'Blast!' said Jack. 'Damn and blast!'
'What is it?' I asked as letters that spelt 'saxophone' came barrelling towards us, changing to a real saxophone as they crossed the threshold and hit the ironwork of the staircase with a crash. The clouds of individual letters in the sky above the wave-tossed sea contained punctuation marks that swirled in ugly patterns. Now and then a bolt of lightning struck the sea and the letters swirled near the point of discharge, spontaneously creating words.
'The Text Sea!' yelled Jack against the rush of wind. We attempted to close the door against the gale as a grammasite flew past with a loud 'Gark!' and expertly speared a verb that had jumped from the sea at a badly chosen moment.
We pressed our weight against the door and it closed. The wind abated, the thunder now merely a distant rumble behind the half-glazed door. I picked up the bent saxophone.
'I had no idea the Text Sea looked like anything at all,' I said, panting. 'I thought it was just an abstract notion.'
'Oh, it's real, all right,' replied Jack, picking up his hat, 'as real as anything is down here. The LiteraSea is the basis for all prose written in roman script. It's connected to the Searyllic Ocean somewhere but I don't know the details. You know what this means, don't you?'
'That scene-stealers have been at work?'
'It looks more like a deletion to me,' replied Jack grimly, 'excised. The whole kerfuffle. Characters, setting, dialogue, sub-plot and the narrative-turning device regarding the fight-fixing that the writer had pinched from On the Waterfront.'
'Where to?' I asked.
'Probably to another book by the same author.' Jack sighed. 'Kind of proves we won't be long for the Well. It's the next nail in the coffin.'
'Can't we just jump into the next chapter and the discovery of the drug dealer shot dead when the undercover buy goes wrong?'
'It would never work,' said Jack, shaking his head. 'Let me see – I wouldn't have known about Hawkins' involvement with Davison's master plan. More importantly, Mickey Finn would have no reason to be killed if he didn't talk to me, so he would have been there to stop the fight before Johnson placed his three-hundred-thousand-pound bet – and the heart-warming scene in the last two pages of the book with the young lad will make no sense unless I meet him here first. Shit. There isn't a holesmith anywhere in the Well who can fill this one. We're finished, Thursday. As soon as the book figures the gym scene has gone the plot will start to spontaneously unravel. We'll have to declare literary insolvency. If we do it quick we might be able to get most of the major parts reassigned to another book.'
'There must be something we can do!'
Jack thought for a moment.
'No, Thursday. It's over. I'm calling it.'
'Hang on,' I said. 'What if we come in again but instead of us both walking up the stairs you start at the top, meet me coming up and explain what you have just found out. We jump straight from there to chapter eight and … you're looking at me a bit oddly.'
'Mary—'
'Thursday.'
'Thursday. That would make chapter seven only a paragraph long!'
'Better than nothing.'
'It won't work.'
'Vonnegut does it all the time.'
He sighed.
'Okay. Lead on, maestro.'
I smiled and we jumped back three pages.
Reading, Tuesday. It had been raining all night and the rain-washed streets reflected the dour sky. Mary was late and she met Jack walking down the stairway from an upstairs gymnasium, his feet ringing on the iron treads.
'Sorry I'm late,' said Mary, 'I had a puncture. Did you meet up with your contact?'
'Y-es,' replied Jack. 'Had you visited the gym – which you haven't, of course – you would have found it a lugubrious place that smells of sweat and dreams, where hopefuls try to spar their way out of Reading's underclass.'
'Who were you seeing?' asked Mary as they walked back to her car.
'Mickey Finn,' replied Jack, 'ex-boxer with scarred eyes and a tremor to match. He told me that Hawkins was involved with Davison's master plan. There is talk of a big shipment coming in on the fifth and he also let slip that he was going to see Jethro – the importance of which I won't understand until later.'
'Anything else?' asked Mary, looking thoughtful.
'No.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes.'
'Are you SURE you're sure?'
'Er … No, wait. I've just remembered. There was this young kid there up for his first fight. It could make him. Mickey said he was the best he'd ever seen – he could be a contender.'
'Sounds like you had a busy morning,' said Mary, looking up at the grey sky.
'The busiest,' answered Jack, pulling his jacket around his shoulders. 'Come on, I'll buy you lunch.'
The chapter ended and Jack covered his face with his hands and groaned.
'I can't believe I said "the importance of which I won't understand until later". They'll never buy it. It's rubbish!'
'Listen,' I said, 'stop fretting. It'll be fine. We just have to hold the book together long enough to figure out a rescue plan.'
'What have we to lose?' replied Jack with a good measure of stoicism. 'You get up to Jurisfiction and see what you can find out about the Book Inspectorate. I'll hold a few auditions and try to rebuild the scene from memory.'
He paused.
'And Thursday?'
'Yes?'
'Thanks.'
I drove back to the flying boat. Having said I wasn't going to get involved with any internal politics, I was surprised by how much of a kinship with Caversham Heights I was feeling. Admittedly, the book was pretty dreadful, but it was no worse than the average Farquitt – perhaps I felt this way because it was my home.
