Lost in a Good Book tn-2

by Jasper Fforde

  She paused.

  ‘But I was the same as you, worrying about not being ready, about being a bad mother. How did I do?’

  She stared at me and smiled kindly.

  ‘You did good, Mum.’

  I hugged her tightly.

  ‘I’ll do what I can to help, sweetness, but strictly no nappies or potty-training and Tuesday and Thursday evenings are right out.’

  ‘SO-3?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘bridge and skittles.’

  She handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed at my eyes.

  ‘You’ll be fine, sweetness.’

  I thanked her and she bustled off, muttering something about having a million mouths to feed I watched her leave, smiling to myself. I thought I knew my mother but I didn’t. Children rarely understand their parents at all.

  ‘Thursday!’ said Joffy as I reappeared from the vestry. ‘What use are you if you don’t mingle? Will you take that wealthy Flex fellow to meet Zorf, the Neanderthal artist? I’d be ever so grateful. Oh my goodness!’ he muttered, staring at the church door. ‘It’s Aubrey Jambe!’

  And so it was. Mr Jambe, Swindon’s croquet captain, despite his recent indiscretion with the chimp, was still attending functions as though nothing had happened.

  ‘I wonder if he’s brought the chimp,’ I said, but Joffy flashed me an angry look and rushed off to press flesh.

  I found Cordelia and Mr Flex discussing the merits of a minimalist painting by Welsh artist Tegwyn Wedimedr that was so minimalist it wasn’t there at all. They were staring at a blank wall with a picture hook on it.

  ‘What does it say to you, Harry?’

  ‘It says… nothing, Cords—but in a very different way. How much is it?’

  Cordelia bent forward to look at the price tag.

  ‘It’s called Beyond Satire and it’s twelve hundred pounds; quite a snip. Hello, Thursday! Changed your mind about the book-flick?’

  ‘Nope. Have you met Zorf, the Neanderthal artist?’

  I guided them over to where Zorf was exhibiting. Some of his friends were with him, one of whom I recognised.

  ‘Miss Next!’ said Stiggins as I approached. ‘We would like to introduce our friend Zorf.’ The slightly younger Neanderthal shook my hand as I explained who Harry and Cordelia were.

  ‘This is a very interesting painting, Mr Zorf,’ said Harry, staring at a mass of green, yellow and orange paint on a large six-foot-square canvas ‘What does it represent?’

  ‘Is not obvious?’ replied the Neanderthal.

  ‘Of course!’ said Harry, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s daffodils, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A sunset?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Field of barley?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘Closest yet, Mr Flex. If you have to ask, then you never understand. To Neanderthal, sunset is only finish-day. Van Gogh’s Green Rye is merely poor depiction of a field. The only sapien painters we truly understand are Pollock or Kandinsky, they speak our language. Our paintings are not for you.’

  I looked at the small gathering of Neanderthals who were staring at Zorf’s abstract paintings with emotion-filled wonderment, tears in their eyes. But Harry, a bullshitter to the end, had not yet given up hope.

  ‘Can I have another guess?’ he asked Zorf, who nodded.

  He stared at the canvas and screwed up his eyes.

  ‘It’s a—’

  ‘Hope,’ said a voice close by. ‘It’s hope. Hope for the future of the Neanderthal. It is the fervent wish—for children.’

  Zorf and all the other Neanderthals turned to stare at the speaker. It was Granny Next.

  ‘Exactly what I was about to say,’ said Flex, fooling no one but himself.

  ‘The esteemed lady shows understanding beyond her species,’ said Zorf, making a small grunting noise that I took to be laughter. ‘Would lady-sapien like to add to our painting?’

  This was indeed an honour. Granny Next stepped forward, took the proffered brush from Zorf, mixed a subtle shade of turquoise and made a few fine brush strokes to the left of centre. There was a gasp from the Neanderthals and the women in the group hastily placed veils over their faces while the men—including Zorf—raised their heads and stared at the ceiling, humming quietly. Gran did likewise. Flex, Cordelia and I looked at one another, confused and ignorant of Neanderthal customs. After a while the staring and humming stopped, the women raised their veils and they all ambled slowly over to Gran and smelled her clothes and touched her face with large yet gentle hands. Within a few minutes it was all over; the Neanderthals returned to their seats and were staring at Zorf’s paintings again.

