Lost in a Good Book

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  Outside, paramedics were dealing with the casualties, many of them still clutching the remnants of their bargains for which they had fought so bravely. My car was gone – towed away, most likely – and we trotted as fast as we could on Miss Havisham's twisted ankle, round the corner of the building until—

  '—not so fast!'

  The officers who had chased us earlier were blocking our path.

  'Looking for something? This, I suppose?'

  My car was on the back of a low-loader, being taken away.

  'We'll take the bus,' I stammered.

  'You'll take the car,' corrected the police officer, 'my car … Hey! Where do you think you're going?'

  He was talking to Miss Havisham, who had taken the Farquitt boxed set and walked into a small group of women to disguise her bookjump – back to Great Expectations or the bun shop in Little Dorrit, or somewhere. I wished I could have joined her, but my skills in these matters were not really up to scratch. I sighed.

  'We want some answers, Next,' said the policeman in a grim tone.

  'Listen, Rawlings, I don't know the lady very well. What did she say her name was? Dame-rouge?'

  'It's Havisham, Next – but you know that, don't you? That "lady" is extremely well known to the police – she's racked up seventy-four outrageously serious driving offences in the past twenty-two years.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes, really. In June she was clocked driving a chain-driven Liberty-engined Higham Special Automobile at 171.5 m.p.h. up the M4. It's not only irresponsible, it's … Why are you laughing?'

  'No reason.'

  The officer stared at me.

  'You seem to know her quite well, Next. Why does she do these things?'

  'Probably,' I replied, 'because they don't have motorways where she comes from – or twenty-seven-litre Higham Specials.'

  'And where would that be, Next?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'I could arrest you for helping the escape of an individual in custody.'

  'She wasn't arrested, Rawlings, you said so yourself.'

  'Perhaps not, but you are. In the car.'

  20

  Yorrick Kaine

  * * *

  'In 1983 the youthful Yorrick Kaine was elected leader of the Whigs, at that time a small and largely inconsequential party whose desire to put the aristocracy back in power and limit voting rights to homeowners had placed it on the outer edges of the political arena. A pro-Crimean stance coupled with a wish for British unification helped build nationalist support, and by 1985 the Whigs had three MPs in Parliament. They built their manifesto on populist tactics such as reducing the cheese duty and offering dukedoms as prizes on the National Lottery. A shrewd politician and clever tactician, Kaine was ambitious for power – in whatever way he could get it.'

  A.J.P. MILLINER – The New Whigs –

  From Humble Beginnings to Fourth Reich

  It took two hours for me to convince the police I wasn't going to tell them anything about Miss Havisham other than her address. Undeterred, they thumbed through a yellowed statute book and eventually charged me with a little-known 1621 law about 'Permissioning a horse and carte to be driven by personn of low moral turpithtude', but with the 'horse and carte' bit crossed out and 'car' written in instead – so you can see how desperate they were. I would have to go before the magistrate the following week. I started to sneak out of the building to go home but—

  '— so there you are!'

  I turned and hoped my groan wasn't audible.

  'Hello, Cordelia.'

  'Thursday, are you okay' You look a bit bruised!'

  'I got caught in a fiction frenzy.'

  'No more nonsense, now – I need you to meet the people who won my competition.'

  'Do I have to?'

  Flakk looked at me sternly.

  'It's very advisable.'

  'Okay,' I replied, let me have a pee and I'll be with you in five minutes. Okay?'

  'Right!' Cordelia beamed.

  But I didn't have a pee, instead I nipped up to the LiteraTec office.

  'Thursday!' said Bowden as I entered. 'I told Victor you had the flu. How did you get on?'

  'Pretty well, I think. I've been inside books again without a Prose Portal. I can do it on my own – more or less.'

  'You're kidding.'

  'No,' I told him, 'deadly serious. Landen's almost as good as back. I met Miss Havisham.'

  'What's she like?'

  'Odd. It seems there is something very like SpecOps 27 inside books – I've yet to figure it all out. How have things been out here?'

