A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (70 page)

“Cat!” yelled Tweed again. “Where's that King Pellinore I asked for?”
⁵

“Keep trying,” muttered Tweed. “We've still got a few minutes. Next—have
you
any ideas?”

For once, I didn't. With loathsome creatures from the id
outside,
a fictional person pretending to be real
inside
and me in the middle wondering quite what I was doing here in the first place, creative thought wasn't exactly high on my agenda. I mumbled an apology and shook my head.

There was a crunching sound as the Questing Beast made its
way down the corridor amidst screams of terror and sporadic rifle fire.

“Raffles?” yelled Tweed. “How long?”

“Two minutes, old chum,” replied the safecracker without pausing or looking up. He had finished drilling the hole, made a small cup out of clay and stuck it against the side of the safe and was now pouring in what looked like liquid nitrogen.

The battle outside seemed to increase in ferocity. There were shouts, concussions from grenades, screams and the rattle of automatic weaponry until, after an almighty crash that shook the ceiling lights and toppled books from their shelves, all was quiet.

We looked at one another. Then a gentle tap rang out, like the tip of a spear struck against the other side of the steel door. There was a pause, then another.

“Thank goodness!” said Tweed in relief. “King Pellinore must have arrived and seen it off. Next, open the door.”

But I didn't. Suspicious of loathsome beasts from the deepest recesses of the human imagination, I stayed my hand. It was as well that I did. The next blow was harder. The blow following
that
was harder still; the vault door shook.

“Blast!” exclaimed Tweed. “Why is there
never
a Pellinore around when you need one? Raffles, we don't have much time—!”

“Just a few minutes more . . .” replied Raffles quietly, tapping the safe door with a hammer while Bunny pulled on the brass handle.

Tweed looked at me as the library door buckled under another heavy blow; a split opened up in the steel, and the locking wheel sheared off and dropped to the ground. It wasn't a question of
if
the Glatisant got in, it was a question of
when.

“Okay,” said Tweed reluctantly, grabbing my elbow in anticipation of a jump, “that's it. Raffles, Bunny, out of here!”

“Just a few moments longer . . .” replied the safecracker with his usual calm. Raffles was used to fine deadlines and didn't like to give up on a safe, no matter what the possible consequences.

The steel door buckled once more and the rent in the steel grew wider as the Questing Beast charged it with a deafening crash. Books fell off the shelves in a cloud of dust and a foul odor began to fill the air. Then, as the Questing Beast readied itself for another blow, I had the one thing that had eluded me for the past half hour.
An idea.
I pulled Tweed close to me and whispered in his ear.

“No!” he said. “What if—?”

I explained again, he smiled and I began:

“So one of you is fictional,” I announced, looking at them both.

“And we have to find out who it is,” remarked Tweed, leveling his pistol in their direction.

“Might it be Yorrick Kaine—” I added, staring at Kaine, who glared back at me, wondering what we were up to,

“—failed right-wing politician—”

“—with a cheery enthusiasm for war—”

“—and putting a lid on civil liberties?”

Tweed and I bantered lines back and forth for as long as we dared, faster and faster, the blows from the beast outside matching the blows from Raffles's hammer within.

“Or perhaps it is Volescamper—”

“—lord of the
old
realm, who wants—”

“—to try and get—”

“—back into power with the help—”

“—of his friends at the Whig party?”

“
But
the important thing is, in all this dialogue—”

“—that has pitched back and forward between—”

“—the two of us, a
fictional
person—”

“—might have lost track of which one of us is talking.”

“And do you know, in all the excitement,
I kind of forgot myself!
”

There was another crash against the door. A splinter of steel flew off and zipped past my ear. The doors were almost breached; with the next blow the abomination would be upon us.

“So you're going to have to ask yourselves one simple question:
Which one of us is speaking now?
”

“You are!” yelled Volescamper, pointing—correctly—at me. Kaine, revealing his fictional roots by his inability to follow undedicated dialogue, pointed his finger—at
Tweed.

He corrected himself quickly, but it was too late for the politician, and he knew it. He scowled at the two of us, trembling with rage. His charming manner seemed to desert him as we sprang the trap; suaveness gave way to snarling, smooth politeness to clumsy threats.

“Now listen,” growled Kaine, trying to regain control of the situation, “you two are in way over your heads. Try to arrest me and I can make things
very
difficult for you—one footnoterphone call from me and the pair of you will spend the next eternity on grammasite watch inside the
OED
.”

