19
Shadow the Sheepdog

   'Shadow the Sheepdog, the story of a supremely loyal and intelligent sheepdog in a rural pre-war countryside, was published by Collins in 1950. A compulsive scribbler from her early teens, Enid Blyton found escape from her own unhappy childhood in the simple tales she wove for children. She has been republished in revised forms to suit modern tastes and has consistently remained popular over five decades. The independently minded children of her stones live in an idealised world of eternal summer holidays, adventure, high tea, ginger beer, cake and grown-ups with so little intelligence that they need everything explained to them – something that is not so very far from the truth.'

MILLON DE FLOSS – Enid Blyton


   I read myself into the book, halfway down page 231. Johnny, the farmer's boy who was Shadow's owner and co-protagonist, would be having Shadow's eyes checked in a few days, so a brief reconnaissance of the area seemed like a good idea. If I could persuade rather than order the vet to swap the dogs, then so much the better. I alighted in a town which looked like some sort of forties rural idyll – a mix of Warwickshire and the Dales. All green grass, show-quality cattle, yellow-lichened stone walls, sunshine and healthy-looking, smiling people. Horses pulled carts laden high with hay down the main street and the odd shiny motor-car puttered past. Pies cooled on window sills and children played with hoops and tinplate steam engines. The smell in the breeze was of freshly mown grass, clean linen and cooking. Here was a world of high tea, tasty trifles, zero crime, eternal summers and boundless good health. I suspected living here might be quite enjoyable – for about a week.
   I was nodded at by a passer-by.
   'Beautiful day!' she said politely.
   'Yes,' I replied. 'My—'
   'Rain later?' she enquired.
   I looked up at the small puffy clouds that stretched away to the horizon.
   'I shouldn't have thought so,' I began, 'but can you—'
   'Well, be seeing you!' said the woman politely, and was gone.
   I found an alleyway and tied the sheepdog to a downpipe; it was neither useful nor necessary to lead a dog around town for the next few hours. I walked carefully down the road, past a family butcher's, a tea room and a sweet shop selling nothing but gobstoppers, bull's-eyes, ginger beer, lemonade and liquorice. A few doors farther on I found a newsagent and post office combined. The outside of the small shop was liberally covered with enamel signs advertising Fry's chocolates, Colman's starch, Wyncarnis tonic, Ovaltine and Lyons cakes. A small sign told me I could use the telephone, and a rack of postcards shared the pavement with boxes of fresh veg. There was also a display of newspapers, the headlines reflecting the inter-war politics of the book.
   Britain voted favourite empire tenth year running, said one. Foreigners untrustworthy, study shows, said another. A third led with: 'Spiffing' – new buzzword sweeps nation.
   I posted the cheque to Johnny's father with a covering letter explaining that it was an old loan repaid. Almost immediately a postman appeared on a bicycle and removed the letter – the only one in the postbox, I noted – with the utmost reverence, taking it into the post office where I could hear cries of wonderment. There weren't many letters in Shadow, I assumed. I stood outside the shop for a moment, watching the townsfolk going about their business. Without warning one of the carthorses decided to drop a huge pile of dung in the middle of the road. In a trice a villager had run across with a bucket and shovel and removed the offending article almost as soon as it had happened. I watched for a while and then set off to find the local auctioneers.

   'So let me get this straight,' said the auctioneer, a heavy-set and humourless man with a monocle screwed into his eye, 'you want to buy pigs at treble the going rate? Why?'
   'Not anyone's pigs,' I replied wearily, having spent the last half-hour trying to explain what I wanted, 'Johnny's father's pigs.'
   'Quite out of the question,' muttered the auctioneer, getting to his feet and walking to the window. He did it a lot, I could tell – there was a worn patch right through the carpet to the floorboards beneath, but only from his chair to the window. There was another worn patch from the door to a side table – the use of which I was yet to understand. Considering his limitations I guessed the auctioneer was no more than a C-9 Generic – it explained the difficulty in persuading him to change anything.
   'We do things to a set formula here,' added the auctioneer, 'and we don't very much like change.'
   He walked back to his desk, turned to face me and wagged a reproachful finger.
   'And believe me, if you try anything a bit rum at the auction I can discount your bid.'
   We stared at each other. This wasn't working.
   'Tea and cake?' asked the auctioneer, walking to the window again.
   'Thank you,' I replied.
   'Splendid!' he enthused, rubbing his hands together and returning to his desk. 'They tell me there is nothing quite so refreshing as a cup of tea!'
   He flipped the switch on the intercom.
   'Miss Pittman, would you bring in some tea, please?'
   The door opened instantaneously to reveal his secretary holding a tray of tea things. She was in her late twenties, and pretty in an English rose sort of way; she wore a floral summer dress under a fawn cardigan.
   Miss Pittman followed the smoothly worn floorboards and carpet from the door to the side table. She curtsied and laid the tea things next to an identical tray left from an earlier occasion. She threw the old tea tray out of the window and I heard the soft tinkle of broken crockery; I had seen a large pile of broken tea things outside the window when I arrived. The secretary paused, hands pressed tightly together.
   'Shall … shall I pour you a cup?' she asked, a flush rising to her cheeks.
   'Thank you!' exclaimed Mr Phillips, walking excitedly to the window and back again. 'Milk and—'
   '—one sugar.' His secretary smiled shyly. 'Yes, yes … I know.'
   'But of course you do!' He smiled back.
   Then the next stage of this odd charade took place. The auctioneer and secretary moved to the place where their two worn paths were closest, the very outer limits that their existence allowed them. Miss Pittman held the cup by its rim, placed her toes right on the edge where carpet began and shiny floorboard ended, stretching out as far as she could. Mr Phillips did the same on his side of the divide. The tips of his fingers could just touch the rim of the cup but try as he might he could not reach far enough to grasp it.
   'Allow me,' I said, unable to watch the cruel spectacle any longer. I passed the cup from one to the other.
   How many cups of tea had gone cold in the past thirty-five years? I wondered. How uncrossable the six foot of carpet that divided them! Whoever Event Managed this book down in the Well was possessed of a cruel sense of humour.
   Miss Pittman curtsied politely and departed while the auctioneer watched her go. He sat down at his desk, eyeing the teacup thirstily. He licked his lips and rubbed his fingertips in expectation, then took a sip and savoured the moment lovingly.
   'Oh my goodness!' he said deliriously. 'Even better than I thought it would be!'
   He took another sip and closed his eyes with the sheer delight of it.
   'Where were we?' he asked.
   I took a deep breath.
   'I want you to buy Johnny's father's pigs with an offer that purports to come from an unknown buyer – and as close to the top of page two hundred and thirty-two as you can.'

