Something Rotten

by Jasper Fforde

  'Well, he didn't exactly say as much,' admitted Mum, 'but he drew me a picture of Aunt Mel which is pretty conclusive.'

  'Aunt Mel a gorilla?' I laughed, looking at the picture, which was unequivocally of . . . well, a gorilla. 'Quite an imagination, hasn't he?'

  'I'd say. I found him standing on the sideboard ready to swing on the curtains. When I told him it wasn't allowed he pointed to the picture of Aunt Mel, which I took to mean that she used to let him.'

  'Does she, now. I mean, did he, now.'

  Pickwick walked in looking very disgruntled and wearing a bonnet made of card and held together with sticky tape.

  'Pickwick's a very tolerant playmate,' said my mother, who was obviously not that skilled at reading dodo expressions.

  'I really need to get him into a playgroup. Did you change his nappy?'

  'Three times. It just goes straight through, doesn't it?'

  I sniffed at the leg of his dungarees.

  'Yup. Straight through.'

  'Well, I've got my panel-beating group to attend to,' she said, putting on her hat and taking her handbag and welding goggles from the peg, 'but you'd better sort out some more reliable childcare, my dear. I can do the odd hour here and there but not whole days – and I certainly don't want to do any more nappies.'

  'Do you think Lady Hamilton would look after him?'

  'It's possible,' said my mother in the sort of voice that means the reverse, 'you could always ask.'

  She opened the door and was plinked at angrily by Alan, who was in a bit of a strop and was pulling up flowers in the front garden. With unbelievable speed she grabbed him by the neck and with a lot of angry plinking and scrabbling deposited him unceremoniously inside the potting shed and locked the door.

  'Miserable bird!' said my mother, giving me and Friday a kiss. 'Have I got my purse?'

  'It's in your bag.'

  'Am I wearing my hat?'

  'Yes.'

  She smiled, told me that Bismarck was not to be disturbed and that I mustn't buy anything from a door-to-door salesman unless it was truly a bargain, and was gone.

  I changed Fnday, then let him toddle off to find something to do. I made a cup of tea for myself and Hamlet, who had switched on the TV and was watching MOLE-TV's Shakespeare channel. I sat on the sofa and stared out of the windows into the garden. It had been destroyed by a mammoth when I was last here and I noted that my mother had replanted it with plants that were not very palatable to the Proboscidea tongue – quite wise, considering the migrations. As I watched, Pickwick waddled past, possibly wondering where Alan had gone. In terms of the day's work I had done very little. I was still a Literary Detective but £20,000 in debt and no nearer getting Landen back.

  My mother returned at about eight and the first of her Eradications Anonymous friends began to appear at nine. There were ten of them, and they started to chatter about what they described as their 'lost ones' as soon as they got through the door. Emma Hamilton and I weren't alone in having husbands with an existence problem. But although it seemed my Landen and Emma's Horatio were strong in our memories, many people were not so lucky. Some had only vague feelings about someone who they felt should be there but wasn't. To be honest I really didn't want to be there, but I had promised my mother and I was living in her house, so that was the end of it.

  'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' said my mother, clapping her hands, 'and if you'd all like to take a seat we can allow this meeting to begin.'

  Everyone sat down, tea and Battenberg cake in hand, and looked expectant.

  'Firstly I would like to welcome a new member to the group. As you know, my daughter has been away for a couple of years – not in prison, I'd like to make that clear!'

  'Thank you, Mother,' I murmured under my breath as there was polite laughter from the group, who instantly assumed that's exactly where I had been.

  'And she has kindly agreed to join our group and say a few words. Thursday?'

  I took a deep breath, stood up and said quickly:

  'Hello, everyone. My name's Thursday Next and my husband doesn't exist.'

  There was applause at this and someone said: 'Way to go, Thursday,' but I couldn't think of anything to add, nor wanted to, so sat down again. There was silence as everyone stared at me, politely waiting for me to carry on.

  'That's it. End of story.'

  'I'll drink to that!' said Emma, gazing forlornly at the locked drinks cabinet.

  'You're very brave,' said Mrs Beatty, who was sitting next to me. She patted my hand in a kindly manner. 'What was his name?'

