Lost in a Good Book tn-2

by Jasper Fforde

  ‘Blast!’ exclaimed Tweed. ‘Why is there never a Pellinore around when you need one? Raffles, we don’t have much time!’

  ‘Just a few minutes more…’ replied Raffles quietly, tapping the safe door with a hammer while Bunny pulled on the brass handle.

  Tweed looked at me as the library door buckled under another heavy blow; a large split opened in the steel and the locking wheel sheared off and dropped to the ground. It wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘Okay,’ said Tweed reluctantly, grabbing my elbow in anticipation of a jump, ‘that’s it. Raffles, Bunny, out of here!’

  ‘Just a few moments longer…’ replied the safe-cracker, who was used to tight deadlines and didn’t like to give up on a safe, no matter what the possible consequences.

  The steel door buckled as the Questing Beast charged it with a deafening crash; books fell off the shelves in a cloud of dust. Then, as the Questing Beast pulled itself back for another blow, I had the one thing that had eluded me for the past half hour. An idea. I pulled Tweed close to me and whispered in his ear

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘What if—?’

  I explained again, he smiled and gave me a nod and I began:

  ‘So one of you is fictional,’ I announced, looking at them both.

  ‘And we have to find out who it is,’ remarked Tweed, levelling his pistol in their direction.

  ‘Might it be Yorrick Kaine—’ I added, staring at Kaine who glared back at me, wondering what we were up to.

  ‘—failed right wing politician—’

  ‘—with a cheery enthusiasm for war—’

  ‘—and putting a lid on civil liberties.’

  Tweed and I bantered lines back and forth for as long as we dared, faster and faster, the blows from the Beast outside matching the blows from Raffles’ hammer within.

  ‘Or perhaps it is Volescamper—’

  ‘—Lord of the old realm who wants—’

  ‘—to try and get—’

  ‘—back into power with the help—’

  ‘—of his friends in the Whig party?’

  ‘But the important thing is, in all this dialogue—’

  ‘—that has pitched back and forward between—’

  ‘—the two of us, a fictional person—’

  ‘—might have lost track of which one of us is talking.’

  ‘And do you know, in all the excitement, I kind of forgot myself!’

  There was another crash against the door. A splinter of steel flew off and zipped past my ear. The doors were almost breached, the next blow would bring the abomination within the room.

  ‘So you’re going to have to ask yourselves one simple question: Which one of us is speaking now?’

  ‘You are!’ yelled Volescamper, pointing—correctly—at me. Kaine, revealing his fictional roots by his inability to follow undedicated dialogue, pointed his finger—at Tweed.

  He corrected himself quickly but it was too late for the politician and he knew it. He scowled at the two of us, trembling with rage. His charming manner seemed to desert him as we sprang the trap; suaveness gave way to snarling, smooth politeness to clumsy threats.

  ‘Now listen,’ growled Kaine, trying to regain control of the situation, ‘you two are way in over your heads. Try to arrest me and I can make things very difficult for you—one Footnoterphone call from me and the pair of you will spend the next eternity on grammasite watch inside the OED’

  But Tweed was made of stern stuff, too.

  ‘I’ve closed bloopholes in Dracula and Biggles Flies East,’ he replied evenly, ‘I don’t frighten easily. Call off the Glatisant and put your hands on your head.’

  ‘Leave Cardenio here with me—if only until tomorrow,’ added Kaine, changing tack abruptly and forcing a smile. ‘In return I can give you anything you want. Power, cash—an earldom, Cornwall, character exchange into Hemingway—you name it, Kaine will provide!’

  ‘You have nothing of any value to bargain with, Mr Kaine,’ Tweed told him, his hand tightening on his pistol. ‘For the last time—’

  But Kaine had no intention of being taken, alive or otherwise. He cursed us both to a painful excursion in the twelfth circle of hell and melted from view as Tweed fired. The slug buried itself harmlessly in a complete set of bound Punch magazines. At the same time the steel doors burst open. But instead of a pestilential hell-beast conjured from the depths of mankind’s most depraved thoughts only an icy rush of air entered, bringing with it the lingering smell of death. The Questing Beast had vanished as quickly as its master, back to the oral tradition and any books unfortunate enough to feature it.

