The Well of Lost Plots

  'There was the raucous blast of a car horn from outside.

  'Time's up!' Perkins smiled. 'That will be Miss Havisham.'

  Miss Havisham was not on her own. She was sitting in a vast automobile the bonnet of which stretched ten feet in front of her. The large spoked and unguarded wheels carried tyres that looked woefully skinny and inadequate; eight huge exhaust pipes sprouted from either side of the bonnet, joined into one and stretched the length of the body. The tail of the car was pointed, like a boat, and just forward of the rear wheels two huge drive sprockets carried the power to the rear axle on large chains. It was a fearsome beast. It was the twenty-seven-litre Higham Special.

  8

  Ton sixty on the A419

  * * *

  'The wealthy son of a Polish count and an American mother, Louis Zborowski lived at Higham Place near Canterbury, where he built three aero-engined cars, all called Chitty Bang Bang, and a fourth monster, the Higham Special, a car he and Clive Gallop had engineered by squeezing a 27-litre aero engine into a Rubery Owen chassis and mating it with a Benz gearbox. At the time of Zborowski's death at Monza behind the wheel of a Mercedes, the Special had been lapping Brooklands at 116 mph – but her potential was as yet unproved. After a brief stint with a lady owner whose identity has not been revealed, the Special was sold to Parry Thomas, who with careful modifications of his own pushed the land speed record up to 170.624 mph at Pendine Sands, South Wales, in 1926.'

  THE VERY REV. TOREDLYNE – The Land Speed Record

  'Has she been boring you, Mr Perkins?' called out Havisham.

  'Not at all,' replied Perkins, giving me a wink. 'She has been a most attentive student.'

  'Humph,' muttered Havisham. 'Hope springs eternal. Get in, girl, we're off!'

  I paused. I had been driven by Miss Havisham once before, and that was in a car that I thought relatively safe. This beast of an automobile looked as though it could kill you twice before even reaching second gear.

  'What are you waiting for, girl?' said Havisham impatiently. 'If I let the Special idle any longer we'll coke up the plugs. Besides, we need all the fuel to do the run.'

  'The run?'

  'Don't worry!' shouted Miss Havisham as she revved the engine. The car lurched sideways with the torque and a throaty growl filled the air. 'You won't be aboard when we do – I need you for other duties.'

  I took a deep breath and climbed into the small two-seater body It looked newly converted and was little more than a racing car with a few frills tacked on to make it roadworthy. Miss Havisham depressed the clutch and wrestled with the gearshift for a moment The large sprockets took up the power with a slight tug; it felt like a thoroughbred racehorse which had just got the scent of a steeplechase.

  'Where are we going?' I asked.

  'Home!' answered Miss Havisham as she moved the hand throttle. The car leaped forward across the grassy courtyard and gathered speed.

  'To Great Expectations?' I asked as Miss Havisham steered in a broad circuit, fiddling with the levers in the centre of the massive steering wheel.

  'Not my home,' she retorted, 'yours!'

  With another deep growl and a lurch the car accelerated rapidly forward – but to where I was not sure; in front of us lay the broken drawbridge and stout stone walls of the castle.

  'Fear not!' yelled Havisham above the roar of the engine. 'I'll read us into the Outland as simply as blinking!'

  We gathered speed. I expected us to jump straight away, but we didn't. We carried on towards the heavy castle wall at a speed not wholly compatible with survival.

  'Miss Havisham?' I asked, my voice tinged with fear.

  'I'm just trying to think of the best words to get us there, girl!' she replied cheerfully.

  'Stop!' I yelled as the point of no return came and went in a flash.

  'Let me see …' muttered Havisham, thinking hard, the accelerator still wide open.

  I covered my eyes. The car was running too fast for me to jump out and a collision seemed inevitable. I grasped the side of the car's body and tensed as Miss Havisham took herself, me and two tons of automobile through the barriers of fiction and into the real world. My world.

  I opened my eyes again. Miss Havisham was studying a road map as the Higham Special swerved down the middle of the road. I grabbed the steering wheel as a milk float swerved into the hedge.

  'I won't use the M4 in case the C of G get wind of it,' she said, looking around. 'We'll use the A419 – are we anywhere close?'

