Something Rotten

  'I'd like Mel Gibson to play me,' said Zhark thoughtfully.

  'I don't think Gibson does bad guys,' I told him. 'You'd probably be played by Geoffrey Rush or someone.'

  'That wouldn't be so bad. Is that cake going begging?'

  'Help yourself.'

  Zhark cut a large slice of Battenberg, took a bite and continued:

  'Okay, here's the deal: we managed to get the Polonius family to attend arbitration over their unauthorised rewriting of Hamlet.'

  'How did you achieve that?'

  'Promised Ophelia her own book. All back to normal – no problem.'

  'So . . . I can send Hamlet back?'

  'Not quite yet,' replied Zhark, trying to hide his unease by pretending to find a small piece of fluff on his cape. 'You see, Ophelia has now got her knickers in a twist about one of Hamlet's infidelities – someone she thinks is called Henna Appleton. Have you heard anything about this?'

  'No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing. Don't even know anyone called Henna Appleton Why?'

  'I was hoping you could tell me. Well, she went completely nuts and threatened to drown herself in the first act rather than the fourth. We think we've got her straightened out. But while we were doing this there was a hostile takeover.'

  I cursed aloud and Zhark jumped. Nothing was ever straightforward in the BookWorld. Book mergers, where one book joined another to increase the collective narrative advantage of their own mundane plotlines, were thankfully rare but not unheard of. The most famous merger in Shakespeare was the conjoinment of the two plays Daughters of Lear and Sons of Gloucester into King Lear. Other potential mergers such as Much Ado about Verona and A Midsummer Night's Shrew were denied at the planning stage and hadn't taken place. It could take months to extricate the plots, if indeed it was possible at all. King Lear resisted unravelling so strongly we just let it stand.

  'So what merged with Hamlet?'

  'Well, it's now called The Merry Wives of Elsinore, and features Gertrude being chased around the castle by Falstaff while being outwitted by Mistress Page, Ford and Ophelia. Laertes is the king of the fames and Hamlet is relegated to a sixteen-line sub-plot where he is convinced Dr Caius and Fenton have conspired to kill his father for seven hundred pounds.'

  I groaned.

  'What's it like?'

  'It takes a long time to get funny and when it does everyone dies.'

  'Okay,' I conceded, 'I'll try and keep Hamlet amused. How long do you need to unravel the play?'

  Zhark winced and sucked in air through his teeth in the way heating engineers do when quoting on a new boiler.

  'Well, that's the problem, Thursday. I'm not sure that we can do it all. If this had happened anywhere but the original we could have just deleted it. You know the trouble we had with King Lear? Well, I don't see that we're going to have any better luck with Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'

  I sat down and put my head in my hands. No Hamlet. The loss was almost too vast to comprehend.

  'How long have we got before Hamlet starts to change?' I asked without looking up.

  'About five days, six at the outside,' replied Zhark quietly. 'After that the breakdown will accelerate. In two weeks' time the play as we know it will have ceased to exist.'

  'There must be something we can do.'

  'We've tried pretty much everything. We're stuffed – unless you've got a spare William Shakespeare up your sleeve.'

  I sat up.

  'What?'

  'We're stuffed?'

  'After that.'

  'A spare William Shakespeare up your sleeve?'

  'Yes. How will that help?'

  'Well,' said Zhark thoughtfully, 'since no original manuscripts of either Hamlet or Wives exist, a freshly penned script by the author would thus become the original manuscript – and we can use those to reboot the storycode engines from scratch. It's quite simple, really.'

  I smiled but Zhark looked at me with bewilderment.

  'Thursday, Shakespeare died in 1616!'

  I stood up and patted him on the arm.

  'You get back to the office and make sure things don't get any worse. Leave the Shakespeare up to me. Now, has anyone figured out which book Yorrick Kaine is from?'

  'We've got all available resources working on it,' replied Zhark, still a bit confused, 'but there are a lot of novels to go through. Can you give us any pointers?'

  'Well, he's not very multi-dimensional so I shouldn't go looking into anything too literary. I'd start at Political Thrillers and work your way towards Spy.'

  Zhark made a note.

  'Good. Any other problems?'