  ‘Hello, young Thursday!’ said Gran, turning to me. ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet to have a chat!’

  We walked off towards the church organ and sat on a pair of hard plastic chairs.

  ‘What did you paint on his picture?’ I asked her, and Gran smiled her sweetest smile.

  ‘Something a bit controversial,’ she confided, ‘yet supportive. I have worked with Neanderthals in the past and know many of their ways and customs. How’s hubby?’

  ‘Still eradicated,’ I said glumly.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Gran seriously, touching my chin so I would look into her eyes. ‘Always there is hope—you’ll find, as I did, that it’s really very funny the way things turn out.’

  ‘I know. Thanks, Gran.’

  ‘Your mother will be a tower of strength—never be in any doubt of that.’

  ‘She’s here if you want to see her.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Gran, slightly hurriedly. ‘I expect she’s a little busy. While we’re here,’ she went on, changing the subject without drawing breath, ‘can you think of any books that might be included in the “ten most boring classics”? I’m about ready to go.’

  ‘Gran!’

  ‘Indulge me, young Thursday!’

  I sighed.

  ‘How about Paradise Lost?’

  Gran let out a loud groan.

  ‘Awful! I could hardly walk for a week afterwards—it’s enough to put anyone off religion for good!’

  ‘Ivanhoe?’

  ‘Pretty dull but redeemable in places—it isn’t in the top ten, I think.’

  ‘Moby Dick?’

  ‘Excitement and action interspersed with mind-numbing dullness. Read it twice.’

  ‘A la recherche du temps perdu?’

  ‘English or French, its sheer tediousness is undimimshed.’

  ‘Pamela?’

  ‘Ah! Now you’re talking. Struggled through that when a teenager. It might have had resonance in 1741 but today the only resonance it possesses is the snores that emanate from those deluded enough to attempt it.’

  ‘How about The Pilgrim’s Progress?’

  But Gran’s attention had wandered.

  ‘You have visitors, my dear. Look over there past the stuffed squid inside the piano and just next to the Fiat 500 carved from frozen toothpaste.’

  There were two SpecOps agents in dark suits but they were not Dedmen and Walken. It looked as though SO-5 had suffered another mishap. I asked Gran whether she would be all right on her own and walked across to meet them. I found them looking dubiously at a flattened tuba on the ground entitled The indivisible thriceness of death.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ began the first agent nervously. ‘I’m… I’m… not really up on art.’

  ‘Even if you were it wouldn’t help here,’ I replied drily. ‘SpecOps 5?’

  ‘Yes, how did—’

  He checked himself quickly and rummaged for a pair of dark glasses.

  ‘I mean no. Never heard of SpecOps, much less SpecOps 5. Don’t exist. Oh, blast. I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’re looking for someone named Thursday Next,’ said his partner in a very obvious whisper from the side of her mouth, adding, in case I didn’t get the messa
ge: ‘Official business.’

  I sighed. Obviously, SO-5 were beginning to run out of volunteers. I wasn’t surprised.

  ‘What happened to Dedmen and Walken?’ I asked them.

  ‘They were—’ began the first agent, but the second nudged him in the ribs and announced instead:

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘I’m Thursday Next,’ I told them, ‘and I think you’re in more danger than you realise. Where did they get you from? SO-14?’

  They took their sunglasses off and looked at me nervously.

  ‘I’m from SO-22,’ said the first. ‘The name’s Lamb. This is Slaughter; she’s from—’

  ‘SO-28,’ said the woman. ‘Thank you, Blake, I can talk, you know—and let me handle this. You can’t open your mouth without putting your foot in it.’

  Lamb sank into a sulky silence.

  ‘SO-28? You’re an income tax assessor?’

  ‘So what if I am?’ retorted Slaughter defiantly. ‘We all have to risk things for advancement.’

