‘Hello, Thursday!’ said Lush excitedly. ‘Welcome to my Monday show. It’s the second-highest-rated show in England—my Wednesday show is the first!’
He laughed infectiously and I smiled uneasily.
‘Then this will be your Thursday show,’ I replied, eager to lighten the situation.
There was dead silence.
‘Will you be doing that a lot?’ asked Lush.
‘Doing what?’
‘Making jokes. You see… have a seat, darling. You see, I generally make the jokes on this show, and although it’s perfectly okay for you to make jokes, if you do I’m going to have to pay someone to write funnier ones, and our budget, like Goliath’s scruples, is on the small side of Leptonic.’
‘Can I say something’!’ said a voice from the small audience. It was Flanker, who carried on talking without waiting for a reply. ‘SpecOps is a serious business and should be reflected as such in your interview. Next, I think you should let Mr Lush tell the jokes.’
‘Is that all right?’ asked Lush, beaming.
‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Is there anything else I shouldn’t do?’
Lush looked at me and then looked at the panel in the front row.
‘Is there?’
They all mumbled among themselves for a few seconds.
‘I think,’ said Flanker, ‘that we—sorry, you—should just do the interview and then we can discuss it later. Miss Next can say whatever she wants as long as it doesn’t contravene any SpecOps or Goliath corporate guidelines.’
‘Or military,’ added Colonel Rabone, anxious not to be left out.
‘Is that okay?’ asked Lush.
‘Whatever,’ I returned, eager to get on with it.
‘Excellent! I’ll do your intro, although you’ll be off-camera for that. The floor manager will cue you and you’ll enter. Wave to where the audience might have been and when you are comfy I’ll ask you some questions. I may offer you some toast at some point as our sponsors, the Toast Marketing Board, like to get a plug in now and again. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Here we go.’
He had his hair arranged down to the last follicle, his costume tweaked and the pieces of tissue paper removed from his collar. I was ushered off-stage and, after what seemed like an epoch of inactivity, Lush was counted in by a floor manager. On cue he turned to Camera 1 and switched on his best smile.
‘Tonight is a very special occasion with a very special guest. She is a decorated war heroine, a literary detective whose personal intervention not only restored the novel Jane Eyre but actually improved the ending. She single-handedly defeated Acheron Hades, ended the Crimean War and boldly hoodwinked the Goliath Corporation. Ladies and gentlemen, in an unprecedented interview from a serving SpecOps officer, please give a warm welcome to Thursday Next of the Swindon LiteraTec office…!’
A bright light swung on to my entrance doorway and Adie smiled and tapped my arm. I walked out to meet Lush, who rose to greet me enthusiastically.
‘Excuse me,’ came a voice from the front row. It was Schitt-Hawse, the Goliath representative.
‘Yes?’ asked Lush in an icy tone.
‘You’re going to have to drop the reference to the Goliath Corporation,’ said Schitt-Hawse in the sort of tone that brooks no argument. ‘It serves no purpose other than to needlessly embarrass a large company that is doing its very best to improve everyone’s lives.’
‘I agree,’ said Flanker, ‘and all references to Hades will have to be avoided. He is still listed as “missing, fervently hoped dead”, so any unauthorised speculation might have dangerous consequences.’
‘Okay,’ murmured Lush, scrubbing a note. ‘Anything else?’
‘Any reference to the Crimean War and the Plasma rifle,’ said the colonel, ‘might be considered inappropriate. The peace talks at Budapest are still at a delicate stage; the Russians will make any excuse to leave the table. We know that your show is very popular in Moscow.’
‘The Bronte Federation is not keen for you to say the new ending is improved,’ put in the small and bespectacled Chesterman, ‘and talking about any of the characters you met within Jane Eyre might cause some viewers to suffer Xplkqulkiccasia. It’s so serious that the English Medical Council were compelled to make up an especially unpronounceable word to describe it.’
Lush looked at them, looked at me and then looked at his script.
‘How about if I just said her name?’
‘That would be admirable,’ intoned Flanker, ‘except you might also want to assure the viewers that this interview is uncensored. Everyone else agree?’
