‘Where were we?’
   ‘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 habit 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, enquired 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…!’

Lost in a Good Book

Jasper Fforde


Thursday Next, #2

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 Hitch-hikers
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 Arts 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 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

Jasper Fforde
Lost in a Good Book

   This book is dedicated to assistants everywhere.

   You make it happen for them.
   They couldn’t do it without you.
   Your contribution is everything.

   Don’t expect the expected:
   Expect the unexpected.
   If you expect the expected
   I expect you will remain unexpected.

From the teachings of St Zvlkx

1. The Adrian Lush Show

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

   Network Toad
   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

   Mole TV
   Name That Fruit! (answer questions for cash prizes) 15,320,340
   65 Walrus Street (soap opera, episode 3352) 14,315,902
   Dangerously Dysfunctional People Argue Live on
   TV (chat show) 11,065,611

   Owl Vision
   Will Marlowe or Kit Shakespeare? (literary quiz show) 13,591,203
   One More Chance to See! (reverse extinction show) 2,321,820

   Goliath Cable Channel (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)

   Neanderthal Network 4
   Power Tool Club Live (routers and power planer 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 towards 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 a 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 were 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 as 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 neighbour’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 travelled 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. Anyone looking less like a serving officer was impossible to imagine. 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 was New Zealand?’
   ‘Green and full of sheep,’ I replied. ‘I brought you this.’
   I handed her a fluffy toy lamb that bleated realistically when you turned it upside down.
   ‘How adorable! How’s married life treating you?’
   ‘Very well.’
   ‘Excellent, my dear, I wish you 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.’
   She did a twirl.
   ‘What do you think of the outfit?’
   ‘One’s attention is drawn straight to it,’ I replied ambiguously.
   ‘This is 1985,’ she explained, ‘bright colours are the future. I’ll let you loose in my wardrobe one day.’
   ‘I think I’ve got some pink socks of my own somewhere.’
   ‘It’s a start, my dear. Listen, you’ve been a 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?’
   ‘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.’
   It didn’t sound terribly promising. Despite the successes at work, I still wanted to move up within the Network. Cordelia took my arm and steered me towards the waiting area.
   ‘Coffee?’
   ‘Thank you.’
   ‘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. ‘Milk?’
   ‘Thanks.’
   ‘Oh,’ she said, staring at the milk jug, ‘this milk’s off. No matter. Listen,’ she went on 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 squad. 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.’
   ‘Others?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious. ‘Embarrassments? What did you have in mind?’
   Cordelia threw me a pained expression.
   ‘New orders Thursdaysweetydarling. Believe me, I’m as annoyed as you are.’
   She didn’t look it.
   ‘No holds barred, eh?’ I grimaced, but Flakk was unapologetic.
   ‘Needs must, Thursday. SpecOps requires your support in these difficult times. President Formby has called for an inquiry into whether SpecOps are value for money—or even necessary at all.’
   ‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘but this is the very last interview, yes?’
   ‘Of course,’ agreed Flakk a little too quickly, 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 nodded, told me she would see me later and then 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. So pleased to meet you!’
   She grasped my hand and told me repeatedly what a fantastic honour it was.
   ‘I don’t want to bug you or anything,’ she said 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 make-up, 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-humouredly, ‘but in truth it’s seventy per cent form-filling, twenty-seven per cent mind-numbing tedium and two per cent sheer terror.’
   ‘And the remaining one per cent?’
   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 the last thing on my mind, and pretty soon she directed me on to the studio floor. Feeling unusually nervous and wishing that Landen were 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 effectively head of the LiteraTecs 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 moustache. ‘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,’ Braxton carried on. ‘She is head of Combined Forces Liaison.’ I shook hands with the colonel.
