26
Post-Havisham blues

   'The Bellman lived in a grace-and-favour apartment at Norland Park when he wasn't working in The Hunting of the Snark. He had been head of Jurisfiction for twenty years and was required, under Council of Genres mandate, to stand down. The Bellman, oddly enough, had always been called the Bellman – it was no more than coincidence that he had actually been a Bellman himself. The previous Bellman had been Bradshaw and, before him, Virginia Woolf. Under Woolf, Jurisfiction roll-calls tended to last several hours.'

THE BELLMAN – The Hardest Job in Fiction


   I walked into the Jurisfiction offices an hour later and tingled the Bellman's bell. It was a signal for the immediate attention of the Bellman, and within a few moments he had appeared, still with a napkin stuck in his collar from lunch. I sat down and explained what had happened. When he heard, he needed to sit down, too.
   'Where is the Bluebird now?' he asked.
   'Back at the stores,' I replied. 'I've ordered an investigation; it looks as though the stub axle failed through metal fatigue.'
   'An accident?'
   I nodded my head. They hadn't got to her after all. Despite all that had happened, I still had less than nothing suspicious to pin on her death, and only a misplaced key on Perkins'. Motor racing has its own share of dangers, and Havisham knew that more than most.
   'How long has she got?'
   'They're improvising her death scene in Expectations as we speak. The doctor said a chapter at most – as long as we can keep references or appearances to a minimum.'
   He patted me on the shoulder.
   'We'll have to get an A-grade Generic trained to take her place,' he said softly. 'Expectations won't be demolished.'
   He turned to me.
   'You're off the active list for a few days, Miss Next. Take it easy at home and we'll get some quiet jobs for you to do until you're ready to return to full duties.'
   Tweed appeared.
   'What's going on?' he demanded. 'They told me—'
   The Bellman took him by the arm and explained what had happened as I thought about Havisham and life without her. Tweed approached and laid a hand upon my shoulder.
   'I'm sorry, Thursday. Havisham was one of the best; we all thought the world of her.'
   I thanked him.
   'You might be interested in these copies of reports from Text Grand Central.' .
   'What are they?'
   He placed them on the table in front of me.
   'They are the UltraWord™ reports written by Perkins, Deane and Miss Havisham. They all give it the thumbs-up. If Perkins was murdered, it wasn't because of UltraWord™.'
   'The Ultimate Reading Experience?'
   'Looks like it. A modern system like this needs people like you to police it, Next. I want you to consider a permanent post here inside fiction.'
   I looked up at him. This seemed to me like rather a good idea. After all, there was no one waiting for me back at Swindon.
   'Sounds good, Tweed. Can I sleep on it?'
   He smiled.
   'Take as long as you want.'

   I went back to Mary's flying boat and read over what Miss Havisham had done with her final scene in Great Expectations. A professional to the last, she had enacted her own death with a sensitivity and fallibility that I had never seen her exhibit in life. I found a bottle of wine, poured myself a large glass and drank it gratefully. Oddly I thought there was a reason why perhaps I shouldn't be drinking, but couldn't think what it was. I looked at my hand where there had been a name written that morning. Havisham had instructed me to scrub it out, and I had – but even so I was intrigued and tried to figure out from the small marks still visible what had been written there.
   'Lisbon,' I muttered. 'Why would I write "Lisbon" on my hand?'
   I shrugged. The delicate red was a welcome friend and I poured another glass. I pulled out the UltraWord™ copy of The Little Prince that Havisham had given me and opened the cover. There was an odd smell of melons about the book and the paper felt like a sort of thin plastic, the letters a harsh black against the milky-white pages. The text glowed in the dim light of the kitchen and, intrigued, I took the book into the darkness of the utility cupboard, where the text was still as clear as day. I returned to my place at the table and tried the read sensitive preferences page, the words changing from red to blue as I read them, then back again as I reread them. In this manner I turned the PageGlow™ feature on and off, and then played with the levels of the background and music tracks.
   I started to read the book, and as the first words entered my head a huge panoply of new emotions opened up. As I read the sequence in the desert I could hear the sound of the wind over the dunes and even the heat and taste of the scorched sands. The voice of the narrator was different to that of the prince, and no dialogue tags were needed to differentiate them. It was, as Libris had asserted, an extraordinary piece of technology. I shut the book, leaned back on my chair and closed my eyes.
   There was a tap at the door.
   I bade my visitor enter. It was Arnold.
   'Hello!' he said. 'Can I come in?'
   'Make yourself at home,' I replied. 'Drink?'