   'Utterly impossible!' said the auctioneer. 'You are asking me to change the narrative! I will have to see higher authority.'
   I passed him my Jurisfiction ID card. It wasn't like me to pull rank, but I was getting desperate.
   'I'm on official business sanctioned by the Council of Genres itself through Text Grand Central.' It was how I thought Miss Havisham might do it.
   'You forget that we are out of print pending modernisation,' he replied shortly, tossing my ID back across the table. 'You have no mandatory powers here, Apprentice Next. I think Jurisfiction will look very carefully before attempting a change on a book without internal approval. You can tell the Bellman that, from me.'
   We stared at each other, a diplomatic impasse having arrived. I had an idea and asked him:
   'How long have you been an auctioneer in this book?'
   'Thirty-six years.'
   'And how many cups of tea have you had in that time?' I asked him.
   'Including this one?'
   I nodded.
   'One.'
   I leaned forward.
   'I can fix it for you to have as many cups of tea as you want, Mr Phillips.'
   He narrowed his eyes.
   'Oh yes?' he replied. 'And how would you manage that? As soon as you've got what you want you'll be off and I'll never be able to reach Miss Pittman's proffered cup again!'
   I stood up and went to the table on which the tea tray was sitting. It was a small table made of oak and lightly decorated. It had a vase of flowers on it, but nothing else. As Mr Phillips watched I picked up the table and placed it next to the window. The auctioneer looked at me dumbfounded, got up, walked to the window and delicately touched the table and the tea things.
   An audacious move,' he said, waving the sugar tongs at me, 'but it won't work. She's a D-7 – she won't be able to change what she does.'
   'D-7s never have names, Mr Phillips.'
   'I gave her that name,' he said quietly. 'You're wasting your time.'
   'Let's see, shall we?' I replied, speaking into the intercom to ask Miss Pittman to bring in more tea.
   The door opened as before and a look of shock and surprise crossed the girl's face.
   'The table!' she gasped. 'It's—!'
   'You can do it, Miss Pittman,' I told her. 'Just place the tea where you always do.'
   She moved forward, following the well-worn path, arrived at where the table used to be and then looked at its new position, two strides away. The smooth and unworn carpet was alien and frightening to her; it might as well have been a bottomless chasm. She stopped dead.
   'I don't understand—!' she began, her face bewildered as her hands began to shake.
   'Tell her to put the tea things down,' I told the auctioneer, who was becoming as distressed as Miss Pittman – perhaps more so. 'TELL HER!'
   'Thank you, Miss Pittman,' murmured Mr Phillips, his voice croaking with emotion, 'put the tea things down over here, would you?'
   She bit her lip and closed her eyes, raised her foot and held it, quivering, above the edge of the shiny floorboards. Then she moved it forward and rested it on the soft carpet. She opened her eyes, looked down and beamed at us both.
   'Well done!' I said. 'Just two more.'
   Brimming with confidence, she negotiated the two remaining steps with ease and placed the tray on the table. She and Mr Phillips were closer now than they had ever been before. She put out a hand to touch his lapel, but checked herself quickly.
   'Shall … shall I pour you a cup?' she asked.
   'Thank you!' exclaimed Mr Phillips. 'Milk and—'
   '—one sugar.' She smiled shyly. 'Yes, yes, I know.'
   She poured the tea and handed the cup and saucer to him. He took it gratefully.
   'Mr Phillips?'
   'Yes?'
   'Do I have a first name?'
   'Of course,' he replied quietly and with great emotion. 'I have had over thirty years to think about it. Your name is Aurora, as befits somebody as beautiful as the dawn.'
   She covered her nose and mouth to hide her smile and blushed deeply. Mr Phillips raised a shaking hand to touch her cheek but stopped as he remembered that I was still present. He nodded imperceptibly in my direction and said:
   'Thank you, Miss Pittman – perhaps later you might come in for some … dictation.'
   'I look forward to it, Mr Phillips!'
   And she turned, trod softly on the carpet to the door, looked round once more and went out. When I looked back at Mr Phillips he had sat down, drained by the emotionally charged encounter.
   'Do we have a deal?' I asked him. 'Or do I put the table back where it was?'
   He looked shocked.
   'You wouldn't?'
   'I would.'
   He considered his position for a moment and then offered me his hand.
   'Pigs at treble the going rate?'
   'Top of page two thirty-two.'
   'Deal.'

   Pleased with my actions so far, I collected the dog and jumped forward to the middle of page 232. By now the sale of Johnny's father's pigs was the talk of the town, and had even made it into the headlines of the local papers: Unprecedented pig price shocks town. There was only one thing left to do – replace the blind collie with the sighted one.
   'I'm looking for the vet,' I said to a passer-by.
   'Are you?' replied the woman amiably. 'Good for you!' and she hurried on.
   'Could you tell me the way to the vet?' I asked the next person, a sallow man in a tweed suit. He was no less literal.
   'Yes I could,' he replied, attempting to walk on. I tried to grasp him by the sleeve but missed and momentarily clasped his hand. He gasped out loud. This was echoed by two women who had witnessed the incident. They started to gossip volubly. I pulled out my ID.
   'Jurisfiction,' I told him, adding: 'On official business,' just to make sure he got the picture.
   But something had happened. The inhabitants of the village, who up until that moment had seemed to wander the streets like automatons, were all of a sudden animated individuals, talking, whispering and pointing. I was a stranger in a strange land, and while the inhabitants didn't seem hostile, I was clearly an object of considerable interest.
   'I need to get to the vet,' I said loudly. 'Now can anyone tell me where he lives?'
   Two ladies who had been chattering suddenly smiled and nodded to one another.
   'We'll show you where he works.'
   I left the first man still staring at his hand and looking at me in an odd way.
   I followed the ladies to a small building set back from the road. I thanked them both. One of them, I noticed, remained at the gate while the other bustled away with a purposeful stride. I rang the doorbell.
   'Hello?' said the vet, opening the door and looking surprised; he only had one client booked in that day – Johnny and Shadow. The vet was meant to tell the young lad how Shadow would stay blind for ever.
   'This dog,' said the vet automatically, 'will never see again. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.'
   'Jurisfiction,' I told him, showing him my ID. 'There's been a change of plan.'
   'If you're exchanging golliwogs for monkeys, you're in the wrong book,' he said.
   'This isn't Noddy,' I told him.
   'What sort of change, then?' he asked as I gently forced my way in and closed the door. 'Are you here to alter the less-than-savoury references to stereotypical gypsy folk in chapters XIII to XV?'

