in me for another reason – SO-1, probably.

  'I need to see Bowden Cable,' I said to the desk sergeant, realising that if anyone could help, it was my old partner. He smiled, picked up a phone, announced me and wrote out a visitor's pass, then told me to go to interview suite sixteen on the third floor. I thanked my new-found acquaintances, made my way to the elevators and ascended to the third floor. When the lift doors rattled open I walked with a hurried step towards room sixteen. Halfway there I was accosted by Bowden, who slid his arm in mine and steered me into an empty office.

  'Bowden!' I said happily. 'How are you?'

  He hadn't changed much in the past two years. Fastidiously neat, he was wearing the usual pinstripe suit but without a jacket, so he must have been in a hurry to meet me.

  'I'm good, Thursday, real good. But where the hell have you been?'

  'I've been—'

  'You can tell me later. Thank the GSD I got to you first! We don't have a lot of time. Goodness! What have you done to your hair?'

  'Well, Joan of—'

  'You can tell me later. Ever heard of Yorrick Kaine?'

  'Of course! I'm here to—'

  'No time for explanations. He's not fond of you at all. He has a personal adviser named Ernst Stncknene who calls us every day to ask if you've returned. But this morning – he didn't call!'

  'So?'

  'So he knows you're back. Why is the Chancellor interested in you, anyway?'

  'Because he's fictional and I want to take him back to the BookWorld where he belongs.'

  'Coming from anyone but you I'd laugh. Is that really true?'

  'As true as I'm standing here.'

  'Well, your life is in danger, that's all I know. Ever heard of the assassin known as the—'

  'Windowmaker?'

  'How did you know?'

  'I have my sources. Any idea who took out the contract?'

  'Well, they've killed sixty-seven people – sixty-eight if they did Samuel Pring – and they definitely did the number on Gordon DuffRolecks, whose death really only benefited—'

  'Kaine.'

  'Exactly. You need to take particular care. More than that, we need you back as a full serving member of the Literary Detectives. We've got one or two problems that need ironing out in our department.'

  'So what do we do?'

  'Well, you're AWOL at best and a cheese smuggler at worst. So we've concocted a cover story of such bizarre complexity and outrageous daring that it can only be true. Here it is: in a parallel universe ruled entirely by lobsters you—'

  But at that moment the door opened and a familiar figure walked in. I say familiar but he was not exactly welcome. It was Commander Braxton Hicks, head of SpecOps here in Swindon.

  I could almost hear Bowden's heart fall – mine too.

  Hicks still had a job because of me but I didn't expect that to count for much. He was a company man, a bean counter – more fond of his precious budget than anything else. He had never given me any quarter and I didn't expect any now.

  'Ah, found you!' said the commander in a senous tone. 'Miss Next. They told me you'd arrived. Been giving us the run-around, haven't you?'

  'She's been—' began Bowden.

  'I'm sure Miss Next can explain for herself, hmm?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good. Close the door behind you, eh?'

  Bowden gave a sickly smile and slunk out of the interview room.

  Braxton sat, opened my file and stroked his large moustache thoughtfully.

  'Absent without leave for over two years, demoted eighteen months ago, non-return of SpecOps weapon, badge and ruler, pencil, eight pens and a dictionary.'

  'I can explain—'

  'Then there is the question of the illegal cheese we found under a Hispano-Suiza at your picnic two and a half years ago. I have sworn affidavits from everyone present that you were alone, met them up there and the cheese was yours.'

  'Yes, but—'

  'And the traffic police said they saw you aiding and abetting a known serial dangerous driver on the A419 north of Swindon.'

  'That's—'

  'But what's worse was that you lied to me systematically from the moment you came under my command. You said you would learn to play golf and you never so much as picked up a putter.'

  'But—'

  'I have proof of your lies, too. I personally visited every single golf club and not one of them had ever let someone of your description play golf there – not even on the practice ranges. How do you explain that, eh?'

  'Well—'

  'You vanish from sight two and a half years ago. Not a word. Had to demote you. Star
employee. Newspapers had a field day. Upset my swing for weeks.'

  'I'm sorry if it upset your golf, sir.'

  'You're rather in the soup, young lady.'

  He stared at me in exactly the sort of way my English teacher used to at school, and I had that sudden and dangerously overpowering urge to laugh out loud. Luckily, I didn't.

  'What have you got to say for yourself?'

  'I can explain, if you'll let me.'