   ‘Always honoured 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.’
   Schitt-Hawse was a tall, thin man whose pinched features seemed to compete for position in the centre of his face. His head tilted to the left in a manner that reminded me of an inquisitive budgerigar, and his dark hair was fastidiously combed back from his forehead. He put out his hand.
   ‘Would it upset you if I didn’t shake it?’ I asked him.
   ‘Well, yes,’ he replied, trying to be affable.
   ‘Good.’
   Anyone from the vast multinational known as Goliath was about as welcome to me as an infestation of worms. The Corporation’s pernicious hold over the nation was not universally appreciated and I had a far greater reason to dislike them—the last Goliath employee I dealt with was an odious character by the name of Jack Schitt, who not only tried to kill me and my partner, but had also planned to prolong and escalate the Crimean War in order to create demand for the latest Goliath weaponry. We had tricked him into a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, a place in which I hoped he could do no harm.
   ‘Schitt-Hawse, eh?’ I said. ‘Any relation to Jack?’
   ‘He was—is—my half-brother,’ said Schitt-Hawse slowly, ‘and believe me, Ms Next, he wasn’t working for Goliath when he became involved with Hades and the Plasma Rifle.’
   ‘If he had been would you admit it?’
   Schitt-Hawse scowled and said nothing. Braxton coughed politely and continued:
   ‘And this is Mr Chesterman of the Brontë Federation.’
   Chesterman blinked at me uncertainly. The changes I had wrought upon Jane Eyre had split the Federation. I hoped he was one of those who preferred the happier ending.
   ‘Back there is Captain Marat of the ChronoGuard,’ continued Braxton. Marat looked at me with interest. The ChronoGuard were the SpecOps division that took care of Anomalous Time Ripplation—my father was one or is one or would be one, depending on how you looked at it.
   ‘Have we met before?’ I asked him.
   ‘Not yet,’ he replied.
   ‘Well!’ said Braxton, clapping his hands together. ‘I think that’s everyone. Next, I want you to pretend we’re just not here.’
   ‘Observers, yes?’
   ‘Absolutely. I—’
   Braxton was interrupted by a slight disturbance off-stage.
   ‘The bastards!’ yelled a high voice. ‘If the Network dares to replace my Monday slot with reruns of Bonzo the Wonder Hound I’ll sue them for every penny they have!’
   A tall man of perhaps fifty-five had walked into the studio accompanied by a small group of assistants. He had handsome chiselled features and a luxuriant swirl of white hair that looked as though it had been carved from polystyrene. He wore an immaculately tailored suit and his fingers were heavily weighed down with gold jewellery. He stopped short when he saw us.
   ‘Ah!’ said Adrian Lush disdainfully. ‘SpecOps!’
   His entourage flustered around him with lots of energy but very little purpose. They seemed to hang on his every word and action and I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of relief that I wasn’t in the entertainment business.
   ‘I’ve had a lot to do with you people in the past,’ explained Lush as he made himself comfortable on his trademark green sofa, something he clearly regarded as a territorial safe retreat. ‘It was I that coined the phrase “SpecOops” for whenever you make a mistake—sorry, “operational unexpectation”, isn’t that what you like to call them?’
   But Hicks ignored Lush’s dig and introduced me as though I were his only daughter being offered up for marriage.
   ‘Mr Lush, this is Special Operative Thursday Next.’
   Lush jumped up and bounded over to shake me by the hand in an effusive and energetic manner. Flanker and the others sat down; they looked very small in the middle of the empty studio. They weren’t going to leave and Lush wasn’t going to ask them to—I knew that Goliath owned Network Toad and was beginning to doubt whether Lush had any control over this interview at all.
   ‘Hello, Thursday!’ said Lush excitedly. ‘Welcome to my Monday show. It’s the second-highest-rated show in England—my Wednesday show is the first!’
   He laughed infectiously and I smiled uneasily.
   ‘Then this will be your Thursday show,’ I replied, eager to lighten the situation.
   There was dead silence.
   ‘Will you be doing that a lot?’ asked Lush.
   ‘Doing what?’
   ‘Making jokes. You see… have a seat, darling. You see, I generally make the jokes on this show, and although it’s perfectly okay for you to make jokes, if you do I’m going to have to pay someone to write funnier ones, and our budget, like Goliath’s scruples, is on the small side of Leptonic.’
   ‘Can I say something’!’ said a voice from the small audience. It was Flanker, who carried on talking without waiting for a reply. ‘SpecOps is a serious business and should be reflected as such in your interview. Next, I think you should let Mr Lush tell the jokes.’
   ‘Is that all right?’ asked Lush, beaming.

   ‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Is there anything else I shouldn’t do?’
   Lush looked at me and then looked at the panel in the front row.
   ‘Is there?’
   They all mumbled among themselves for a few seconds.
   ‘I think,’ said Flanker, ‘that we—sorry, you—should just do the interview and then we can discuss it later. Miss Next can say whatever she wants as long as it doesn’t contravene any SpecOps or Goliath corporate guidelines.’
   ‘Or military,’ added Colonel Rabone, anxious not to be left out.
   ‘Is that okay?’ asked Lush.
   ‘Whatever,’ I returned, eager to get on with it.
   ‘Excellent! I’ll do your intro, although you’ll be off-camera for that. The floor manager will cue you and you’ll enter. Wave to where the audience might have been and when you are comfy I’ll ask you some questions. I may offer you some toast at some point as our sponsors, the Toast Marketing Board, like to get a plug in now and again. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?’
   ‘No.’
   ‘Good. Here we go.’
   He had his hair arranged down to the last follicle, his costume tweaked and the pieces of tissue paper removed from his collar. I was ushered off-stage and, after what seemed like an epoch of inactivity, Lush was counted in by a floor manager. On cue he turned to Camera 1 and switched on his best smile.
   ‘Tonight is a very special occasion with a very special guest. She is a decorated war heroine, a literary detective whose personal intervention not only restored the novel Jane Eyre but actually improved the ending. She single-handedly defeated Acheron Hades, ended the Crimean War and boldly hoodwinked the Goliath Corporation. Ladies and gentlemen, in an unprecedented interview from a serving SpecOps officer, please give a warm welcome to Thursday Next of the Swindon LiteraTec office…!’
   A bright light swung on to my entrance doorway and Adie smiled and tapped my arm. I walked out to meet Lush, who rose to greet me enthusiastically.
   ‘Excuse me,’ came a voice from the front row. It was Schitt-Hawse, the Goliath representative.
   ‘Yes?’ asked Lush in an icy tone.
   ‘You’re going to have to drop the reference to the Goliath Corporation,’ said Schitt-Hawse in the sort of tone that brooks no argument. ‘It serves no purpose other than to needlessly embarrass a large company that is doing its very best to improve everyone’s lives.’
   ‘I agree,’ said Flanker, ‘and all references to Hades will have to be avoided. He is still listed as “missing, fervently hoped dead”, so any unauthorised speculation might have dangerous consequences.’
   ‘Okay,’ murmured Lush, scrubbing a note. ‘Anything else?’
   ‘Any reference to the Crimean War and the Plasma rifle,’ said the colonel, ‘might be considered inappropriate. The peace talks at Budapest are still at a delicate stage; the Russians will make any excuse to leave the table. We know that your show is very popular in Moscow.’
   ‘The Brontë Federation is not keen for you to say the new ending is improved,’ put in the small and bespectacled Chesterman, ‘and talking about any of the characters you met within Jane Eyre might cause some viewers to suffer Xplkqulkiccasia. It’s so serious that the English Medical Council were compelled to make up an especially unpronounceable word to describe it.’
   Lush looked at them, looked at me and then looked at his script.
   ‘How about if I just said her name?’
   ‘That would be admirable,’ intoned Flanker, ‘except you might also want to assure the viewers that this interview is uncensored. Everyone else agree?’
   They all enthusiastically added their assent to Flanker’s suggestion. I could see this was going to be a very long and tedious afternoon.
   Lush’s entourage came back on and made the tiniest adjustments. I was repositioned and, after waiting what seemed like another decade, Lush began again.
   ‘Ladies and gentlemen, in a frank and open interview tonight, Thursday Next talks unhindered about her work at SpecOps.’
   No one said anything so I entered, shook Lush’s hand and took a seat on his sofa.
   ‘Welcome to the show, Thursday.’
   ‘Thank you.’
   ‘We’ll get on to your career in the Crimea in a moment, but I’d like to kick off by asking—’
   With a magician’s flourish he produced a platter.
   ‘—if you would care for some toast?’
   ‘No thanks.’
   ‘Tasty and nutritious!’ He smiled, facing the camera. ‘Perfect as a snack or even a light meal—good with eggs, sardines or even—’
   ‘No, thank you.’
   Lush’s smile froze on his face as he muttered through clenched teeth:
   ‘Have… some… toast.’
   But it was too late. The floor manager came on the set and announced that the unseen director of the show had called cut. The small army of beauticians came on and fussed over Adrian as the floor manager had a one-way conversation into his headphones before turning to me.
   ‘The Director of Placements wants to know if you would take a small bite of toast when offered.’
   ‘I’ve eaten already.’
   The floor manager turned and spoke into his headphones again.
   ‘She says she’s eaten already!! …I know… yes… what if… yes… ah-ha… What do you want me to do? Sit on her and force it down her throat!?! …yesss… ah-ha… I know… yes… yes… okay.’
   He turned back to me.
   ‘How about jam instead of marmalade?’
   ‘I don’t really like toast,’ I told him.
   ‘What?’
   ‘I said I don’t—’
   ‘She says she doesn’t like toast!’ said the floor manager in an exasperated tone. ‘What in hell’s name are we going to do!?!’
   Flanker stood up.
   ‘Next, eat the sodding toast, will you? I’ve got a meeting in two hours.’
   ‘And I’ve a golf tournament,’ added Braxton.
   I gave up.