  'Yes,' replied the emperor, 'Simpkin is being a bit of a pest in The Tailor of Gloucester. Apparently the tailor let all his mice escape and now Simpkin won't let him have the cherry-coloured twist. If the mayor's coat isn't ready for Christmas there'll be hell to pay.'

  'Get the mice to make the waistcoat. They're not doing anything.'

  He sighed. 'Okay, I'll give it a whirl.' He looked at his watch. 'Well, better be off. I've got to annihilate the planet Thraal at four and I'm already late. Do you think I should use my trusty Zharkian Death Ray and fry them alive in a millisecond or nudge an asteroid into their orbit, thus unleashing at least six chapters of drama as they try to find an ingenious solution to defeat me?'

  'The asteroid sounds a good bet.'

  'I thought so too. Well, see you later.'

  I waved goodbye as he and his two guards were beamed out of my world and back into theirs, which was certainly the best place for them. We had quite enough tyrants in the real world as it was.

  I was just wondering what The Merry Wives of Elsinore might be like when there was another buzzing noise and the kitchen was filled with light once more. There, imperious stare, high collar, etc., etc., was Emperor Zhark.

  18

  Emperor Zhark Again

  PRESIDENT GEORGE FORMBY OPENS MOTORCYCLE FACTORY

  The President opened the new Brough-Vincent-Norton motorcycle factory yesterday in Liverpool, bringing much-welcomed jobs to the area. The highly modernised factory, which aims to produce up to A thousand quality touring and racing machines every week, was described by the President as 'cracking stuff!' The President, a long-time advocate of motorcycling, rode one of the company's new Vincent 'Super Shadow' racers around the test track, reportedly hitting over 120 mph, much to his retinue's obvious concern for the octogenarian Presidents health. Our George then gave a cheerful rendering of 'Riding in the TT Races', reminding his. audience of the time he won the Manx Tourist Trophy on a prototype Rainbow motorcycle.

  Article in The Toad, 9 July 1988

  'Forget something?' I asked.

  'Yes. What was that cake of your mother's?'

  'It's called Battenberg.'

  He got a pen and made a note on his cuff.

  'Right. Well, that's it, then.'

  'Good.'

  'Right.'

  'Is there something else?'

  'Yes.'

  'And—?'

  'It's . . . it's . . .'

  'What?'

  Emperor Zhark bit his lip, looked around nervously and drew closer. Although I had had good reason for reprimanding him in the past – and had even suspended his Jurisfiction badge for 'gross incompetence' on two occasions – I actually liked him a great deal. Within the amnesty of his own books he was a sadistic monster who murdered millions with staggering ruthlessness, but out here he had his own fair share of worries, demons and peculiar habits – many of which seemed to have stemmed from the strict upbringing undertaken by his mother, the Empress Zharkeena.

  'Well,' he said, unsure of quite how to put it, 'you know the sixth in the Emperor Zhark series is being written as we speak?'

  'Zhark: End of Empire? Yes, I'd heard that. What's the problem?'

  'I've just read the advanced plotline and it seems that I'm going to be vanquished by the Galactic Freedom Alliance.'

  'I'm sorry, Emperor, I'm not sure I see your point – are you conc
erned about losing your empire?'

  He moved closer.

  'If the story calls for it, I guess not. But it's what happens to me at the end that I have a few problems with. I don't mind being cast adrift in space on the imperial yacht or left marooned on an empty planet, but my writer has planned . . . a public execution.'

  He stared at me, shocked by the enormity of it all.

  'If that's what he has planned—'

  'Thursday, you don't understand. I'm going to be killed off – written out! I'm not sure I can take that kind of rejection.'

  'Emperor,' I said, 'if a character has run its course, then it's run its course. What do you want me to do? Go and talk the author out of it?'

  'Would you?' replied Zhark, opening his eyes wide. 'Would you really do that?'

  'No. You can't have characters trying to tell their authors what to write in their books. Besides, within your books you are truly evil, and need to be punished.'

  Zhark pulled himself up to his full height.

  'I see,' he said at length. 'Well, I might decide to take drastic action if you don't at least attempt to persuade Mr Paige. And besides, I'm not really evil, I'm just written that way.'

  'If I hear any more of this nonsense,' I replied, beginning to get annoyed, 'I will have you placed under book arrest and charged with incitement to mutiny for what you've just told me.'