  ‘I know that only too well,’ I replied, steering them towards a quiet spot next to a model of a matchstick made entirely out of bits of the Houses of Parliament. ‘Just so long as you know what you’re getting into. What happened to Walken and Dedmen?’

  ‘They were reassigned,’ explained Lamb.

  ‘You mean dead?’

  ‘No,’ exclaimed Lamb with some surprise. ‘I mean reas—Oh my goodness! Is that what it means?’

  I sighed. These two weren’t going to last a day.

  ‘Your predecessors are both dead, guys—and the ones before that. Four agents gone in less than a week. What happened to Walken’s case notes? Accidentally destroyed?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Lamb laughed. ‘When recovered they were totally intact—they were then put through the shredder by a new member of staff who mistook it for a photocopier.’

  ‘Do you have anything at all to go on?’

  ‘As soon as they realised it was a shredder, I… sorry, they stopped and we were left with these.’

  He handed two half-documents over. One was a picture of a young woman striding out of a shop laden down with carrier bags and parcels. Her face, tantalisingly enough, had been destroyed by the shredder. I turned the picture over. On the back was a pencilled note: ‘A.H. leaves Camp Hopson having shopped with a stolen credit card.’

  ‘The “AH” means Acheron Hades,’ explained Lamb in a confident tone. ‘We were allowed to read part of his file. He can lie in thought, deed and action.’

  ‘I know. I wrote it. But this isn’t Hades. Acheron doesn’t resolve on film.’

  ‘Then who is it that we’re after?’ asked Slaughter.

  ‘I have no idea. What was on the other document?’

  This was simply a handwritten page of notes, compiled by Walken about whoever it was they were watching. I read:

  ‘…9.34: Contact with suspect at Camp Hopson sales. 11.03: Elevenses of carrot juice and flapjack—leaves without paying. 11.48: Dorothy Perkins. 12.57: Lunch. 14.45: Continues shopping. 17.20: Argues with manager of Tammy Girl about returned leg warmers. 17.45: Lost contact. 21.03: Re-established contact at the HotBox nightclub. 23.02: AH leaves the HotBox with male companion. 23.16: Contact lost…’

  I put down the sheet.

  ‘It’s not exactly what I’d describe as the work of a master criminal, now, is it?’

  ‘No,’ replied Slaughter glumly.

  ‘What were your orders?’

  ‘Classified,’ announced Lamb, who was getting the hang of SpecOps 5 work, right at the point where I didn’t want him to.

  ‘Stick to you like glue,’ said Slaughter, who understood the situation a lot better, ‘and reports every half an hour sent to SO-5 HQ in three separate ways.’

  ‘You’re being used as live bait,’ I told them. ‘If I were you I’d go back to SO-23 and 28 just as quick as your legs can carry you.’

  ‘And miss all this?’ asked Slaughter, replacing her dark glasses and looking every bit the part. SO-5 would be the highest office for either of them. I hoped they lived long enough to enjoy it.

  By 10.30 the exhibition was pretty much over. I sent Gran home in a cab fast asleep and a bit tipsy. Saveloy tried to kiss me goodnight but I was too quick for him, and Duchamp2924 had managed to sell an installation of his called The id within VII—in a jar, pickled. Zorf refused to sell any paintings to anyone who couldn’t see what they were, but to the Neanderthals who could see what they were, he gave them away, arguing that the bond between a painting and an owner should not be sullied by anything as obscenely sapien as cash. The flattened tuba was sold too, the new owner asking Joffy to drop it round to him, and if he wasn’t at home to just slip it under the door.

  I went home via Mum’s place to collect Pickwick, who hadn’t come out of the airing cupboard the entire time I was in Osaka.

  ‘She insisted on being fed in there,’ explained my mother, ‘and the trouble with the other dodos! Let one in and they all want to follow!’

  She handed me Pickwick’s egg wrapped in a towel. Pickwick hopped up and down in a very aggravated manner and I had to show her the egg to keep her happy, then we both drove home to my apartment at the same sedate 20 m.p.h. and I placed the egg safely in the linen cupboard with Pickwick sitting on it in a cross mood, very fed up with being moved about.