  He showed me a copy of The Owl. The headline read: 'New play by Will found in Swindon'. The Mole had the headline: 'Cardenio sensation!' and The Toad, predictably enough, led with. 'Swindon croquet supremo Aubrey Jambe found in bath with chimp'.

  'So Professor Spoon authenticated it?'

  'He did indeed,' replied Bowden. 'One of us should take the report up to Volescamper this afternoon. This is for you.'

  He handed me the bag of pinkish goo attached to a report from the SpecOps forensic labs. I thanked him and read the analysis of the slime Dad had given me with interest and confusion in equal measures.

  '… sugar, fatty animal protein, calcium, sodium, maltodextrin, carboxy-methyl-cellulose, phenylalnine, complex hydrocarbon compounds and traces of chlorophyll.'

  I flicked to the back of the report but was none the wiser. Forensics had faithfully interpreted my request for analysis – but it told me nothing new.

  'What does it mean, Bowd?'

  'Search me, Thursday. They're trying to match the profile to known chemical compounds, but so far nothing. Perhaps if you told us where you got it?'

  'I don't think that would be safe. I'll drop the Cardenio report in to Volescamper – I'm keen to avoid Cordelia. Tell forensics that the future of the planet depends on them – that should help. I have to know what this pink stuff is.'

  I saw Cordelia waiting for me in the lobby with her guest, who had a Finis Hotel carrier bag in one hand and a young daughter in the other. Unluckily for him Spike Stoker had been passing and Cordelia, eager to do something to amuse her competition winner, had obviously asked him to say a few words. The look of frozen, jaw-dropping horror on her guest's face said it all. I hid my face behind the Cardenio report and left Cordelia to it.

  I blagged a ride in a squad car up to the crumbling Vole Towers. The house had changed a lot since I was last there. The mansion was besieged by the news stations, all keen to report any details regarding the discovery of Cardenio. Two dozen outside broadcast trucks were parked on the weed-infested gravel, all humming with activity. Dishes were trained into the afternoon sky, transmitting the pictures to an airship repeater station that had been routed in to bounce the stories live to the world's eager viewers. For security, SpecOps 14 had been drafted in and operatives stood languidly about, idly chatting to one another. Mostly, it seemed, about Aubrey Jambe's apparent indiscretion with the chimp.

  'Hello, Thursday!' said a handsome young SO-14 agent at the front door. It was annoying; I didn't recognise him. People I couldn't remember hailing me as friends was something that had happened a lot since Landen's eradication; I supposed I would get used to it.

  'Hello!' I replied to the stranger in an equally friendly tone. 'What's going on?'

  'Yorrick Kaine is giving a press conference.'

  'Really? What's Cardenio got to do with him?'

  'Hadn't you heard? Lord Volescamper has given the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whig party!'

  'Why would Volescamper have anything to do with a minor right-wing pro-Crimean Welsh-hater like Kaine?'

  'Because he's a lord and wants to reclaim some lost power?'

  At that moment two other SpecOps operatives walked past and one of them nodded to the young agent at the door and said: 'All well, Miles?'

  The dashing young SO-14 agent said that all was well, but he was wrong – all was not well, at least i
t wasn't for me. I thought I might bump into Miles eventually but not unprepared, like this. I stared at him, hoping my shock and surprise wouldn't show. He had spent time in my flat and knew me a lot better than I knew him. My heart thumped inside my chest and I tried to say something intelligent and witty but it came out more like:

  'Asterfobulongus?'

  'I'm sorry, what was that?'

  'Nothing.'

  Miles looked to left and right and leaned a little closer.

  'You seemed a bit upset when I called, Thursday. Is there a problem with our arrangement?'

  I stared at him for a few seconds in numbed silence before mumbling:

  'No – no, not at all.'

  'Good!' he said. 'We must fix a date or two.'

  'Yes,' I said, running on auto-fear, 'yes, we must Gottogo – bye.'

