A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (35 page)

“Mrs. Parke-Laine?” asked a very stocky individual, who stared at me earnestly from two deep-set brown eyes.

“SO-12?” I asked, wondering quite where the little beetle-browed man had sprung from.

“No, ma'am,” he replied, seizing a plum from a passing waiter and sniffing at it carefully before eating it, stone and all. “My name Bartholomew Stiggins; with SO-13.”

“What do
they
do?”

“Not at liberty to discuss,” he replied shortly, “but we may have need your skills and talents.”

“What kind of—”

But Mr. Stiggins was no longer listening to me. Instead, he was staring at a small beetle he had found on a flowerpot. With great care and a dexterity that belied his large and clumsy-looking hands, he picked the small bug up and popped it in his mouth. I looked at Landen, who winced.

“Sorry,” said Stiggins, as though he had just been caught picking his nose in public. “What the expression? Old habits die hard?”

“There's more in the compost heap,” said Landen helpfully.

The little man grinned very softly through his eyes; I didn't suppose he showed much emotion.

“If interested, I'll be in touch.”

“Be in touch,” I told him.

He grunted, replaced his hat, bid us both a happy day, inquired about the whereabouts of the compost heap and was gone.

“I've never seen a Neanderthal in a suit before,” observed Landen.

“Never mind about Mr. Stiggins,” I said, reaching up to kiss him.

“I thought you'd finished with SpecOps?”

“No,” I replied with a smile. “In fact, I think I'm only just beginning! . . .”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

Lost in a Good Book

 

A
Penguin
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2002
by
Jasper Fforde

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

 

ISBN:
978-1-1011-5811-1

 

A
PENGUIN
BOOK®

Penguin
Books first published by The Penguin Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

PENGUIN
and the “
Penguin
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: July, 2004

This Book
is dedicated to assistants everywhere.
You
make it happen for them.
They
couldn't do it without you.
Your
contribution is everything.

1.
The Adrian Lush Show

2.
The Special Operations Network

3.
Cardenio
Unbound

4.
Five Coincidences, Seven Irma Cohens and One Confused Neanderthal

5.
Vanishing Hitchhikers

4a.
Five Coincidences, Seven Irma Cohens and One Confused Thursday Next

6.
Family

7.
White Horse, Uffington, Picnics, for the Use of

8.
Mr. Stiggins and SO-1

9.
The More Things Stay the Same

10.
A Lack of Differences

11.
Granny Next

12.
At Home with My Memories

14.
The Gravitube

15.
Curiouser & Curiouser in Osaka

16.
Interview with the Cat

17.
Miss Havisham

18.
The Trial of Fräulein N

19.
Bargain Books

20.
Yorrick Kaine

21.
Les Artes Modernes de Swindon '85

22.
Travels with My Father

23.
Fun with Spike

24.
Performance-Related Pay, Miles Hawke & Norland Park

25.
Roll Call at Jurisfiction

26.
Assignment One: Bloophole Filled in
Great Expectations

27.
Landen and Joffy Again

28.
“The Raven”

29.
Rescued

30.
Cardenio
Rebound

31.
Dream Topping

32.
The End of Life as We Know It

33.
The Dawn of Life as We Know It

34.
The Well of Lost Plots

Sample viewing figures for major TV networks in England, September 1985

N
ETWORK
T
OAD

The Adrian Lush Show
(Wednesday) (Chat show) 16,428,316

The Adrian Lush Show
(Monday) (Chat show) 16,034,921

Bonzo the Wonder Hound
(Canine thriller) 15,975,462

M
OLE
TV

Name That Fruit!
(Answer questions for cash prizes) 15,320,340

65 Walrus Street
(Soap opera; Episode 3,352) 14,315,902

Dangerously Dysfunctional People Argue Live on TV
(Chat show) 11,065,611

O
WL
V
ISION

Will Marlowe or Kit Shakespeare?
(Literary quiz show) 13,591,203

One More Chance to See!
(Reverse extinction show) 2,321,820

G
OLIATH
C
ABLE
C
HANNEL
(1
TO
32)

Whose Lie Is It Anyway?
(Corporate comedy quiz show) 428

Cots to Coffins: Goliath. All you'll ever need.
(Docuganda) 9 (disputed)

N
EANDERTHAL
C
ABLE
N
ETWORK
4

Powertool Club Live
(Routers and power planers edition) 9,032

Jackanory Gold
(
Jane Eyre
edition) 7,219

WARWICK FRIDGE
,
The Ratings War

I
DIDN
'
T ASK
to be a celebrity. I never wanted to appear on
The Adrian Lush Show.
And let's get one thing straight right now—the world would have to be hurtling toward imminent
destruction before I'd agree to anything as dopey as
The Thursday Next Workout Video.