  I recognised where we were instantly. Just north of Swindon outside a small town called Highworth.

  'Continue round the roundabout and up the hill into the town,' I told her, adding: 'But it's not your right of way, remember.'

  It was too late. To Miss Havisham, her way was the right way. The first car braked in time but the one behind it was not so lucky – it drove into the rear of the first with a crunch. I held on tightly as Miss Havisham accelerated rapidly away up the hill into Highworth. I was pressed into my seat and for a single moment, perched above two tons of bellowing machinery, I suddenly realised why Havisham liked this sort of thing – it was, in a word, exhilarating.

  'I've only borrowed the Special from the count,' she explained. 'Parry Thomas will take delivery of it next week and aim to lift the speed record for himself. I've been working on a new mix of fuels; the A419 is straight and smooth – I should be able to do at least a ton eighty on that.'

  'Turn right on to the B4019 at the Jesmond,' I told her, 'after the lights turn to greeeeeeen.'

  The truck missed us by about six inches.

  'What's that?'

  'Nothing.'

  'You know, Thursday, you should really loosen up and learn to enjoy life more – you can be such an old stick-in-the-mud.'

  I lapsed into silence.

  'And don't sulk,' added Miss Havisham. 'If there's something I can't abide, it's a sulky apprentice.'

  We bowled down the road, nearly losing it on an 'S' bend, until miraculously we reached the main Swindon-Cirencester road. It was a no right turn but we did anyway, to a chorus of screeching tyres and angry car horns. Havisham accelerated off, and we had just approached the top of the hill when we came across a large 'diversion' sign blocking the road. Havisham thumped the steering wheel angrily.

  'I don't believe it!' she bellowed.

  'Road closed?' I queried, trying to hide my relief. 'Good – I mean, good-ness gracious, what a shame. Another time, eh?'

  Havisham clunked the Special into first gear and we moved off round the sign and motored down the hill.

  'It's him, I can sense it!' she growled. 'Trying to steal the speed record from under my very nose!'

  'Who?' I asked.

  As if in answer another racing car shot past us with a loud 'poop poop!'.

  'Him,' muttered Havisham as we pulled off the road next to a speed camera. 'A driver so bad he is a menace to himself and every sentient being on the highways.'

  He must have been truly frightful for Havisham to notice. A few minutes later the other car returned and pulled up alongside.

  'What ho, Havisham!' said the driver, taking the goggles from his bulging eyes and grinning broadly. 'Still using Count "Snaill" Zborowski's old slowpoke Special, eh?'

  'Good afternoon, Mr Toad,' said Havisham. 'Does the Bellman know you're in the Outland?'

  'Of course not!' yelled Mr Toad, laughing. 'And you're not going to tell him, old girl, because you're not meant to be here either!'

  Havisham was silent and looked ahead, trying to ignore him.

  'Is that a Liberty aero-engine under there?' asked Mr Toad, pointing at the Special's bonnet, which trembled and shook as the vast engine idled roughly to itself.

  'Perhaps,' replied Havisham.

  'Ha!' replied Toad with an infectious smile. 'I had a Rolls-Royce Merlin shoehorned into this old banger!'

  I watched Miss Havisham with interest. She stared ahead but her eye twitched slightly when Mr Toad revved the car's engine. In th
e end, she could resist it no more and her curiosity got the better of her disdain.

  'How does it go?' she asked, eyes gleaming.

  'Like a rocket!' replied Mr Toad, jumping up and down in his excitement. 'Over a thousand horses to the back axle – makes your Higham Special look like a motor mower!'

  'We'll see about that,' replied Havisham, narrowing her eyes. 'Usual place, usual time, usual bet?'

  'You're on!' said Mr Toad. He revved his car, pulled down his goggles and vanished in a cloud of rubber smoke. The 'poop poop' of his horn lingered on as an echo some seconds after he had gone.

  'Slimy reptile,' muttered Havisham.

  'Strictly speaking, he's neither,' I retorted. 'More like a dry-skinned land-based amphibian.'

  It felt safe to be impertinent because I knew she wasn't listening.