  'Landen. Landen Parke-Laine. He was murdered by the ChronoGuard in 1947. I'm going to the Goliath Apologarium tomorrow to try to get his eradication reversed.'

  There was a murmuring.

  'What's the matter?'

  'You must understand,' said a tall and painfully thin man who up until now had remained silent, 'that for you to progress in this group you must begin to accept that this is a problem of the memory – there is no Landen; you just think there is.'

  'It's very dry in here, isn't it?' muttered Emma unsubtly, still staring at the drinks cabinet.

  'I was like you once,' said Mrs Beatty, who had stopped patting my hand and returned to her knitting. 'I had a wonderful life with Edgar and then, one morning, I wake up in a different house with Gerald lying next to me. He didn't believe me when I explained the problem, and I was on medication for ten years until I came here. It is only now, in the company of your good selves, that I am coming to the realisation that it is only a malady of the head.'

  I was horrified.

  'Mother?'

  'It's something that we must try and face, my dear.'

  'But Dad visits you, doesn't he?'

  'Well, I believe he does,' she said, thinking hard, 'but of course when he's gone it's only a memory. There isn't any real proof that he ever existed.'

  'What about me? And Joffy? Or even Anton? How were we born without Dad?'

  She shrugged at the impossibility of the paradox.

  'Perhaps it was, after all, youthful indiscretions that I have expunged from my mind.'

  'And Emma? And Herr Bismarck? How do you explain them being here?'

  'Well,' said my mother, thinking hard, 'I'm sure there's a rational explanation for it . . . somewhere.'

  'Is this what this group teaches you?' I replied angrily. 'To deny the memories of your loved ones?'

  I looked around at the gathering whose members had, it seemed, given up in the face of the hopeless paradox that they lived every minute of their lives. I opened my mouth to try to describe eloquently just how I knew Landen had once been married to me when I realised I was wasting my time. There was nothing, but nothing, to suggest it was anything other than in my mind. I sighed. To be truthful, it was in my mind. It hadn't happened. I just had memories of how it might have turned out. The tall thin man, the realist, was beginning to convince everyone they were not victims of a timeslip, but delusional.

  'You want proof—'

  I was interrupted by an excited knock at the front door. Whoever it was didn't waste any time; they just walked straight into the house and into the front room. It was a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who was holding the hand of a confused and acutely embarrassed-looking man.

  'Hello, group!' she said happily. 'It's Ralph! I got him back!'

  'Ah!' said Emma. 'This calls for a celebration!' Everyone ignored her.

  'I'm sorry,' said my mother, 'have you got the right house? Or the right self-help group?'

  'Yes, yes,' the woman asserted. 'It's Julie, Julie Aseizer. I've been coming to this group every week for the past three years!'

  There was silence in the group. All you could hear was the quiet click of Mrs Beatty's knitting needles.

  'Well, I haven't seen you,' announced the tall thin man. He looked around at the group. 'Does anyone recognise this person?'

  The group members shook their heads blankly.

  'I expect you think this is r
eally funny, don't you?' said the thin man angrily. 'This is a self-help group for people with severe memory aberrations and I really don't think it is either amusing or constructive for pranksters to make fun of us! Now, please leave!'

  The woman stood for a moment, biting her lip, but it was her husband who spoke.

  'Come on, darling, I'm taking you home.'

  'But wait—!' she said. 'Now he's back everything is as it was and I wouldn't have needed to come to your group, so I didn't — yet I remember—'

  Her voice trailed off and her husband gave her a hug as she started to sob. He led her out, apologising profusely all the while.

  As soon as they had gone the thin man sat down indignantly.

  'A sorry state of affairs!' he grumbled.

  'Everyone thinks it's funny to do that old joke,' added Mrs Beatty, 'that's the second time this month.'

  'It gave me a powerful thirst,' added Emma. 'Anyone else?'

  'Maybe,' I suggested, 'they should start a self-help group for themselves – they could call it Eradications Anonymous Anonymous.'

  No one thought it was funny and I hid a smile. Perhaps there would be a chance for me and Landen after all.