   ‘Okay. Make it granary with marmalade, go easy on the butter.’
   The floor manager smiled as though I had just saved his job—which I probably had—and everything started over once again.
   ‘Would you like some toast?’ asked Lush.
   ‘Thanks.’
   I took a small bite.
   ‘Very good.’
   I saw the floor manager giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up as he dabbed his brow with a handkerchief.
   ‘Right.’ Lush sighed. ‘Let’s get on with it. First I would like to ask the question that everyone wants answered, how did you actually get into the book of Jane Eyre in the first place?’
   ‘That’s easily explained,’ I began. ‘You see, my Uncle Mycroft invented a device called a Prose Portal—’
   Flanker coughed.
   ‘Ms Next, perhaps you don’t know it but your uncle is still the subject of a secrecy certificate dating back to 1934. It might be prudent if you didn’t mention him—or the Prose Portal.’
   Lush thought for a moment.
   ‘Can I talk to Miss Next about how she met Hades for the first time, just after he stole the original manuscript of Martin Chuzzlewit?’
   ‘That would be fine if you don’t mention Hades,’ replied Flanker.
   ‘It’s not something we want the citizenry to think is—’ said Marat so suddenly that quite a few people jumped. Up until that moment he hadn’t said a word.
   ‘Sorry?’ asked Flanker.
   ‘Nothing,’ said the ChronoGuard operative in a quiet voice. ‘I’m just getting a touch proleptic in my old age.’
   Lush continued.
   ‘Can she talk about the pursuit of Hades into the Welsh Republic and the successful return of Jane to her book?’
   ‘Same rules apply,’ growled Flanker.
   ‘How about the time that my partner Bowden and I drove through a patch of Bad Time on the M1?’ I asked.
   ‘It’s not something we want the citizenry to think is easy,’ said Marat with renewed enthusiasm. ‘If the public think that ChronoGuard work is straightforward, confidence might be shaken.’
   ‘Quite correct,’ asserted Flanker
   ‘Perhaps you’d like to do this interview?’ I asked him.
   ‘Hey!’ said Flanker, standing up and jabbing a finger in my direction. ‘There’s no need to get snippy with us, Next. You’re here to do a job in your capacity as a serving SpecOps officer. You are not here to tell the truth as you see it!’
   Lush looked uneasily at me, I raised my eyebrows and shrugged.
   ‘Now look here,’ said Lush in a strident tone, ‘if I’m going to interview Ms Next I must ask questions that the public want to hear—’
   ‘Oh, you can!’ said Flanker agreeably. ‘You can ask whatever you want Free speech is enshrined in statute and neither SpecOps nor Goliath have any business coercing you in any way. We are just here to observe, comment and enlighten.’
   Lush knew what Flanker meant and Flanker knew that Lush knew. I knew that Flanker and Lush knew it and they both knew I knew it too. Lush looked nervous and fidgeted slightly. Flanker’s assertion of Lush’s independence was anything but. A word to Network Toad from Goliath and Lush would end up presenting Sheep World on Lerwick TV, and he didn’t want that. Not one little bit.
   We fell silent for a moment as Lush and I tried to figure out a topic that was outside their broad parameters.
   ‘How about commenting on the ludicrously high tax on cheese?’ I asked. It was a joke but Flanker and Co. weren’t terribly expert when it came to jokes.
   ‘I have no objection,’ murmured Flanker. ‘Anyone else?’
   ‘Not me,’ said Schitt-Hawse.
   ‘Or me,’ added Rabone.
   ‘I have an objection,’ said a woman who had been sitting quietly at the side at the studio. She spoke with a clipped Home Counties accent and was dressed in a tweed skirt, twinset and pearls.
   ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ she said in a loud and strident voice. ‘Mrs Jolly Hilly, governmental representative to the television networks.’ She took a deep breath and carried on: ‘The so-called “unfair cheese duty burden” is a very contentious subject at present. Any reference to it might be construed as an inflammatory act.’
   ‘Five hundred and eighty-seven per cent duty on hard cheeses and six hundred and twenty per cent on smelly?’ I asked. ‘Cheddar Classic Gold Original at £9.32 a pound—Bodmin Molecular Unstable Brie at almost £10! What’s going on?’
   The others, suddenly interested, all looked to Mrs Hilly for an explanation. For a brief moment, and probably the only moment ever, we were in agreement.
   ‘I understand your concern,’ replied the trained apologist, ‘but I think you’ll find that the price of cheese has, once adjusted for positive spin, actually gone down measured against the retail price index in recent years. Here, have a look at this.’
   She passed me a picture of a sweet little old lady on crutches.
   ‘Old ladies who are not dissimilar to the actress in this picture will have to go without their hip replacements and suffer crippling pain if you selfishly demand cut-price cheese.’
   She paused to let this sink in.
   ‘The Master of the Sums feels that it is not for the public to dictate economic policy, but he is willing to make concessions for those who suffer particular hardship in the form of area-tactical needs-related cheese coupons.’
   ‘So,’ said Lush with a smile, ‘wheyving cheese tax is out of the question?’
   ‘Or he could raise the custard duty,’ added Mrs Hilly, missing the pun. ‘The pudding lobby is less—well, how should I put it—militant.’
   ‘Wheyving,’ said Lush again, for the benefit of anyone who had missed it. ‘Wheyv—oh, never mind. I’ve never heard a bigger load of crap in all my life. I aim to make the extortionate price of cheese the subject of an Adrian Lush Special Report.’
   Mrs Hilly flustered slightly and chose her words carefully.
   ‘If there were another cheese riot following your Special Report we might look very carefully as to where to place responsibility.’
   She looked at the Goliath representative as she said this. The implication wasn’t lost on Schitt-Hawse or Lush. I had heard enough.
   ‘So I won’t talk about cheese either.’ I sighed. ‘What can I talk about?’
   The small group all looked at one another with perplexed expressions. Flanker clicked his fingers as an idea struck him.
   ‘Don’t you own a dodo?’