   'We'll get round to that, don't you worry.'
   I wasn't going to take any chances and go through the same rigmarole as I had with Mr Phillips, so I looked around furtively and said in a conspiratorial whisper:
   'I shouldn't be telling you this, but … wicked men are planning to steal Shadow and sell him off for medical experiments!'
   'No!' exclaimed the vet, eyes open wide.
   'Indeed,' I replied, adding in a hushed tone: 'And what's more, we suspect that these men might not even be British.'
   'You mean …Johnny Foreigners?' asked the vet, visibly shocked.
   'Probably French. Now, are you with me on this?'
   'Absolutely!' he breathed. 'What are we going to do?'
   'Swap dogs. When Johnny arrives you tell him to go outside for a moment, we swap the dogs, when he comes back you unwrap the bandages, the dog can see – and you say this dialogue instead.'
   I handed him a scrap of paper. He looked at it thoughtfully.
   'So Shadow stays here and the swapped Shadow is abducted by Johnny Foreigner and used for medical experiments?'
   'Something like that. But not a word to anyone, you understand?'
   'Word of honour!' replied the vet.
   So I gave him the collie and, sure enough, when Johnny brought in the blinded Shadow, the vet told him to go and get some water, we swapped dogs and, when Johnny returned, lo and behold, the dog could see again. The vet feigned complete surprise and Johnny, of course, was delighted. They left soon after.
   I stepped from the office where I had been hiding. How did I do?' asked the vet, washing his hands.
   'Perfect. There could be a medal in it for you.'
   It all seemed to have gone swimmingly well. I couldn't believe my luck. But more than that, I had the feeling that Havisham might actually be quite proud of her apprentice – at the very least this should make up for having to rescue me from the grammasites. Pleased, I opened the door to the street and was surprised to find that a lot of the locals had gathered, and they all seemed to be staring at me. My feeling of euphoria over the completed mission suddenly evaporated as unease welled up inside me.
   'It's time! It's time!' announced one of the ladies I had seen earlier.
   'Time for what?'
   'Time for a wedding!'
   'Whose?' I asked, not unreasonably.
   'Why yours, of course!' she answered happily. 'You touched Mr Townsperson's hand. You are betrothed. It is the law!'
   The crowd surged towards me and I reached, not for my gun, but for my TravelBook in order to get out quickly. It was the wrong choice. Within a few moments I had been overpowered. They took my book and gun, then held me tightly and propelled me towards a nearby house where I was forced into a wedding dress that had seen a lot of previous use and was several sizes too big.
   'You won't get away with this!' I told them as they hurriedly brushed and plaited my hair with two men holding my head. 'Jurisfiction know where I am and will come after me, I swear!'
   'You'll get used to married life,' exclaimed one of the women, her mouth full of pins. 'They all complain to begin with – but by the end of the afternoon they are as meek as lambs. Isn't that so, Mr Rustic?'
   'Aye, Mrs Passer-by,' said one of the men holding my arms, 'like lambs, meek.'
   'You mean there were others?'
   'There is nothing like a good wedding,' said one of the other men, 'nothing except—'
   Here Mr Rustic nudged him and he was quiet.
   'Nothing except what!' I asked, struggling again.
   'Oh, hush!' said Mrs Passer-by. 'You made me drop a stitch! Do you really want to look a mess on your wedding day?'
   'Yes.'
   Ten minutes later, bruised and with my hands tied behind my back and a garland of flowers in my badly pinned hair, I was being escorted towards the small village church. I managed to grab the lichgate on the way in but was soon pulled clear. A few moments later I was standing at the altar next to Mr Townsperson, who was neatly dressed in a morning suit. He smiled at me happily and I scowled back.
   'We are gathered here today in the eyes of God to bring together this woman and this man …'
   I struggled but it was no good.
   'This proceeding has no basis in law!' I shouted, attempting to drown out the vicar. He signalled to the verger, who placed a bit of sticking plaster over my mouth. I struggled again but with four burly farmworkers holding me, it was useless. I watched with a sort of strange fascination as the wedding proceeded, the villagers snivelling with happiness in the small church. When it came to the vows, my head was vigorously nodded for me, and a ring pressed on my finger.
   '… I now pronounce you man and wife! You may kiss the bride.'
   Mr Townsperson loomed closer. I tried to back away but was held tightly. Mr Townsperson kissed me tenderly on the sticking plaster that covered my mouth. As he did so an excited murmur went up from the congregation.
   There was applause and I was dragged towards the main door, covered in confetti and made to pose for a wedding photograph. For the picture the sticking plaster was removed so I had time to make my protestations.
   'No coerced wedding was ever recognised by law!' I bellowed. 'Let me go right now and I may not report you!'
   'Don't worry, Mrs Townsperson,' said Mrs Passer-by, addressing me, 'in ten minutes it really won't matter. You see, we rarely get the opportunity to perform nuptials as no one in here ever gets married – the Well never went so far as to offer us that sort of luxury.'
   'What about the others you mentioned?' I asked, a sense of doom rising within me. 'Where are the other brides who were forced into marriage?'
   Everyone looked solemn, clasped their hands together and stared at the ground.
   'What's going on?' I asked. 'What will happen in ten minutes—?'
   I turned as the four men let go of me, and saw the vicar again. But he wasn't cheery this time. He was very solemn, and well he might be. Before him was a freshly dug grave. Mine.
   'Oh my God!' I muttered.
   'Dearly beloved, we are gathered …' began the vicar as the same townsfolk began to sniffle into their hankies again. But this time the tears weren't of happiness – they were of sorrow.
   I cursed myself for being so careless. Mr Townsperson had my automatic and released the safety catch. I looked around desperately. Even if I had been able to get a message to Havisham I doubted whether she could have made it in time.
   'Mr Townsperson,' I said in a quiet voice, staring into his eyes, 'my own husband! You would kill your bride?'
   He trembled slightly and glanced at Mrs Passer-by.
   'I'm … I'm afraid so, my dear,' he faltered.
   'Why?' I asked, stalling for time.'
   'We need the … need the—'

   'For Panjandrum's sake get on with it!' snapped Mrs Passer-by, who seemed to be the chief instigator of all this, 'I need my emotional fix!'
   'Wait!' I said. 'You're after emotion?
   'They call us Sentiment Junkies,' said Mr Townsperson nervously. 'It's not our fault. We are Generics rated between C-7 and D-3; we don't have many emotions of our own but are smart enough to know what we're missing.'
   'If you don't kill her, I shall!' mumbled Mr Rustic, tapping my 'husband' on the elbow. He pulled away.
   'She has a right to know,' he remarked. 'She is my wife, after all.'
   He looked nervously left and right.
   'Go on.'
   'We started with humorous one-liners that offered a small kick. That kept us going for a few months but soon we wanted more: laughter, joy, happiness in any form we could get it. Thrice-monthly garden fetes, weekly harvest festivals and tombola four times a day were not enough; we wanted … the hard stuff.'
   'Grief,' murmured Mrs Passer-by, 'grief, sadness, sorrow, loss – we wanted it but we wanted it strong. Ever read On Her Majesty's Secret Service?
   I nodded.
   'We wanted that. Our hearts raised by the happiness of a wedding and then dashed by the sudden death of the bride!'
   I stared at the slightly crazed Generics. Unable to generate emotions synthetically from within the confines of their happy rural idyll, they had embarked upon a systematic rampage of enforced weddings and funerals to give them the high they desired. I looked at the graves in the churchyard and wondered how many others had suffered this fate.
   'We will all be devastated by your death, of course,' whispered Mrs Passer-by, 'but we will get over it – the slower the better!'
   'Wait!' I said. 'I have an idea!'
   'We don't want ideas, my love,' said Mr Townsperson, pointing the gun at me again, 'we want emotion.'
   'How long will this fix last?' I asked him. 'A day? How sad can you be for someone you barely know?'
   They all looked at one another. I was right. The fix they were getting by killing and burying me would last until teatime if they were lucky.
   'You have a better idea?'
   'I can give you more emotion than you know how to handle,' I told them. 'Feelings so strong you won't know what to do with yourselves.'
   'She's lying!' cried Mrs Passer-by dispassionately. 'Kill her now – I can't wait any longer! I need the sadness! Give it to me!'
   'I'm Jurisfiction,' I told them. 'I can bring more jeopardy and strife into this book than a thousand Blytons could give you in a lifetime!'
   'You could?' echoed the townspeople excitedly, lapping up the expectation I was generating.
   'Yes – and here's how I can prove it. Mrs Passer-by?'
   'Yes?'
   'Mr Townsperson told me earlier he thought you had a fat arse.'
   'He said what?' she replied angrily, her face suffused with joy as she fed off the hurt feelings I had generated.
   'I most certainly said no such thing!' blustered Mr Townsperson, obviously feeling a big hit himself from the indignation.
   'Us too!' yelled the townsfolk excitedly, eager to see what else I had in my bag of goodies.
   'Nothing before you untie me!'
   They did so with great haste; sorrow and happiness had kept them going for a long time but they had grown bored – I was here in the guise of dealer, offering new and different experiences.
   I asked for my gun and was handed it, the townspeople watching me expectantly like a dodo waiting for marshmallows.
   'For a start,' I said, rubbing my wrists and throwing the wedding ring aside, 'I can't remember who got me pregnant!'
   There was a sudden silence.
   'Shocking!' said the vicar. 'Outrageous, morally repugnant – mmmm!'
   'But better than that,' I added, 'if you had killed me you would also have killed my unborn son – guilt like that could have lasted for months!'
   'Yes!' yelled Mr Rustic. 'Kill her now!'
   I pointed the gun at them and they stopped in their tracks
   'You'll always regret not having killed me,' I murmured.
   The townsfolk went quiet and mused upon this, the feeling of loss coursing through their veins.
   'It feels wonderful!' said one of the farmworkers, taking a seat on the grass to focus his mind more carefully on the strange emotional pot-pourri offered by a missed opportunity of double murder. But I wasn't done yet.
   'I'm going to report you to the Council of Genres,' I told them, 'and tell them how you tried to kill me – you could be shut down and reduced to text!'
   I had them now. They all had their eyes closed and were rocking backwards and forwards, moaning quietly.
   'Or perhaps,' I added, beginning to back away, 'I won't.'
   I pulled off the wedding dress at the lichgate and looked back, townspeople were laid out on the ground, eyes closed, surfing their inner feelings on a cocktail of mixed emotions. They wouldn't be down for days.

