The Well of Lost Plots

  'What's happening?' I demanded.

  'You are forgetting everything,' she said simply, sweeping her hands in the direction of the room. 'These are a just a few of your memories I have cobbled together – a last stand, if you like. The storm, the lighthouse, the waterfall, the night, the wind – none of them is real.' She walked closer to me until I could smell her perfume. 'All this is merely a representation of your mind. The lighthouse is you; your consciousness. The sea around us your experience, your memories – everything that makes you the person you are. They are all draining away like water from a bath. Soon the lighthouse will topple into the void and then—'

  'And then?'

  'And then I will have won. You will remember nothing – not even this. You will relearn, of course – in ten years you might be able to tie your own shoelaces. But for the first few years the only decision you will have to make is which side of your mouth to drool out of …'

  I turned to leave but she called out:

  'You can't run. Where will you go? For you, there's nowhere else but here.'

  I stopped at the door and turned back, raised my gun and fired a single shot. The bullet whistled through the young woman and impacted harmlessly on the wall behind.

  'It will take more than that, Thursday.'

  'Thursday?' I echoed. 'That's my name?'

  'It doesn't matter,' said the young woman. 'There is no one you can remember who will help you.'

  'Doesn't this make your victory a hollow one?' I demanded, lowering my gun and rubbing my temple, trying to recall even a single fact.

  'Ridding your mind of that which you value most was the hard bit,' replied the woman. 'All I had to do then was to invoke your dread, the memory that you feared the most. After that, it was easy.'

  'My greatest fear?'

  She smiled again and showed me the hand mirror. There was no reflection, only images that flashed past anonymously. I took the mirror and peered at it, trying to make sense of what I saw.

  'These are the images of your life,' she told me. 'Your memories, the people you love, everything you hold dear – but also everything that you've ever feared. I can modify and change them at will – or even delete them completely. But before I do, I'm going to make you view the worst once more. Gaze upon it, Thursday, gaze upon it and feel the loss of your brother one last time!'

  The mirror showed me the image of a war long ago, the violent death of a soldier who seemed familiar, and I felt the pain of loss tearing through me. The woman laughed as the images repeated themselves, this time clearer, and more graphic. I shut my eyes to block the horror, but opened them again quickly in shock. I had seen something else, right at the edge of my mind, dark and menacing, waiting to engulf me. I gasped, and the woman felt my fear.

  'What is it?' she cried. 'There is something I have missed? Worse than the Crimea? Let me see!'

  She tried to grasp the mirror but I let it drop. It shattered on the concrete floor and we heard a muffled thump as something struck the steel door five storeys below.

  'What was that?' she demanded.

  I realised what I had seen. Its presence, unwelcome for so many years in the back of my mind, might be just what I needed to defeat her.

  'My worst nightmare,' I told her, 'and now yours.'

  'But it can't be! Your worst nightmare was the Crimea, your brother's death – I know, I've searched your mind!'

  'Then,' I replied slowly, my strength returning as the woman's confidence trickled away, 'you should have searched harder!'

  'But it's still too late to help you,' she said, her voice quavering. 'It will not gain entry, I assure you of that!'

  There was another loud crash; the steel door on the ground floor had been torn from its hinges.

  'Wrong again,' I said quietly. 'You asked it to attend, and it came.'

  She ran to the stairs and yelled:

  'Who is there? Who are you? What are you?'

  But there was no reply; only a soft sigh and the sound of footfalls on the stairs as it climbed slowly upwards. I looked from the window as another section of the rocky island fell away. The lighthouse was now poised on top of the abyss and I could see straight down into the dizzying depths. There was a tremor as the foundations shifted; the lighthouse flexed and a section of plaster fell from the wall.

  'Thursday!' she yelled out pitifully. 'You can control it! Make it stop!'

  She slammed the door to the staircase, her hands shaking as she hurriedly threw the bolt.

  'I could hide it if I chose,' I said staring at the terrified woman, 'but I choose not to. You asked me to gaze upon my fears – now you may join me.'

