Something Rotten

by Jasper Fforde

'Next and Cable. Lunch with Mr Stiggins.'

  The Neanderthal stared at us for moment or two, then pointed us towards a house on the other side of a grassed open area that surrounded a totem representing I don't know what. There were five or six Neanderthals playing a game of croquet on the grass area and I watched them intently for a while. They weren't playing in teams, just passing the ball around and hooping where possible. They were excellent, too. I watched one player hoop from at least forty yards away off a roquet. It was a pity Neanderthals were aggressively non-competitive — I could have done with them on the team.

  'Notice anything?' I asked as we walked across the grassed area, the croquet players moving past us in a blur of well-coordinated limbs.

  'No children?'

  'The youngest Neanderthal is fifty-two,' I explained, 'the males are infertile. It's probably their biggest source of disagreement with their owners.'

  'I'd be pissed off, too.'

  We found Stiggins's house and I opened the door and walked straight in. I knew a bit about Neanderthal customs, and you would never go into a Neanderthal home unless you were expected — in which case you treated it as your own and walked in unannounced. The house was built entirely of scrap wood and recycled rubbish and was circular in shape with a central hearth. It was comfortable and warm and cosy, but not the sort of basic cave I think Bowden expected. There was a TV and proper sofas, chairs and even a hifi. Standing next to the fire was Stiggins, and next to him was a slightly smaller Neanderthal.

  'Welcome!' said Stig. 'This is Felicity - we are a partnership.'

  His wife walked silently up to us and hugged us both in turn, taking an opportunity to smell us, first in the armpit and then in the hair. I saw Bowden flinch and Stig gave a small grunty cough that was a Neanderthal laugh.

  'Mr Cable, you are uncomfortable,' observed Stig.

  Bowden shrugged. He was uncomfortable, and he was familiar enough with Neanderthals to know that you can't lie to them.

  'I am,' he replied, 'I've never been in a Neanderthal house before.'

  'Is it any different to yours?'

  'Very,' said Bowden, looking up at the construction of the roof beams, which had been made by gluing oddments of wood together and then planing them into shape.

  'Not a single wood screw or bolt, Mr Cable. Have you heard the noise wood makes when you turn a screw into it? Most uncharitable.'

  'Is there anything you don't make yourself?'

  'Not really. You are insulting the raw material if you do not extract all possible use from it. Any cash we earn has to go to our buy-back scheme. We may be able to afford our ownership papers by the time we are due to leave.'

  'Then what, if you'll excuse me, is the point?'

  'To die free, Mr Cable. Drink?'

  Mrs Stiggins appeared with four glasses that had been cut from the bottom of wine bottles and offered them to us. Stig drank his straight down and I tried to do the same and nearly choked — it was not unlike drinking petrol. Bowden choked and clasped his throat as if it were on fire. Mr and Mrs Stiggms stared at us curiously, then collapsed into an odd series of grunty coughs.

  'I'm not sure I see the joke,' said Bowden, eyes streaming.

  'It is the Neanderthal custom to humiliate guests,' announced Stig, taking our glasses from us. 'Yours was potato gin — ours was merely water. Life is good. Have a seat.'

  We sat down on the sofa and Stig poked at the embers in the fire. There was a rabbit on a stick and I gave a deep sigh of relief - it wasn't going to be beetles for lunch.

  'Those croquet players outside,' I began, 'do you suppose anything could induce them to play for the Swindon Mallets?'

  'No. Only humans define themselves by conflict with other humans. Winning and losing have no meaning to us. Things just are as they are meant to be."

  I thought about offering some money. After all, a month's salary for an averagely rated player would easily cover a thousand buy-back schemes. But Neanderthals are funny about money — especially money that they don't think they've earned. I kept quiet.

  'Have you had any more thoughts about the cloned Shakespeares? asked Bowden.

  Stig thought for a moment, twitched his nose, turned the rabbit, and then went to a large rolltop bureau and returned with a buff file — the genome report he had got from Mr Rumplunkett.

  'Definitely clones,' he said, 'and whoever built them covered their tracks — the serial numbers are scrubbed from the cells and the manufacturer's information is missing from the DNA. On a molecular level they might have been built anywhere.'

