A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (73 page)

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Authors: Jasper Fforde

BOOK: A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5

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It was plainly a ridiculous idea, and I told him.

“I know it's far-fetched, sweetpea, but you'll never know any different. The Gravitube will seem as impossible there as jetliners do here.”

“What about mammoths?”

“Noâbut there will be ducks.”

“Goliath?”

“Under a different name.”

I was quiet for a moment.

“Will there be
Jane Eyre
?”

“Yes,” sighed my father. “Yes, there will always be
Jane Eyre.
”

“And Turner? Will he still paint
The Fighting Temeraire
?”

“Yes, and Carravaggggio will be there too, although his name will be spelt more sensibly.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

My father was silent for a moment.

“There's a catch.”

“What sort of catch?”

He sighed.

“Landen will be back, but you and he won't have met. Landen won't even
know
you.”

“But I'll know him. I can introduce myself, can't I?”

“Thursday, you're not part of this. You're outside of it. You'll still be carrying Landen's child, but you won't know the sideslip has ever happened. You will remember nothing about your old life. If you want to go sideways to see him, then you'll have to have a new past and a new present. Perversely enough, to be able to see him, you
cannot
have any recollection of himânor he of you.”

“That's some catch,” I observed.

“It's the second-best there is,” Dad agreed.

I thought for a moment.

“So I won't be in love with him?”

“I'm afraid not. You might have a small residual memoryâ feelings that you can't explain for someone you've never met.”

“Will I be confused?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me with an earnest expression. They all did. Even Lady Hamilton, who had been moving quietly towards the sherry, stopped and was staring at me. It was clear that making myself scarce was something I had to do. But having zero recollection of Landen? I didn't really have to think very hard.

“No, Dad. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I don't think you understand,” he intoned, using his paternal go-to-your-room-young-lady voice. “In a year's time you can come back and everything will be as right asâ”

“
No.
I'm not losing any more of Landen than I have already.”

I had an idea.

“Besides, I do have somewhere I can go.”

“Where?” inquired my father. “Where could you possibly go that Lavoisier couldn't find you? Backwards, forwards, sideways, otherwaysâthere isn't anywhere else!”

I smiled.

“You're wrong, Dad. There
is
somewhere. A place where no one will ever find meânot even you.”

“Sweetpeaâ!” he implored. “It is
imperative
that you take this seriously! Where will you go?”

“I'll just,” I replied slowly, “lose myself in a good book.”

Despite their pleading, I bade farewell to Mum, Dad and Lady Hamilton, crept out of the house and sped to my apartment on Joffy's motorbike. I parked outside the front door in clear defiance of the Goliath and SpecOps agents who were still waiting for me. I ambled slowly in; it would take them twenty minutes or more to report to base and then get up the stairs and break down the doorâand I really only needed to pack a few things. I still had my memories of Landen, and they would sustain me until I got him back. Because I
would
get him backâbut I needed time to rest and recuperate and bring our child into the world with the minimum of fuss, bother and interruptions. I packed four tins of Moggilicious cat food, two packets of Mintolas, a large jar of Marmite and two dozen AA batteries into a large holdall along with a few changes of clothing, a picture of my family and the copy of
Jane Eyre
with the bullet lodged in the cover. I placed a sleepy and confused Pickwick and her egg into the holdall and zipped up the bag so that only
her head stuck out. I then sat and waited on a chair in front of the door with a copy of
Great Expectations
on my lap. I wasn't a natural bookjumper, and without my travelbook I was going to need the fear of capture to help catapult me through the boundaries of fiction.

I started to read at the first knock on the door and continued through the volley of shouts for me to open up, past the muffled thuds and the sound of splintered wood, until finally, as the door fell in, I melted into the dingy interior of
Great Expectations
and Satis House.

Miss Havisham was understandably shocked when I explained what I needed, and even more shocked at the sight of Pickwick, but she consented to my request and cleared it with the Bellmanâ on the proviso that I'd continue with my training. I was hurriedly inducted into the Character Exchange Program and given a secondary part in an unpublished book deep within the Well of Lost Plotsâthe woman I was replacing had for some time wanted to take a course in drama at the Reading Academy of Dramatic Arts, so it suited her equally well. As I wandered down to subbasement six, Exchange Program docket in hand made out to someone named Briggs, I felt more relaxed than I had for weeks. I found the correct book sandwiched between the first draft of an adventure in the Tasman Sea and a vague notion of a comedy set in Bomber Command. I picked it up, took it to one of the reading tables and quietly read myself into my new home.

I found myself on the banks of a reservoir somewhere in the home counties. It was summer and the air smelt warm and sweet after the wintry conditions back home. I was standing on a wooden jetty in front of a large and seemingly derelict flying boat, which rocked gently in the breeze, tugging on the mooring
ropes. A woman had just stepped out of a door in the high-sided hull; she was holding a suitcase.

“Hello!” she shouted, running up and offering me a hand. “I'm Mary. You must be Thursday. My goodness! What's that?”

“A dodo. Her name's Pickwick.”

“I thought they were extinct.”

“Not where I come from. Is this where I'm going to live?” I was pointing at the shabby flying boat dubiously.

“I know what you're thinking,” smiled Mary proudly. “Isn't she just the most beautiful thing ever? Short Sunderland; built in 1943 but last flew in '54. I'm midway converting her to a houseboat, but don't feel shy if you want to help out. Just keep the bilges pumped out, and if you can run the number three engine once a month I'd be very grateful.”

“Erâokay,” I stammered.

“Good. I've left a rough prÃ©cis of the story taped to the fridge, but don't worry too muchâsince we're not published you can do pretty much what you want. Any problems, ask Captain Nemo who lives on the
Nautilus
two boats down, and don't worry, Jack might seem gruff to begin with, but he has a heart of gold, and if he asks you to drive his Austin Allegro, make sure you depress the clutch fully before changing gear. Did the Bellman supply you with all the necessary paperwork and fake IDs?”

I patted my pocket, and she handed me a scrap of paper and a bunch of keys.

“Good. This is my footnoterphone number in case of emergencies, these are the keys to the flying boat and my BMW. If someone named Arnold calls, tell him he had his chance and he blew it. Any questions?”

“I don't think so.”

She smiled.

“Then we're done. You'll like it here. It's pretty odd. I'll see you in about a year. So long!”

She gave a cheery wave and walked off up the dusty track. I looked across the lake at the faraway dinghies, then watched a pair of swans beating their wings furiously and pedaling the water to take off. I sat down on a rickety wooden seat and let Pickwick out of the bag. It wasn't home but it looked pleasant enough. Landen's reactualization was in the uncharted future, along with Aornis's and Goliath's comeuppanceâbut all in good time. I would miss Mum, Dad, Joffy, Bowden, Victor and maybe even Cordelia. But it wasn't
all
bad newsâat least this way I wouldn't have to do
The Thursday Next Workout Video.

As my father said, it's funny the way things turn out.

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.

The Well of Lost Plots

A
Viking
Book / published by arrangement with the author

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:
1-101-15862-X

A
VIKING
BOOKÂ®

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

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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

Electronic edition: June, 2004

For Mari
who makes the torches burn brighter

Contents

Thursday Next: The Story So FarÂ .Â .Â .