Lost in a Good Book tn-2

by Jasper Fforde

  Lost in a Good Book

  ( Thursday Next - 2 )

  Jasper Fforde

  The inventive, exuberant, and totally original literary fun that began with The Eyre Affair continues with Jasper Fforde’s magnificent second adventure starring the resourceful, fearless literary sleuth Thursday Next. When Landen, the love of her life, is eradicated by the corrupt multinational Goliath Corporation, Thursday must moonlight as a Prose Resource Operative of Jurisfiction—the police force inside books. She is apprenticed to the man-hating Miss Havisham from Dickens’s Great Expectations, who grudgingly shows Thursday the ropes. And she gains just enough skill to get herself in a real mess entering the pages of Poe’s "The Raven." What she really wants is to get Landen back. But this latest mission is not without further complications. Along with jumping into the works of Kafka and Austen, and even Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies, Thursday finds herself the target of a series of potentially lethal coincidences, the authenticator of a newly discovered play by the Bard himself, and the only one who can prevent an unidentifiable pink sludge from engulfing all life on Earth.

  Jasper Fforde

  Lost in a Good Book

  This book is dedicated to assistants everywhere.

  You make it happen for them.

  They couldn’t do it without you.

  Your contribution is everything.

  Don’t expect the expected:

  Expect the unexpected.

  If you expect the expected

  I expect you will remain unexpected.

  From the teachings of St Zvlkx

  1. The Adrian Lush Show

  Sample viewing figures for major TV networks in England, September 1985

  Network Toad

  The Adrian Lush Show (Wednesday) (chat show) 16,428,316

  The Adrian Lush Show (Monday) (chat show) 16,034,921

  Bonzo the Wonder Hound (canine thriller) 15,975,462

  Mole TV

  Name That Fruit! (answer questions for cash prizes) 15,320,340

  65 Walrus Street (soap opera, episode 3352) 14,315,902

  Dangerously Dysfunctional People Argue Live on

  TV (chat show) 11,065,611

  Owl Vision

  Will Marlowe or Kit Shakespeare? (literary quiz show) 13,591,203

  One More Chance to See! (reverse extinction show) 2,321,820

  Goliath Cable Channel (1 to 32)

  Whose Lie Is It Anyway? (corporate comedy quiz show) 428

  Cots to Coffins: Goliath. All You’ll Ever Need (docuganda) 9 (disputed)

  Neanderthal Network 4

  Power Tool Club Live (routers and power planer edition) 9,032

  Jackanory Gold (Jane Eyre edition) 7,219

  WARWICK FRIDGE. The Ratings War

  I didn’t ask to be a celebrity. I never wanted to appear on The Adrian Lush Show. And let’s get one thing straight right now—the world would have to be hurtling towards imminent destruction before I’d agree to anything as dopey as The Thursday Next Workout Video.

  The publicity surrounding the successful rebookment of Jane Eyre was fun to begin with but rapidly grew wearisome. I happily posed for photocalls, agreed to newspaper interviews, hesitantly appeared on Desert Island Smells and was thankfully excused the embarrassment of Celebrity Name That Fruit! The public, ever fascinated by celebrity, had wanted to know everything about me following my excursion within the pages of Jane Eyre, and since the Special Operations Network have a PR record on a par with that of Vlad the Impaler, the top brass thought it would be a good wheeze to use me to boost their flagging popularity. I dutifully toured all points of the globe doing signings, library openings, talks and interviews. The same questions, the same SpecOps-approved answers. Supermarket openings, literary dinners, offers of book deals. I even met the actress Lola Vavoom, who said that she would simply adore to play me if there were a film. It was tiring, but more than that—it was dull. For the first time in my career at the Literary Detectives I actually missed authenticating Milton.

  I’d taken a week’s leave as soon as my tour ended so Landen and I could devote some time to married life. I moved all my stuff to his house, rearranged his furniture, added my books to his and introduced my dodo, Pickwick, to his new home. Landen and I ceremoniously partitioned the bedroom closet space, decided to share the sock drawer, then had an argument over who was to sleep on the wall side of the bed. We had long and wonderfully pointless conversations about nothing in particular, walked Pickwick in the park, went out to dinner, stayed in for dinner, stared at each other a lot and slept in late every morning. It was wonderful.