  'Stig,' I said, thinking of Hamlet, 'I can't stress how important it is that I find a Will clone - and soon.'

  'We haven't finished, Miss Next. See this?'

  He handed me a spectroscopic evaluation of Mr Shaxtper's teeth and I looked at the zigzag graph uncomprehendingly.

  'We do this test to monitor long-term health patterns. By taking a cross-section of Shaxtper's teeth we can trace the original manufacturing area solely from the hardness of the water.'

  'I see,' said Bowden. 'So where do we find this sort of water?'

  'Simple: Birmingham.'

  Bowden clapped his hands happily.

  'You mean to tell me there's a secret bioengineering lab in the Birmingham area? We'll find it in a jiffy!'

  'The lab isn't in Birmingham,' said Stig.

  'But you said—?'

  I knew exactly what he was driving at.

  'Birmingham imports its water,' I said in a low voice, 'from the Elan valley — in the Socialist Republic of Wales.'

  The job had just got that much harder. Goliath's biggest biotech facility used to be on the banks of the Craig Goch reservoir deep in the Elan before they moved to the Presellis. They had built across the border owing to the lax bioengineering regulations; they shut down as soon as the Welsh Parliament caught up. The lab in the Presellis did only legitimate work.

  'Impossible!' scoffed Bowden. 'They closed down decades ago!'

  'And yet,' retorted Stig slowly, 'your Shakespeares were built there. Mr Cable, you are not a natural friend to the Neanderthal and you do not have the strength of spirit of Miss Next, yet you are impassioned.'

  Bowden was unconvinced by Stig's precis.

  'How can you know me that well?'

  There was silence for a moment as Stig turned the rabbit on the spit.

  'You live with a woman whom you don't truly love but need for 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—'

  'All right, all right,' Bowden said sullenly, 'I get the picture.'

  'You humans radiate emotions like a roaring fire, Mr Cable - we are astounded at how you are able to deceive each other so easily. We see all deception so have evolved to have no need for it.'

  'These labs,' I began, eager to change the subject, 'you are sure?'

  'We are sure,' affirmed Stig, 'and not only Shakespeares were built there. All Neanderthals up to Version 2.3.5, too. We wish to return. We have an urgent need for that which we have been denied.'

  'And that is?' asked Bowden.

  'Children,' breathed Stig. 'We have planned for just such an expedition and your sapien characteristics will be useful. You have an impetuosity that we can never have. A Neanderthal considers each move before taking it and is genetically predisposed towards caution. We need someone like you, Miss Next — a human with drive, a propensity towards violence and the ability to take command — yet someone governed by what is right.'

  I sighed.

  'We're not going to get into the Socialist Republic,' I said. 'We have no jurisdiction and if we're caught there will be hell to pay.'

  'What about your plan to take all those books across, Thursday?' asked Bowden in a quiet voice.

  'There is no plan, Bowd. I'm sorry. And I can't risk being banged up in some Welsh slammer during the Superhoop. I have to
make sure the Mallets win. I have to be there.'

  Stig frowned at me.

  'Strange!' he said at last. 'You do not want to win out of a deluded sense of home-town pride - we see a greater purpose.'

  'I can't tell you, Stig, but what you read is true. It is vital to all of us that Swindon win the Superhoop.'

  Stig looked across at Mrs Stiggms and the two of them held a conversation for a good five minutes — using only facial expressions and the odd grunt. After they had finished Stig said:

  'It is agreed. You, Mr Cable, and ourself will break into the abandoned Goliath re-engineering labs. You to find your Shakespeares, we to find a way to seed our females.'

  'I can't—'

  'Even if we fail,' continued Stig, 'the Neanderthal Nation will field five players to help you win your Superhoop. There can be no payment and no glory. Is this the deal?'

  I stared at his small brown eyes. Judging by the quality of the players I had seen outside and my knowledge of Neanderthals in general, we would be in with a chance — even with me locked up in a Welsh jail.

  I shook his outstretched hand.

  'This is the deal.'