  I trotted off before he could say anything else. I paused for breath outside the door to the library. Sooner or later I was going to have to ask him straight out. I decided on the face of it that later suited me better than sooner, so walked through the heavy steel doors and into the library. Yorrick Kaine and Lord Volescamper were sitting behind a table, and beyond them was Mr Swaike and two security guards who were standing either side of the play itself, proudly displayed behind a sheet of bullet-proof glass. The press conference was halfway through, and I tapped Lydia Startright – who happened to be standing quite near – on the arm.

  'Hey, Lyds!' I said in a low whisper.

  'Hey, Thursday,' replied the reporter. 'I heard you did the initial authentication. How good is it?'

  'Very good,' I replied. 'Somewhere on a par with The Tempest. What's happening here?'

  'Volescamper has just officially announced he is giving the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whigs.'

  'Why?'

  'Who knows? Hang on, I want to ask a question.'

  Lydia stood up and raised her hand. Kaine pointed at her.

  'What do you propose to do with the play, Mr Kaine? We understand that there has been talk of offers in the region of a hundred million pounds.'

  'Good question,' replied Yorrick Kaine, getting to his feet. 'We in the Whig party thank Lord Volescamper for his kind generosity. I am of the opinion that Cardenio is not for one person or group to exploit, so we in the Whig party propose offering free licences to perform the play to anyone who wishes to do so.'

  There was an excited babbling from the attendant journalists as they took this in. It was an act of unprecedented generosity, especially from Kaine, but more than that, it was the right thing to do, and the press suddenly warmed to Yorrick. It was as if Kaine had never suggested the invasion of Wales two years earlier or the reduction of the right to vote the year before; I was instantly suspicious.

  There were several more questions about the play and a lot of well-practised answers from Kaine, who seemed to have reinvented himself as a caring and sharing patriarch and not the extremist of yore. After the press conference had ended, I made my way to the front and approached Volescamper who looked at me oddly for a moment.

  'The Spoon report,' I told him, handing him the buff-coloured file, 'about the authentication … we thought you might want to see it.'

  'What? Of course?'

  Volescamper took the report and glanced at it in a cursory manner before passing it to Kaine who seemed to show more interest. Kaine didn't even look at me but since I obviously wasn't going to leave like some message-girl, Volescamper introduced me.

  'Oh yes! Mr Kaine, this is Thursday Next, SpecOps-27.'

  Kaine looked up from the report. His manner abruptly changed to one of charm and gushing friendship.

  'Ms Next, delighted!' he enthused. 'I read of your exploits with great interest and, believe me, your intervention improved the narrative of Jane Eyre considerably!'

  I wasn't impressed by him or his faux charm.

  'Think you can change the Whig party's fortunes, Mr Kaine?'

  'The party is undergoing something of a restructuring at present,' replied Kaine, fixing me with a serious stare. 'Old ideology has been retired and the party now looks forward to a fresh look at England's political future. Rule by informed patriarch and voting restricted to responsible property owners is the future, Miss Next – ruling by committee has been the death of common sense for far too long.'

  'And Wales?' I asked. 'Where do you stand on Wales these days?'

  'Wales is historically part of the greater Britain,' announced Kaine in a slightly more guarded manner. 'The Welsh have been flooding the English market with cheap goods and this has to stop – but I have no plans whatsoever for forced unification.'

  I stared at him for a moment.

  'You have to get into power first, Mr Kaine.'

  The smile dropped from his face.

  'Thank you for delivering the report, Miss Next,' put in Volescamper hurriedly. 'Can I offer you a drink or something before you go?'

  I took the hint and made my way to the front door. I stood and looked at the outside broadcast units thoughtfully. Yorrick Kaine was playing his hand well.

  21

  Les arts modernes de Swindon, '85

  * * *

  'The Very Irreverent Joffy Next was the minister for the Global Standard Deity's first church in England. The GSD had a little bit of all religions, arguing that if there was one God, then He would really have very little to do with all the fluff and muddle down here on the material plane, and a streamlining of the faiths might very well be in His interest. Worshippers came and went as they pleased, prayed according to how they felt most happy, and mingled freely with other GSD members. It enjoyed moderate success, but what God actually thought of it no one ever really knew.'