  ‘Cat!’ yelled Tweed as he reholstered his gun. ‘We’ve got a PageRunner. I need a bookhound ASAP!’ [26]

  Volescamper sat down on a handy chair and looked bewildered.

  ‘You mean…’ he stammered incredulously. ‘Look here, Kaine was—?’

  ‘Entirely fictional—yes,’ I replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You mean Cardenio didn’t belong to my grandfather’s library after all?’ he asked, his confusion giving way to sadness.

  ‘I’m sorry, Volescamper,’ I told him. ‘Kaine stole the manuscript. He used your library as a front.’

  ‘And if I were you,’ added Tweed in a less kindly aside, ‘I should just go upstairs and pretend you slept all through this. You never saw us, never heard us, you know nothing of what happened here.’

  ‘Bingo!’ cried Raffles as the handle on the safe turned, shattering the frozen lock inside and creaking open. Raffles handed me the manuscript before he and Bunny vanished back to their own book with only the thanks of Jurisfiction to show for the night’s efforts—a valuable commodity on their side of the law.

  I passed Cardenio to Tweed. He rested a reverential hand on the returned play and smiled a rare smile.

  ‘An undedicated dialogue trap, Next—quick thinking. Who knows, we might make a Jurisfiction agent of you yet!’

  ‘Well, thank—’

  ‘—Cat!’ bellowed Tweed again. ‘Where’s that blasted bookhound?’ [27]

  A large and sad-looking bloodhound appeared from nowhere, looked at us both lugubriously, made a sort of hopeless doggy-sigh and then started to sniff the books scattered on the floor in a professional manner. Tweed snapped a lead on the dog’s collar.

  ‘If I was the sort of person to apologise—’ he conceded, straining at the leash of the bookhound which had locked on to the scent of one of Kaine’s expletives, ‘—I would. Join me in the hunt for Kaine?’

  It was tempting but I remembered Dad’s prediction.

  ‘I have to save the world tomorrow,’ I announced, surprising myself by just how matter-of-fact I sounded. Tweed didn’t seem in the least surprised.

  ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Well, another time, then. On, sir, seek, away!’

  The bookhound gave an excited bark and leaped forward; Tweed hung grimly on to the leash and they both disappeared into fine mist and the smell of hot paper.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Lord Volescamper, interrupting the silence in a glum voice, ‘that this means I won’t be in Kaine’s government after all?’

  ‘Politics is overrated,’ I told him.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed, getting up. ‘Well, goodnight, Miss Next. I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, is that right?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  Volescamper sighed and looked at the shattered remains of the interior of his house. He picked his way to the twisted steel door and turned to face me.

  ‘Always was a heavy sleeper. Look here, pop round for tea and scones one day, why don’t you?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I shall. Goodnight.’

  Volescamper gave me a desultory wave and was soon out of sight. I smiled to myself at the revelation of Kaine’s fictional identity; I reckoned that not being a real person had to present a pretty good obstacle to being Prime Minister, but I couldn’t help wondering just how much power he did wield within the world of fiction—and whethe
r I had heard the last of him—after all, the Whig party was still in existence, with or without their leader. Still, Tweed was a professional, and I had other things to deal with.

  I looked down the corridor, past the twisted doors. The front of Vole Towers was virtually destroyed; the ceiling had collapsed and rubble lay strewn around where the Glatisant had fought the very finest of SO-14. I picked my way through the twisted door and down the corridor where deep gouges had been scraped in the floor and walls by the leaden hide of the beast. The remaining SpecOps 14 operatives had all pulled back to regroup and I slipped out in the confusion. Nine good men fell to the Questing Beast that night. The officers would all be awarded the SpecOps Star for ‘Conspicuous bravery in the face of Other’.

  As I walked along the gravel drive away from what remained of Vole Towers I could see a white charger galloping towards me, the warrior on its back holding a sharpened lance while behind him a dog barked excitedly. I waved King Pellinore to a halt.