   'Thank you.'
   He sat down and smiled at me. I'd never really noticed it before but he was quite handsome.
   'Where's everyone else?' he asked, looking around.
   'Out somewhere,' I replied, waving a hand in the direction of the boat and feeling a bit dizzy. 'Lola's probably under her latest beau, Randolph is doubtless complaining to someone about it – and I've no idea where Gran is. Have a drink?'
   'You've already poured one.'
   'So I have. What brings you here, Arnie?'
   'Just passing. How are things at work?'
   'Shit. Miss Havisham is dying and something is wrong – I just don't know what.'
   'I've heard Outlanders sometimes go through a period of "imagination freefall" when they start trying to create plot lines out of nothing. You'll settle down to it, I shouldn't worry. Congratulations, by the way,' he added. 'I read about your appointment in the paper.'
   I held up my glass in salute, and we both drank.
   'So what's the deal with you and Mary?' I asked.
   'Over for a long time. She thinks I'm a loser and—'
   'Tells you to go to hell. Yes, I've heard. What about Lola? Have you slept with her yet?'
   'No!'
   'You must be the only bloke in Caversham Heights who hasn't,' I declared. 'Do you want another drink?'
   'Okay. What about you?' he asked. 'Tell me about your husband in the Outland.'
   'I don't have a husband,' I told him, 'never did.'
   'You told me—'
   'Probably one of those "push off" comments we girls sometimes use. There was this guy named Snood in the ChronoGuard but that was a long time ago. He suffered a time aggre-ge-ga-gation.'
   'A what?'
   'He got old before his time. He died.'
   I felt confused all of a sudden and looked at the wineglass and the half-empty bottle of wine.
   'What's the matter, Thursday?'
   'Oh – nothing. You know when you suddenly have a memory of something and you don't know why – a sort of flashback?'
   He smiled.
   'I don't have many memories, Thursday, I'm a Generic. I could have had a backstory but I wasn't considered important enough.'
   'Is that a cat? I mean, is that a fact? Well, I just thought about the White Horse in Uffington back home. Soft warm grassland and blue skies, warm sun on my face. Why would I have done that?'
   'I have no idea. Don't you think you've had enough to drink?'
   'I'm fine,' I told him. 'Right as rain. Never better. What's it like being a Generic?'
   'It's not bad,' he replied, taking another swig of wine. 'Promotion to a better or new part is always there if you are diligent enough and hang out at the Character Exchange. I miss having a family – that must be good.'
   'My mum is a hoot,' I told him, 'and Dad doesn't exist – he's a time-travelling knight errant – don't laugh – and I have two brothers. They both live in Swindon. One's a priest and the other—'
   'Is what?'
   I felt confused again. It was probably the wine. I looked at my hand.
   'I don't know what he does. We haven't spoken in years.'
   There was another flashback, this time of the Crimea.
   'This bottle's empty,' I muttered, trying to pour it.
   'You have to take the cork out first,' observed Arnold. 'Allow me.'
   He fumbled with the corkscrew and drew the cork after a lot of effort. I think he was drunk. Some people have no restraint.
   'What do you think of the Well?' he asked.
   'It's all right,' I replied. 'Life here is pretty good for an Outlander. No bills to pay, the weather is always good and, best of all, no Goliath, SpecOps or my mother's cooking.'
   'SpecOps can cook?'
   I giggled stupidly and so did he. Within a few seconds we had both collapsed in hysterics. I hadn't laughed like this for ages.
   The laughter stopped.
   'What were we giggling about?' asked Arnold.
   'I don't know.'
   And we collapsed in hysterics again.
   I recovered and took another swig of wine.
   'Do you dance?'
   Arnie looked startled for a moment.
   'Of course.'
   I took him by the hand and led him through into the living room, found a record and put it on the turntable. I placed my hands on his shoulders and he placed his hands on my waist. It felt odd and somehow wrong but I was past caring. I had lost a good friend that day and deserved a little unwinding.
   The music began and we swayed to the rhythm. I had danced a lot in the past, which must have been with Filbert, I suppose.
   'You dance well for someone with one leg, Arnie.'
   'I have two legs, Thursday.'
   And we burst out laughing again. I steadied myself on him and he steadied himself on the sofa. Pickwick looked on and ruffled her feathers in disgust.
   'Do you have a girl in the Well, Arnie?'
   'Nobody,' he said slowly, and I moved my cheek against his, found his mouth and kissed him, very gently and without ceremony. He began to pull away then stopped and returned the kiss. It felt dangerously welcome; I didn't know why I had been single for so long. I wondered whether Arnie would stay the night.
   He stopped kissing me and took a step back.
   'Thursday, this is all wrong.'
   'What could be wrong?' I asked, staring at him unsteadily. 'Do you want to come and see my bedroom? It has a great view of the ceiling.'
   I stumbled slightly and held the back of the sofa.
   'What are you staring at?' I asked Pickwick, who was glaring at me.
   'My head's thumping,' muttered Arnold.
   'So's mine,' I replied.
   Arnold cocked his head and listened.
   'It's not our heads – it's the door.'
   'The door of perception,' I noted, 'of heaven and hell.'
   He opened the door and a very old woman dressed in blue gingham walked in. I started to giggle but stopped when she strode up to me and took away my wineglass.
   'How many glasses have you had?'
   'Two?' I replied, leaning against the table for support.
   'Bottles,' corrected Arnie.
   'Crates,' I added, giggling, although nothing actually seemed that funny all of a sudden. 'Listen here, Gingham Woman,' I added, wagging my finger, 'give me my glass back.'