But Tweed was made of stern stuff, too.

“I've closed bloopholes in
Dracula
and
Biggles Flies East,
” he replied evenly. “I don't frighten easily. Call off the Glatisant and put your hands on your head.”

“Leave
Cardenio
here with me—if only until tomorrow,” added Kaine, changing tack abruptly and forcing a smile. “In return I can give you
anything
you want. Power, cash—an earldom, Cornwall, character exchange into Hemingway—you name it, Kaine will provide!”

“You have nothing of any value to bargain with, Mr. Kaine,” Tweed told him, his hand tightening on his pistol. “For the last time—”

But Kaine had no intention of being taken, alive or otherwise. He cursed us both to a painful excursion in the twelfth circle of hell and melted from view as Tweed fired. The slug buried itself harmlessly in a complete set of bound
Punch
magazines. At the same time the steel doors burst open. But instead of a pestilential hell-beast conjured from the depths of mankind's most degenerate thoughts, only an icy rush of air entered, bringing with it the lingering smell of death. The Questing Beast had vanished as quickly as its master, back to the oral tradition and any books unfortunate enough to feature it.

“Cat!” yelled Tweed as he reholstered his gun. “We've got a PageRunner. I need a bookhound ASAP!”
⁶

Volescamper sat down on a handy chair and looked bewildered.

“You mean,” he stammered incredulously, “look here, Kaine was—?”

“—entirely fictional—yes,” I replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“You mean
Cardenio
didn't belong to my grandfather's library after all?” he asked, his confusion giving way to sadness.

“I'm sorry, Volescamper,” I told him. “Kaine stole the manuscript. He used your library as a front.”

“And if I were you,” added Tweed in a less kindly aside, “I should just go upstairs and pretend you slept all through this. You never saw us, never heard us, you know
nothing
of what happened here.”

“Bingo!” cried Raffles as the handle on the safe turned, shattering the frozen lock inside and creaking open. Raffles handed me the manuscript before he and Bunny vanished back to their own book with only the thanks of Jurisfiction to show for the night's efforts—a valuable commodity on their side of the law.

I passed
Cardenio
to Tweed. He rested a reverential hand on the play and smiled a rare smile.

“An undedicated dialogue trap, Next—quick thinking. Who knows, we might make a Jurisfiction agent of you yet.”

“Well, thank—”

“Cat!” bellowed Tweed again. “Where's that blasted bookhound?”
⁷

A large and sad-looking bloodhound appeared from nowhere, looked at us both lugubriously, made a sort of hopeless doggy-sigh and then started to sniff the books scattered on the floor in a professional manner. Tweed snapped a lead on the dog's collar.

“If I was the sort of person to apologize,” he conceded, straining at the leash of the bookhound, who had locked onto the scent of one of Kaine's expletives, “I would. Join me in the hunt for Kaine?”

It was tempting, but I remembered Dad's prediction—and there was Landen to think of.

“I have to save the world tomorrow,” I announced, surprising myself by just how matter-of-fact I sounded. Tweed, on the other hand, didn't seem in the least surprised.

“Oh!” he said. “Well, another time, then. On sir, seek,
away!
”

The bookhound gave an excited bark and leaped forward; Tweed hung grimly to the leash and they both disappeared into fine mist and the smell of hot paper.

 

“I suppose,” said Lord Volescamper, interrupting the silence in a glum voice, “that this means I won't be in Kaine's government after all?”

“Politics is overrated,” I told him.

“Perhaps you're right,” he agreed, getting up. “Well, goodnight,
Miss Next. I didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, is that right?”

“Nothing at all.”

Volescamper sighed and looked at the shattered remains of the interior of his house. He picked his way to the twisted steel door and turned to face me.

“Always was a heavy sleeper. Look here, pop round for tea and scones one day, why don't you?”

“Thank you, sir. I shall. Goodnight.”

Volescamper gave me a desultory wave and was soon out of sight. I smiled to myself at the revelation of Kaine's fictional identity; I reckoned that not being a real person had to present a pretty good obstacle to being prime minister, but I couldn't help wondering just how much power he
did
wield within the world of fiction—and whether I had heard the last of him. After all, the Whig party was still in existence, with or without their leader. Still, Tweed was a professional, and I had other things to deal with.