  The lighthouse shifted again and a crack opened in the wall, revealing the storm-tossed sea beyond; the arc light stopped rotating with a growl of twisted metal. There was a thump at the door.

  'There are always bigger fish, Aornis,' I said slowly, suddenly realising who she was as my past began to reveal itself from the fog. 'Like all Hades, you were lazy. You thought Anton's demise was the worst thing you could dredge up. You never looked farther. Hardly looked into my subconscious at all. The old stuff, the terrifying stuff, the stuff that keeps us awake as children, the nightmares we can only half glimpse on waking, the fear we sweep to the back of our minds but which is always there, gloating from a distance.'

  The door collapsed inwards as the lighthouse swayed and part of the wall fell away. An icy gust blew in, the ceiling dropped two feet and electricity sparked from a severed cable. Aornis stared at the form lurking in the doorway, making quiet slavering noises to itself.

  'No!' she whined. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, I—'

  I watched as Aornis' hair turned snow white but no scream came from her dry throat. I lowered my eyes and turned to the door, seeing out of the corner of my eye only a vague shape advancing towards Aornis. She had dropped to her knees and was sobbing uncontrollably. I walked past the shattered door and down the stairs two at a time. As I stepped outside, the outcrop shivered again and the conical roof of the lighthouse came wheeling down amid masonry and scraps of rusty iron. Aornis found her voice, finally, and screamed.

  I didn't pause, nor break my pace. I could still hear her yelling for mercy as I climbed into the small jolly-boat she had kept for her escape and rowed away across the oily black water, her cries drowned out only as the lighthouse collapsed into the abyss, taking the malevolent spirit of Aornis with it.

  I paused for a moment, then put my back into rowing, the oars rattling in the rowlocks.

  'That was impressive,' said a quiet voice behind me. I turned and found Landen sitting in the bows. He was every bit as I remembered him. Tall and good looking with hair greying slightly at the temples. My memories, which had been blunted for so long, now made him more alive than he had been for weeks. I dropped the oars and nearly upset the small boat in my hurry to fling my arms around him, to feel his warmth. I hugged him until I could barely breathe, tears coursing down my cheeks.

  'Is it you?' I cried. 'Really you, not one of Aornis' little games?'

  'No, it's me all right,' he said, kissing me tenderly, 'or at least, your memory of me.'

  'You'll be back for real,' I assured him, 'I promise!'

  'Have I missed much?' he asked. 'It's not nice being forgotten by the one you love.'

  'Well,' I began as we made ourselves more comfortable in the boat, lying down to look up at the stars, 'there's this upgrade called UltraWord™, see, and—'

  We stayed in each other's arms for a long time, the small rowing boat adrift in the museum of my mind, the sea calming before us as we headed towards the gathering dawn.

  28

  Lola departs and Heights again

  * * *

  Daphne Farquitt wrote her first book in 1936 and by 1988 had written three hundred others exactly like it. The Squire of High Potternews was arguably the least worst although the best you could say about it was that it was a 'different shade of terrible'. Astute readers have complained that Potternew
s originally ended quite differently, an observation also made about Jane Eyre. It is all they have in common.'

  THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles

  My head felt as if there were a jackhammer in it the following morning. I lay awake in bed, the sun streaming through the porthole. I smiled as I remembered my dream of the night before and mouthed out loud:

  'Landen Parke-Laine, Landen Parke-Laine!'

  I sat up slowly and stretched. It was almost ten. I staggered to the bathroom and drank three glasses of water, brought it all up again and brushed my teeth, drank more water, sat with my head between my knees and then tiptoed back to bed to avoid waking Gran. She was fast asleep in the chair with a copy of Finnegans Wake on her lap. I knew I was going to have to apologise to Arnie and thank him for not taking advantage of the situation. I couldn't believe I had made such a fool of myself but felt that I could, at a pinch, lay most of the blame at Aornis' door.