   'What about the baby?' she demanded, staring at me dangerously.
   'What baby? Who's having a baby? Arnie, are you having a baby?'
   'It's worse than I thought,' she muttered. 'Do the names Aornis and Landen mean anything to you?'
   'Not a thing,' I replied, 'but I'll drink to them, if you want. Hello, Randolph.'
   Randolph and Lola had arrived at the doorstep and were staring at me in shock.
   'What?' I asked them. 'Have I grown another head or something?'
   'Lola, fetch a spoon,' said Gingham Woman. 'Randolph, take Thursday to the bathroom.'
   'Why?' I asked as I collapsed in a heap. 'I can walk.'
   The next thing I saw was the view down the back of Randolph's legs and the living-room floor, then the stairs as I was carried up over his shoulder. I started to giggle but the rest was a bit blurry. I remember choking and throwing up in the loo, then being deposited in bed, then starting to cry.
   'She died. Burned.'
   'I know, darling,' said the old woman. 'I'm your grandmother, do you remember?'
   'Gran?' I sobbed, realising who she was all of a sudden. 'I'm sorry I called you Gingham Woman!'
   It's okay. Perhaps being drunk is for the best. You're going to sleep now, and dream – and in that dream you'll do battle to win back your memories. Do you understand?'
   'No.'
   She sighed and wiped my forehead with her small pink hand. It felt reassuring and I stopped crying.
   'Be vigilant, my dear. Keep your wits about you and be stronger than you have ever been. We'll see you on the other side, come the morning.'
   But she was starting to fade as slumber swept over me, her voice ringing in my ears as my mind relaxed and transported me deep into my subconscious.

27
The lighthouse at the edge of my mind

   'The Hades family when I knew them comprised, in order of age: Acheron, Styx, Phlegethon, Cocytus, Lethe, and the only girl, Aornis. Their father died many years previously, leaving their mother in charge of the youthful and diabolical family all on her own. Described once by Vlad the Impaler as 'unspeakably repellent', the Hades family drew strength from deviancy and committing every sort of horror that they could. Some with panache, some with half-hearted seriousness, others with a sort of relaxed insouciance about the whole thing. Lethe, the 'white sheep' of the family, was hardly cruel at all – but the others more than made up for him. In time, I was to defeat three of them.'

