A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (123 page)

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Authors: Jasper Fforde

BOOK: A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5
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“Yes, but—”
“And the traffic police said they saw you aiding and abetting a known serial dangerous driver on the A419 north of Swindon.”
“That's—”
“But what's worse was that you lied to me systematically from the moment you came under my command. You said you would learn to play golf, and you never so much as picked up a putter.”
“But—”
“I have proof of your lies, too. I personally visited every single golf club, and not one of them had ever let someone of your description play golf there—not even on the practice ranges. How do you explain
that,
eh?”
“Well—”
“You vanish from sight two and a half years ago. Not a word. Had to demote you. Star employee. Newspapers had a field day. Upset my swing for weeks.”
“I'm sorry if it upset your golf, sir.”
“You're rather in the soup, young lady.”
He stared at me in exactly the sort of way my English teacher used to at school, and I had that sudden and dangerously overpowering urge to laugh out loud. Luckily, I didn't.
“What have you got to say for yourself ?”
“I can explain, if you'll let me.”
“My girl, I've been trying to get you to tell me for five—”
The door opened again, and in walked Colonel Flanker of SO-1. He ran Internal Affairs, the SpecOps Police. About as welcome as worms and another old bête noire of mine. If Hicks was bad, Flanker was worse. Braxton only wanted me to do some sort of disciplinary nonsense—Flanker would want to lock me up for good,
after
I had led them to my father.
“So!” he said as soon as he saw me. “It's true. Thank you, Braxton, my prisoner. Officer Jodrell, cuff her.”
Jodrell walked over to me, took one of my wrists and placed it behind my back. There didn't seem to be much point of running; I could see at least three other SO-1 agents hovering near the door. I thought of Friday. If only Bowden had got to me a few minutes earlier!
“Just a minute, Mr. Flanker,” said Braxton, closing my file. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Arresting Miss Next on charges of being AWOL, dereliction of duty and illegal possession of bootleg cheese—for starters.”
“She was on assignment for SO-23,” said Braxton, staring at him evenly, “undercover for the Cheese Squad.”
I couldn't believe my ears. Braxton lying? For
me?
“The Cheese Squad?” echoed Flanker with some surprise.
“Yes,” replied Braxton, who, once started, clearly found the subterfuge and reckless use of his authority somewhat exciting. “She's been in deep cover in Wales for two years on a clandestine espionage operation monitoring illegal cheese factories. The cheeses with her fingerprints on them were part of an illegal cross-border shipment that she helped seize.”
“Really?” said Flanker, his confidence rattled.
“On my word. She's not under arrest, she's being debriefed. It seems that the operation was under the control of Joe Martlet. Full details will be available from him.”
“You know as well as I do that Joe was shot dead by the Cheese Mafia two weeks ago.”
“It was a tragedy,” admitted Braxton. “Fine man, Martlet—one of the best. Could play a three under par with ease and never swore when he drove it into the rough—and hence Miss Next's reappearance,” he added without a pause. I'd never seen anyone lie so well before. Not even me. Not even Friday when I found he'd raided the cookie jar with Pickwick's help.
“Is this true?” asked Flanker. “Two years undercover in Wales?”
“Ydy, ond dydy hi ddim wedi bwrw glaw
pob
dydd!”
I replied in my best Welsh.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment without speaking.
“I was just reassigning her to the Literary Detectives when you walked in the door,” added Braxton.
Flanker looked at Braxton, then at me, then at Braxton again. He nodded to Jodrell, who released me.
“Very well. But I want a full report on my desk Tuesday.”
“You can have it Friday, Mr. Flanker. I'm a very busy man.”
Flanker glared at me for a moment, then addressed Braxton: “Since Miss Next is back with the Literary Detectives perhaps you would be good enough to appoint her the SO-14 Danish Book Seizure Liaison Officer. My boys are pretty good at the seizure stuff, but to be honest, none of them can tell a Mark Twain from a Samuel Clemens.”