  I got up half an hour later and went downstairs, where I found Randolph and Lola at the breakfast table. They weren't talking to one another and I noticed Lola's small suitcase at the door.

  'Thursday!' said Randolph, offering me a chair. 'Are you okay?'

  'Groggy,' I replied as Lola placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, which I inhaled gratefully. 'Groggy but happy – I got Landen back. Thanks for helping me out last night – and I'm sorry if I made a complete idiot of myself. Arnie must think I'm the worst tease in the Well.'

  'No, that's me,' said Lola innocently. 'Your gran explained to us all about Aornis and Landen. We had no idea what was going on. Arnie understood and he said he'd drop around later and see how you were.'

  I looked at Lola's suitcase and then at the two of them; they were studiously ignoring one another.

  'What's going on?'

  'I'm leaving to start work on Girls Make all the Moves.'

  'That's excellent news, Lola,' I said, genuinely impressed. 'Randolph?'

  'Yes, very good. All the clothes and boyfriends she wants.'

  'You're sour because you didn't get that male-mentor part you wanted,' retorted Lola.

  'Not at all,' replied Randolph, resentment bubbling under the surface. 'I've been offered a small part in an upcoming Amis – a proper novel. A literary one.'

  'Well, good luck to you,' replied Lola. 'Send me a postcard if you can be troubled to talk to anyone in chicklit.'

  'Guys,' I said, 'don't part like this!'

  Lola looked at Randolph, who turned away. She sighed, stared at me for a moment and then got up.

  'Well,' she said, picking up her case, 'I've got to go. Fittings all morning then rehearsals until six. Busy, busy, busy. I'll keep in touch, don't worry.'

  I got up, held my head for a moment as it thumped badly, then hugged Lola, who hugged me back happily.

  'Thanks for all the help, Thursday,' she said, tears in her eyes. 'I wouldn't have made it up to B-3 without you.'

  She went to the door, stopped for a moment and looked across at Randolph, who was staring resolutely out of the window at nothing in particular.

  'Goodbye, Randolph.'

  'Goodbye,' he said without looking up.

  Lola looked at me, bit her lip and went across to him and kissed him on the back of the head. She returned to the door, said goodbye to me again and went out.

  I sat down next to him. A large tear had rolled down his nose and dropped on to the table. I laid a hand on his.

  'Randolph—!'

  'I'm fine!' he growled. 'I've just got a bit of grit in my eye!'

  'Did you tell her how you felt?'

  'No I didn't!' he snapped. 'And what's more I don't want you dictating to me what I should and shouldn't do!'

  He got up and stormed off to his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him.

  'Hellooo!' said a Granny Next sort of voice. 'Are you well enough to come upstairs?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then you can come and help me down.'

  I assisted her down the stairs and sat her at the table, fetching a cushion or two from the living room.

  'Thanks for your help, Gran. I made a complete fool of myself last night.'

  'What's life for?' she replied. 'Don't mention it. And by the way, it was Lola and me who undressed you, not the boys.'

  'I think I was past caring.'

  'All the same. Aornis will have a lot more trouble getting at you in the Outland, my dear – my experience of mnemonomorphs tends to be that once you dispose of a mindworm, the rest is easy. You won't forget her in a hurry, I assure you.'

  We chatted for an hour, Gran and I, about Miss Havisham, Landen, babies, Anton and all other things besides. She told me about her own husband's eradication and his eventual return. I knew he had returned because without him there would be no me, but it was interesting to talk to her nonetheless. I felt well enough to go into Caversham Heights at midday to see how Jack was getting on.

  'Ah!' said Jack as I arrived. 'Just in time. I've been thinking about a reworking – do you want to have a look?'

  'Go on, then.'

  'Is anything the matter? You look a bit unwell.'

  'I got myself pickled to the gills last night. I'll be fine. What have you in mind?'

  'Get in. I want you to meet someone.'