2. The Special Operations Network

   ‘…The Special Operations Network was instigated to handle policing duties considered either too unusual or too specialised to be tackled by the regular force. There were 32 departments in all, starting at the more mundane Horticultural Enforcement Agency (SO-32) and going on to Literary Detectives (SO-27) and Transport Authority (SO-21). Anything below SO-20 was restricted information although it was common knowledge that the ChronoGuard were SO-12 and SO-1 were the department that polices the SpecOps themselves. Quite what the others do is anyone’s guess. What is known is that the individual operatives themselves are mostly ex-military or ex-police. Operatives rarely leave the service after the probationary period has ended. There is a saying: “A SpecOps job isn’t for probation—it’s for life”.’

MILLON DE FLOSS. A Short History of the Special Operations Network (revised)


   It was the morning after the transmission of The Adrian Lush Show. I had watched for five minutes, cringed, then fled upstairs to rearrange our sock drawer. I managed to file all the socks by colour, shape and how much I liked them before Landen told me it was all over and I could come back downstairs. It was the last public interview I’d agreed to give, but Cordelia didn’t seem to remember this part of our conversation. She had continued to besiege me with requests to speak at literary festivals, appear as a guest on 65 Walrus Street and even attend one of President Formby’s informal song-and-ukulele evenings. Job offers arrived daily. Numerous libraries and private security firms asked for my services as either ‘Active Associate’ or ‘Security Consultant’. The sweetest letter I got was from the local library asking me to come in and read to the elderly—something I delighted in doing. But SpecOps itself, the body to which I had committed much of my adult life, energy and resources, hadn’t even spoken to me about advancement. As far as they were concerned I was SO-27 and would remain so until they decided otherwise.
   ‘Mail for you!’ announced Landen, dumping a large pile of post on the kitchen table Most of my mail these days was fan mail—and pretty strange it was too. I opened a letter at random.
   ‘Anyone I should be jealous of?’ he asked.
   ‘I should keep the divorce lawyer on hold for a few more minutes—it’s another request for underwear.’
   Landen grinned. ‘I’ll send him a pair of mine.’
   ‘What’s in the parcel?’
   ‘Late wedding present It’s a—’
   He looked at the strange knitted object curiously.
   ‘—it’s a… thing.’
   ‘Good,’ I replied, ‘I always wanted one of those.’
   Landen was a writer. We first met when he, my brother Anton and I fought in the Crimea. Landen came home minus a leg but alive—my brother was still out there, making his way through eternity from the comfort of a military cemetery near Sevastopol.
   As Landen amused himself by trying to teach Pickwick to stand on one leg, I opened another letter and read aloud:
   Dear Miss Next, I am one of your biggest fans I thought you should know that David Copperfield, far from being the doe-eyed innocent he is usually portrayed as, actually murdered his first wife Dora Spenlow in order to marry Agnes Wickfield. I suggest an exhumation of Miss Spenlow’s remains and a test for botulism and/or arsenic While we are on the subject, have you ever stopped to wonder why Homer changed his mind about dogs somewhere between The Iliad and The Odyssey? Was he, perhaps, given a puppy between the two?’ Another thing do you find Joyce’s Ulysses as boring and as unintelligible as I do? And why don’t Hemingway’s works have any smells in them?
