The Eyre Affair

  He patted the large book that was the Prose Portal and looked at Mycroft’s genetically engineered bookworms. They were on rest & recuperation at present in their goldfish bowl; they had just digested a recent meal of prepositions and were happily farting out apostrophes and ampersands; the air was heav’y with th’em&. Schitt held up a book whose title was clearly visible. It read: The Plasma Rifle in War. I looked at My-croft, who nodded miserably.

  “That’s right, Mis’s Next.”

  Schitt smiled & tapped the cover with the back of his hand.

  “In he’re the Pla’sma Rifle work’s perf&ectly. All we ha’ve to do is open’ the book with the Pros’e Portal, bring out the we’apons & is’sue them. It’ ”s the ultimate weapon, Mis’s’ Next.”

  But he wasn’t referring to the plasma rifle. He was pointing to the Prose Portal. The bookworms responded by belching out large quantities of unnecessary capitalizations.

  “Any’thing That The Hu’man Imag’ination Can Think Up, We Can Reproduce. I Look At The Port’al as Les’s Of A Gateway To A Million World’s, But More Like A Three Dim’ensional P’hotocopier. With It We Can Ma’ke Anything We Want; Even Another Portal—a H&held Version. Chri’stmas Every Day, Miss Next.”

  “More Death In The Cr’imea; I Ho’pe You Can Sleep W’ell At Night, Schitt.”

  “On The Co’ntrary, Miss’ Next. Russia Will Roll Over & Piss’ Over Itself When It Witnesse’s The Power Of Stonk. The Czar Will Permanently Cede The Peninsula To England; a New Riviera, Won’t That be nice?”

  “Nice? Sun Lounger’s & High-Rise Hotel’s? Built On L& That Will Be Dem&ed Back Half a Century From Now? You’re Not S’olving Anything, Schitt, Merely Delaying It. When The Russian’s Have a Plasma Rifle Of Their Own, Then What?”

  Jack Schitt was unrepentant.

  “Oh, Don’t Worry About That, Miss Next, I’ll Charge The’m Twice What I’ll Charge The Eng’lish Gov’ernment!”

  “Hear, Hear!” put in Hades, who was deeply impressed by Schitt’s total absence of scruples so far.

  “A Hundred Million’ Dollars Fo’r The Portal, Thursday,” added Hades excitedly, “& a 50% Cut On Every’thing That’ Comes Out Of It!”

  “A Lackey For The Goliath Corpor’ation, Acheron? That Doesn’t Sound Like You At All.”

  Hades’ cheek quivered but he fought it, answering:

  “Out Of Small Acorn’s, Thur’sday . . .”

  Schitt looked at him suspiciously. He nodded to one of his men, who levelled a small anti-tank gun at Hades.

  “Hade’s, The Instructio’n Manual.”

  “Please!” pleaded Mycroft. “You’re Upsetting The Wor’ms! They’re Starting to hy-phe-nate!”

  “Shut-up, My-croft,” snapped Schitt. “Ha-de’s, please, The In-Struc-tion Man-ual.”

  “Man-ual, My De’ar Chap?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hade’s. Ev-en You Will Not be Im-Pervious To My Associate’s Small Artill-ery Piece. You Have My-croft’s Manual For The Por-tal & The Po-em In Which You Have Im-pris-oned Mrs. Next. Give-Them-To-Me.”

  “No, Mr. Schitt. Give Me The Gun—”

  But Schitt didn’t flicker; the power that had stolen Snood and countless other people’s reason had no effect on Schitt’s dark soul. Hades’ face fell. He had not come across someone like Schitt before; not since the first Felix, anyhow. He laughed.

  “You Dare To Dou-ble—Cross-Me?”

  “Sure I Do. If I Did-n’t You’d Have No Res’-pect From Me & That’s No Basis’ For A Work-able Part-ner-ship.”

  Hades dodged in front of the Prose Portal.

  “& To Think We Were All Get-ti’ng A-long So Well, Too—!” he exclaimed, placing the original manuscript of Jane Eyre back into the machine and adding the bookworms, who settled down, stopped farting, belching and hyphenating and got to work.

  “Really!” continued Hades. “I expected better from you, I must say. I almost thought I had found someone who could be a partner.”