 

I looked down the corridor, past the twisted doors. The front of Vole Towers, was virtually destroyed; the ceiling had collapsed and rubble lay strewn around where the Glatisant had fought the very finest of SO-14. I picked my way through the twisted door and down the corridor, where deep gouges had been scraped in the floor and walls by the leaden hide of the beast. The remaining SpecOps-14 operatives had all pulled back to regroup, and I slipped out in the confusion. Nine good men fell to the Questing Beast that night. The officers would all be awarded the SpecOps Star for Conspicuous Bravery in the Face of Other.

 

As I walked along the gravel drive away from what remained of Vole Towers, I could see a white charger galloping towards me,
the warrior on its back holding a sharpened lance while behind him a dog barked excitedly. I waved King Pellinore to a halt.

“Ah!” he said, raising his visor and peering down at me. “The Next girl! Seen the Questin' Beast, what what?”

“I'm afraid you've missed it,” I explained. “Sorry.”

“Dem shame,” announced Pellinore sadly, parking the lance in his stirrup. “Dem shame indeed, eh? I'll find it, you know. It is the lot of the Pellinores, to go a-mollocking for the beastly beast. Come, sir—away!”

He spurred his steed and galloped off across the parkland of Vole Towers, the horse's hooves throwing great divots of grass high in the air, the large white dog running behind them, barking furiously.

 

I returned to my apartment after giving an anonymous tip-off to
The Mole,
suggesting that they confirm the ongoing existence of
Cardenio.
The fact that I still had the apartment verified once and for all that Landen hadn't been returned. I had been a fool to think that Goliath would honor their part of the deal. I sat in the dark for a while, but even fools need rest, so I went to sleep
under
the bed as a precaution, which was just as well—at 3 a.m. Goliath turned up, had a good look around and then left. I stayed hidden as a further precaution and was glad of this also, because SpecOps turned up at 4 a.m. and did exactly the same. Confident now of no further interruptions, I crawled out from my hiding place and climbed into bed, sleeping heavily until ten the next morning.

Ever since calories and “sugar intake” were discovered, the realm of the pudding has suffered intensely. There was a day when one could honestly and innocently enjoy the sheer pleasure of a good sticky toffee pudding; when ice cream was nice cream and bakewell tart really was baked well. Tastes change, though, and the world of the sweet has often been sour, having to go through some dramatic overhaulage in order to keep pace. Whilst a straightforward sausage and a common kedgeree maintain their hold on a nation's culinary choices, the pudding has to stay on its toes to tantalize our tastebuds. From low fat through to no fat, from sugar-free through to taste-free; what the next stage is we can only wait and see. . . .

CILLA BUBB
,
Don't Desert Your Desserts

I
PEERED CAUTIOUSLY
from the window as I ate my breakfast and could see a black SpecOps Packard on the street corner, doubtless waiting for me to make an appearance. Across the road from them was another car, this time the unmistakable deep blue of Goliath; Mr. Cheese leaned against the bonnet, smoking. I switched on the telly and caught the news. The break-in at Vole Towers had been heavily censored, but it was reported that an unknown “agency” had gained entrance to the building, killed a number of SO-14 agents and made off with
Cardenio.
Lord Volescamper had been interviewed and maintained that he had been “sound asleep” and knew nothing. Yorrick Kaine was still reported as “missing,” and early exit polls from the day's election had shown that Kaine and the Whigs had not to have lived up to expectations. Without
Cardenio,
the powerful Shakespeare lobby had returned their allegiances to the current administration, who had promised to postpone, with the help of the ChronoGuard, the eighteenth-century demolition of Shakespeare's old Stratford home.

I allowed myself a wry smile at Kaine's dramatic fall but felt sorry for the officers who had had to face the Questing Beast. I walked through to the kitchen. Pickwick looked at me and then at her empty supper dish with an accusing air.

“Sorry,” I muttered as I poured her some dried fruit.

“How's the egg?”

“Plock-plock,”
said Pickwick.

“Well,” I replied, “suit yourself. I was only asking.”