They all enthusiastically added their assent to Flanker’s suggestion. I could see this was going to be a very long and tedious afternoon.
Lush’s entourage came back on and made the tiniest adjustments. I was repositioned and, after waiting what seemed like another decade, Lush began again.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, in a frank and open interview tonight, Thursday Next talks unhindered about her work at SpecOps.’
No one said anything so I entered, shook Lush’s hand and took a seat on his sofa.
‘Welcome to the show, Thursday.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll get on to your career in the Crimea in a moment, but I’d like to kick off by asking—’
With a magician’s flourish he produced a platter.
‘—if you would care for some toast?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Tasty and nutritious!’ He smiled, facing the camera. ‘Perfect as a snack or even a light meal—good with eggs, sardines or even—’
‘No, thank you.’
Lush’s smile froze on his face as he muttered through clenched teeth:
‘Have… some… toast.’
But it was too late. The floor manager came on the set and announced that the unseen director of the show had called cut. The small army of beauticians came on and fussed over Adrian as the floor manager had a one-way conversation into his headphones before turning to me.
‘The Director of Placements wants to know if you would take a small bite of toast when offered.’
‘I’ve eaten already.’
The floor manager turned and spoke into his headphones again.
‘She says she’s eaten already!! …I know… yes… what if… yes… ah-ha… What do you want me to do? Sit on her and force it down her throat!?! …yesss… ah-ha… I know… yes… yes… okay.’
He turned back to me.
‘How about jam instead of marmalade?’
‘I don’t really like toast,’ I told him.
‘What?’
‘I said I don’t—’
‘She says she doesn’t like toast!’ said the floor manager in an exasperated tone. ‘What in hell’s name are we going to do!?!’
Flanker stood up.
‘Next, eat the sodding toast, will you? I’ve got a meeting in two hours.’
‘And I’ve a golf tournament,’ added Braxton.
I gave up.
‘Okay. Make it granary with marmalade, go easy on the butter.’
The floor manager smiled as though I had just saved his job—which I probably had—and everything started over once again.
‘Would you like some toast?’ asked Lush.
‘Thanks.’
I took a small bite.
‘Very good.’
I saw the floor manager giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up as he dabbed his brow with a handkerchief.
‘Right.’ Lush sighed. ‘Let’s get on with it. First I would like to ask the question that everyone wants answered, how did you actually get into the book of Jane Eyre in the first place?’
‘That’s easily explained,’ I began. ‘You see, my Uncle Mycroft invented a device called a Prose Portal—’
Flanker coughed.
‘Ms Next, perhaps you don’t know it but your uncle is still the subject of a secrecy certificate dating back to 1
934. It might be prudent if you didn’t mention him—or the Prose Portal.’
Lush thought for a moment.
‘Can I talk to Miss Next about how she met Hades for the first time, just after he stole the original manuscript of Martin Chuzzlewit?’
‘That would be fine if you don’t mention Hades,’ replied Flanker.
‘It’s not something we want the citizenry to think is—’ said Marat so suddenly that quite a few people jumped. Up until that moment he hadn’t said a word.
‘Sorry?’ asked Flanker.
‘Nothing,’ said the ChronoGuard operative in a quiet voice. ‘I’m just getting a touch proleptic in my old age.’
Lush continued.
‘Can she talk about the pursuit of Hades into the Welsh Republic and the successful return of Jane to her book?’
‘Same rules apply,’ growled Flanker.
‘How about the time that my partner Bowden and I drove through a patch of Bad Time on the M1?’ I asked.
‘It’s not something we want the citizenry to think is easy,’ said Marat with renewed enthusiasm. ‘If the public think that ChronoGuard work is straightforward, confidence might be shaken.’
‘Quite correct,’ asserted Flanker
‘Perhaps you’d like to do this interview?’ I asked him.
‘Hey!’ said Flanker, standing up and jabbing a finger in my direction. ‘There’s no need to get snippy with us, Next. You’re here to do a job in your capacity as a serving SpecOps officer. You are not here to tell the truth as you see it!’
Lush looked uneasily at me, I raised my eyebrows and shrugged.