  I didn't contribute much to the group after that, and indeed the conversation soon threaded away from eradications and on to more mundane matters, such as the latest crop of TV shows that seemed to have flourished in my absence. Celebrity Name That Fruit! hosted by Frankie Saveloy was a ratings topper these days, as was Toasters from Hell and You've Been Stapled!, a collection of England's funniest stationery incidents. Emma had given up all attempts at subtlety by now and was prising the lock off the drinks cabinet with a screwdriver when Friday wailed one of those ultrasonic cries that only parents can hear – makes you understand how sheep can know whose lamb is whose – and I mercifully excused myself. He was standing up in his cot rattling the bars, so I took him out and read to him until we were both fast asleep.

  10

  Mrs Tiggy-Winkle

  KIERKEGAARD BOOK – BURNING CEREMONY PROVES DANISH PHILOSOPHER'S UNPOPULARITY

  Chancellor Yorrick Kaine last night officiated at the first burning of Danish literature with the incineration of eight copies ot Fear and Trembling, a quantity that fell far short of the expected 'thirty or forty tons'. When asked to comment on the apparent lack of enthusiasm among the public for torching their Danish philosophy. Kaine explained that 'Kierkegaard is clearly less popular than we thought, and rightly so – next stop Hans Christian Andersen!' Kierkegaard himself was unavailable for comment, having inconsiderately allowed himself to be dead for a number of years.

  Article in The Toad, 14 July 1988

  I was dreaming that a large chainsaw-wielding elephant was sitting on me when I awoke at two in the morning. I was still fully dressed with a snoring Friday fast asleep on my chest. I put him back in his cot and turned the bedside lamp to the wall to soften the light. My mother, for reasons known only to herself, had kept my bedroom pretty much as it was at the time I had left home. It was nostalgic but also deeply disturbing to see just what had interested me in my late teens. It seemed that it had been boys, music, Jane Austen and law enforcement, but not particularly in that order.

  I undressed and slipped on a long T-shirt and stared at Friday's sleeping form, his lips making gentle sucky motions.

  'Psss!' said a voice close at hand. I turned. There, in the semi-dark, was a very large hedgehog dressed in a pinafore and bonnet. She was keeping a close lookout at the door and after giving me a wan smile crept to the window and peeked out.

  'Whoa!' she breathed in wonderment. 'Street lights are orange. Never would have thought that!'

  'Mrs Tiggy-Winkle,' I said, 'I've only been gone two days!'

  'Sorry to bother you,' she said, curtsying quickly and absently folding my shirt, which I had tossed over a chair-back, 'but there are one or two things going on that I thought you should know about – and you did say that if I had any questions to ask.'

  'Okay – but not here; we'll wake Friday.'

  So we crept downstairs to the kitchen. I pulled down the blinds before turning the lights on as a six-foot hedgehog in a shawl and bonnet might have caused a few eyebrows to be raised in the neighbourhood – no one wore bonnets in Swindon these days.

  I offered Mrs Tiggy-Winkle a seat at the table. Although she, Emperor Zhark and Bradshaw had been put in charge of running Jurisfiction in my absence, none of them had the leadership skills necessary to do the job on their own. And while the Council of Genres refused to concede that my absence was anything but 'compassionate leave', a new Bellman was yet to be elected in my place.

  'So what's up?' I asked.

  'Oh, Miss Next!' she wailed, her spines bristling with vexation. 'Please come back!'

  'I have things to deal with out here,' I explained, 'you all know that!'

  She sighed. 'I know, but Emperor Zhark threw a tantrum when I suggested he spend a little less time conquering the universe and a little more time at Jurisfiction – the Red Queen won't do anything post-1867 and Vernham Deane is tied up with the latest Daphne Farquitt novel. Commander Bradshaw does his own thing, which leaves me in charge – and someone left a saucer of bread and milk on my desk this morning.'

  'It was probably just a joke.'

  'Well, I'm not laughing,' replied Mrs Tiggy-Winkle indignantly.

  'By the way,' I said as a thought suddenly struck me, 'did you find out which book Yornck Kaine escaped from?'