The publicity surrounding the successful rebookment of Jane Eyre was fun to begin with but rapidly grew wearisome. I happily posed for photocalls, agreed to newspaper interviews, hesitantly appeared on
Desert Island Smells
and was thankfully excused the embarrassment of
Celebrity Name That Fruit.
The public, ever fascinated by celebrity, had wanted to know
everything
about me following my excursion within the pages of
Jane Eyre,
and since the Special Operations Network have a PR record on par with that of Vlad the Impaler, the Top Brass thought it would be a good wheeze to use me to boost their flagging popularity. I dutifully toured all points of the globe doing signings, library openings, talks and interviews. The same questions, the same SpecOps-approved answers. Supermarket openings, literary dinners, offers of book deals. I even met the actress Lola Vavoom, who said that she would simply
adore
to play me if there was a film. It was tiring, but more than that—
it
was dull.
For the first time in my career at the Literary Detectives I actually missed authenticating Milton.

I'd taken a week's leave as soon my tour ended so Landen and I could devote some time to married life. I moved all my stuff to his house, rearranged his furniture, added my books to his and introduced my dodo, Pickwick, to his new home. Landen and I ceremoniously partitioned the bedroom closet space, decided to
share
the sock drawer, then had an argument over who was to sleep on the wall side of the bed. We had long and wonderfully pointless conversations about nothing in particular, walked Pickwick in the park, went out to dinner, stayed in for dinner, stared at each other a lot and slept in late every morning. It was
wonderful.

On the fourth day of my leave, just between lunch with
Landen's mum and Pickwick's notable first fight with the neighbor's cat, I got a call from Cordelia Flakk. She was the senior SpecOps PR agent here in Swindon and she told me that Adrian Lush wanted me on his show. I wasn't mad keen on the idea—or the show. But there was an upside.
The Adrian Lush Show
went out live, and Flakk assured me that this would be a “no holds barred” interview, something that held a great deal of appeal. Despite my many appearances, the true story about
Jane
Eyre
was yet to be told—and I had been wanting to drop the Goliath Corporation in it for quite a while. Flakk's assurance that this would finally be the end of the press junket clinched my decision. Adrian Lush it would be.

I traveled up to the Network Toad studios a few days later on my own; Landen had a deadline looming and needed to get his head down. But I wasn't alone for long. As soon as I stepped into the large entrance lobby a milk-curdling shade of green strode purposefully towards me.

“Thursday,
darling!
” cried Cordelia, beads rattling. “
So
glad you could make it!”

The SpecOps dress code stated that our apparel should be “dignified,” but in Cordelia's case they had obviously stretched a point. She looked about as far from a serving officer as one could get. Looks, in her case, were highly deceptive. She was SpecOps all the way from her high heels to the pink-and-yellow scarf tied in her hair.

She air-kissed me affectionately. “How's married life treating you?”

“Very well.”

“Excellent, my dear, I wish you and . . . er . . .”

“Landen?”

“Yes; I wish you and Landen both the best.
Love
what you've done with your hair!”

“My hair? I haven't done anything with my hair!”

“Exactly!” replied Flakk quickly. “It's so incredibly
you.
What do you think of the outfit?”

“One's attention is drawn straight to it,” I replied ambiguously.

“This
is
1985,” she explained. “Bright colors are the future. See this top? Half price in the sales. I'll let you loose in my wardrobe one day.”

“I think I've got some pink socks of my own somewhere.”

She smiled.

“It's a start, my dear. Listen, you've been a shining star about all this publicity work; I'm very grateful—and so is SpecOps.”

“Grateful enough to post me somewhere other than the Literary Detectives?” I asked hopefully.

“Well,” murmured Cordelia reflectively, “first things first. As soon as you've done the Lush interview your transfer application will be aggressively considered, you have my word on
that.
”

I sighed. “Aggressively considered” had the ring of “ definitely perhaps” about it and wasn't as promising as I could have wished. Despite the successes at work, I still wanted to move up within the Network. Cordelia, reading my disappointment, took my arm in a friendly gesture and steered me towards the waiting area.

“Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“Spot of bother in Auckland?”

“Brontë Federation offshoot caused a bit of trouble,” I explained. “They didn't like the new ending of
Jane Eyre.
”

“There'll always be a few malcontents,” observed Flakk with a smile. “Milk?”

“Just a tad.”

“Oh,” she said, staring at the milk jug, “this milk's off. No
matter. Listen,” she said quietly, “I'd love to stay and watch, but some SpecOps-17 clot in Penzance staked a Goth by mistake; it's going to be PR hell on earth down there.”