  On the fourth day of my leave, just between lunch with Landen’s mum and Pickwick’s notable first fight with the neighbour’s cat, I got a call from Cordelia Flakk. She was the senior SpecOps PR agent here in Swindon and she told me that Adrian Lush wanted me on his show. I wasn’t mad keen on the idea—or the show. But there was an upside. The Adrian Lush Show went out live and Flakk assured me that this would be a ‘no holds barred’ interview, something that held a great deal of appeal. Despite my many appearances, the true story about Jane Eyre was yet to be told—and I had been wanting to drop the Goliath Corporation in it for quite a while. Flakk’s assurance that this would finally be the end of the press junket clinched my decision. Adrian Lush it would be.

  I travelled up to the Network Toad studios a few days later on my own; Landen had a deadline looming and needed to get his head down. But I wasn’t alone for long. As soon as I stepped into the large entrance lobby a milk-curdling shade of green strode purposefully towards me

  ‘Thursday, darling!’ cried Cordelia, beads rattling. ‘So glad you could make it!’

  The SpecOps dress code stated that our apparel should be ‘dignified’ but in Cordelia’s case they had obviously stretched a point. Anyone looking less like a serving officer was impossible to imagine. Looks, in her case, were highly deceptive. She was SpecOps all the way from her high heels to the pink-and-yellow scarf tied in her hair.

  She air-kissed me affectionately.

  ‘How was New Zealand?’

  ‘Green and full of sheep,’ I replied. ‘I brought you this.’

  I handed her a fluffy toy lamb that bleated realistically when you turned it upside down.

  ‘How adorable! How’s married life treating you?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Excellent, my dear, I wish you both the best. Love what you’ve done with your hair!’

  ‘My hair? I haven’t done anything with my hair!’

  ‘Exactly!’ replied Flakk quickly. ‘It’s so incredibly you.’

  She did a twirl.

  ‘What do you think of the outfit?’

  ‘One’s attention is drawn straight to it,’ I replied ambiguously.

  ‘This is 1985,’ she explained, ‘bright colours are the future. I’ll let you loose in my wardrobe one day.’

  ‘I think I’ve got some pink socks of my own somewhere.’

  ‘It’s a start, my dear. Listen, you’ve been a star about all this publicity work; I’m very grateful—and so is SpecOps.’

  ‘Grateful enough to post me somewhere other than the Literary Detectives?’

  ‘Well,’ murmured Cordelia reflectively, ‘first things first. As soon as you’ve done the Lush interview your transfer application will be aggressively considered, you have my word on that.’

  It didn’t sound terribly promising. Despite the successes at work, I still wanted to move up within the Network. Cordelia took my arm and steered me towards the waiting area.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Spot of bother in Auckland?’

  ‘Bronte Federation offshoot caused a bit of trouble,�
�� I explained. ‘They didn’t like the new ending of Jane Eyre.’

  ‘There’ll always be a few malcontents,’ observed Flakk. ‘Milk?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, staring at the milk jug, ‘this milk’s off. No matter. Listen,’ she went on quietly, ‘I’d love to stay and watch but some SpecOps 17 clot in Penzance staked a Goth by mistake; it’s going to be PR hell on earth down there.’

  SO-17 were the vampire and werewolf disposal squad. Despite a new ‘three-point’ confirmation procedure, a jumpy cadet with a sharpened stake could still spell big trouble.

  ‘Everything is all absolutely hunky-dory here. I’ve spoken to Adrian Lush and the others so there won’t be any embarrassments.’

  ‘Others?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious. ‘Embarrassments? What did you have in mind?’

  Cordelia threw me a pained expression.

  ‘New orders Thursdaysweetydarling. Believe me, I’m as annoyed as you are.’

  She didn’t look it.

  ‘No holds barred, eh?’ I grimaced, but Flakk was unapologetic.