   I picked up myjacket and TravelBook on the way to the vet's, where the blind Shadow was waiting for me. I had completed the mission, even if I had come a hair's breadth from a sticky end. I could do better, and would, given time. I heard a low, growly voice close at hand.
   'What happens to me? Am I reduced to text?'
   It was Shadow.
   'Officially, yes.'
   'I see,' replied the dog, 'and unofficially?'
   I thought for a moment.
   'Do you like rabbits?'
   'Rather.'
   I pulled out my TravelBook.
   'Good. Give me your paw. We're off to Rabbit Grand Central.'

20
Ibb and Obb named and Heights again

   'BookStackers: To rid a book of the mispeling vyrus, many thousands of dictionaries are moved into the offending novel and stacked either side of the outbreak as a mispeling barrage. The wall of dictionaries is then moved in, paragraph by paragraph, until the vyrus is forced into a single sentence, then a word, then smothered completely. The job is done by BookStackers, usually D-Grade Generics, although for many years the Anti-mispeling Fast Response Group (AFRD) has been manned by over six-thousand WOLP—surplus Mrs Danvers. (See Danvers, Mrs – overproduction of.)'

UA OF W CAT – The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)


   It was three days later. I had just had my early morning vomit and was lying back in bed, staring at Gran's note and trying to make sense of it. One word. Remember. What was I meant to remember? She hadn't yet returned from the Medici court and, although the note may have been the product of a Granny Next 'fuzzy moment', I still felt uneasy. There was something else. Beside my bed was a sketch of an attractive man in his late thirties. I didn't know who he was – which was odd, because I had sketched it.
   There was an excited knock at the door. It was Ibb. It had been looking more feminine all week and had even gone so far as to put on haughty airs all day Wednesday. Obb, on the other hand, had been insisting he was right about everything, knew everything, and had sulked when I proved it wrong, and we all knew where that was leading.
   'Hello, Ibb,' I said, placing the sketch aside, 'how are you?'
   Ibb replied by unzipping and opening the top of its overalls.
   'Look!' she said excitedly, showing me her breasts.
   'Congratulations,' I said slowly, still feeling a bit groggy. 'You're a her.'
   'I know!' said Ibb, hardly able to contain her excitement. 'Do you want to see the rest?'
   'No thanks,' I replied, 'I believe you.'
   'Can I borrow a bra?' she asked, moving her shoulders up and down. 'These things aren't terribly comfortable.'
   'I don't think mine would fit you,' I said hurriedly. 'You're a lot bigger than I am.'
   'Oh,' she answered, slightly crestfallen, then added: 'How about a hair tie and a brush? I can't do a thing with this hair. Up, down – perhaps I should have it cut, and I so wish it were curly!'
   'Ibb, it's fine, really.'
   'Lola,' she said, correcting me, 'I want you to call me Lola from now on.'
   'Very well, Lola,' I replied, 'sit on the bed.'
   So Lola sat while I brushed her hair and she nattered on about a weight-loss idea she had had which seemed to revolve around weighing yourself with one foot on the scales and one on the floor. Using this idea, she told me, she could lose as much weight as she wanted and not give up cakes. Then she started talking about this great new thing she had discovered which was so much fun she thought she'd be doing it quite a lot – and she reckoned she'd have no trouble getting men to assist.
   'Just be careful,' I told her. 'Think before you do what you do with who you do it.' It was advice my mother had given me.
   'Oh yes,' Lola assured me, 'I'll be very careful – I'll always ask them their name first.'
   When I had finished she stared at herself in the mirror for a moment, gave me a big hug and skipped out of the door. I dressed slowly and walked down to the kitchen.
   Obb was sitting at the table painting a Napoleonic cavalry officer the height of a pen top. He was gazing intently at the miniature horseman and glowering with concentration. He had developed into a dark-haired and handsome man of at least six foot three over the past few days, with a deep voice and measured speech; he also looked about fifty. I suspected it was now a he but hoped he wouldn't try and demonstrate it in the same way that Lola had.
   'Morning, Obb,' I said. 'Breakfast?'
   He dropped the horseman on the floor.
   'Now look what you've made me do!' he growled, adding: 'Toast, please, and coffee – and it's Randolph, not Obb.'
   'Congratulations,' I told him, but he only grunted in reply, found the cavalry officer and carried on with his painting.
   Lola bounced into the living room, saw Randolph and stopped for a moment to stare at her nails demurely, hoping he would turn to look at her. He didn't. So she stood closer and said:
   'Good morning, Randolph.'
   '’morning,' he grunted without looking up, 'how did you sleep?'
   'Heavily.'
   'Well, you would, 'wouldn't you?'
   She missed the insult and carried on jabbering:
   'Wouldn't yellow be prettier?'
   Randolph stopped and stared at her.
   'Blue is the colour of a Napoleonic cavalry officer, Lola. Yellow is the colour of custard – and bananas.'
   She turned to me and pulled a face, mouthed 'Square' and then helped herself to coffee.
   'Can we go shopping, then?' she asked me. 'If we are buying underwear we might as well get some make-up and some scent; we could try on clothes and generally do girl sort of things together – I could take you out to lunch and gossip a lot, we could have our hair done and then shop some more, talk about boyfriends and perhaps after that go to the gym.'
   'It's not exactly my sort of thing,' I said slowly, trying to figure out what sort of book St Tabularasa's had thought Lola might be most suitable for. I couldn't remember the last time I had had a girl's day out – certainly not this decade. Most of my clothes came mail order when did I ever have time for shopping?
   'Oh, go on!' said Lola. 'You could do with a day off. What were you doing yesterday?'
   'Attending a course on bookjumping using the ISBN positioning system.'
   'And the day before?'
   'Practical lessons in using textual sieves as PageRunner capturing devices.'
   'And before that?'
   'Searching in vain for the minotaur.'
   'Exactly why you need a break. We don't even have to leave the Well – the latest Grattan catalogue is still under construction. We can get in because I know someone who's got a part-time job justifying text. Please say yes. It means so much to me!'
   I sighed.
   'Well, all right – but after lunch. I've got to do my Mary Jones thing in Caversham Heights all morning.'
   She jumped up and down and clapped her hands with joy. I had to smile at her childish exuberance.
   'You might move up a size, too,' said Randolph.
   She narrowed her eyes and turned to face him.
   'And what do you mean by that?' she asked angrily.
   'Exactly what I said.'
   'That I'm fat?'