  ‘Ah!’ he said, raising his visor and peering down at me. ‘The Next girl! Seen the Questin’ Beast, what, what?’

  ‘You’ve missed it,’ I explained. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Dem shame,’ announced Pellinore sadly, parking the lance in his stirrup. ‘Dem shame indeed, eh? I’ll find it, you know. It is the lot of the Pellinores, to go a-mollocking for the beastly beast. Come, sir—away!’

  He spurred his steed and galloped off across the parkland of Vole Towers, the horse’s hooves throwing great divots of grass high in the air, the large white dog running behind them, barking furiously

  I returned to my apartment after giving an anonymous tip-off to The Mole, suggesting that they confirm the ongoing existence of Cardenio. The fact that I still had the apartment verified once and for all that Landen hadn’t been returned. I had been a fool to think that Goliath would honour their part of the deal. I sat in the dark for a while but even fools need rest, so I went to sleep under the bed as a precaution, which was just as well—at 3 a.m. Goliath turned up, had a good look around and then left. I stayed hidden as a further precaution and was glad of this also because SpecOps turned up at 4 a.m. and did exactly the same. Confident now of no further interruptions, I crawled out from my hiding place and climbed into bed, sleeping heavily until ten the next morning.

  31. Dream Topping

  ‘Ever since calories and “sugar intake” were discovered the realm of the pudding has suffered intensely. There was a day when one could honestly and innocently enjoy the sheer pleasure of a good sticky toffee pudding; when ice cream was nice cream and Bakewell tart really was baked well. Tastes change, though, and the world of the sweet has often been sour, having to go through some dramatic overhaulage in order to keep pace. Whilst a straightforward sausage and a common kedgeree maintain their hold on the nation’s culinary choices, the pudding has to stay on its toes to tantalise our taste buds. From low fat through to no fat, from sugar free through to taste free; what the next stage is we can only wait and see…’

  CILLA BUBB. Don’t Desert Your Desserts

  I peered cautiously from the window as I ate my breakfast and could see a black SpecOps Packard on the street corner, doubtless waiting for me to make an appearance. Across the road from them was another car, this time the unmistakable deep blue of Goliath; Mr Cheese leaned against the bonnet, smoking. I switched on the telly and caught the news. The break-in at Vole Towers had been heavily censored but it was reported that an unknown ‘agency’ had gained entrance to the building, killed a number of SO-14 agents and made off with Cardenio. Lord Volescamper had been interviewed and maintained that he had been ‘sound asleep’ and knew nothing. Yorrick Kaine was reported as ‘missing’ and early exit polls from the day’s election had shown that Kaine and the Whigs had not lived up to expectations. Without Cardenio, the powerful Shakespeare lobby had returned their allegiances to the current administration, who had promised to postpone, with the help of the ChronoGuard, the eighteenth-century demolition of Shakespeare’s old Stratford home.

  I allowed myself a wry smile at Kaine’s dramatic fall but felt sorry for the officers who had had to face the Questing Beast. I walked through to the kitchen. Pickwick looked at me and then at her empty supper dish with an accusing air.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered as I poured her some dried fruit.

  ‘How’s the egg?’

  ‘Plock-plock,’ said Pickwick.

  ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘suit yourself. I only asked.’

  I made another cup of tea and sat down to have a think. Dad had said the world was going to end this evening but whether that was really going to happen or not, I had no idea. As for me, I was wanted by SpecOps and Goliath; I was going to have to either outwit them or lie very low for a long time. I spent most of the day pacing my apartment, trying to figure out the best course of action. I wrote out my account of what had happened and hid it behind the fridge, just in case. I expected Dad to turn up but the hours ticked by and everything carried on as normal. The Goliath and SpecOps vehicles were relieved by two others at midday, and as dusk drew on I became more desperate. I couldn’t stay trapped inside my own apartment for ever. Bowden and Joffy I could trust—and perhaps Miles, too. I elected to sneak out and use a public phone box to call Bowden, and was just about to open the door when someone pressed the intercom buzzer downstairs. I quickly ducked out of my apartment and started to run down the staircase. If I reached the bottom and made my way out through the service entrance I might be able to slip away. Then, disaster. One of the tenants was about to leave at that precise moment and opened the door for whoever it was. I heard a brusque voice.