  ‘Needs must, Thursday. SpecOps requires your support in these difficult times. President Formby has called for an inquiry into whether SpecOps are value for money—or even necessary at all.’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘but this is the very last interview, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Flakk a little too quickly, then added in an overdramatic manner, ‘Oh my goodness, is that the time? I have to catch the airship to Barnstaple in an hour. This is Adie; she’ll be looking after you and… and’—here Cordelia leaned just a little bit closer—’remember you’re SpecOps, darling!’

  She nodded, told me she would see me later and then took to her heels in a cloud of expensive scent.

  ‘How could I forget?’ I muttered as a bouncy girl clutching a clipboard appeared from where she had been waiting respectfully out of earshot.

  ‘Hi!’ squeaked the girl, ‘I’m Adie. So pleased to meet you!’

  She grasped my hand and told me repeatedly what a fantastic honour it was.

  ‘I don’t want to bug you or anything,’ she said shyly, ‘but was Edward Rochester really drop-dead gorgeous to die for?’

  ‘Not handsome,’ I answered as I watched Flakk slink off down the corridor, ‘but certainly attractive. Tall, deep voice and glowering looks, if you know the type.’

  Adie turned a deep shade of pink.

  ‘Gosh!’

  I was taken into make-up, where I was puffed and primped, talked at mercilessly and made to sign copies of the Femole I had appeared in. I was very relieved when Adie came to rescue me thirty minutes later. She announced into her wireless that we were ‘walking’ and then, after leading me down a corridor and through some swing-doors, asked:

  ‘What’s it like working in SpecOps? Do you chase bad guys, clamber around on the outside of airships, defuse bombs with three seconds to go, that sort of stuff?’

  ‘I wish I did,’ I replied good-humouredly, ‘but in truth it’s seventy per cent form-filling, twenty-seven per cent mind-numbing tedium and two per cent sheer terror.’

  ‘And the remaining one per cent?’

  I smiled.

  ‘That’s what keeps us going.’

  We walked the seemingly endless corridors, past large grinning photographs of Adrian Lush and assorted other Network Toad celebrities.

  ‘You’ll like Adrian,’ she told me happily, ‘and he’ll like you. Just don’t try to be funnier than him; it doesn’t suit the format of the show.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m meant to tell all his guests that.’

  ‘Even the comedians?’

  ‘Especially the comedians’

  I assured her being funny was the last thing on my mind, and pretty soon she directed me on to the studio floor. Feeling unusually nervous and wishing that Landen were with me, I walked across the familiar front-room set of The Adrian Lush Show. But Mr Lush was nowhere to be seen—and neither were the ‘live studio audience’ a Lush show usually boasted. Instead, a small group of officials were waiting—the ‘others’ Flakk had told me about. My heart fell when I saw who they were.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Next!’ boomed Commander Braxton Hicks with forced bonhomie. ‘You’re looking well, healthy and, er, vigorous.’ He was my divisional chief back at Swindon, and despite being effectively head of the LiteraTecs was not that good with words.

  ‘What are you doing here, sir?’ I asked him, straining not to show my disappointment. ‘Cordelia told me the Lush interview would be uncensored in every way.’

  ‘Oh, it is, dear girl—up to a point,’ he said, stroking his large moustache. ‘Without benign intervention things can get very confused in the public mind. We thought we would listen to the interview and perhaps—if the need arose—offer practical advice as to how the proceedings should, er, proceed.’

  I sighed. My untold story looked set to remain exactly that. Adrian Lush, supposed champion of free speech, the man who had dared to air the grievances felt by the Neanderthal, the first to suggest publicly that the Goliath Corporation ‘had shortcomings’, was about to have his nails well and truly clipped.

  ‘Colonel Flanker you’ve already met,’ went on Braxton without drawing breath.

  I eyed the man suspiciously. I knew him well enough. He was at SpecOps 1, the division that polices SpecOps itself. He had interviewed me about the night I had first tried to tackle master criminal Acheron Hades—the night Snood and Tamworth died. He tried to smile several times but eventually gave up and offered his hand for me to shake instead.