  'My girl, I've been trying to get you to tell me for five—'

  The door opened again and in walked Colonel Flanker of SO-1 with another officer. Flanker ran Internal Affairs, the SpecOps police. About as welcome as worms and another old bête noire of mine. If Hicks was bad, Flanker was worse. Braxton only wanted me to undergo some sort of disciplinary nonsense – Flanker would want to lock me up for good, after I had led them to my father.

  'So!' he said as soon as he saw me. 'It's true. Thank you, Braxton, my prisoner. Officer Jodrell, cuff her.'

  Jodrell walked over to me, took one of my wrists and placed it behind my back. There didn't seem to be much point in running; I could see at least three other SO-1 agents hovering near the door. I thought of Friday. If only Bowden had got to me a few minutes earlier—!

  'Just a minute, Mr Flanker,' said Braxton, closing my file. 'What do you think you're doing?'

  'Arresting Miss Next on charges of being AWOL, dereliction of duty and illegal possession of bootleg cheese – for starters.'

  'She was on assignment for SO-23,' said Braxton, staring at him evenly, 'undercover for the Cheese Squad.'

  I couldn't believe my ears. Braxton lying? For me?

  'The Cheese Squad?' echoed Flanker with some surprise.

  'Yes,' replied Braxton, who once started clearly found the subterfuge and reckless use of his authority somewhat exciting. 'She's been in deep cover in Wales for two years on a clandestine espionage operation monitoring illegal cheese factones. The cheese with her fingerprints on was part of an illegal cross-border shipment that she helped seize.'

  'Really?' said Flanker, his confidence rattled.

  'On my word. She's not under arrest, she's being debriefed. It seems that the operation was under the control of Joe Martlet. Full details will be available from him.'

  'You know as well as I do that Joe was shot dead by the cheese mafia two weeks ago.'

  'It was a tragedy,' admitted Braxton. 'Fine man, Martlet – one of the best. Could play a three under par with ease and never swore when he drove into the rough and hence Miss Next's reappearance,' he added without a pause. I'd never seen anyone lie so well before. Not even me. Not even Friday when I found he'd raided the cookie jar with Pickwick's help.

  'Is this true?' asked Flanker. 'Two years undercover in Wales?'

  ' Ydy, ond dydy hi ddim wedi bwrw glaw pob dydd!' I replied in my best Welsh.

  Flanker narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment without speaking.

  'I was just reassigning her to the Literary Detectives when you walked in the door,' added Braxton.

  Flanker looked at Braxton, then at me, then at Braxton again. He nodded at Jodrell, who released me.

  'Very well. But I want a full report on my desk Tuesday.'

  'You can have it Friday, Mr Flanker. I'm a very busy man.'

  Flanker glared at me for a moment, then addressed Braxton: 'Since Miss Next is back with the Literary Detectives perhaps you would be good enough to appoint her as SO-14 Danish Book Seizure Liaison Officer. My boys are pretty good at the seizure stuff but to be honest none of them can tell a Mark Twain from a Samuel Clemens.'

  'I'm not sure I want—' I began.

  'I think you should be happy to assist me, Miss Next, don't you? A chance to make amends for past transgressions, yes?'

  Braxton answered for me.

  'I'm sure Miss Next would be happy to assist in any way she can, Mr Flanker.'

  Flanker gave a rare smile.

  'Good. I'll have the divisional head of SO-14 get in touch with you.' He turned to Braxton. 'But I'll still need that report on Tuesday.'

  'You'll get it,' replied Braxton, 'on Friday.'

  Flanker glared at us both and without another word strode from the room, his minions at his heels. When the door closed I breathed a sigh of relief.

  'Sir, I—'

  'I don't want to hear anything more about it,' replied Braxton sharply, gathering up his papers. 'I retire in two months' time and wanted to do something that made my whole pen-pushing, play-it-safe, shiny-arse career actually be worth it. I don't know what's going to happen to the LiteraTec division with all this insane Danish book-burning stuff, but what I do know is that people like you need to stay in it. Lead them on a merry goose-chase, young lady – I can keep Flanker wrapped up in red tape pretty much for ever.'

  'Braxton,' I said, giving him a spontaneous hug, 'you're a darling!'

  'Nonsense!' he said gruffly, and a tad embarrassed. 'But I do expect a little something in return.'

  'And that is?'

  'Well,' he said slowly, his eyes dropping to the ground, 'I wonder if you and I might—'

  'Might what?'