  PROFESSOR M. BLESSINGTON, PR (retd) –

  The Global Standard Deity

  I paid to have my car released with a cheque that I felt sure would bounce, then drove home and had a snack and a shower before driving over to Wanborough and Joffy's first 'Les arts modernes de Swindon' exhibition. Joffy had asked me for a list of my colleagues to boost the numbers, so I fully expected to see some work people there. I had even asked Cordelia, who I had to admit was great fun when not in PR mode. The art exhibition was being held in the Global Standard Deity church at Wanborough and had been opened by Frankie Saveloy a half-hour before I arrived. It seemed quite busy as I stepped inside; all the pews had been moved out and artists, critics, press and potential purchasers milled among the eclectic collection of art. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter, suddenly remembered I shouldn't be drinking, sniffed at it longingly and put it down again. Joffy, looking very smart indeed in a dinner jacket and dog-collar, leapt forward when he saw me, grinning wildly.

  'Hello, Doofus!' he said, hugging me affectionately. 'Glad you could make it. Have you met Mr Saveloy?'

  Without waiting for an answer he propelled me towards where a puffy man stood quite alone at the side of the room. He introduced me as quickly as he could and then legged it. Frankie Saveloy was the compère of Name That Fruit! and looked more like a toad in real life than he did on TV. I half expected a long sticky tongue to shoot out and capture a wayward fly, but I smiled politely nonetheless.

  'Mr Saveloy,' I said, offering my hand. He took it in his clammy mitt and held on to it tightly.

  'Delighted!' grunted Saveloy, his eyes flicking to my cleavage. 'I'm sorry we couldn't get you to appear on my show – but you're probably feeling quite honoured to meet me, just the same.'

  'Quite the reverse,' I assured him, retrieving my hand forcibly.

  'Ah!' said Saveloy, grinning so much the sides of his mouth almost met his ears and I feared the top of his head might fall off. 'I have my Rolls-Royce outside. Perhaps you might like to join me for a ride?'

  'I think,' I replied, 'that I would sooner eat rusty nails.'

  He didn't seem in the least put out. He grinned some more and said:

  'Shame to put such magnificent hooters to waste, Miss Next.'

  I raised my hand to slap him but my wrist was
caught by Cordelia Flakk, who had decided to intervene.

  'Up to your old tricks, Frankie?'

  Saveloy grimaced at Cordelia.

  'Damn you, Dilly – out to spoil my fun!'

  'Come on, Thursday, there are plenty of bigger fools to waste your time on than this one.'

  Flakk had dropped the bright pink outfit for a more reserved shade but was still able to fog film at forty yards. She took me by the hand and steered me towards some of the art on display

  'You have been leading me around the houses a bit, Thursday,' she said testily. 'I only need ten minutes of your time with those guests of mine!'

  'Sorry, Dilly. Things have been a bit hectic. Where are they?'

  'He's performing Richard III at the Ritz – you would have thought he'd never been to Swindon the way he's carrying on. Can you please make time for them both tomorrow?'

  'I'll try.'

  'Good.'

  We approached a small scrum where one of the featured artists was presenting his latest work to an attentive audience composed mostly of art critics who all wore collarless black suits and were scribbling notes in their catalogues.

  'So,' said one of the critics, gazing at the piece through his half-moon spectacles, 'tell us all about it, Mr Duchamp2924.'

  'I call it The id within,' said the young artist in a quiet voice, avoiding everyone's gaze and pressing his fingertips together. He was dressed in a long black cloak and had sideburns cut so sharp that if he turned abruptly he would have had someone's eye out. He continued:

  'Like life, my piece reflects the many different layers that cocoon and restrict us in society today. The outer layer – reflecting yet counterpoising the harsh exoskeleton we all display – is hard, thin, yet somehow brittle – but beneath this a softer layer awaits, yet of the same shape and almost the same size. As one delves deeper one finds many different shells, each smaller yet no softer than the one before. The journey is a tearful one, and when one reaches the centre there is almost nothing there at all, and the similarity to the outer crust is, in a sense, illusory.'