“I'm not sure I want—” I began.
“I think you should be happy to assist me, Miss Next, don't you? A chance to make amends for past transgressions, yes?”
Braxton answered for me.
“I'm sure Miss Next would be happy to assist in any way she can, Mr. Flanker.”
Flanker gave a rare smile.
“Good. I'll have my divisional head of SO-14 get in touch with you.” He turned to Braxton. “But I'll still need that report on Tuesday.”
“You'll get it,” replied Braxton, “. . . on Friday.”
Flanker glared at us both and without another word strode from the room, his minions at his heels. When the door closed I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sir, I—”
“I don't want to hear anything more about it,” replied Braxton sharply, gathering up his papers. “I retire in two months' time and wanted to do something that made my whole pen-pushing, play-it-safe, shiny-arse career actually be worth it. I don't know what's going to happen to the LiteraTec division with all this insane Danish book-burning stuff, but what I do know is that people like you need to stay in it. Lead them on a merry goose chase, young lady—I can keep Flanker wrapped up in red tape pretty much forever.”
“Braxton,” I said, giving him a spontaneous hug, “you're a darling!”
“Nonsense!” he said gruffly, and a tad embarrassed. “But I do expect a little something in return.”
“And that is?”
“Well,” he said slowly, his eyes dropping to the ground, “I wonder if you and I might—”
“Might what?”
“Might . . . play golf on Sunday. A few holes.” His eyes gleamed. “Just for you to get the taste. Believe me, as soon as you grasp the handle of a golf club, you'll be hooked forever! Mrs. Hicks need never know. How about it?”
“I'll be there at nine,” I told him, laughing.
“You'll be a long time waiting—I get there at eleven.”
“Eleven it is.”
I shook his hand and walked out of the door a free woman. Sometimes help arrives from the last place you expect it.
7.
The Literary Detectives
Goliath Corporation Publishes Broad Denial
The Goliath Corporation yesterday attempted to head off annoying and time-wasting speculation by issuing the broadest denial to date. “Quite simply, we deny everything,” said Mr. Toedee, the Goliath head PR operative, “including any story that you might have heard now or in the future.” Goliath's shock tactics reflected the growing unease with Goliath's unaccountability, especially over its advanced weapons division. “It's very simple,” continued Mr. Toedee. “Until we have been elevated to a Faith when everything can be denied using the ‘Goliath works in mysterious ways' excuse, we expressly deny possessing, or any involvement with, the Ovinator, Anti-Smite technology, Speedgrow tomatoes or Diatrymas running wild in the New Forest. In fact, we don't know what any of these things are.” To cries of “What is an Ovinator?” and “Tomatoes?” Mr. Toedee declared the press conference over, blessed everyone and departed.
Article in
The Toad on Sunday,
July 3, 1988
 
 
I
found Bowden fretting in the LiteraTec office and related what had happened.
“Well, well,” he said at last, “I think old Braxton's got a crush.”
“Oh, stop it!”
The office we were sitting in resembled a large library in a country house somewhere. It was two stories high, with shelves crammed full of books covering every square inch of wall space. A spiral staircase led to a catwalk that ran around the wall, enabling access to the upper galleries. It was neat and methodical—but somehow less busy than I remembered.
“Where is everyone?”
“When you were here last, we had a staff of eight. Now it's only Victor, me, and Malin. All the rest were reassigned or laid off.”
“All SpecOps departments?”
Bowden laughed. “Of course not! The bullyboys at SO-14 are alive and well and answer to Yorrick Kaine's every order. SO-1 hasn't seen many cuts, either—”
“Thursday, what a delightful surprise!”
It was Victor Analogy, my old boss here at the Swindon LiteraTecs. He was an elderly gentlemen with large muttonchop side-burns and was dressed in a neat tweed suit and bow tie. He had taken off his jacket due to the summer heat but still managed to cut a very dashing figure, despite his advanced age.