* * *
'Are we going shopping now?' asked Lola, who had been waiting for me. 'I need something to wear for the BookWorld Awards the week after next.'
'Are you invited?'
'We all are,' she breathed excitedly. 'Apparently the organisers are borrowing a displacement field technology from SF. The long and short of it is that we will all be able to fit in the Starlight Room – it's going to be quite an event!'
'It certainly will,' I said, going upstairs. Lola followed me and watched from my bed as I changed out of Mary's clothes.
'You're quite important at Jurisfiction, aren't you?'
'Not really,' I replied, trying to do up my trouser button and realising that it was tighter than normal.
'Blast!' I said.
'What?'
'My trousers are too small.'
'Shrunk?'
'No …' I replied, staring into the mirror. There was no doubt about it. I was starting to put on a small amount of girth. I stared at it this way and that and Lola did the same, trying to figure out what I was looking at.
Catalogue shopping from the inside was a lot more fun than I had thought. Lola squeaked with delight at all the clothes on offer and tried about thirty different types of perfume before deciding not to buy any at all – she, in common with nearly all bookpeople, had no sense of smell. Watching her was like letting a child loose in a toy store – and her energy for shopping was almost unbelievable. It was while we were on the lingerie page that she asked me about Randolph.
'What do you think of him?'
'Oh, he's fine,' I replied non-committally, sitting on a chair and thinking of babies while Lola tried on one bra after another, each of which she seemed to love to bits until the next one. 'Why do you ask?'
'Well, I rather like him in a funny kind of way.'
'Does he like you?'
'I'm not sure. I think that's why he ignores me and makes jokes about my weight. Men always do that when they're interested. It's called subtext, Thursday – I'll tell you all about it some day.'
'Okay,' I said slowly, 'so what's the problem?'
'He doesn't really have a lot of, well, charisma.'
'There are lots of men out there, Lola,' I told her. 'Don't hurry. W
hen I was seventeen I had the hots for this complete and utter flake named Darren. My mother disapproved, which made him into something of a magnet.'
'Ah!' said Lola. 'What about this bra?'
'I thought the pink suited you better.'
'Which pink? There were twelve.'
'The sixth pink, just after the tenth black and nineteenth lacy.'
'Okay, let's look at that one again.'
She rummaged through the pile, found what she wanted and said:
'Thursday?'
'Yes?'
'Randolph calls me a tart because I like boys. Do you think that's fair?'
'It's one of the great injustices of life,' I told her. 'If he did the same he'd be toasted as a "ladies' man". But Lola, have you met anyone who you really liked, someone with whom you'd like to spend more exclusive time?'
'You mean – a boyfriend?'
'Yes.'
She paused and looked at herself in the mirror.
'I don't think I'm written that way, Thurs. But you know, sometimes, just afterwards, you know, when there is that really nice moment and I'm in his big strong arms and feeling sleepy and warm and contented, I can feel there is something that I need just outside my grasp – something I want but can't have.'
'You mean love?'
'No – a Mercedes.'
She wasn't joking.16
It was my footnoterphone.
'Hang on, Lola – Thursday speaking.'17
I looked at Lola, who was trying on a basque.
'Yes,' I replied, 'why?'18
'The safe side of what?'19
'I see. What can I do for you apart from answering questions about pianos?'20
I wasn't busy. Apart from a Jurisfiction session tomorrow at midday, I was clear.
'Sure. Where and when?'21
'Okay.'
Lola was looking at me mournfully.
'Does this mean we'll have to miss out on the gym? We have to go to the gym – if I don't I'll feel guilty about eating all those cakes.'
'What cakes?'
'The ones I'm going to eat on the way to the gym.'
'I think you get enough exercise, Lola. But we've got half an hour yet – c'mon, I'll buy you a coffee.'
21
Who stole the tarts?
* * *
'My first adult foray into the BookWorld had not been without controversy. I had entered Jane Eyre and changed the ending. Originally, Jane goes off to India with the drippy St John Rivers, but in the ending that I engineered, Jane and Rochester married. I made the decision from the heart, which I had not been trained to do but couldn't help myself. Everyone liked the new ending but my actions weren't without criticism. Technically I had committed a fiction infraction, and I would have to face the music. My first hearing in Kafka's The Trial had been inconclusive. The trial before the King and Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland would not be as strange – it would be stranger.'
THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles
The Gryphon was a creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. In his youth he must have been a frightening creature to behold, but in his later years he wore spectacles and a scarf, which somewhat dented his otherwise fearsome appearance.
He was, I was told, one of the finest legal eagles around, and after Snell's death he became head of the Jurisfiction legal team. It was the Gryphon who managed to secure the record pay-out following the celebrated Farmer’s Wife v. Three Blind Mice case and was instrumental in reducing Nemo's piracy charges to 'accidental manslaughter'.
The Gryphon was reading my notes when I arrived and made small and incomprehensible noises as he flicked through the pages, grunting here and there and staring at me over his spectacles with large eyes.