  I climbed into the Allegro and he handed me a coffee. We were parked opposite a large red-brick semi in the north of the town. In the book we stake out this house for two days, eventually sighting the mayor emerging with crime boss Angel DeFablio. With the mayor character excised from the manuscript for an unspecified reason, it would be a long wait.

  'This is Nathan Snudd,' said Jack, indicating a young man sitting on the back seat. 'Nathan is a plotsmith who's just graduated in the Well and has kindly agreed to help us. He has some ideas about the book that I wanted you to hear. Mr Snudd, this is Thursday Next.'

  'Hi,' I said, shaking his hand.

  'The Outlander Thursday Next?'

  'Yes.'

  'Fascinating! Tell me, why doesn't glue stick to the inside of the bottle?'

  'I don't know. What are your ideas for the book?'

  'Well,' said Nathan, affecting the manner of someone who knows a great deal, 'I've being looking at what you have left and I've put together a rescue plan that uses the available budget, characters and remaining high points of the novel to best effect.'

  'Is it still a murder inquiry?'

  'Oh yes; and the fight-rigging bit I think we can keep, too. I've bought a few cut-price plot devices from a bargain warehouse in the Well and sewn them in. For instance, I thought that instead of having one scene where Jack is suspended by DCI Briggs, you could have six.'

  'Will that work?'

  'Sure. Then there will be a "bad cop" routine where an officer close to you is taking bribes and betrays you to the Mob. I've got this middle-aged creepy housekeeper Generic we can adapt. In fact, I've got seventeen middle-aged creepy housekeepers we can pepper about the book.'

  'Mrs Danvers, by any chance?' I asked.

  'We're working to a tight budget,' replied Snudd coldly, 'let's not forget that.'

  'What else?'

  'I thought there could be several gangster's molls or a prostitute who wants to go straight and helps you out.'

  'A "tart with a heart"?'

  'In one. They're ten a penny in the Well at the moment – we should be able to get five for a ha’penny.'

  'Then what happens?'

  'This is the good bit. Someone tries to kill you with a car bomb. I've bought this great little scene for you where you go to your car, are about to start it but find a small piece of wire on the floor mat. It's a cinch and cheap, too. I can buy it wholesale from my cousin; he said he would throw in a missing consignment of Nazi bullion and a sad loser detective drunk at a bar with whisky and a cigarette scene. You are a sad loner loser maverick detective with a drink problem, yes?'

  Jack looked at me and smiled.

  'No,' he said, 'not any more. I live with my wife and have four am
using children.'

  'Not on this budget.' Snudd laughed. 'Humorous sidekicks – kids or otherwise – cost bundles.'

  There was a tap on the window.

  'Hello, Prometheus,' said Jack. 'Have you met Thursday Next? She's from the Outland.'

  Prometheus looked at me and put out a hand. He was an olive-skinned man of perhaps thirty, with tightly curled black hair close to his head. He had deep black eyes and a strong Grecian nose that was so straight you could have laid a set-square on it.

  'Outland, eh? What did you think of Byron's retelling of my story?'

  'I thought it excellent.'

  'Me too. When are we going to get the Elgin marbles back?'

  'No idea.'

  Prometheus, more generally known as the fire-giver, was a Titan who had stolen fire from the gods and given it to mankind, a good move or a terrible one, depending on which papers you read. As punishment Zeus had him chained to a rock in the Caucasus where his liver was picked out every night by eagles, only to regrow during the day. He looked quite healthy, in spite of it. Quite what he was doing in Caversham Heights, I had no idea.

  'I heard you had a spot of bother,' he said to Jack. 'Something about the plot falling to pieces?'

  'My attempts to keep it secret don't appear to be working,' muttered Jack. 'I don't want a panic. Most Generics have a heart of gold but if there is the sniff of a problem with the narrative they'll abandon Heights like rats from a ship – and an influx of Generics seeking employment in the Well could set the Book Inspectorate off like a rocket.'

  'Ah,' replied the Titan, 'tricky indeed. I was wondering if I could offer my services in any way?'