   ‘Seems everyone wants you to investigate their favourite book,’ observed Landen. ‘While you’re about it, can you try and get Tess acquitted and Max DeWinter convicted?’
   ‘Not you as well!’
   ‘Up, Pickwick, come on, up, up, one leg!’
   Pickwick stared at Landen blankly, eyes fixed on the marshmallow he was holding and not at all interested in learning tricks.
   ‘You’ll need a truck-load of them, Land.’
   I got up, finished my coffee and put on my jacket.
   ‘Have a good day,’ said Landen, seeing me to the door. ‘Be nice to the other children. No scratching or biting.’
   ‘I’ll behave myself. I promise.’
   I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him.
   ‘Oh, and Landen?’
   ‘Yuh?’
   ‘Don’t forget it’s Mycroft’s retirement party this evening.’
   ‘I won’t.’
   It was late autumn or early winter—I wasn’t sure which. It had been mild and windless; the leaves were still brown on the trees and on some days it was hardly cold at all. It had to get really chilly for me to put the hood up on my Speedster, so I drove to the SpecOps divisional HQ with the wind in my hair and WESSEX-FM blaring on the wireless. The upcoming election was the talk of the airwaves; the controversial cheese duty had suddenly become an issue in the way things do just before an election. There was a snippet about Goliath declaring itself to be ‘the world’s favourite conglomerate’ for the tenth year running, whilst in the Crimean peace talks Russia had demanded Kent as war reparations. In sport, Aubrey Jambe had led the Swindon Mallets croquet team into SuperHoop ‘85 by thrashing the Reading Whackers.
   I drove through the morning traffic in Swindon and parked the Speedster at the rear of the SpecOps HQ. The building was of a brusque no-nonsense Germanic design, hastily erected during the occupation; the facade still bore battle scars from Swindon’s liberation in 1949. It housed most of the SpecOps divisions, but not all. Our Vampire Disposal Operation also encompassed Reading and Salisbury and in return Salisbury’s Art Theft division looked after our area as well. It all seemed to work quite well.
   ‘Hello!’ I said to a young man who was taking a cardboard box out of the boot of his car. ‘New assignment?’
   ‘Er, yes,’ replied the young man, putting down his box for a moment to offer me his hand.
   ‘John Smith—Weeds & Seeds.’
   ‘Unusual name,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘I’m Thursday Next.’
   ‘Oh!’ he said, looking at me with interest.
   ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘that Thursday Next. Weeds & Seeds?’
   ‘Domestic Horticulture Enforcement Agency,’ explained John. ‘SO-32. I’m starting an office here. There’s been a rise in the number of hackers just recently. The Pampas Grass Vigilante Squad are becoming more brazen in their activities; pampas grass might well be an eyesore, but there’s nothing illegal in it.’
   We showed our ID cards to the desk sergeant and walked up the stairs to the second floor.
   ‘I heard something about that,’ I murmured. ‘Any links to the Anti-Leylandii Association?’
   ‘Nothing positive,’ replied Smith, ‘but I’m following all leads.’
   ‘How many in your squad?’