SO-17 were the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operation. Despite a new three-point confirmation procedure, a jumpy cadet with a sharpened stake could still spell
big
trouble.

“Everything is all absolutely hunky-dory here. I've spoken to Adrian Lush and the others so there won't be any embarrassments.”

“No holds barred, eh?” I grimaced, but Flakk was unapologetic.

“Needs must, Thursday. SpecOps requires your support in these difficult times. President Formby
himself
has called for an inquiry into whether SpecOps are value-for-money—or even necessary at all.”

“Okay,” I agreed, quite against my better judgment, “but this is the
very last interview,
yes?”

“Of course!” agreed Flakk hastily, then added in an overdramatic manner: “Oh my goodness is that the time? I have to catch the airship to Barnstaple in an hour. This is Adie; she'll be looking after you and . . . and—” here Cordelia leaned just a little bit closer—“remember you're SpecOps, darling!”

She air-kissed me again, glanced at her watch and took to her heels in a cloud of expensive scent.

“How could I forget?” I muttered as a bouncy girl clutching a clipboard appeared from where she had been waiting respectfully out of earshot.

“Hi!” squeaked the girl. “I'm Adie. I'm
so
pleased to meet you!”

She grasped my hand and told me repeatedly what a
fantastic
honor it was.

“I don't want to bug you or anything,” she asked shyly, “but was Edward Rochester
really
drop-dead-gorgeous-to-die-for?”

“Not handsome,” I answered as I watched Flakk slink off down the corridor, “but certainly attractive. Tall, deep voice and glowering looks, if you know the type.”

Adie turned a deep shade of pink.

“Gosh!”

I was taken into makeup, where I was puffed and primped, talked at mercilessly and made to sign copies of the
FeMole
I had appeared in. I was very relieved when Adie came to rescue me thirty minutes later. She announced into her wireless that we were “walking” and then, after leading me down a corridor and through some swing doors, asked:

“What's it like working in SpecOps? Do you chase bad guys, clamber around on the outside of airships, defuse bombs with three seconds to go, that sort of stuff?”

“I wish I did,” I replied good-humoredly, “but in truth it's 70% form filling, 27% mind-numbing tedium and 2% sheer terror.”

“And the remaining 1%?”

I smiled. “That's what keeps us going.”

We walked the seemingly endless corridors, past large grinning photographs of Adrian Lush and assorted other Network-Toad celebrities.

“You'll like Adrian,” she told me happily, “and he'll like you. Just don't try to be funnier than him; it doesn't suit the format of the show.”

“What does
that
mean?”

She shrugged.

“I don't know. I'm meant to tell all his guests that.”

“Even the comedians?”

“
Especially
the comedians.”

I assured her being funny was furthest from my mind, and pretty soon she directed me onto the studio floor. Feeling unusually nervous and wishing that Landen was with me, I
walked across the familiar front-room set of
The Adrian Lush Show.
But Mr. Lush was nowhere to be seen—and neither were the “Live Studio Audience” a Lush show usually boasted. Instead, a small group of officials were waiting—the “others” Flakk had told me about. My heart fell when I saw who they were.

“Ah, there you are, Next!” boomed Commander Braxton Hicks with forced bonhomie. “You're looking well, healthy, and, er, vigorous.” He was my divisional chief back at Swindon, and despite being head of the Literary Detectives, was not that good with words.

“What are you doing here, sir?” I asked him, straining not to show my disappointment. “Cordelia told me the Lush interview would be uncensored in every way.”

“Oh it
is,
dear girl—up to a point,” he said, stroking his large mustache. “Without benign intervention things can get very confused in the public mind. We thought we would listen to the interview and perhaps—if the need arose—offer
practical advice
as to how the proceedings should—er—proceed.”

I sighed. My untold story looked set to remain exactly that. Adrian Lush, supposed champion of free speech, the man who had dared to air the grievances felt by the neanderthal, the first to suggest publicly that the Goliath Corporation “had shortcomings,” was about to have his nails well and truly clipped.

“Colonel Flanker you've already met,” went on Braxton without drawing breath.

I eyed the man suspiciously. I knew him well enough. He was at SpecOps-1, the division that polices SpecOps itself. He had interviewed me about the night I had first tried to tackle master criminal Acheron Hades—the night Snood and Tamworth died. He tried to smile several times but eventually gave up and offered his hand for me to shake instead.

“This is Colonel Rabone,” carried on Braxton. “She is head of Combined Forces Liaison.” I shook hands with the colonel.

“Always honored to meet a holder of the Crimean Cross,” she said, smiling.

“And over here,” continued Braxton in a jocular tone that was obviously designed to put me at ease—a ploy that failed spectacularly—“is Mr. Schitt-Hawse of the Goliath Corporation.”