  'He's caused more accidents than you've had hot dinners.'

  'And you're going to race him?' I asked slightly nervously.

  'And beat him too, what's more,' she replied, handing me a pair of bolt-cutters.

  'What do you want me to do?' I asked.

  'Open up the speed camera and get the film out once I've done my run.'

  I got out. She donned a pair of goggles and was gone in a howl of engine noise and screeching of tyres. I looked nervously around as she and the car hurtled off into the distance, the roar of the engine fading into a hum, occasionally punctuated by muffled cracks from the exhaust. The sun was out and I could see at least three airships droning across the sky; I wondered what was going on at SpecOps. I had written a note to Victor telling him I had to be away for a year or more, and tendered my resignation. Suddenly I was shaken from my daydream by something else. Something dark and just out of sight. Something I should have done or something I'd forgotten. I shivered and then it clicked. Last night. Gran. Aornis' mindworm. What had she been unravelling in my mind? I sighed as the pieces slowly started to merge together in my head. Gran had told me to run the facts over and over to renew the familiar memories that Aornis was trying to delete. But how do you start trying to find out what it is you've forgotten? I concentrated … Landen. I hadn't thought about him all day and that was unusual. I could remember where we met and what had happened to him – no problem there. Anything else? His full name. Damn and blast! Landen Parke-something. Did it begin with a 'B'? I couldn't remember. I sighed and placed my hand over where I imagined our baby to be – it would now be the size of a half-crown. I remembered enough to know I loved him, and I missed him dreadfully – which was a good sign, I supposed. I thought of Lavoisier's perfidy and the Schitt brothers and started to feel rage building inside me. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. There was a phone box by the side of the road, and on an impulse I called my mother.

  'Hi, Mum,' I said, 'it's Thursday.'

  'Thursday!' she screamed excitedly. 'Hang on – the stove's on fire.'

  'The stove?'

  'Well, the kitchen really – wait a mo!'

  There was a crashing noise and she came back on the line a few seconds later.

  'Out now. Darling! Are you okay?'

  'I'm fine, Mum.'

  'And the baby?'

  'Fine too. How are things with you?'

  'Frightful!' she exclaimed. 'Goliath and SpecOps have been camping outside since the moment you left and Emma Hamilton is living in the spare room and eats like a horse.'

  There was an angry growl and a loud whooshing noise as Havisham swept past in little more than a blur; two flashes from the speed camera went off in quick succession and there were several more loud bangs as Havisham rolled off the throttle.

  'What was that noise?' asked my mother.

  'You'd never believe me if I told you. My – er – husband hasn't been round looking for me, has he?'

  'I'm afraid not, sweetheart,' she said in her most understanding voice; she knew about Landen and understood better than most – her own husband, my father, had been eradicated himself seventeen years previously. 'Why don't you come round and talk?' she went on. 'The Eradications Anonymous meeting is at eight this evening; you'll be among friends there.'

  'I don't think so, Mum.'

  'Are you eating regularly?'

  'Yes, Mum.'

  'I managed to get DH-82 to do a few tricks.'

  DH-82 was her rescue Thylacine. Training a Thylacine, usually unbelievably torpid, to do anything except eat or sleep on command was almost front-page news.

  'That's good. Listen, I just called to say I miss you and not to worry about me—'

  'I'm going to try another run!' shouted Miss Havisham, who had drawn up. I waved to her and she drove off.

  'Are you keeping Pickwick's egg warm?'

  I told Mum that this was Pickwick's job, that I would call again when I could, and hung up. I thought of ringing Bowden but decided on the face of it that this was probably not a good idea. Mum's phone was bound to have been tapped and I had given them enough already. I walked back to the road and watched as a small grey dot grew larger and larger until the Special swept past with a strident bellow. The speed camera flashed again and a belch of flame erupted from the exhaust pipe. It took Miss Havisham about a mile to slow down so I sat on a wall and waited patiently for her to return. A small four-seater airship had appeared no more than half a mile away. It seemed to be a SpecOps traffic patrol and I couldn't risk them finding out who I was. I looked urgently towards where Havisham was motoring slowly back to me.