  'Then we must eat. Do you like rabbit?'

  We both nodded.

  'Good. This is a speciality of ours. In Neanderlese it is called Rabite'n'bitels.'

  'Sounds excellent,' replied Bowden. 'What's it served with?'

  'Potatoes and a ... tangy greeny-brown crunchy sauce.'

  I can't be sure but I think Stig winked at me. I needn't have worried. The meal was excellent and Neanderthals are quite correct — beetles are severely underrated.

  31

  Planning Meeting

  COMMON CORMORANT NUMBERS DECLINE

  A leading ornithologist claimed yesterday that bear/bird incompatibility is to blame for the cormorant decline in recent years. 'We have known for many years that cormorants lay eggs in paper bags to keep the lightning out,' explained Mr Daniel Chough, 'but the reintroduction of bears to England has placed an intolerable strain on the bird's breeding habits. Even though bears and birds rarely compete for food and resources, it seems that wandering bears with buns steal the cormorant's paper bags in order, according to preliminary research, to hold the crumbs.' Reports that the bears are of Danish origin is suspected but not yet substantiated.

  Article in Flap! magazine, 20 July 1988

  'So what do you know about the Elan?' asked Bowden as we drove back into town.

  'Not much,' I replied, looking at the charts of Mr Shaxtper's teeth. Stig reckoned he had lived in the Elan for a lot longer than the others — perhaps until only a few years ago. If he had survived that long, why not some of the others? I wasn't going to raise any false hopes quite yet, but at least it seemed possible we could save Hamlet after all.

  'Were you serious about not being able to think of a way in?'

  'I'm afraid so. But we could always pretend to be Brummie water officials or something.'

  'Why would water officials have ten truckloads of banned Danish books?' asked Bowden, not unreasonably.

  'Something to read while doing water officially things?'

  'If we don't get these books to safety they'll be burned, Thursday - we've got to find a way into the republic.'

  'I'll think of something.'

  I spent the rest of the afternoon fielding calls from numerous sports reporters, eager to get a story and find out who would be playing in what position on the field. I called Aubrey and told him that he would have five new players - but I didn't tell him they'd be Neanderthals. I couldn't risk the press finding out.

  By the time I returned to Mum's house my wedding ring was firmly back on my finger again. I pushed Friday around to Landen's house and, noticing that everything seemed to be back to normal, knocked twice. There was an excited scrabble from within and Landen opened the door.

  'There you are!' he said happily. 'When you hung up on me I got kinda worried.'

  'I didn't hang up, Land.'

  'I was eradicated again?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'Will I be again''

  'I'm hoping not. Can I come in?'

  I put Friday on the floor; he immediately started to try and climb the stairs.

  'Bedtime already, is it, young man?' asked Landen, following him as he clambered all the way up. I noticed that in the spare room there were two as yet unpacked stair gates, which put my mind at rest. He had bought a cot, too, and several toys.

  'I bought some clothes.'

  He opened a drawer. It was stuffed with all kinds of clothes for the little chap, and although some looked a bit small, I didn't say anything. We took him downstairs and Landen made some supper.

  'So you knew I was coming back?' I asked as he cut up some broccoli.

  'Oh, yes,' he replied, 'as soon as you got all that eradication nonsense sorted out. Make us a cup of tea, would you?'

  I walked over to the sink and filled the kettle.

  'Any closer with a plan for dealing with Kaine?' asked Landen.

  'No,' I admitted, 'I'm really banking on Zvlkx's seventh Revealment coming true.'

  'What I don't understand,' said Landen, chopping some carrots, 'is why everyone except Formby seems to agree with everything Kaine says. Bloody sheep, the lot of them.'

  'I must say I'm surprised by the lack of opposition to Kaine's plans,' 1 agreed, staring absently out of the kitchen window. I frowned as the germ of an idea started to ferment in my mind. 'Land?'

  'Yuh?'

  'When was the last time Formby went anywhere near Kaine?'

  'Never. He avoids him like the plague. Kaine wants to meet him face to face but the President won't have anything to do with him.'

  'That's it!' I exclaimed, suddenly having a flash of inspiration.