  “But you’d want it all, Hades,” replied Schitt. “Sooner or later and most probably sooner.”

  “True, very true.”

  Hades nodded to Felix8 who immediately started shooting. Bowden and I were directly in his line of fire; there was no way he could miss. My heart leaped but strangely the first bullet slowed and stopped in midair three inches from my chest. It was the initial volley of a deadly procession that snaked lazily all the way back to Felix8’s weapon, its muzzle now a frozen chrysanthemum of fire. I looked across at Bowden, who was also in line for a slug; the shiny bullet had stopped a foot from his head. But he was not stirring. Indeed, the whole room was not stirring. My father, for once, had arrived at precisely the right moment.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” asked Dad, looking up from where he was sitting at the dusty grand piano. “I can go away again if you want.”

  “N-no, Dad, this is good, real good,” I muttered.

  I looked around the room. My father never stayed for longer than five minutes, and when he left the bullets would almost certainly carry onto their intended victim. My eyes alighted on a heavy table and I upended it, sending dust, debris and empty Leek-U-Like containers to the floor.

  “Have you ever heard of someone named Winston Churchill?” asked my father.

  “No; who’s he?” I gasped as I heaved the heavy oak table in front of Bowden.

  “Ah!” said my father, making a note in a small book. “Well, he was meant to lead England in the last war but I think he was killed in a fall as a teenager. It’s most awkward.”

  “Another victim of the French revisionists?”

  My father didn’t answer. His attention had switched to the middle of the room, where Hades was working on the Prose Portal. Time, for men like Hades, rarely stood still.

  “Oh, don’t mind me!” said Hades as a shaft of light opened up in the gloom. “I’m just going to step inside until all this unpleasantness is over. I have the instruction manual and Polly, so we can still bargain.”

  “Who’s that?” asked my father.

  “Acheron Hades.”

  “Is it? I expected someone shorter.”

  But Hades had gone; the Prose Portal buzzed slightly and then closed after him.

  “I’ve got some repairs to do,” announced my father, getting up and closing his notebook. “Time waits for no man, as we say.”

  I just had time to duck behind a large bureau as the world started up again. The hail of lead from Felix8 struck the heavy oak table I had maneuvered in front of Bowden, and the bullets that had been destined for me thudded into the wooden door behind where I had been standing. Within the space of two seconds the room was full of gunfire as the Goliath operatives joined in, covering Jack Schitt, who, perplexed that Hades had vanished in mid-sentence, was now beating a retreat to the door leading to the old Atlantic Grill. Mycroft threw himself to the floor followed closely by Jane as dust and debris were scattered about the room. I bellowed into Jane’s ear to stay where she was as a shot came perilously close to our heads, knocking some molding off the furniture and showering us with dust. I crawled around to where I could see Bowden exchanging shots with Felix8, who was now trapped behind an upended mock-Georgian table next to the entrance of the Palm Court Tea Rooms. I had just loosed off a few shots at Goliath’s men, who had rapidly dragged Schitt from the room, when the firing stopped as quickly as it had begun. I reloaded.

  “Felix8!” I shouted. “You can still surrender! Your real name is Danny Chance. I promise you we will do all we can to—”

  There was a strange gurgling noise and I peeked around the back of the sofa. I thought Felix8 had been wounded but he hadn’t. He was laughing. His usually expressionless face was convulsed with mirth. Bowden and I exchanged quizzical looks—but we stayed hidden.

  “What’s so funny?” I yelled.

  “Haven’t I seen your face somewhere before!” he giggled. “I get it now!”

  He raised his gun and fired repeatedly at us as he backed out of the lounge doors and into th
e darkness of the lobby outside. He had sensed his master’s escape and had no more work to do here.

  “Where’s Hades?” said Bowden.

  “In Jane Eyre,” I replied, standing up. “Cover the portal— and if he returns, use this.”

  I handed him the anti-tank weapon as Schitt, alerted to the end of the gunfire, returned. He appeared at the door to the bar.

  “Hades?”

  “In Jane Eyre with the instruction manual.”

  Schitt told me to surrender the Prose Portal to him.

  “Without the instruction manual you’ve got nothing,” I said. “Once I have Hades out of Thornfield and have returned my aunt to Mycroft you can have the manual. There is no other deal; that’s it. I’m taking Jane back with me now.”