'Well!' he said. 'We should be in for some fun now!'
'Fun?' I repeated. 'Defending a Class II fiction infraction?'
'I'm prosecuting a class action for blindness against the Triffids this afternoon,' said the Gryphon soberly, 'and the Martians' war crimes trial in War of the Worlds just drags on and on. Believe me, a fiction infraction is fun. Do you want to see my case load?'
'No thanks.'
'Okay. We'll see what their witnesses have to say and how Hopkins presents his case. I may decide not to put you on the stand. Please don't do anything stupid like grow – it nearly destroyed Alice's case there and then. And if the Queen orders your head to be cut off, ignore her.'
'Okay.' I sighed. 'Let's get on with it.'
The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their thrones when we arrived, but they were the only people in the courtroom who were seemingly composed – Alice's exit two pages earlier had caused a considerable amount of distress to the jury, who were back in their places but were bickering furiously with the foreman, a rabbit who stared back at them, nibbling a large carrot that he had somehow smuggled in.
The Knave of Hearts was being escorted back to the cells and the tarts – exhibit 'A' – were being taken away and replaced by the original manuscript of Jane Eyre. Seated before the King and Queen was prosecuting attorney Matthew Hopkins and a collection of very severe-looking birds. He glared at me with barely concealed venom. He looked a lot less amused than when we last crossed swords in The Trial, and he hadn't looked particularly amused then. The King was obviously the judge because he wore a large wig, but quite which part the Queen of Hearts was to play in the proceedings, I had no idea.
The twelve jurors calmed down and all started writing busily on their slates.
'What are they doing?' I whispered to the Gryphon. 'The trial hasn't even begun yet!'
'Silence in court!' yelled the White Rabbit in a shrill voice.
'Off with her head!' yelled the Queen.
The King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to find out who had been talking. The Queen nudged him and nodded in my direction.
'You there!' he said. 'You will have your say soon enough, Miss, Miss …'
'Next,' put in the White Rabbit after consulting his parchment.
'Really?' replied the King with some confusion. 'Does that mean we're done?'
'No, Your Majesty,' replied the White Rabbit patiently, 'her name is Next. Thursday Next.'
'I suppose you think that's funny?'
'No indeed, Your Majesty,' I replied. 'It was the name I was born with.'
The jurymen all frantically started to write 'It was the name I was born with' on their slates.
'You're an Outlander, aren't you?' said the Queen, who had been staring at me for some time.
'Yes, Your Majesty.'
'Then answer me this: when there are two people and one of them has left, who is left? The person who is left or the person who has left? I mean, they can't both be left, can they?'
'Herald, read the accusation!' said the King.
At this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:
'Miss Thursday Next is hereby accused of a fiction infraction Class II against the Jurisfiction penal code FAL/0605937 and pursuant to the BookWorld general law regarding continuity of plot lines, as ratified to the Council of Genres, 1584.'
'Consider your verdict,' said the King to the jury.
'Objection!' cried the Gryphon. 'There's a great deal to come before that!'
'Overruled!' shouted the King, adding: 'Or do I mean "sustained"? I always get the two mixed up – it's a bit like "feed a cold and starve a fever" or "starve a cold and feed a fever". I never know which is right. At any rate, you may call the first witness.'
The White Rabbit blew three more blasts on the trumpet, and called out:
'First witness!'
The first witness was Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper at Thornfield Hall, Rochester's home. She blinked and looked around the court slowly, smiling at Hopkins and glaring at me. She was assisted into the witness box by an usher who was in reality a large guinea pig.
'Do you promise to tell the whole truth and nothing
but the truth?' asked the White Rabbit.
'I do.'
'Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly all wrote "write that down" on their slates.
'Mrs Fairfax,' began Hopkins, rising to his feet, 'I want you to tell me in your own words the events surrounding Miss Next's intrusion into Jane Eyre, starting at the beginning and not stopping until you get to the end …'
'And then what?' asked the King.
'Then she may stop,' said Hopkins with a trace of annoyance.
'Ah,' said the King in the voice of someone who thinks they understand a great deal but are sadly mistaken, 'proceed.'
For the next two hours we listened not only to Mrs Fairfax but also Grace Poole, Blanche Ingram and St John Rivers, all giving evidence to explain the old ending and how by calling 'Jane, Jane, Jane!' at Jane's bedroom I had changed the narrative completely. The jury tried to keep up with the proceedings, and they wrote as and when directed by the King until there was no more room on their slates, whereupon they tried to write on the benches in front of them, and failing that, on each other.
After every witness the smallest dormouse in the jury was excused for a trip to the bathroom, which gave the Gryphon time to explain to the King – who probably wouldn't have been able to touch his head with his eyes shut – the procedure of the law. When the dormouse returned the witness was given to the Gryphon for cross-examination, and every time he called: 'No further questions.' The afternoon wore on and it became hotter in the courtroom. The Queen grew more and more bored, and seemed to demand the verdict on a more and more frequent basis, once even asking during a witness's testimony.
The Well of Lost Plots Page 22