  'What's it?'

  'Well—'

  I stopped because something at the bottom of the garden had caught my eye.

  'Do you have nosy neighbours, Land?'

  'Not really.'

  'It's probably my stalker, then.'

  'You have a stalker?'

  I pointed.

  'Sure. Just there, in the laurels, beckoning to me.'

  'Do you want me to do the strong male thing and chase him off with a stick?'

  'No. I've got a better idea.'

  'Hello, Millon. How's the stalking going? I brought you a cup of tea and a bun.'

  'Pretty well,' he said, marking down in his notebook the time I had stopped to talk to him and budging aside to make room for me in the laurel bush. 'How are things with you?'

  'They're mostly good. What were you waving at me for?'

  'Ah!' he said. 'We were going to run a feature about thirteenth-century seers in Conspiracy Theorist magazine and I wanted to ask you a few questions.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'Do you think it's odd that no fewer than twenty-eight Dark Age saints have chosen this year for their second coming?'

  'I'd not really given it that much thought.'

  'O-kay. Do you not also find it strange that of these twenty-eight supposed seers only two of them — St Zvlkx and Sister Bettina of Stroud — have actually made any prophecies that have come remotely true?'

  'What are you saying?'

  'That St Zvlkx might not be a thirteenth-century saint at all, but some sort of time-travelling criminal. He takes an illicit journey to the Dark Ages, writes up what he can remember of history and then at the appropriate time he is catapulted forward to see his last "Revealment" come true.'

  'Why?' I asked. 'If the ChronoGuard get wind of what he's up to he's never been born — literally. Why risk non-existence for at most a few years' fame as a washed-up visitor from the thirteenth century with a host of unpleasant skin complaints?'

  Millon shrugged.

  'I don't know. 1 thought you might be able to help me.'

  He lapsed into silence.

  'Tell me, Millon — is there any connection between Kaine and the ovinator?'

  'Of course! You should read Con
spiracy Theorist magazine more often. Although most of our links between secret technology and those in power are about as tenuous as mist, this one really is concrete: his personal assistant, Stricknene, used to work with Schitt-Hawse at the Goliath tech division. If Goliath have an ovinator, then Kaine might very well have one too. Do you know what it does, then?'

  I laughed. This was exactly the news I wanted to hear.

  'You'll see. Tell me,' I added, my hopes rising by the second, 'what do you know about the old Goliath bioengineering labs?'

  'Hoooh!' he said, making a noise like any enthusiast invited to comment on their particular field of interest. 'Now you're talking! The old Goliath labs are still standing in what we call "Area 21" - the empty quarter in mid-Wales, the Elan.'

  'Empty metaphorically or empty literally?'

  'Empty as in no one goes there except water officials - and we have wholly uncorroborated evidence which we peddle as fact that an unspecified number of officials have vanished without trace. In any event it's all off limits to everyone, surrounded by an electrified fence.'

  'To keep people out?'

  'No,' said Millon slowly, 'to keep whatever genetic experiments Goliath were working on in. The whole of Area 21 is infested with chimeras. I've got files and files of dubious stories about people breaking in, allegedly never to be seen again. What's your interest in the Elan plant anyway?'

  'Illegal genetic experiments on humans undertaken covertly by an apparently innocent multinational.'

  Millon nearly passed out with conspiracy overload. When he had recovered he asked how he could help.

  'I need you to find any pictures, plans, layout drawings, anything that might be of use for a visit.'

  Millon opened his eyes wide and scribbled on his notepad.

  'You're going to go into Area 21?'

  'No.' I replied, 'we both are. Tomorrow. Leaving here at seven in the morning, sharp. Can you find what I asked for?'

  He narrowed his eyes.

  'I can get you your information, Miss Next,' he said slowly and with a gleam in his eye, 'but it will cost. Let me be your official biographer.'

  I put out a hand and he shook it gratefully.

  'Deal.'

  I walked back inside to find Landen talking to a man dressed in slightly punky clothes, brightly coloured spectacle frames, bleached blond hair and an infinitesimally small goatee firmly planted just under his lower lip.