   'You said it, not me,' replied Randolph, concentrating on his metal soldier.
   She picked up a glass of water and poured it into his lap.
   'What the hell did you do that for!' he spluttered, getting up and grabbing a tea towel.
   'To teach you,' yelled Lola, wagging a finger at him, 'that you can't say whatever you want, to whoever you want!'
   And she walked out.
   'What did I say?' said Randolph in an exasperated tone. 'Did you see that? She did that for no reason at all!'
   'I think you got off lightly,' I told him. 'I'd go and apologise if I were you.'
   He thought about this for a few seconds, lowered his shoulders and went off to find Lola, who I could hear sobbing somewhere near the stern of the flying boat.
   'Young love!' said a voice behind me. 'Eighteen years of emotions packed into a single week – it can't be easy, now, can it?'
   'Gran!' I said, whirling round. 'When did you get back?'
   'Just now,' she replied, removing her gingham hat and gloves and passing me some cash.
   'What's this?'
   'D-3 Generics are annoyingly literal but it can pay dividends – I asked the cabbie to drive backwards all the way here and by the end of the trip he owed me money. How are things?'
   I sighed. 'Well, it's like having a couple of teenagers in the house.'
   'Look upon it as training for having your own children,' said Gran, sitting down on a chair and sipping my coffee.
   'Gran?'
   'Yes?'
   'How did you get here? I mean, you are here, aren't you? You're not just a memory, or something?'
   'Oh, I'm real, all right.' She laughed. 'You just need a bit of looking after until we sort out Aornis.'
   'Aornis?' I queried.
   'Yes.' Gran sighed. 'Think carefully for a moment.'
   I mulled the name in my mind, and, sure enough, Aornis came out of the murk like a ship in fog. But the fog was deep, and there were other things hidden within – I could feel it.
   'Oh yes,' I murmured, 'her. What else was I meant to remember?'
   'Landen.'
   He came out of the fog, too. The man in the sketch. I sat down and put my head in my hands. I couldn't believe I'd forgotten him.
   'I'd regard it a bit like measles,' said Gran, patting my back. 'We'll cure you of her, never fear.'
   'But then I have to go and battle with her again, in the real world?'
   'Mnemonomorphs are always easier to contain on the physical plane,' she observed. 'Once you have beaten her in your mind, the rest should be easy.'
   I looked up at her.
   'Tell me again about Landen.'
   And she did, for the next hour – until it was time for me to stand in for Mary Jones again.


* * *
   I drove into Reading in Mary's car, past red Minis, blue Morris Marinas and the ubiquitous Spongg Footcare trucks. I had visited the real Reading on many occasions in my life and although the Heights Reading was a fair impression, the town was lacking in detail. A lot of roads were missing, the library was a supermarket, the Caversham district was a lot more like Beverly Hills than I remember, and there was a very grotty downtown which was more like New York in the seventies. I think I could guess where the author got his inspiration; I suppose it was artistic licence – something to increase the drama.
   I stopped in a traffic jam and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Our investigation of Perkins' death had not made much progress. Bradshaw had found the partially molten padlock and key in the remnants of the castle keep, but they didn't tell us any more. Havisham and I were not having much better luck ourselves: after three days of discreet investigation, only two pieces of information had come to light. First, that only eight members of Jurisfiction had access to The Sword of the Zenobians, and one of them was Vernham Deane. I mention this because he was posted as missing following an excursion into Ulysses to try to figure out what had happened to the stolen punctuation in the final chapter. No one had seen him since. Successive sweeps of Ulysses had failed to show that he had been there at all. In the absence of any more information, Havisham and I had started to discuss the possibility that Perkins might have removed the padlock himself – to clean out the cage or something, although this seemed doubtful. And what about my sabotaged Eject-O-Hat? Neither Havisham nor I had any more idea why I should be considered a threat; as Havisham delighted in pointing out, I was 'completely unimportant'.
   But the big news that had emerged in the past few days was that the time of the UltraWord™ upgrade had been set. Text Grand Central had brought the date forward a fortnight to coincide with the 923rd Annual BookWorld Awards. During the ceremony Libris would inaugurate the new system before an audience of seven million invited characters. The Bellman told us he had been up to Text Grand Central and seen the new UltraWord™ engines for himself. Sparkling new, each engine could process about a thousand simultaneous readings of each book – the old V8.3 engines were lucky to top a hundred.

   I wound down the window and looked out. Traffic jams in Reading weren't uncommon but they usually moved a little bit, and this one had been solid for twenty minutes. Exasperated, I got out of the car and went to have a look. Strangely, there appeared to have been an accident. I say strangely because all the drivers and pedestrians inside Caversham Heights were only Generic D-2 to D-9s and anything as dramatic as an accident was quite outside their brief. As I walked past the eight blue Morris Marinas in front of me, I noticed that each one had an identically damaged front wing and shattered windscreen. By the time I reached the head of the queue I could see that the incident involved one of the white Spongg Footcare trucks. But this truck was different from the others. Usually, they were unwashed Luton-bodied Fords with petrol streaks near the filler cap and a scratched roller shutter at the rear. This truck had none of these – it was pure white, very boxy and without a streak of dirt on it anywhere. The wheels, I noticed, weren't strictly round, either – they were more like a fifty-sided polygon which gave an impression of a circle. I looked closer. The tyres had no surface detail or texture. They were just flat black, without depth. The driver was no more detailed than the truck; he – or she or it – was pink and cubist with simple features and a pale blue boiler suit. The truck had been turning left and had hit one of the blue Morris Marinas, damaging all of them identically. The driver, a grey-haired man wearing herringbone tweed, was trying to remonstrate with the cubist driver but without much luck. The truck driver turned to face him, tried to speak but then gave up and looked straight ahead, going through the motions of driving the truck even though he was stationary.
   'What's going on?' I asked the small crowd that had gathered.
   'This idiot turned left when he shouldn't have,' explained the grey-haired Morris Marina driver while his identical grey-haired Generic D-4 clones nodded their heads vigorously. 'We could all have been killed!'
   'Are you okay?' I said to the cubist driver, who looked blankly at me and attempted to change gear.
   'I ve been driving in Caversham Heights since the book was written and never had an accident,' the Morris Marina driver carried on indignantly. 'This will play hell with my no-claims bonus – and what's more, I can't get any sense out of him at all!'
   'I saw it all,' said another Spongg truck driver – a proper one this time. 'Whoever he is he needs to go back to driving school and take a few lessons.'
   'Well, the show's over,' I told them. 'Mr Morris Marina Driver, is your car drivable?'
   'I think so,' replied the eight identical middle-aged drivers in unison.
   'Then get it out of here. Generic Truck Driver?'
   'Yes?'

  'Find a tow rope and get this heap of junk off the road.'
   He left to do my bidding as the eight Morris Marina drivers drove off in their identically spluttering cars.
   I was waving the cars around the stranded truck when there was a crackle in the air. The cubist truck vanished from the roadside leaving nothing but the faint smell of cantaloupes. I stared at the space left by the truck. The drivers were more than happy that this obstacle to their ordered lives had been removed, and they sounded their horns at me to get out of the way. I examined the area of the road carefully but found nothing except a single bolt made in the same style as the truck – no texture, just the same cubic shape. I walked back to my car, placed it in my bag, and drove on.
   Jack was waiting for me outside Mickey Finn's Gym, situated above a couple of shops in Coley Avenue. We were there to question a boxing promoter about allegations of fight fixing. It was the best scene in Caversham Heights – gritty, realistic, and with good characterisation and dialogue. I met Jack slightly earlier while the story was off on a sub-plot regarding a missing consignment of ketamine, so there was time for a brief word together. Caversham Heights wasn't first-person – which was just as well, really, as I didn't think Jack had the depth of character to support it.
   'Good morning, Jack,' I said as I walked up, 'how are things?'
   He looked a lot happier than the last time I saw him and smiled agreeably, handing me coffee in a paper cup.
   'Excellent, Mary – I should call you Mary, shouldn't I, just in case I have a slip of the tongue when we're being read? Listen, I went to see my wife Madeleine last night, and after a heated exchange of opinions we came to some sort of agreement.'
   'You're going back to her?'
   'Not quite,' replied Jack, taking a sip of coffee, 'but we agreed that if I stopped drinking and never saw Agatha Diesel again, she would consider it!'
   'Well, that's a start, isn't it?'
   'Yes,' replied Jack, 'but it might not be as simple as you think. I received this in the post this morning.'
   He handed me a letter. I unfolded it and read:

   Dear Mr Spratt,
   It has come to our attention that you may be attempting to give up the booze and reconcile with your wife. While we approve of this as a plot device to generate more friction and inner conflicts, we most strongly advise you not to carry it through to a happy reconciliation, as this would put you in direct contravention of Rule IIc of the Union of Sad Loner Detectives' Code, as ratified by the Union of Literary Detectives, and it will ultimately result in your expulsion from the association with subsequent loss of benefits.
   I trust you will do the decent thing and halt this damaging and abnormal behaviour before it leads to your downfall.