  'Come on,' I muttered under my breath, 'put some speed on, for goodness' sake.'

  Havisham pulled up and shook her head sadly.

  'Mixture's too rich,' she explained. 'Take the film out of the speed camera, will you?'

  I pointed out the airship heading our way. It was approaching quite fast – for an airship.

  Miss Havisham looked over at it, grunted and jumped down to open the huge bonnet and peer inside. I cut off the padlock, pulled the speed camera down and rewound the film as quickly as I could.

  'Halt!' barked the PA system on the airship when it was within a few hundred yards. 'You are both under arrest. Wait by your vehicle.'

  'We've got to go,' I said, urgently.

  'Poppycock!' replied Miss Havisham.

  'Place your hands on the bonnet of the car!' yelled the PA again as the airship droned past at treetop level. 'You have been warned!'

  'Miss Havisham,' I said, 'if they find out who I am I could be in a lot of trouble!'

  'Nonsense, girl. Why would they want someone as inconsequential as you?'

  The airship swung round with the vectored engines in reverse; once they started asking questions I'd be answering them for a long time.

  'We have to go, Miss Havisham!'

  She sensed the urgency in my voice and beckoned for me to get in the car. Within a moment we were away from that place, car and all, back in the lobby of the Great Library.

  'You're not so popular in the Outland, then?' Havisham asked, turning off the engine, which spluttered and shook to a halt, the sudden quiet a welcome break.

  'You could say that.'

  'Broken the law?'

  'Not really.'

  She stared at me for a moment.

  'I thought it a bit odd that Goliath had you trapped in their deepest and most secure sub-basement. Do you have the film from the speed camera?'

  I handed it over.

  'I'll get double prints,' she mused. 'Thanks for your help. See you at roll-call tomorrow – don't be late!'

  I waited until she had gone, then retraced my steps to the Library, where I had left Snell's 'head-in-a-bag' plot device, and made my way home. I didn't jump direct; I took the elevator. Bookjumping might be a quick way to get around, but it was also kind of knackering.

  9

  Apples Benedict, a hedgehog and Commander Bradshaw

  * * *

  'ImaginoTransference Recording Device: A machine used to write books in the Well, the ITRD resembles a large horn (typically eight foot across and made of brass) attached to a polished
mahogany mixing board a little like a church organ but with many more stops and levers. As the story is enacted in front of the collecting horn, the actions, dialogue, humour, pathos, etc., are collected, mixed and transmitted as raw data to Text Grand Central where the wordsmiths hammer it into readable story code. Once done it is beamed direct to the author's pen or typewriter, and from there through a live footnoterphone link back to the Well as plain text. The page is read and if all is well, it is added to the manuscript and the characters move on. The beauty of the system is that the author never suspects a thing – they think they do all the work.'

  CMDR TRAFFORD BRADSHAW, CBE –

  Bradshaw's Guide to the BookWorld

  'I'm home!' I yelled as I walked through the door. Pickwick plocked happily up to me, realised I didn't have any marshmallows, and then left in a huff, only to return with a piece of paper she had found in the waste-paper basket, which she offered to me as a gift. I thanked her profusely and she went back to her egg.

  'Hello,' said ibb, who had been experimenting, Beeton-like, in the kitchen, 'what's in the bag?'

  'You don't want to know.'

  'Hmm,' replied ibb thoughtfully. 'Since I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know, your response must be another way of saying: "I'm not going to tell you, so sod off." Is that correct?'

  'More or less,' I replied, placing the bag in the broom cupboard. 'Is Gran around?'

  'I don't think so.'

  obb walked in a little later, reading a textbook entitled Personalities for Beginners.

  'Hello, Thursday,' it said, 'a hedgehog and a tortoise came round to see you this afternoon.'

  'What did they want?'

  'They didn't say.'

  'And Gran?'

  'In the Outland. She said not to wait up for her. You look very tired; are you okay?'

  It was true, I was tired, but I wasn't sure why. Stress? It's not every day that you have to fight swarms of grammasites and deal with Havisham's driving, Yahoos, Thraals, Big Martin's friends or head-in-a-bag plot devices. Maybe it was just the baby playing silly buggers with my hormones.