‘Now look here,’ said Lush in a strident tone, ‘if I’m going to interview Ms Next I must ask questions that the public want to hear—’
‘Oh, you can!’ said Flanker agreeably. ‘You can ask whatever you want Free speech is enshrined in statute and neither SpecOps nor Goliath have any business coercing you in any way. We are just here to observe, comment and enlighten.’
Lush knew what Flanker meant and Flanker knew that Lush knew. I knew that Flanker and Lush knew it and they both knew I knew it too. Lush looked nervous and fidgeted slightly. Flanker’s assertion of Lush’s independence was anything but. A word to Network Toad from Goliath and Lush would end up presenting Sheep World on Lerwick TV, and he didn’t want that. Not one little bit.
We fell silent for a moment as Lush and I tried to figure out a topic that was outside their broad parameters.
‘How about commenting on the ludicrously high tax on cheese?’ I asked. It was a joke but Flanker and Co. weren’t terribly expert when it came to jokes.
‘I have no objection,’ murmured Flanker. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Not me,’ said Schitt-Hawse.
‘Or me,’ added Rabone.
‘I have an objection,’ said a woman who had been sitting quietly at the side at the studio. She spoke with a clipped Home Counties accent and was dressed in a tweed skirt, twinset and pearls.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ she said in a loud and strident voice. ‘Mrs Jolly Hilly, governmental representative to the television networks.’ She took a deep breath and carried on: ‘The so-called “unfair cheese duty burden” is a very contentious subject at present. Any reference to it might be construed as an inflammatory act.’
‘Five hundred and eighty-seven per cent duty on hard cheeses and six hundred and twenty per cent on smelly?’ I asked. ‘Cheddar Classic Gold Original at ?9.32 a pound—Bodmin Molecular Unstable Brie at almost ?10! What’s going on?’
The others, suddenly interested, all looked to Mrs Hilly for an explanation. For a brief moment, and probably the only moment ever, we were in agreement.
‘I understand your concern,’ replied the trained apologist, ‘but I think you’ll find that the price of cheese has, once adjusted for positive spin, actually gone down measured against the retail price index in recent years. Here, have a look at this.’
She passed me a picture of a sweet little old lady on crutches.
‘Old ladies who are not dissimilar to the actress in this picture will have to go without their hip replacements and suffer crippling pain if you selfishly demand cut-price cheese.’
She paused to let this sink in.
‘The Master of the Sums feels that it is not for the public to dictate economic policy, but he is willing to make concessions for those who suffer particular hardship in the form of area-tactical needs-related cheese coupons.’
‘So,’ said Lush with a smile, ‘wheyving cheese tax is out of the question?’
‘Or he could raise the custard duty,’ added Mrs Hilly, missing the pun. ‘The pudding lobby is less—well, how should I put it—militant.’
‘Wheyving,’ said Lush again, for the benefit of anyone who had missed it. ‘Wheyv—oh, never mind. I’ve never heard a bigger load of crap in all my life. I aim to make the extortionate price of cheese the subject of an Adrian Lush Special Report.’
Mrs Hilly flustered slightly and chose her words carefully.
‘If there were another cheese riot following your Special Report we might look very carefully as to where to place responsibility.’
She looked at the Goliath representative as she said this. The implication wasn’t lost on Schitt-Hawse or Lush. I had heard enough.
‘So I won’t talk about cheese either.’ I sighed. ‘What can I talk about?’
The small group all looked at one another with perplexed expressions. Flanker clicked his fingers as an idea struck him.
‘Don’t you own a dodo?’
2. The Special Operations Network
‘…The Special Operations Network was instigated to handle policing duties considered either too unusual or too specialised to be tackled by the regular force. There were 32 departments in all, starting at the more mundane Horticultural Enforcement Agency (SO-32) and going on to Literary Detectives (SO-27) and Transport Authority (SO-21). Anything below SO-20 was restricted information although it was common knowledge that the ChronoGuard were SO-12 and SO-1 were the department that polices the SpecOps themselves. Quite what the others do is anyone’s guess. What is known is that the individual operatives themselves are mostly ex-military or ex-police. Operatives rarely leave the service after the probationary period has ended. There is a saying: “A SpecOps job isn’t for probation—it’s for life”.’