“Victor, you're looking very well!”
“And you, dear girl. What devilry have you been up to since last we met?”
“It's a long story.”
“The best sort. Let me guess:
inside
fiction?”
“In one.”
“What's it like?”
“It's quite good, really. Confusing at times and subject to moments of extreme imaginative overload, but varied, and the weather's generally pretty good. Can we talk safely in here?”
Victor nodded, and we sat down. I told them about Jurisfiction, the Council of Genres and everything else that had happened to me during my tenure as Bellman. I even told them loosely about my involvement in
The Solution of Edwin Drood,
which amused them both no end.
“I've always wondered about that,” mused Victor thoughtfully. “But you're sure about Yorrick Kaine's being fictional?”
I told him that I was.
He stood up and walked to the window. “You'll have a hard time getting close,” said Victor thoughtfully. “Does he know you're back?”
“Definitely,” said Bowden.
“Then you could be threatening his position as absolute ruler of England almost as much as President Formby is. I should keep on your toes, my girl. Is there anything we can do to help?”
I thought for a moment. “There is, actually. We can't find which book Yorrick Kaine has escaped from. He could be using a false name, and we should contact any readers who might recognize the Chancellor's somewhat crazed antics from an obscure character they might have read somewhere. We at Jurisfiction have been going through the Great Library at our end, but we've still drawn a blank—every character in fiction has been accounted for.”
“We'll do what we can, Thursday. When can you rejoin us?”
“I don't know,” I answered slowly. “I have to get my husband back. Remember I told you he was eradicated by the ChronoGuard?”
“Yes.
Lindane,
wasn't it?”
“Landen. If it weren't for him, I'd probably stay inside fiction.”
We all fell silent for a moment.
“So,” I said cheerfully, “what's been happening in the world of the LiteraTecs?”
Victor frowned.
“We can't hold with the book-burning lark of Kaine's. You heard about the order to start incinerating Danish literature?”
I nodded.
“Kierkegaard's works are being rounded up as we speak. I told Braxton that if we were asked to do any of it we'd resign.”
“Oh-ah.”
“I'm not sure I like the way you said that,” said Bowden.
I winced. “I agreed to be the SO-14 Danish Book Seizure Liaison Officer for Flanker—sorry. I didn't have much of a choice.”
“I see that as
good
news,” put in Bowden. “You can have them searching in places they won't find any Danish books. Just be careful. Flanker has been suspicious ever since we said we were too busy to find out who was planning to smuggle copies of
The Concept of Dread
to Wales for safekeeping.”
Bowden laughed and lowered his voice. “It wasn't an excuse,” he chuckled. “We actually
were
too busy—gathering copies of banned books ready for transportation to Wales!”
Victor grimaced. “I really don't want to hear this, Bowden. If you get caught, we'll all be for the high jump!”
“Some things are worth going to jail for, Victor,” replied Bowden in an even tone. “As LiteraTecs we swore to uphold and defend the written word—not indulge a crazed politician's worst paranoic fantasies.”
“Just be careful.”
“Of course,” replied Bowden. “It might come to nothing if we can't find a way to get the books out of England—the Welsh border shouldn't be a problem since Wales aligned itself with Denmark. I don't suppose you have any ideas how to get across the English border post?”
“I'm not sure,” I replied. “How many copies of banned books do you want to smuggle anyway?”
“About four truckloads.”
I whistled. Things—like cheese, for instance—were usually smuggled
in
to England. I didn't know how I'd get banned books
out.
“I'll give it a shot. What else is going on?”
“Usual stuff,” replied Bowden. “Faked Milton, Jonson, Swift . . . Montague and Capulet street gangs . . . someone discovered a first draft of
The Mill on the Floss
entitled
The Sploshing of the Weirs
. Also, the Daphne Farquitt Specialist Bookshop went up in smoke.”
“Insurance scam?”
“No—probably anti-Farquitt protesters again.”

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