I made another cup of tea and sat down to have a think. Dad had said the world was going to end this evening, but whether that was
really
going to happen or not, I had no idea. As for me, I was wanted by SpecOps
and
Goliath; I was going to have to either outwit them or lie very low for a long time. I spent most of the day pacing my apartment, trying to figure out the best course of action. I wrote out my account of what had happened and hid it behind the fridge, just in case. I expected Dad to turn up, but the hours ticked by and everything carried on as normal. The Goliath and SpecOps vehicles were relieved by two others at midday, and as dusk drew on I became more desperate. I couldn't stay trapped inside my own apartment forever. Bowden and Joffy I could trust—and perhaps Miles, too. I elected to sneak out and use a public phonebox to call Bowden and was just about to open the door when someone pressed the intercom buzzer downstairs. I quickly ducked out of my apartment and
started to run down the staircase. If I reached the bottom and made my way out through the service entrance I might be able to slip away. Then, disaster. One of the tenants was about to leave at that precise moment and opened the door for whoever it was. I heard a brusque voice.

“Here for Miss Next—SpecOps.”

I cursed Mrs. Scroggins as she replied: “Fourth floor, second on the left!”

The fire escape was out the front in full view of SpecOps and Goliath, so I ran all the way back upstairs to my flat, only to find that in my hurry I had locked myself out. There was nowhere to hide except behind a potted rubber plant about seven sizes too small, so I pushed open the letterbox and hissed: “Pickwick!”

She wandered out into the hall from the living room and stared at me, head cocked on one side.

“Good. Now listen. I know that Landen said you were really bright, and if you don't do this I'm going to be looped and you're going to be put in a zoo. Now, I need you to find my keys.”

Pickwick stared at me dubiously, took two steps closer and then relaxed and plocked a bit.

“Yes, yes, it's me. All the marshmallows you can eat, Pickers, but I need my keys. My
keys.
”

Pickwick obediently stood on one leg.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Ah, Next!” said a voice behind me. I stopped, rested my head against the door and let the letterbox snap shut.

“Hello, Cordelia,” I said softly without turning round.

“Well, you
have
been giving us the runaround, haven't you?”

I paused, turned and stood up. But Cordelia wasn't with any other SpecOps types—she was with a couple, the winners of her competition. Perhaps things were not quite as bad as I
thought. I put my arm around her shoulder and walked her out of earshot.

“Cordelia—”

“Dilly.”

“Dilly—”

“Yes, Thurs?”

“What's the word over at SpecOps?”

“Well, darling,” answered Cordelia, “the order for your arrest is still only within SpecOps—Flanker is hoping you'll give yourself up. Goliath are telling anyone who will listen that you stole some highly sensitive industrial secrets.”

“It's all bullshit, Cordelia.”

“I know
that,
Thursday. But I've a job to do. Are you going to meet my people now?”

I had nothing to lose, so we returned to where the two of them were looking at a brochure for the Gravitube.

“Thursday Next, this is James and Catia Plummer, visitors to Swindon for their honeymoon.”

“Congratulations,” I said, shaking their hands and adding: “Swindon for a honeymoon, eh? You must live only for pleasure.”

Cordelia elbowed me and scowled.

“I'd invite you in for a coffee,” I explained, “but I've locked myself out.”

James rummaged in his pocket and produced a set of keys.

“Are these yours? I found them on the path outside.”

“I don't think that's very likely.”

But they
were
my keys—a set I had lost a few days earlier. I unlocked the door.

“Come on in. That's Pickwick. Stay away from the windows; there are a few people I don't want to meet outside.”

They shut the door behind them and I walked through to the kitchen.

“I was married once,” I said as I looked out of the kitchen window. I needn't have worried; the two cars and their occupants were in the same place. “And I hope to be again. Did you tie the knot in Swindon?”

“No,” replied Catia. “We were going to have a blessing in the Church of Our Blessed Lady of the Lobsters, but—”

“But what?”

“We were late and missed the appointment.”

“Ah,” I replied, pausing to consider just how
wholly unlikely
it was that James had found my keys when other passing residents had missed them.

“Can I ask you a question, Miss Next?” asked James.

“Call me Thursday. Hang on a minute.”

I nipped into the living room to fetch the entroposcope and shook it as I walked back in.

“Well, Thursday,” continued James, “I was wondering—”

“Shit!” I exclaimed, looking at the swirling pattern within the rice and lentils. “It's happening again!”

“I think your dodo is hungry,” observed Catia, as Pickwick performed her “starving dodo” routine for her on the kitchen floor.