MILLON DE FLOSS. A Short History of the Special Operations Network (revised)
It was the morning after the transmission of The Adrian Lush Show. I had watched for five minutes, cringed, then fled upstairs to rearrange our sock drawer. I managed to file all the socks by colour, shape and how much I liked them before Landen told me it was all over and I could come back downstairs. It was the last public interview I’d agreed to give, but Cordelia didn’t seem to remember this part of our conversation. She had continued to besiege me with requests to speak at literary festivals, appear as a guest on 65 Walrus Street and even attend one of President Formby’s informal song-and-ukulele evenings. Job offers arrived daily. Numerous libraries and private security firms asked for my services as either ‘Active Associate’ or ‘Security Consultant’. The sweetest letter I got was from the local library asking me to come in and read to the elderly—something I delighted in doing. But SpecOps itself, the body to which I had committed much of my adult life, energy and resources, hadn’t even spoken to me about advancement. As far as they were concerned I was SO-27 and would remain so until they decided otherwise.
‘Mail for you!’ announced Landen, dumping a large pile of post on the kitchen table Most of my mail these days was fan mail—and pretty strange it was too. I opened a letter at random.
‘Anyone I should be jealous of?’ he asked.
‘I should keep the divorce lawyer on hold for a few more minutes—it’s another request for underwear.’
Landen grinned. ‘I’ll send him a pair of mine.’
‘What’s in the parcel?’
‘Late wedding present It’s a—’
/> He looked at the strange knitted object curiously.
‘—it’s a… thing.’
‘Good,’ I replied, ‘I always wanted one of those.’
Landen was a writer. We first met when he, my brother Anton and I fought in the Crimea. Landen came home minus a leg but alive—my brother was still out there, making his way through eternity from the comfort of a military cemetery near Sevastopol.
As Landen amused himself by trying to teach Pickwick to stand on one leg, I opened another letter and read aloud:
Dear Miss Next, I am one of your biggest fans I thought you should know that David Copperfield, far from being the doe-eyed innocent he is usually portrayed as, actually murdered his first wife Dora Spenlow in order to marry Agnes Wickfield. I suggest an exhumation of Miss Spenlow’s remains and a test for botulism and/or arsenic While we are on the subject, have you ever stopped to wonder why Homer changed his mind about dogs somewhere between The Iliad and The Odyssey? Was he, perhaps, given a puppy between the two?’ Another thing do you find Joyce’s Ulysses as boring and as unintelligible as I do? And why don’t Hemingway’s works have any smells in them?
‘Seems everyone wants you to investigate their favourite book,’ observed Landen. ‘While you’re about it, can you try and get Tess acquitted and Max DeWinter convicted?’
‘Not you as well!’
‘Up, Pickwick, come on, up, up, one leg!’
Pickwick stared at Landen blankly, eyes fixed on the marshmallow he was holding and not at all interested in learning tricks.
‘You’ll need a truck-load of them, Land.’
I got up, finished my coffee and put on my jacket.
‘Have a good day,’ said Landen, seeing me to the door. ‘Be nice to the other children. No scratching or biting.’
‘I’ll behave myself. I promise.’
I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him.
‘Oh, and Landen?’
‘Yuh?’
‘Don’t forget it’s Mycroft’s retirement party this evening.’
‘I won’t.’
It was late autumn or early winter—I wasn’t sure which. It had been mild and windless; the leaves were still brown on the trees and on some days it was hardly cold at all. It had to get really chilly for me to put the hood up on my Speedster, so I drove to the SpecOps divisional HQ with the wind in my hair and WESSEX-FM blaring on the wireless. The upcoming election was the talk of the airwaves; the controversial cheese duty had suddenly become an issue in the way things do just before an election. There was a snippet about Goliath declaring itself to be ‘the world’s favourite conglomerate’ for the tenth year running, whilst in the Crimean peace talks Russia had demanded Kent as war reparations. In sport, Aubrey Jambe had led the Swindon Mallets croquet team into SuperHoop ‘85 by thrashing the Reading Whackers.
Lost in a Good Book tn-2 Page 2