  'Might . . . play golf on Sunday. A few holes.' His eyes gleamed. 'Just for you to get the taste. Believe me, as soon as you grasp the handle of a golf club you'll be hooked for ever! Mrs Hicks need never know. How about it?'

  'I'll be there at nine,' I told him, laughing.

  'You'll be a long time waiting – I get there at eleven.'

  'Eleven it is.'

  I shook his hand and walked out of the door a free woman. Sometimes help arrives from the last place you expect it.

  7

  The Literary Detectives

  GOLIATH CORPORATION PUBLISH BROAD DENIAL

  The Goliath Corporation yesterday attempted to head off annoying and time-wasting speculation by issuing the broadest denial to date. 'Quite simply, we deny everything,' said Mr Toedee, the Goliath head PR operative, 'including any story that you might have heard now or in the future.' Goliath's shock tactics reflected the growing unease with Goliath's unaccountability, especially over its advanced weapons division. 'It's very simple,' continued Mr Toedee, 'until we have been elevated to a faith when everything can be denied using the "Goliath work in mysterious ways" excuse, we expressly deny possessing, or any involvement with, the Ovinator, anti-smote technology, "Speed-grow" tomatoes or Diatrymas running wild in the New Forest. In fact, we don't know what any of these things are.' To cries of 'What is an Ovinator?' and 'Tomatoes?', Mr Toedee declared the press conference over, blessed everyone and departed.

  Article in The Toad on Sunday. 3 July 1988

  I found Bowden fretting in the LiteraTec office and related what had happened.

  'Well, well,' he said at last, 'I think old Braxton's got a crush.'

  'Oh, stop it!'

  The office we were sitting in resembled a large library in a country house somewhere. It was two storeys high, with shelves crammed full of books covering every square inch of wall space. A spiral staircase led to a catwalk which ran around the wall, enabling access to the upper galleries. It was neat and methodical – but somehow less busy than I remembered.

  'Where is everyone?'

  'When you were here last we had a staff of eight. Now it's only Victor, me and Malm. All the rest were reassigned or laid off.'

  'All SpecOps departments?'

  Bowden laughed.

  'Of course not! The bully boys at SO-I4 are alive and well and answer to Yorrick Kaine's every order. SO-1 haven't seen many cuts, either—'

  'Thursday, 'what a delightful surprise!'

  It was Victor Analogy, my old boss here at the Swindon LiteraTecs. He was an elderly gentleman with large mutton-chop sideburns, dressed in a neat tweed suit and bow tie. He had taken off his jacket owing to the summer heat but still managed to cut a very dashing figure, despite his advanced age.

  'Victor, you're looking very well!'

  'And you, dear girl. What devilry have you been up to since
last we met?'

  'It's a long story.'

  'The best sort. Let me guess: inside fiction?'

  'In one.'

  'What's it like?'

  'It's quite good, really. Confusing at times and subject to moments of extreme imaginative overload, but varied and the weather's generally pretty good. Can we talk safely in here?'

  Victor nodded and we sat down. I told them about Jurisfiction, the Council of Genres and everything else that had happened to me during my tenure as Bellman. I even told them loosely about my involvement in The Solution of Edwin Drood, which amused them both no end.

  'I've always wondered about that,' mused Victor thoughtfully. 'But you're sure about Yorrick Kaine being fictional?'

  I told him that I was.

  He stood up and walked to the window.

  'You'll have a hard time getting close,' said Victor thoughtfully. 'Does he know you're back?'

  'Definitely,' said Bowden.

  'Then you could be threatening his position as absolute ruler of England almost as much as President Formby. I should keep on your toes, my girl. Is there anything we can do to help?'

  I thought for a moment.

  'There is, actually. We can't find which book Yorrick Kaine has escaped from. He could be using a false name and we should contact any readers who might recognise the Chancellor's somewhat crazed antics from an obscure character they might have encountered somewhere. We at Jurisfiction have been going through the Great Library at our end but we've still drawn a blank – every character in fiction has been accounted for.'

  'We'll do what we can, Thursday – when can you rejoin us?'

  'I don't know,' I answered slowly, 'I have to get my husband back. Remember I told you he was eradicated by the Chrono-Guard?'

  'Yes; Lindane, wasn't it?'

  'Landen. If it wasn't for him I'd probably stay inside fiction.'

  We all fell silent for a moment.

  'So,' I said cheerfully, 'what's been happening in the world of the LiteraTecs?'

  Victor frowned.

  'We don't hold with the book-burning lark of Kaine's. You heard about the order to start incinerating Danish literature?'