  22. Travels with My Father

  ‘The first time I went travelling with my father was when I was much younger. We attended the opening night of King Lear at the Globe theatre in 1602. The place was dirty and smelly and slightly rowdy, but for all that it was not unlike a lot of other opening nights I had attended. We bumped into someone named Bendix Scintilla, who was, like my father, a lonely traveller in time. He said he hung around in Elizabethan England to avoid ChronoGuard patrols. Dad said later that Scintilla had been a truly great fighter for the cause but his drive had left him when they eradicated his best friend and partner. I knew how he felt but did not do as he did.’

  THURSDAY NEXT—private journals

  Dad turned up for breakfast, which was unusual for him. I was just flicking through that morning’s copy of The Toad when he arrived. The big news story was the volte-face in Yorrick Kaine’s fortunes. From being a sad, politically dead no-hoper he was polling ahead of the ruling Teafurst party. The power of Shakespeare. The world suddenly stopped, the picture on the TV froze and the set gave out a dull hum, the same tone and pitch as the moment Dad arrived. He had the power to stop the clock like this, time ground to a halt when he visited me. It was a hard-won skill—for him there was no return to normality.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ I said gloomily. ‘Did you hear about Landen’s eradication?’

  ‘No, I didn’t—I’m sorry to hear that, Sweetpea. Any particular reason?’

  ‘Goliath want Jack Schitt out of The Raven.’

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘The old blackmail routine. How’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s well. Is the world still going to end next week?’

  ‘Looks like it. Does she ever talk about me?’

  ‘All the time. I got this report from SpecOps forensics.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said my father, donning his glasses and staring at the report. ‘Carboxy-methyl-cellulose, phenylalnine and hydrocarbons. Animal fat? Doesn’t make any sense at all!’

  He handed back the report.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said quietly, sucking the end of his spectacles. ‘That cyclist lived and the world still ended. Maybe it’s not him. But nothing else happened at that particular time and place. Maybe it’s something to do with—’ He frowned and looked at me oddly. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with you.’

  ‘Me? Listen, I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You were there. Perhaps me handing you the bag of slime was the key event and not the death of the cyclist—did you tell anyone where that pink goo came from?’

  ‘No one.’

  He thought for a bit.

  ‘Well,’ he said at
last, ‘see what else you can find out. I’m sure the answer is staring us in the face!’

  He picked up the paper and read: ‘Chimp merely pet, claims croquet supremo,’ before putting the paper down and looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘This non-husband of yours—’

  ‘Landen.’

  ‘Right. Shall we try to get him back?’

  ‘Schitt-Hawse told me they had the summer of 1947 sewn up so tight not even a trans-temporal gnat could get in without being seen.’

  My father smiled. ‘Then we will have to outsmart them! They will expect us to arrive at the right time and the right place—but we won’t. We’ll arrive at the right place but at the wrong time, then simply wait. Worth a try, wouldn’t you say?’

  I smiled.

  ‘Definitely!’

  Dad took a sip of my coffee and leaned forward to hold my arm. I was conscious of a series of rapid flashes and there we were in a blacked-out Humber Snipe, driving alongside a dark stop of water on a moonlit night. In the distance I could see searchlights criss-crossing the sky and heard the distant thump-thump-thump of a bombing raid.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked.

  ‘Approaching Henley-on-Thames in occupied England, November 1946.’

  ‘Is this where Landen drowned in the car accident?’

  ‘This is where it happens, but not when. If I were to jump straight there, Lavoisier would be on to us like a shot. Ever played “Kick the can”?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s a bit like that. Guile, stealth, patience—and a small amount of cheating. Okay, we’re here.’

  We had reached a section of the road where there was a sharp bend. I could see how an inattentive motorist might easily misjudge it and end up in the river—I shivered involuntarily.

  We got out and Dad walked across the road to where a small group of silver birches stood amidst a tangle of dead bracken and brambles. It was a good place from which to observe the bend; we were barely ten yards away. Dad laid down a plastic carrier bag he had brought and we sat on the grass, leaning against the smooth bark of the birches.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘We wait for six months.’

  ‘Six months? Dad, are you crazy? We can’t sit here for six months!’