  ‘This is Colonel Rabone,’ Braxton carried on. ‘She is head of Combined Forces Liaison.’ I shook hands with the colonel.

  ‘Always honoured to meet a holder of the Crimean Cross,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘And over here,’ continued Braxton in a jocular tone that was obviously designed to put me at ease—a ploy that failed spectacularly—’is Mr Schitt-Hawse of the Goliath Corporation.’

  Schitt-Hawse was a tall, thin man whose pinched features seemed to compete for position in the centre of his face. His head tilted to the left in a manner that reminded me of an inquisitive budgerigar, and his dark hair was fastidiously combed back from his forehead. He put out his hand.

  ‘Would it upset you if I didn’t shake it?’ I asked him.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he replied, trying to be affable.

  ‘Good.’

  Anyone from the vast multinational known as Goliath was about as welcome to me as an infestation of worms. The Corporation’s pernicious hold over the nation was not universally appreciated and I had a far greater reason to dislike them—the last Goliath employee I dealt with was an odious character by the name of Jack Schitt, who not only tried to kill me and my partner, but had also planned to prolong and escalate the Crimean War in order to create demand for the latest Goliath weaponry. We had tricked him into a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, a place in which I hoped he could do no harm.

  ‘Schitt-Hawse, eh?’ I said. ‘Any relation to Jack?’

  ‘He was—is—my half-brother,’ said Schitt-Hawse slowly, ‘and believe me, Ms Next, he wasn’t working for Goliath when he became involved with Hades and the Plasma Rifle.’

  ‘If he had been would you admit it?’

  Schitt-Hawse scowled and said nothing. Braxton coughed politely and continued:

  ‘And this is Mr Chesterman of the Bronte Federation.’

  Chesterman blinked at me uncertainly. The changes I had wrought upon Jane Eyre had split the Federation. I hoped he was one of those who preferred the happier ending.

  ‘Back there is Captain Marat of the ChronoGuard,’ continued Braxton. Marat looked at me with interest. The ChronoGuard were the SpecOps division that took care of Anomalous Time Ripplation—my father was one or is one or would be one, depending on how you looked at it.

  ‘Have we met before?’ I asked him.

>   ‘Not yet,’ he replied.

  ‘Well!’ said Braxton, clapping his hands together. ‘I think that’s everyone. Next, I want you to pretend we’re just not here.’

  ‘Observers, yes?’

  ‘Absolutely. I—’

  Braxton was interrupted by a slight disturbance off-stage.

  ‘The bastards!’ yelled a high voice. ‘If the Network dares to replace my Monday slot with reruns of Bonzo the Wonder Hound I’ll sue them for every penny they have!’

  A tall man of perhaps fifty-five had walked into the studio accompanied by a small group of assistants. He had handsome chiselled features and a luxuriant swirl of white hair that looked as though it had been carved from polystyrene. He wore an immaculately tailored suit and his fingers were heavily weighed down with gold jewellery. He stopped short when he saw us.

  ‘Ah!’ said Adrian Lush disdainfully. ‘SpecOps!’

  His entourage flustered around him with lots of energy but very little purpose. They seemed to hang on his every word and action and I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of relief that I wasn’t in the entertainment business.

  ‘I’ve had a lot to do with you people in the past,’ explained Lush as he made himself comfortable on his trademark green sofa, something he clearly regarded as a territorial safe retreat. ‘It was I that coined the phrase “SpecOops” for whenever you make a mistake—sorry, “operational unexpectation”, isn’t that what you like to call them?’

  But Hicks ignored Lush’s dig and introduced me as though I were his only daughter being offered up for marriage.

  ‘Mr Lush, this is Special Operative Thursday Next.’

  Lush jumped up and bounded over to shake me by the hand in an effusive and energetic manner. Flanker and the others sat down; they looked very small in the middle of the empty studio. They weren’t going to leave and Lush wasn’t going to ask them to—I knew that Goliath owned Network Toad and was beginning to doubt whether Lush had any control over this interview at all.