  I turned to my uncle.

  “Mycroft, send us back to just before Jane comes out of her room to put out the fire in Rochester’s bedroom. It will be as if she had never left. When I want to come back I’ll send a signal. Can you do that?”

  Schitt threw up his arms. “What sweet madness is this?” he cried.

  “That’s the signal,” I said, “the words ‘sweet madness.’ As soon as you hear them, open the door immediately.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” asked Bowden as I helped Jane to her feet.

  “Never been more certain. Just don’t turn the machine off; much as I enjoy the book I’ve no desire to stay there forever.”

  Schitt bit his lip. He had been outmaneuvered. His hand, such as it was, would have to be played upon my return.

  I checked that my gun was still loaded, took a deep breath and nodded to Jane, who smiled back eagerly. We grasped each other’s hands tightly and stepped through the doorway.

  32.

  Thornfield Hall

  It wasn’t how I imagined it. I thought Thornfield Hall would be bigger and more luxuriously furnished. There was a strong smell of polish and the air was chill in the upstairs corridor. There was barely any light in the house and the corridors seemed to stretch away into inky blackness. It was dour and unappealing. I noticed all this but most of all I noticed the quiet; the quiet of a world free from flying machines, traffic and large cities. The industrial age had only just begun; the planet had reached its Best Before date.

  THURSDAY NEXT

  —A Life in SpecOps

  ISTAGGERED slightly as we made the jump; there had been a bright flash of light and a short blast of static. I found myself in the master bedroom corridor, a few lines above where Hobbes had taken Jane out. The fire was ablaze and Jane took her cue instinctively, opening the door and leaping into Rochester’s room to pour a ewer full of water over the burning covers. I looked quickly around the dark corridor but of Hades there was no sign; at the far end I could just see Grace Poole escorting Bertha to her attic room. The madwoman looked back over her shoulder and smiled crazily. Grace Poole followed her gaze and glared disapprovingly at me. I suddenly felt very alien; this world was not mine and I didn’t belong here. I stepped back as Jane rushed out of Rochester’s room to fetch some more water; upon her face, I noted, was a look of great relief. I smiled and permitted myself a peek inside the bedroom. Jane had managed to extinguish the fire and Rochester was swearing at finding himself in a pool of water.

  “Is there a flood?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” she replied, “but there has been a fire. Get up, do; you are quenched now. I will fetch you a candle.”

  Rochester caught sight of me at the door and winked before rapidly returning his features to a look of consternation.

  “In the name of all the elves in Christendom,” he asked, his eyes glistening at her return, “is that Jane Eyre? What have you done with me . . .”

  I stepped outside the door, confident in the knowledge that back home the book would be starting to rewrite itself across the page. The reference to the “agent in black” would be over-written and with luck, and Hades willing, things could get back to normal. I picked up the candle that had been left on the mat and relit it as Jane came out, smiled her thanks, took it from me and returned to the bedroom. I walked down the corridor, looked at a particularly fine Landseer painting and sat down upon a Regency chair, one of a pair. Although the house was not big, it afforded all sorts of hiding places for Acheron. I spoke his name to let him know I was about and heard a door slam somewhere in the house. I pulled open a shutter and saw the unmistakable figure of Hades walking rapidly across the lawn by the light of the moon. I watched his form fade into the shadows. He would be as good as safe in the countryside but I still had the upper hand. I knew how to reopen the door and he didn’t; I thought it unlikely he would harm me. I sat down again and was just thinking about Daisy Mutlar and Landen when I drifted off to sleep. I was jolted awake as the door to Rochester’s bedroom opened and the figure of Edward emerged. He was holding a candle and spoke to Jane at the door.

  “. . . I must pay a visit to the third story. Don’t move, remember, or call anyone.”

  He padded softly down the corridor and hissed: “Miss Next, are you there?”

  I stood up.

  “Here, sir.”

  Rochester took me by the arm and led me along the gallery and onto the landing above the stairs. He stopped, placed the candle on a low table and clasped both my hands in his.

  “I thank you, Miss Next, from the bottom of my heart! It has been a living hell of torment; not knowing when or even if my beloved Jane would return!”

  He spoke with keen and very real passion; I wondered if Landen had ever loved me as much as Rochester loved Jane.