THURSDAY NEXT – Hades. Family from Hell


   A wave burst on the rocks behind me, showering me with cold water and flecks of foam. I shivered. I was on a rocky outcrop in the darkest gale-torn night, and before me stood a lighthouse. The wind whistled and moaned around the tower and a flash of lightning struck the apex. The bolt coursed down the earthing cable and trailed a shower of sparks, leaving behind the acrid stench of brimstone. The lighthouse was as black as obsidian and, as I looked up, it seemed as though the arc lamp rotating within the vast lenses was floating in midair. The light swept through the inky blackness illuminating nothing but a heaving, angry sea. I looked backwards in my mind but could see nothing – I was without memory or past experiences. This was the loneliest outpost of my subconscious, a memoryless island where nothing existed other than that which I could feel and see and smell at this moment in time. But I still had emotions, and I was aware of a sense of danger, and purpose. Somehow I understood I was here to vanquish – or be vanquished.
   Another wave burst behind me and with beating heart I pulled on the locking lever of the steel front door and was soon inside, safe from the gale. The door securely fastened, I looked around. There was a central spiral staircase but nothing else – not a stick of furniture, a book, a packing case; nothing.
   I shivered again and pulled out my gun.
   'A lighthouse,' I murmured, 'a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere.'
   I walked slowly up the concrete steps, keeping a careful watch as they curved away out of sight. The first floor was empty and I moved on up, each circular room I reached devoid of any signs of habitation. In this way I slowly climbed the tower, gun arm outstretched and trembling with a dread of impending loss that I could not control, nor understand. On the top floor the spiral staircase ended; a steel ladder was the only means by which to climb any higher. I could hear the electric motors that drove the rotating lamp whine above me, the bright white light shining through the open roof hatch as the beam swept slowly about. But this room was not empty. Sitting in an armchair was a young woman in the process of powdering her nose with the help of a small hand mirror.
   'Who are you?' I asked, pointing my gun at her.
   She lowered the mirror, smiled and looked at the pistol.
   'Dear me!' she exclaimed. 'Always the woman of action, aren't you?'
   'What am I doing here?'
   'You really don't know, do you?'
   'No,' I replied, lowering the gun. I couldn't remember any facts but I could feel love, and loss, and frustration, and fear. The woman was linked to one of these but I didn't know which.
   'My name,' said the young woman, 'is—'
   She stopped, and smiled again.
   'No, I think even that is too much.'
   She rose and walked towards me.
   'All you need to know is that you killed my brother.'
   'I'm a murderer?' I whispered, searching in my heart for guilt of such a crime and finding none. 'I … I don't believe you.'
   'Oh, it's true,' she said, 'and I will have my revenge. Let me show you something.'
   She took me to the window and pointed. There was another flash of lightning and the view outside was illuminated. We were on the edge of a massive waterfall which curved away from us into the darkness. The ocean was emptying over the edge; millions of gallons every second, falling into the abyss. But that wasn't all. In another flash of lightning I could see that the waterfall was rapidly eroding the small island on which the lighthouse was built – as I watched, the first piece of the rocky outcrop fell away noiselessly and disappeared into space.
   'What's happening?' I demanded.
   'You are forgetting everything,' she said simply, sweeping her hands in the direction of the room. 'These are a just a few of your memories I have cobbled together – a last stand, if you like. The storm, the lighthouse, the waterfall, the night, the wind – none of them is real.' She walked closer to me until I could smell her perfume. 'All this is merely a representation of your mind. The lighthouse is you; your consciousness. The sea around us your experience, your memories – everything that makes you the person you are. They are all draining away like water from a bath. Soon the lighthouse will topple into the void and then—'
   'And then?'
   'And then I will have won. You will remember nothing – not even this. You will relearn, of course – in ten years you might be able to tie your own shoelaces. But for the first few years the only decision you will have to make is which side of your mouth to drool out of …'
   I turned to leave but she called out:
   'You can't run. Where will you go? For you, there's nowhere else but here.'
   I stopped at the door and turned back, raised my gun and fired a single shot. The bullet whistled through the young woman and impacted harmlessly on the wall behind.
   'It will take more than that, Thursday.'
   'Thursday?' I echoed. 'That's my name?'
   'It doesn't matter,' said the young woman. 'There is no one you can remember who will help you.'
   'Doesn't this make your victory a hollow one?' I demanded, lowering my gun and rubbing my temple, trying to recall even a single fact.
   'Ridding your mind of that which you value most was the hard bit,' replied the woman. 'All I had to do then was to invoke your dread, the memory that you feared the most. After that, it was easy.'
   'My greatest fear?'
   She smiled again and showed me the hand mirror. There was no reflection, only images that flashed past anonymously. I took the mirror and peered at it, trying to make sense of what I saw.
   'These are the images of your life,' she told me. 'Your memories, the people you love, everything you hold dear – but also everything that you've ever feared. I can modify and change them at will – or even delete them completely. But before I do, I'm going to make you view the worst once more. Gaze upon it, Thursday, gaze upon it and feel the loss of your brother one last time!'
   The mirror showed me the image of a war long ago, the violent death of a soldier who seemed familiar, and I felt the pain of loss tearing through me. The woman laughed as the images repeated themselves, this time clearer, and more graphic. I shut my eyes to block the horror, but opened them again quickly in shock. I had seen something else, right at the edge of my mind, dark and menacing, waiting to engulf me. I gasped, and the woman felt my fear.
   'What is it?' she cried. 'There is something I have missed? Worse than the Crimea? Let me see!'
   She tried to grasp the mirror but I let it drop. It shattered on the concrete floor and we heard a muffled thump as something struck the steel door five storeys below.
   'What was that?' she demanded.
   I realised what I had seen. Its presence, unwelcome for so many years in the back of my mind, might be just what I needed to defeat her.
   'My worst nightmare,' I told her, 'and now yours.'
   'But it can't be! Your worst nightmare was the Crimea, your brother's death – I know, I've searched your mind!'
   'Then,' I replied slowly, my strength returning as the woman's confidence trickled away, 'you should have searched harder!'
   'But it's still too late to help you,' she said, her voice quavering. 'It will not gain entry, I assure you of that!'
   There was another loud crash; the steel door on the ground floor had been torn from its hinges.
   'Wrong again,' I said quietly. 'You asked it to attend, and it came.'
   She ran to the stairs and yelled:
   'Who is there? Who are you? What are you?'
   But there was no reply; only a soft sigh and the sound of footfalls on the stairs as it climbed slowly upwards. I looked from the window as another section of the rocky island fell away. The lighthouse was now poised on top of the abyss and I could see straight down into the dizzying depths. There was a tremor as the foundations shifted; the lighthouse flexed and a section of plaster fell from the wall.
   'Thursday!' she yelled out pitifully. 'You can control it! Make it stop!'
   She slammed the door to the staircase, her hands shaking as she hurriedly threw the bolt.
   'I could hide it if I chose,' I said staring at the terrified woman, 'but I choose not to. You asked me to gaze upon my fears – now you may join me.'
   The lighthouse shifted again and a crack opened in the wall, revealing the storm-tossed sea beyond; the arc light stopped rotating with a growl of twisted metal. There was a thump at the door.