  'Oh, crumbs,' he said, suddenly deflated, 'you can can't you?'

  'I can. I won't because I can't be bothered. But if I hear anything more about this I will take steps – do you understand?'

  'Yes,' replied Zhark meekly, and without another word he vanished.

  19

  Cloned Will Hunting

  OPPOSITION LEADER MILDLY CRITICISES KAINE

  Opposition leader Mr Redmond van de Poste lightly attacked Yorrick Kaine's government yesterday over its possible failure to adequately address the nation's economic woes. Mr van de Poste suggested that the Danish were 'no more guilty of attacking this country than the Swedes' and then went on to question Kaine's independence given his close sponsorship ties with the Goliath Corporation. In reply. Chancellor Kaine thanked ran de Poste for alerting him to the Swedes, who were 'doubtless up to something', and pointed out that Mr van de Poste himself was sponsored by the Toast Marketing Board.

  Article in the Gadfly, 17 July 1988

  Sunday was meant to be a day off but it didn't really seem like it. I played golf with Braxton in the morning and outside work he was as amiable a gent as I could possibly hope to meet. He delighted in showing me the rudiments of golf and once or twice I hit the ball quite well – when it made the thwack noise and flew away as straight as a die I suddenly realised what all the fuss was about. It wasn't all fun and games, though – Braxton had been leaned on by Flanker, who, I assume, had been leaned on by somebody else higher up. In between putting practice and attempting to get my ball out of a bunker, Braxton confided that he couldn't hold off Flanker for ever with his empty promise of a report into my alleged Welsh cheese activities, and if I knew what was good for me I would have to at least try to look for banned books with SO-14. I promised I would and then joined him for a drink at the nineteenth hole, where we were regaled with stories by a large man with a red nose who was, apparently, the Oldest Member.

  I was awoken on Monday morning by a burbling noise from Friday. He was standing up in his cot and trying to grasp the curtain, which was out of his reach. He said that now that I was awake I could do a lot worse than take him downstairs where he could play whilst I made some breakfast. Well, he didn't use those precise words, of course – he said something more along the lines of 'Reprehenderit in voluptate velit id est mollit', but I knew what he meant.

  I couldn't think of any good reason not to, so I pulled on my dressing gown and took the little fellow downstairs, pondering on quite who, if anyone, was going to look after him today. Given that I had nearly got into a fight with Jack Schitt, I wasn't sure he should witness all that his mum got up to.

  My mother was already up.

  'Good morning, Mother,' I said, cheerfully, 'and how are you today?'

  I'm afraid not during the morning,' she said, divining my unasked question instantly, 'but I can probably manage from teatime onwards.'

  'I'd appreciate it,' I replied, looking at The Mole as I put on the porridge. Kaine had issued an ultimatum to the Danish: either the government in Denmark ended all its efforts to destabilise England and undermine our economy, or England would have no choice but to recall its ambassador. The Danish had replied that they didn't know what Kaine was talking about and demanded that the trade ban on Danish goods be lifted. Kaine responded angrily, made all sorts of counter-claims, imposed a 200 per cent tariff on Danish bacon imports and closed all avenues of communication.

  'Duis aute irure dolor est!' yelled Friday.

  'Keep your hair on,' I replied, 'it's coming.'

  'Plink!' said Alan angrily, gesturing towards his supper dish indignantly.

  'Wait your turn,' I told him.

  'Plink, PLINK! he replied, taking a step closer and opening his beak in a menacing manner.

  'Try and bite me,' I told him, 'and you'll be finding a new owner from the front window of Pete & Dave's!'

  Alan figured out that this was a threat and closed his beak. Pete & Dave's was the local re-engineered pet store, and I was serious. He'd already tried to bite my mother and even the local dogs were giving the house a wide berth.

  At that moment Joffy opened the back door and walked in. But he wasn't alone. He was with something that I can only describe as an untidy bag of thin bones covered in dirty skin and a rough blanket.

  'Ah!' said Joffy. 'Mum and Sis. Just the ticket. This is St Zvlkx. Your Grace, this is my mother, Mrs Next, and my sister, Thursday.'

  St Zvlkx looked at me suspiciously from behind a heavy curtain of oily black hair.