  “It was the least I could do, Mr. Rochester,” I responded happily, “after your kind attention to my wounds that night outside the warehouse.”

  He dismissed my words with a wave of his hand.

  “You are returning straight away?”

  I looked down.

  “It’s not quite as easy as that, sir. There is another interloper in this book aside from me.”

  Rochester strode to the balustrade. He spoke without turning around.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  “You have met him?” I asked, surprised.

  “He has several names. You have a plan?”

  I explained the use of a signal and made it clear that it would be safer for me to remain at Thornfield until the book had run its course. Then I would take Hades with me—somehow.

  “The end of the book,” murmured Rochester unhappily. “How I hate the ending. The thought of my sweet Jane traveling to India with that poltroon St. John Rivers makes my blood turn to ice.” He bolstered himself. “But I have at least a few months of real happiness before that time. Come, you must be hungry.” He walked off down the corridor and beckoned me to follow, talking as he went.

  “I suggest we try and trap him when Jane has left after—” he shivered slightly at the thought of it. “—the wedding. We will be quite alone as Jane takes the narrative with her to Moor House and those fatuous cousins. I am not featured again in the book, so we may do as we please, and I am best disposed to be of assistance. However, as you have guessed, you must do nothing that might disturb Jane; this novel is written in the first person. I can get away to speak with you when I am, to all intents and purposes, out of the story. But you must promise me that you will stay out of Jane’s way. I will speak to Mrs. Fairfax and Adele privately; they will understand. The servants Mary and John will do whatever I tell them.”

  We had arrived at a door and Rochester knocked impatiently. There was a groaning and a thump and presently a very disheveled character appeared at the door.

  “Mrs. Fairfax,” said Rochester, “this is Miss Next. She will be staying with us for a month or two. I want you to fetch her some food and have a bed made ready; she has traveled far to be here and I think she needs sustenance and rest. It would please me if you were not to discuss her presence with anyone, and I would be grateful if you could engineer that Miss Next and Miss Eyre do not meet. I hardly need to stress the importanc
e of this to you.”

  Mrs. Fairfax looked me up and down, was particularly intrigued and shocked at the same time by my ponytail and jeans, and then nodded and led me off toward the dining room.

  “We will speak again tomorrow, Miss Next,” said Rochester, a smile breaking out on his troubled face. “And I thank you once again.”

  He turned and left me to Mrs. Fairfax, who bustled downstairs. The housekeeper told me to wait in the dining room while she brought me something to eat. She returned shortly with some cold cuts of meat and some bread. I ate hungrily as Pilot—who I thought had been let in when Hades went out— sniffed at my trouser leg and wagged his tail excitedly.

  “He remembers you,” remarked Mrs. Fairfax slowly, “yet I have been working here for many years and I do not recall having laid eyes upon you before.”

  I tickled Pilot’s ear.

  “I threw a stick for him once. When he was out with his master.”

  “I see,” replied Mrs. Fairfax, suspiciously. “And how do you know Mr. Rochester?”

  “I, ah, met the Rochesters in Madeira. I knew his brother.”

  “I see. Very tragic.” Her eyes narrowed. “Then you know the Masons?”

  “Not well.”

  She had been eyeing my jeans again.

  “Women wear breeches where you come from?”

  “Often, Mrs. Fairfax.”

  “And where is it that you come from? London?”

  “Farther than that.”

  “Ah!” said Mrs. Fairfax with a knowing smile. “Osaka!”

  She bustled out, leaving me alone with Pilot, having made me promise that I would not feed him from the table. She returned ten minutes later with a tray of tea things, then left me for another half hour to make up a room. She led me up to a second-story chamber with a fine view out of the front of the house. I had insisted that Pilot stay with me, and he slept against the locked door, somehow sensing the possible danger that his new mistress might be in. I slept fitfully and dreamed of Hades laughing at me.

  As I slept, Victor and the others back at the Swindon Litera Tec office had been celebrating the return of the narrative to the novel. Apart from a brief mention of Mrs. Fairfax making noises on the night of the bedroom fire, it was all pretty much as anyone remembered it. A member of the Brontë Federation had been called in to examine the text as it wrote itself across the last two hundred pages, which up until this moment had been blank. The Brontë scholar knew the book by heart and his pleased expression gave them no cause for complaint.