“It's a scam for a marshmallow,” I replied absently. “You can give her one if you want. The jar is on top of the fridge.”

Catia put down her bag and reached up for the glass jar.

“Sorry, James, you were saying?”

“Here it is. Who do you—”

But I wasn't listening. I was looking out of the kitchen window. Below me, sitting on the wall at the entrance to the apartment block, was a woman in her mid-twenties. She was dressed in slightly garish clothes and was reading a fashion magazine.

“Aornis?” I whispered. “Can you hear me?”

The figure turned to look at me as I said the words, and my scalp prickled. It was
her,
no doubt about it. She smiled, waved and pointed to her watch.

“It's her,” I mumbled. “Goddamned sonofabitch—it's her!”

“—and that's my question,” concluded James.

“I'm sorry, James, I wasn't listening.”

I shook the entroposcope, but the pulses were no more patterned than before—whatever the danger was, we weren't quite there yet.

“You had a question, James?”

“Yes,” he said, slightly annoyed. “I was wondering—”

“Look out!” I shouted, but it was too late. The glass marshmallow jar had slipped from Catia's grasp and fell heavily on the worktop—right on top of the small evidence bag full of the pink goo from beyond the end of the world. The jar didn't break, but the bag
did,
and Catia, myself, Cordelia and James were splattered in gooey slime. James got the worst of it—a huge gob went right in his face.

“Ugh!”

“Here,” I said, handing him a Seven Wonders of Swindon tea towel, “use this.”

“What
is
that gick?” asked Cordelia, dabbing at her clothes with a damp cloth.

“I wish I knew.”

But James licked his lips and said: “I'll tell you what this is. It's Dream Topping.”

“Dream Topping?” I queried. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Strawberry flavor. Know it anywhere.”

I put a finger in the goo and tasted it. No mistake, it
was
Dream Topping. If only forensics had looked at the big picture instead of staring at molecules, they might have figured it out for themselves. But it got me thinking.

“Dream Topping?” I wondered out loud, looking at my watch. There were eighty-seven minutes of life left on the planet. “How could the world turn to Dream Topping?”

“It's the sort of thing,” piped up James, “that Mycroft might know.”

“You,” I said, pointing a finger at the pudding-covered individual, “are a genius.”

What had Mycroft said before he left about his R&D work at ConStuff? Miniaturized machines,
nanomachines
barely bigger than a cell, building food protein out of nothing more than garbage? Banoffee pie from landfills? Perhaps there was going to be an accident. After all, what
stopped
nanomachines from making banoffee pie once they had started? I looked out of the window. Aornis had gone.

“Do you have a car?” I asked.

“Sure,” said James.

“You're going to have to take me over to ConStuff. Dilly, I need your clothes.”

Cordelia looked suspicious.

“Why?”

“I've got watchers. Three in, three out—they'll think I'm you.”

“No way on earth,” replied Cordelia indignantly. “Unless you agree to do
all
my interviews and press junkets.”

“At my first appearance I'll have my head lopped off by Goliath or SpecOps—or both.”

“Perhaps that's so,” replied Cordelia slowly, “but I'd be a fool to pass on an opportunity as good as this. All the interviews and appearances I request for
a year.
”

“Two months, Cordelia.”

“Six.”

“Three.”

“Okay,” she sighed, “three months—but you have to do
The
Thursday Next Workout Video
and talk to Harry about the
Eyre Affair
film project.”

“Deal.”

So Cordelia and I switched clothes. It felt very odd to be wearing her large pink sweater, short black skirt and high heels.

“Don't forget the Peruvian love beads,” said Cordelia, “and my gun. Here.”

“Excuse me, Miss Flakk,” said James in a slightly indignant tone. “You promised I could ask Miss Next a question.”

Flakk pointed a finely manicured fingertip at him and narrowed her eyes. “Listen here, buster. You're both on SpecOps business right now—a bonus I'd say. Any complaints?”

“Er—no, I guess not,” stammered James.

 

I led them outside, past the Goliath and SpecOps agents waiting for me. I made some expansive Cordelia-like moves and they barely gave us a second glance. We were soon in James's hired Studebaker, and I directed him across town as I switched back to my own clothes.

“Thursday?” asked James.

“Yes?” I replied, looking around to see if I could see Aornis and shaking the entroposcope. Entropy seemed to be holding at the “slightly odd” mark.