   ‘Including me—one.’ Smith grinned. ‘Thought you were the most underfunded department in SpecOps? Think again. I’ve got six months to sort out the hackers, get the Japanese knotweed under control and find an acceptable plural form of narcissus.’
   We reached the upstairs corridor.
   ‘I wish you luck.’
   He thanked me and I left him to unpack in his small office, which had once been home to the SO-31 Good Taste Education Authority. The division had been disbanded a month earlier when the proposed legislation against stone cladding, pictures of crying clowns and floral-patterned carpets failed in the Upper House.
   I was just walking past the office of SO-14 when I heard a shrill voice.
   ‘Thursday! Thursday, yoo-hoo! Over here!’
   I sighed. It was Cordelia Flakk. She quickly caught up with me and gave me an affectionate hug.
   ‘The Lush show was a disaster!’ I told her ‘You said it was no holds barred! I ended up talking about dodos, my car and anything but Jane Eyre!’
   ‘You were terrific!’ she enthused. ‘I’ve got you lined up for another set of interviews the day after tomorrow.’
   ‘No more, Cordelia.’
   She looked at me in a crestfallen manner.
   ‘I don’t understand.’
   ‘What part of no more don’t you understand?’
   ‘Don’t be like that, Thursday,’ she replied, beaming in an attempt to bring me round. ‘You’re good PR and, believe me, in an institution that routinely leaves the public perforated, confused, old before their time or, if they’re lucky, dead, we need every bit of good PR we can muster.’
   ‘Do we do that much damage to the public?’ I asked.
   Flakk smiled modestly.
   ‘Perhaps my PR is not so bad after all,’ she conceded, then added quickly: ‘But every Joe that gets trounced in a crossfire is one too many.’
   ‘That’s as may be,’ I retorted, ‘but the fact remains that I’m done with SpecOps PR.’
   Flakk seemed flustered, hopped up and down for a bit, pulled pleading expressions, wrung her hands, puffed out her cheeks and stared at the ceiling.
   ‘What?’ I asked.
   ‘Well, we ran a competition.’
   ‘What sort of competition?’ I asked suspiciously.
   ‘We thought it would be a good idea if you met a few members of the public on a one-to-one basis.’
   ‘Did we. Now listen, Cordelia—’
   ‘Dilly, Thursday, since we’re pals.’
   She sensed my reticence and added:
   ‘Cords, then. Or Delia. How about Flakky? I used to be called Flik-Flak at school. Can I call you Thurs?’
   ‘Cordelia!’ I said in a harsher tone, before she ingratiated herself to death. ‘I’m not going to do this! You said the Lush interview would be the last and it is.’
   I started to walk away, but when God was handing out insistence Cordelia Flakk was at the head of the queue.
   ‘Thursday, this hurts me really personally when you’re like this. It attacks me right… right, er, here.’
   She made a wild guess at where she thought her heart might be and looked at me with a pained expression that she probably learned off a springer spaniel.
   ‘I’ve got him waiting right here, now, in the canteen. It won’t take a moment, ten minutes tops Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease . I’ve only asked two dozen journalists and news crews—the room will be practically empty.’
   I looked at my watch.
   ‘Ten minutes [1], then—who’s that?’
   ‘Who’s what?’
   ‘Someone calling my name. Didn’t you hear it?’
   ‘No,’ replied Cordelia, looking at me oddly.
   I tapped my ears. It had sounded so real it was disconcerting [2].
   ‘There it goes again!’
   ‘There goes what again?’
   ‘A man’s voice!’ I said somewhat idiotically. ‘Speaking here inside my head!’
   I pointed to my temple to demonstrate but Cordelia took a step backward, her look turning rapidly to one of consternation.
   ‘Are you okay, Thursday? Can I call someone?’
   ‘Oh. No, no, I’m fine I just realised I—ah—left a receiver in my ear. It must be my partner; there’s a 12-14 or a 10-30 or… something numerological in progress. Tell your competition winners another time. Goodbye!’