  'Welcome to Swindon, Mr Zvlkx,' said my mother, curtsying politely. 'Would you like some breakfast?'

  'He only speaks Old Enlish,' put in Joffy. 'Here, let me translate.'

  'Oi, Pig-face – are you going to eat, or what?'

  'Ahh!' said the monk, and sat down at the table. Friday stared at him a little dubiously, then started to jabber Lorem Ipsum at him while the monk stared at him dubiously.

  'How's it all going?' I asked.

  'Pretty good,' replied Joffy, pouring some coffee for himself and St Zvlkx. 'He's shooting a commercial this morning for the Toast Marketing Board and will be on The Adrian Lush Show at four. He's also guest speaker at the Swindon Dermatologists Convention at the Finis; apparently some of his skin complaints are unknown to science. I thought I'd bring him round to see you – he's full of wisdom, you know.'

  'It's barely eight in the morning!' said Mum.

  'St Zvlkx rises with the dawn as a penance,'Joffy explained. 'He spent all of Sunday pushing a peanut around the Brunei Centre with his nose.'

  'I spent it playing golf with Braxton Hicks.'

  'How did you do?'

  'Okay, I think. My croquet-playing skills stopped me making a complete arse of myself. Did you know that Braxton had six kids?'

  'Well, how about some wisdom, then?' said my mother brightly. 'I'm very big on thirteenth-century sagacity.'

  'Okay,' said Joffy. 'Oi! Make yourself useful and give us some wisdom, you old fart.'

  'Poke it up your arse.'

  'What did he say?'

  'Er – he said he would meditate upon it.'

  'Well,' said my mother, who was nothing if not hospitable and could just about make breakfast without consulting the recipe book, 'since you are our guest, Mr Zvlkx, what would you like for breakfast?'

  St Zvlkx stared at her.

  'Eat,' repeated my mother, making biting gestures. This seemed to do the trick.

  'Your mother has firm breasts for a middle-aged woman, orb-like and defying gravity. I should like to play with them, as a baker plays with dough.'

  'What did he say?'

 
'He says he'd be very grateful for bacon and eggs,' replied Joffy quickly, turning to St Zvlkx and saying: 'Any more crap out of you, sunshine, and I'll lock you in the cellar tomorrow night as well.'

  'What did you say to him?'

  'I thanked him for his attendance in your home.'

  'Ah.'

  Mum put the big frying pan on the cooker and broke some eggs into it, followed by large rashers of bacon. Pretty soon the smell of bacon pervaded the house, something that attracted not only a sleepwalking DH82 but also Hamlet and Lady Hamilton, who had given up pretending they weren't sleeping together.

  'Hubba, hubba,' said St Zvlkx as soon as Emma entered, 'who's the bunny with the scrummy hooters?'

  'He wishes you – um – both good morrow,' said Joffy, visibly shaken. 'St Zvlkx, this is Lady Hamilton anb Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'

  'If you're giving one of those puppies,' continued St Zvlkx, staring at Emma's cleavage, 'I'll have the one with the brown nose.'

  'Good morning,' said Hamlet without smiling. 'Any more bad language in front of the good Lady Hamilton and I'll take you outside and with a bare bodkin your quietus make.'

  'What did the prince say?' asked St Zvlkx.

  'Yes,' said Joffy, 'what did he say?'

  'It's Courier Bold,' I told him, 'the traditional language of the BookWorld. He said that he would be failing in his duty as a gentleman if he allowed Zvlkx to show any disrespect to Lady Hamilton.'

  'What did your sister say?' asked St Zvlkx. 'She said that if you insult Hamlet's bird again your nose will be two foot wide across your face.'

  'Oh.'

  'Well,' said my mother, 'this is turning out to be a very pleasant morning!'

  'In that case,' said Joffy, sensing the time was just right, 'could St Zvlkx stay here until midday? I've got to give a sermon to the Sisters of Eternal Punctuality at ten and if I'm late they throw their prayer books at me.'

  'No can do, o son my son,' said my mother, flipping the bacon. 'Why not take St Zvlkx with you? I'm sure the nuns will be impressed by his piety.'

  'Did someone mention nuns?' asked St Zvlkx, looking around eagerly.