  'I'm afraid not. The Cat is searching unpublished novels in the Well of Lost Plots at the moment, but it might take a little time. You know how chaotic things are down there.'

  'Only too well.' I sighed, thinking about my old home in unpublished fiction with a mixture of fondness and relief. The Well is where books are actually constructed, where plotsnuths create the stones that authors think they write. You can buy plot devices at discount rates and verbs by the pint. An odd place, to be sure. 'Okay,' I said finally, 'you'd better tell me what's going on.'

  'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, counting the points out on her paw, 'this morning a rumour of potential change in the copyright laws swept through the BookWorld.'

  'I don't know how these rumours get started,' I replied wearily. 'Was there any truth in it?'

  'Not in the least.'

  This was a contentious subject to the residents of the BookWorld. The jump to copyright-free Public Domain Status had always been a fearful prospect for a book character, and even with support groups and training courses to soften the blow, the 'Narrative Menopause' could take some getting used to. The problem was, copyright laws tend to vary around the world and sometimes characters are in the public domain in one market and not in another, which is confusing. Then there is the possibility that the law might change and characters who had adjusted themselves to Public Domain Status would find themselves in copyright again or vice versa. Unrest in the BookWorld about these matters is palpable; it only takes a small spark to set off a riot.

  'So all was well?'

  'Pretty much.'

  'Good. Anything else?'

  'Starbucks want to open another coffee shop in the Hardy Boys series.'

  'Another one?' I asked with some surprise. 'There's already sixteen. How much coffee do they think they can drink? Tell them they can open another in Mrs Dalloway and two more in The Age of Reason. After that, no more. What else?'

  'The Tailor of Gloucester needs three yards of cherry-coloured silk to finish the mayor's embroidered coat – but he's got a cold and can't go out.'

  'Who are we? Interlink? Tell him to send his cat, Simpkin.'

  'Okay.'

  There was a pause.

  'You didn't come all this way to tell me bad news about Kaine, copyright panics and cherry-coloured twist, now, did you?'

  She looked at me and sighed.

  'There's a bit of a problem with Hamlet.'

  'I know. But he's doing a favour for my mother at the moment. I'll send him back in a few days.'

&nb
sp; 'Um,' replied the hedgehog nervously, 'it's a bit more complex than that. I think it might be a good idea if you kept him out here for a bit longer.'

  'What's going on?' I asked suspiciously.

  'It wasn't my fault!' she burst out, reaching for her pocket handkerchief. 'I thought the Internal Plot Adjustment request was to sort out the seasonal anomalies! All that death in the orchard, then winter, then flowers—'

  'What happened?' I asked.

  Mrs Tiggy-Winkle looked miserable.

  'Well, you know there has been much grumbling within Hamlet ever since Rosencrantz and Guildenstern got their own play?'

  'Yes?'

  'Just after you left, Ophelia attempted a coup d'etat in Hamlet's absence. She imported a B-6 Hamlet from Lamb's Shakespeare and convinced him to re-enact some of the key scenes with a pro-Ophelia bias.'

  'And?'

  'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'they retitled it The Tragedy of the Fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'

  'She's always up to something, isn't she? I'll give her "Hey nonny, nonny". Tell her to get back into line or we'll slap a Class II fiction infraction on her so fast it'll make her head spin.'

  'We tried that but Laertes returned from Paris and lent his voice to the revolution. Together they made some more changes and called it: The Tragedy of the Noble Laertes, who avenges his sister the fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous and murderous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'

  I ran my fingers through what remained of my hair.

  'So . . . arrest them both?'

  'Too late. Their father Polonius was in a "have a go" mood and joined in. He also made changes and together they renamed it The tragedy of the very witty and not remotely boring Polonius, father of the noble Laertes, who avenges his fair sister Ophelia, driven mad by the callous, murderous and outrageously disrespectful Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'

  'What was it like?'

  'With Polonius? Very . . . wordy. We could replace them all,' carried on Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'but changing so many major players in one swoop might cause irreparable damage. The last thing we need right now is Hamlet coming back and sticking his oar in -you know how mad he gets when anybody even suggests a word change.'