   PS. Despite repeated demands, you have failed to drive a classic car or pursue an unusual hobby. Please do so at once or face the consequences.

   'Hmm,' I muttered, 'it's signed Poi—'
   'I know who it's signed by,' replied Jack sadly, retrieving the letter. 'The union is very powerful. They have influence that goes all the up to the Great Panjandrum. This could hasten the demolition of Caversham Heights, not delay it. Father Brown wanted to renounce the priesthood umpteen times, but, well, the union—'
   'Jack,' I said, 'what do you want?'
   'Me?'
   'Yes, you.'
   He sighed.
   'It's not as simple as that. I have a responsibility for the seven hundred and eighty-six other characters in this book. Think of it – all those Generics sold off like post-Christmas turkeys or reduced to text. It makes me shudder just to think about it!'
   'That might happen anyway, Jack. At least this way we have a fighting chance. Do your own thing. Break away from the norm.'
   He sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair.
   'But what about the conflicts'? Isn't that the point of being a loner detective? The appalling self-destruction, the inner battles within ourselves that add spice to the proceedings and enable the story to advance more interestingly? We can't just have murder-interview-interview-second murder-conjecture-interview-conjecture-false ending-dramatic twist-resolution, can we? Where's the interest if a detective doesn't get romantically involved with someone who has something to do with the first murder? Why, I might never have to make a choice between justice and my own personal feelings ever again!'
   'And what if you don't?' I persisted. 'It needn't be like that. There's more than one way to make a story interesting.'
   'Okay,' he said, 'let's say I do live happily with Madeleine and the kids – what am I going to do for sub-plots? In a story like this conflict, for want of a better word, is good. Conflict is right. Conflict works.'
   He gazed at me angrily, but I knew he still believed in himself – the fact that we were even having this conversation proved that.
   'It doesn't have to be marital conflicts,' I told him. 'We could get a few sub-plots from the Well and sew them in – I agree the action can't always stay with you, but if we– Hello, I think we've got company.'
   A pink Triumph Herald had pulled up with a middle-aged woman in it. She got out, walked straight up to Jack and slapped him hard in the face.
   'How dare you!' she screamed. 'I waited three hours for you at the Sad & Single wine bar – what happened?'
   'I told you, Agatha. I was with my wife.'
   'Sure you were,' she spat, her voice rising. 'Don't patronise me with your pathetic little lies – who are you screwing this time? One of those little tarts down at the station?'
   'It's true,' he replied in an even voice, more shocked than outraged. 'I told you last night – it's all over, Agatha.'
   'Oh yes? I suppose you put him up to this?' she said, looking at me, scorn and anger in her eyes. 'You come down here on a character exchange with your Outlander airs and self-determination bullshit and think you can improve the storyline? The supreme arrogance of you people!'
   She stopped for a moment and looked at the pair of us.
   'You're sleeping together, aren't you?'
   'No,' I told her firmly, 'and if there aren't some improvements round here soon, there won't be a book. If you want a transfer out of here, I'm sure I can arrange something—'
   'It's all so easy for you, isn't it?' she said, her face convulsing with anger and then fear as her voice rose. 'Think you can just make a few footnoterphone calls and everything will be just dandy?'
   She pointed a long bony finger at me. 'Well, I'll tell you, Miss Outlander, I will not take this lying down!'
   She glared at us both, marched back to her car and drove off with a squeal of tyres.
   'How about that for a conflictual sub-plot?' I asked, but Jack wasn't amused.
   'Let's see what else you can dream up – I'm not sure I like that one. Did you find out when the Book Inspectorate are due to read us?'
   'Not yet,' I told him.
   Jack looked at his watch. 'Come on, we've got the fight-rigging scene to do. You'll like this one. Mary was sometimes a little late with the "If you don't know we can't help you" line when we did the old good cop/bad cop routine, but just stay on your toes and you'll be fine.'
   He seemed a lot happier having stood up to Agatha, and we walked across the road to where some rusty iron stairs led up to the gym

   Reading, Tuesday. It had been raining all night and the rain-washed streets reflected the dour sky. Mary and Jack walked up the steel steps that led to Mickey Finn's. A lugubrious gym that smelt of sweat and dreams, where hopefuls tried to spar their way out of Reading's underclass. Mickey Finn was an ex-boxer himself, with scarred eyes and a tremor to prove it. In latter days he was a trainer, then a manager. Today he just ran the gym and dabbled in drug-dealing on the side.
   'Who are we here to see?' asked Mary as their feet rang out on the iron treads.
   'Mickey Finn,' replied Jack. 'He got caught up in some trouble a few years ago and I put in a good word. He owes me.'
   They reached the top and opened the doo—

   It was a good job the door opened outwards. If it had opened inwards I would not be here to tell the tale. Jack teetered on the edge and I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. The only part of Mickey Finn's that remained were short floorboards that changed to descriptive prose less than a foot out, the ragged ends whipping and fluttering like pennants in the wind. Beyond these remnants was nothing but a dizzying drop to a bleak and windswept sea, whipped up into a frenzy by a typhoon. The waves rose and fell, carrying with them small ships that looked like trawlers, the sailors on board covered in oilskins. But the sea wasn't water as I knew it; the waves here were made of letters, some of which had coalesced into words and on occasion short sentences. Every now and then a word or sentence would burst enthusiastically from the surface, where it would be caught by the sailors, who held nets on long poles.
   'Blast!' said Jack. 'Damn and blast!'
   'What is it?' I asked as letters that spelt 'saxophone' came barrelling towards us, changing to a real saxophone as they crossed the threshold and hit the ironwork of the staircase with a crash. The clouds of individual letters in the sky above the wave-tossed sea contained punctuation marks that swirled in ugly patterns. Now and then a bolt of lightning struck the sea and the letters swirled near the point of discharge, spontaneously creating words.
   'The Text Sea!' yelled Jack against the rush of wind. We attempted to close the door against the gale as a grammasite flew past with a loud 'Gark!' and expertly speared a verb that had jumped from the sea at a badly chosen moment.
   We pressed our weight against the door and it closed. The wind abated, the thunder now merely a distant rumble behind the half-glazed door. I picked up the bent saxophone.
   'I had no idea the Text Sea looked like anything at all,' I said, panting. 'I thought it was just an abstract notion.'
   'Oh, it's real, all right,' replied Jack, picking up his hat, 'as real as anything is down here. The LiteraSea is the basis for all prose written in roman script. It's connected to the Searyllic Ocean somewhere but I don't know the details. You know what this means, don't you?'
   'That scene-stealers have been at work?'
   'It looks more like a deletion to me,' replied Jack grimly, 'excised. The whole kerfuffle. Characters, setting, dialogue, sub-plot and the narrative-turning device regarding the fight-fixing that the writer had pinched from On the Waterfront.'
   'Where to?' I asked.
   'Probably to another book by the same author.'Jack sighed. 'Kind of proves we won't be long for the Well. It's the next nail in the coffin.'
   'Can't we just jump into the next chapter and the discovery of the drug dealer shot dead when the undercover buy goes wrong?'
   It would never work,' said Jack, shaking his head. 'Let me see – I wouldn't have known about Hawkins' involvement with Davison's master plan. More importantly, Mickey Finn would have no reason to be killed if he didn't talk to me, so he would have been there to stop the fight before Johnson placed his three-hundred-thousand-pound bet – and the heart-warming scene in the last two pages of the book with the young lad will make no sense unless I meet him here first. Shit. There isn't a holesmith anywhere in the Well who can fill this one. We're finished, Thursday. As soon as the book figures the gym scene has gone the plot will start to spontaneously unravel. We'll have to declare literary insolvency. If we do it quick we might be able to get most of the major parts reassigned to another book.'
   'There must be something we can do!'
   Jack thought for a moment.
   'No, Thursday. It's over. I'm calling it.'
   'Hang on,' I said. 'What if we come in again but instead of us both walking up the stairs you start at the top, meet me coming up and explain what you have just found out. We jump straight from there to chapter eight and … you're looking at me a bit oddly.'
   'Mary—'
   'Thursday.'
   'Thursday. That would make chapter seven only a paragraph long!'
   'Better than nothing.'
   'It won't work.'
   'Vonnegut does it all the time.' -
   He sighed.
   'Okay. Lead on, maestro.'
   I smiled and we jumped back three pages.