  ‘Here for Miss Next—SpecOps.’

  I cursed Mrs Scroggins as she replied:

  ‘Fourth floor, second on the left!’

  The fire escape was out front in full view of SpecOps and Goliath, so I ran all the way back upstairs to my flat, only to find that in my hurry I had locked myself out. There was nowhere to hide except behind a potted rubber plant about seven sizes too small, so I pushed open the letterbox and hissed:

  ‘Pickwick!’

  She wandered out into the hall from the living room and stared at me, head cocked on one side.

  ‘Good. Now listen. I know that Landen said you were really bright and if you don’t do this I’m going to be looped and you’re going to be put in a zoo. Now, I need you to find my keys.’

  Pickwick stared at me dubiously, took two steps closer and then relaxed and plocked a bit.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s me. All the marshmallows you can eat, Pickers, but I need my keys. My keys.’

  Pickwick obediently stood on one leg.

  ‘Shit,’ I muttered.

  ‘Ah, Next!’ said a voice behind me. I rested my head against the door and let the letterbox snap shut.

  ‘Hello, Cordelia,’ I said softly without turning round.

  ‘Well, you have been giving us the runaround, haven’t you?’

  I paused, turned and stood up. But Cordelia wasn’t with any other SpecOps types—she was with a man and his young daughter, the winners of her competition. Perhaps things were not quite as bad as I thought. I put my arm around her shoulder and walked her out of earshot.

  ‘Cordelia—’

  ‘Dilly.’

  ‘Dilly—’

  ‘Yes, Thurs?’

  ‘What’s the word over at SpecOps?’

  ‘Well, darling,’ answered Cordelia, ‘the order for your arrest is still only within SpecOps—Flanker is hoping you’ll give yourself up. Goliath are telling anyone who will listen that you stole some highly sensitive industrial secrets.’

  ‘It’s all bullshit, Cordelia.’

  ‘I know that, Thursday. But I’ve a job to do—are you going to meet my people now?’

  I agreed, and we returned to where the two of them were looking at a brochure for the Gravitube.

  ‘Thursday Next, this is David Graham and his daughter, Molly.’

  I shook hands with David; Molly stared at me dubiously from
behind his leg, clutching a soft toy.

  ‘I’d invite you in for a coffee,’ I explained, ‘but I’ve locked myself out.’

  David rummaged in his pocket and produced a set of keys.

  ‘Are these yours? I found them on the path outside.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very likely.’

  But they were my keys—a set I had lost a few days earlier. I unlocked the door.

  ‘Come on in. That’s Pickwick. Stay away from the windows; there are a few people I don’t want to meet outside.’

  They shut the door behind them. Molly, overcoming her initial shyness, stared at Pickwick, who stared back.

  ‘Plock,’ said Pickwick.

  ‘Dodo,’ said Molly.

  Pickwick grasped Molly by the cuff and led her into the kitchen to show off her egg.

  ‘What do you do, David?’ I asked as I looked out of the kitchen window. I needn’t have worried; the two cars and their occupants were in the same place.

  ‘I’m a fund-raiser,’ he replied. ‘I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Dunno. Interested to see the sort of person who can travel around in books, I guess.’

  ‘Ah,’ I replied absently, pausing to consider just how wholly unlikely it was that Cordelia’s guest had found my keys when other passing residents had missed them.

  ‘Can I ask you a question, Miss Next?’ asked David.

  ‘Call me Thursday. Hang on a minute.’

  I nipped into the living room to fetch the entroposcope and shook it as I walked back in.

  ‘Well, Thursday,’ continued David, ‘I was wondering—’

  ‘Shit!’ I exclaimed, looking at the swirling pattern within the rice and lentils. ‘It’s happening again!’

  ‘Your dodo says she’s hungry,’ observed Molly.

  ‘It’s a scam for a marshmallow. Cordelia, would you give Molly a marshmallow to feed to Pickwick? They’re on top of the fridge.’