   Reading, Tuesday. It had been raining all night and the rain-washed streets reflected the dour sky. Mary was late and she met Jack walking down the stairway from an upstairs gymnasium, his feet ringing on the iron treads.
   'Sorry I'm late,' said Mary, 'I had a puncture. Did you meet up with your contact?'
   'Y-es,' replied Jack. 'Had you visited the gym – which you haven't, of course – you would have found it a lugubrious place that smells of sweat and dreams, where hopefuls try to spar their way out of Reading's underclass.'
   'Who were you seeing?' asked Mary as they walked back to her car.
   'Mickey Finn,' replied Jack, 'ex-boxer with scarred eyes and a tremor to match. He told me that Hawkins was involved with Davison's master plan. There is talk of a big shipment coming in on the fifth and he also let slip that he was going to see Jethro – the importance of which I won't understand until later.'
   'Anything else?' asked Mary, looking thoughtful.
   'No.'
   'Are you sure?' 'Yes.'
   'Are you SURE you're sure?'
   'Er … No, wait. I've just remembered. There was this young kid there up for his first fight. It could make him. Mickey said he was the best he'd ever seen – he could be a contender.'
   'Sounds like you had a busy morning,' said Mary, looking up at the grey sky.
   'The busiest,' answered Jack, pulling his jacket around his shoulders. 'Come on, I'll buy you lunch.'
   The chapter ended and Jack covered his face with his hands and groaned.
   'I can't believe I said "the importance of which I won't understand until later". They'll never buy it. It's rubbish!'
   'Listen,' I said, 'stop fretting. It'll be fine. We just have to hold the book together long enough to figure out a rescue plan.'
   'What have we to lose?' replied Jack with a good measure of stoicism. 'You get up to Jurisfiction and see what you can find out about the Book Inspectorate. I'll hold a few auditions and try to rebuild the scene from memory.'
   He paused.
   'And Thursday?' 'Yes?'
   'Thanks.'

   I drove back to the flying boat. Having said I wasn't going to get involved with any internal politics, I was surprised by how much of a kinship with Caversham Heights I was feeling. Admittedly, the book was pretty dreadful, but it was no worse than the average Farquitt – perhaps I felt this way because it was my home.
 

* * *
   'Are we going shopping now?' asked Lola, who had been waiting for me. 'I need something to wear for the BookWorld Awards the week after next.'
   'Are you invited?'
   'We all are,' she breathed excitedly. 'Apparently the organisers are borrowing a displacement field technology from SF. The long and short of it is that we will all be able to fit in the Starlight Room – it's going to be quite an event!'
   'It certainly will,' I said, going upstairs. Lola followed me and watched from my bed as I changed out of Mary's clothes.
   'You're quite important at Jurisfiction, aren't you?'
   'Not really,' I replied, trying to do up my trouser button and realising that it was tighter than normal.
   'Blast!' I said.
   'What?'
   'My trousers are too small.'
   'Shrunk?'
   'No …' I replied, staring into the mirror. There was no doubt about it. I was starting to put on a small amount of girth. I stared at it this way and that and Lola did the same, trying to figure out what I was looking at.
 
   Catalogue shopping from the inside was a lot more fun than I had thought. Lola squeaked with delight at all the clothes on offer and tried about thirty different types of perfume before deciding not to buy any at all – she, in common with nearly all bookpeople, had no sense of smell. Watching her was like letting a child loose in a toy store – and her energy for shopping was almost unbelievable. It was while we were on the lingerie page that she asked me about Randolph.
   'What do you think of him?'
   'Oh, he's fine,' I replied non-committally, sitting on a chair and thinking of babies while Lola tried on one bra after another, each of which she seemed to love to bits until the next one. 'Why do you ask?'
   'Well, I rather like him in a funny kind of way.'
   'Does he like you?'
   'I'm not sure. I think that's why he ignores me and makes jokes about my weight. Men always do that when they're interested. It's called subtext, Thursday – I'll tell you all about it some day.'
   'Okay,' I said slowly, 'so what's the problem?'
   'He doesn't really have a lot of, well, charisma.'
   'There are lots of men out there, Lola,' I told her. 'Don't hurry. When I was seventeen I had the hots for this complete and utter flake named Darren. My mother disapproved, which made him into something of a magnet.'
   'Ah!' said Lola. 'What about this bra?'
   'I thought the pink suited you better.'
   'Which pink? There were twelve.'
   'The sixth pink, just after the tenth black and nineteenth lacy.'
   'Okay, let's look at that one again.'
   She rummaged through the pile, found what she wanted and said:
   'Thursday?'
   'Yes?'
   'Randolph calls me a tart because I like boys. Do you think that's fair?'
   'It's one of the great injustices of life,' I told her. 'If he did the same he'd be toasted as a "ladies' man". But Lola, have you met anyone who you really liked, someone with whom you'd like to spend more exclusive time?'
   'You mean – a boyfriend?'
   'Yes.'
   She paused and looked at herself in the mirror.
   'I don't think I'm written that way, Thurs. But you know, sometimes, just afterwards, you know, when there is that really nice moment and I'm in his big strong arms and feeling sleepy and warm and contented, I can feel there is something that I need just outside my grasp – something I want but can't have.'
   'You mean love?'
   'No – a Mercedes.'
   She wasn't joking.[16]
   It was my footnoterphone.
   'Hang on, Lola – Thursday speaking.'[17]
   I looked at Lola, who was trying on a basque.
   'Yes,' I replied, 'why?'[18]
   'The safe side of what?'[19]
   'I see. What can I do for you apart from answering questions about pianos?'[20]
   I wasn't busy. Apart from a Jurisfiction session tomorrow at midday, I was clear.
   'Sure. Where and when?'[21]
   'Okay.'
   Lola was looking at me mournfully.
   'Does this mean we'll have to miss out on the gym? We have to go to the gym – if I don't I'll feel guilty about eating all those cakes.'
   'What cakes?'
   'The ones I'm going to eat on the way to the gym.'
   'I think you get enough exercise, Lola. But we've got half an hour yet – c'mon, I'll buy you a coffee.'

21
Who stole the tarts?

   'My first adult foray into the BookWorld had not been without controversy. I had entered Jane Eyre and changed the ending. Originally, Jane goes off to India with the drippy St John Rivers, but in the ending that I engineered, Jane and Rochester married. I made the decision from the heart, which I had not been trained to do but couldn't help myself. Everyone liked the new ending but my actions weren't without criticism. Technically I had committed a fiction infraction, and I would have to face the music. My first hearing in Kafka's The Trial had been inconclusive. The trial before the King and Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland would not be as strange – it would be stranger.'

THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles


   The Gryphon was a creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. In his youth he must have been a frightening creature to behold, but in his later years he wore spectacles and a scarf, which somewhat dented his otherwise fearsome appearance.
   He was, I was told, one of the finest legal eagles around, and after Snell's death he became head of the Jurisfiction legal team. It was the Gryphon who managed to secure the record pay-out following the celebrated Farmer’s Wife v. Three Blind Mice case and was instrumental in reducing Nemo's piracy charges to 'accidental manslaughter'.
   The Gryphon was reading my notes when I arrived and made small and incomprehensible noises as he flicked through the pages, grunting here and there and staring at me over his spectacles with large eyes.
   'Well!' he said. 'We should be in for some fun now!'
   'Fun?' I repeated. 'Defending a Class II fiction infraction?'
   'I'm prosecuting a class action for blindness against the Triffids this afternoon,' said the Gryphon soberly, 'and the Martians' war crimes trial in War of the Worlds just drags on and on. Believe me, a fiction infraction is fun. Do you want to see my case load?'
   'No thanks.'
   'Okay. We'll see what their witnesses have to say and how Hopkins presents his case. I may decide not to put you on the stand. Please don't do anything stupid like grow – it nearly destroyed Alice's case there and then. And if the Queen orders your head to be cut off, ignore her.'
   'Okay.' I sighed. 'Let's get on with it.'

   The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their thrones when we arrived, but they were the only people in the courtroom who were seemingly composed – Alice's exit two pages earlier had caused a considerable amount of distress to the jury, who were back in their places but were bickering furiously with the foreman, a rabbit who stared back at them, nibbling a large carrot that he had somehow smuggled in.
   The Knave of Hearts was being escorted back to the cells and the tarts – exhibit 'A' – were being taken away and replaced by the original manuscript of Jane Eyre. Seated before the King and Queen was prosecuting attorney Matthew Hopkins and a collection of very severe-looking birds. He glared at me with barely concealed venom. He looked a lot less amused than when we last crossed swords in The Trial, and he hadn't looked particularly amused then. The King was obviously the judge because he wore a large wig, but quite which part the Queen of Hearts was to play in the proceedings, I had no idea.
   The twelve jurors calmed down and all started writing busily on their slates.
   'What are they doing?' I whispered to the Gryphon. 'The trial hasn't even begun yet!'
   'Silence in court!' yelled the White Rabbit in a shrill voice.
   'Off with her head!' yelled the Queen.
   The King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to find out who had been talking. The Queen nudged him and nodded in my direction.
   'You there!' he said. 'You will have your say soon enough, Miss, Miss …'
   'Next,' put in the White Rabbit after consulting his parchment.
   'Really?' replied the King with some confusion. 'Does that mean we're done?'
   'No, Your Majesty,' replied the White Rabbit patiently, 'her name is Next. Thursday Next.'
   'I suppose you think that's funny?'
   'No indeed, Your Majesty,' I replied. 'It was the name I was born with.'
   The jurymen all frantically started to write 'It was the name I was born with' on their slates.
   'You're an Outlander, aren't you?' said the Queen, who had been staring at me for some time.
   'Yes, Your Majesty.'
   'Then answer me this: when there are two people and one of them has left, who is left? The person who is left or the person who has left? I mean, they can't both be left, can they?'
   'Herald, read the accusation!' said the King.
   At this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:
   'Miss Thursday Next is hereby accused of a fiction infraction Class II against the Jurisfiction penal code FAL/0605937 and pursuant to the BookWorld general law regarding continuity of plot lines, as ratified to the Council of Genres, 1584.'
   'Consider your verdict,' said the King to the jury.
   'Objection!' cried the Gryphon. 'There's a great deal to come before that!'
   'Overruled!' shouted the King, adding: 'Or do I mean "sustained"? I always get the two mixed up – it's a bit like "feed a cold and starve a fever" or "starve a cold and feed a fever". I never know which is right. At any rate, you may call the first witness.'
   The White Rabbit blew three more blasts on the trumpet, and called out:
   'First witness!'
   The first witness was Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper at Thornfield Hall, Rochester's home. She blinked and looked around the court slowly, smiling at Hopkins and glaring at me. She was assisted into the witness box by an usher who was in reality a large guinea pig.
   'Do you promise to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?' asked the White Rabbit.
   'I do.'
   'Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly all wrote "write that down" on their slates.
   'Mrs Fairfax,' began Hopkins, rising to his feet, 'I want you to tell me in your own words the events surrounding Miss Next's intrusion into Jane Eyre, starting at the beginning and not stopping until you get to the end …'
   'And then what?' asked the King.
   'Then she may stop,' said Hopkins with a trace of annoyance.
   'Ah,' said the King in the voice of someone who thinks they understand a great deal but are sadly mistaken, 'proceed.'
   For the next two hours we listened not only to Mrs Fairfax but also Grace Poole, Blanche Ingram and St John Rivers, all giving evidence to explain the old ending and how by calling 'Jane, Jane, Jane!' at Jane's bedroom I had changed the narrative completely. The jury tried to keep up with the proceedings, and they wrote as and when directed by the King until there was no more room on their slates, whereupon they tried to write on the benches in front of them, and failing that, on each other.
   After every witness the smallest dormouse in the jury was excused for a trip to the bathroom, which gave the Gryphon time to explain to the King – who probably wouldn't have been able to touch his head with his eyes shut – the procedure of the law. When the dormouse returned the witness was given to the Gryphon for cross-examination, and every time he called: 'No further questions.' The afternoon wore on and it became hotter in the courtroom. The Queen grew more and more bored, and seemed to demand the verdict on a more and more frequent basis, once even asking during a witness's testimony.
   And throughout this tedious performance, as the characters from Jane Eyre came and repeated the truth in front of me, a seemingly endless parade of guinea pigs interrupted the proceedings. Each one was immediately set upon and placed head first into a large canvas bag, then ejected from the court. Each time this happened there followed a quite inordinate amount of confusion, cries and noise. As the din grew to fever pitch the Queen would scream, 'Off with his head! Off with his head!' as though she were somehow in direct competition with the tumult. By the time the latest guinea pig had been thrown from the court, Grace Poole had vanished in a cloud of alcoholic vapours, and no one knew where she was.
   'Never mind!' said the King, with an air of great relief. 'Call the next witness.' He added in an undertone to the Queen: 'Really, my dear, you must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!'
   I watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list and read out at the top of his shrill little voice the name: 'Thursday Next!'
   'Excuse me,' said the Gryphon, stirring himself from the lethargy he had shown throughout the trial, 'but Miss Next will not be giving evidence against herself in this court of law.'
   'Is that allowed?' asked the King. The jury all looked at one another and shrugged.
   'It proves she's guilty!' screamed the Queen. 'Off with her head! Off with—'
   'It proves nothing of the sort,' interrupted the Gryphon. The Queen went scarlet and would probably have exploded had not the King laid his hand on her arm.
   'Come, come, my dear,' he said softly, 'you must stay calm. All these orders of execution are probably not good for your hearts.' He chuckled. 'Hearts,' he said again. 'I say, I've made a joke, that's rather good, don't you think?'
   The jury all laughed dutifully and the brighter ones explained to the more stupid ones what the joke was, and the stupid ones explained to the even stupider ones what a joke actually is.
   Excuse me,' said the dormouse again, 'may I go to the bathroom?'
   'Again?' bellowed the King. 'You must have a bladder the size of a peanut.'
   'A grain of rice, so please Your Majesty,' said the dormouse, knees knocking together.
   'Very well,' said the King, 'but make it quick. Now, can we reach a verdict?'
   'Now who wants a verdict?' asked the Queen triumphantly.
   'There's more evidence to come yet, please Your Majesty,' said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry. 'We have to hear from the defence yet.'
   'The defence?' asked the King wearily. 'Haven't we just heard from them?'
   'No, Your Majesty,' replied the White Rabbit. 'That was the prosecution.'
   'The two always confuse me,' replied the King, staring at his feet, 'a bit like that "overruled" and "sustained" malarkey – which was which again?'
   'The prosecution rests,' said Hopkins, who could see that this trial might last for months if he didn't get a move on, 'and I think,' he added, 'we have conclusively proved that Miss Next not only hanged the ending of Jane Eyre but was also premeditated in her actions. This is not a court of opinion, it is a court of law, and there is only one verdict which this court can reach – guilty.'