   'There are always bigger fish, Aornis,' I said slowly, suddenly realising who she was as my past began to reveal itself from the fog. 'Like all Hades, you were lazy. You thought Anton's demise was the worst thing you could dredge up. You never looked farther. Hardly looked into my subconscious at all. The old stuff, the terrifying stuff, the stuff that keeps us awake as children, the nightmares we can only half glimpse on waking, the fear we sweep to the back of our minds but which is always there, gloating from a distance.'
   The door collapsed inwards as the lighthouse swayed and part of the wall fell away. An icy gust blew in, the ceiling dropped two feet and electricity sparked from a severed cable. Aornis stared at the form lurking in the doorway, making quiet slavering noises to itself.
   'No!' she whined. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, I—'
   I watched as Aornis' hair turned snow white but no scream came from her dry throat. I lowered my eyes and turned to the door, seeing out of the corner of my eye only a vague shape advancing towards Aornis. She had dropped to her knees and was sobbing uncontrollably. I walked past the shattered door and down the stairs two at a time. As I stepped outside, the outcrop shivered again and the conical roof of the lighthouse came wheeling down amid masonry and scraps of rusty iron. Aornis found her voice, finally, and screamed.
   I didn't pause, nor break my pace. I could still hear her yelling for mercy as I climbed into the small jolly-boat she had kept for her escape and rowed away across the oily black water, her cries drowned out only as the lighthouse collapsed into the abyss, taking the malevolent spirit of Aornis with it.
   I paused for a moment, then put my back into rowing, the oars rattling in the rowlocks.
   'That was impressive,' said a quiet voice behind me. I turned and found Landen sitting in the bows. He was every bit as I remembered him. Tall and good looking with hair greying slightly at the temples. My memories, which had been blunted for so long, now made him more alive than he had been for weeks. I dropped the oars and nearly upset the small boat in my hurry to fling my arms around him, to feel his warmth. I hugged him until I could barely breathe, tears coursing down my cheeks.
   'Is it you?' I cried. 'Really you, not one of Aornis' little games?'
   'No, it's me all right,' he said, kissing me tenderly, 'or at least, your memory of me.'
   'You'll be back for real,' I assured him, 'I promise!'
   'Have I missed much?' he asked. 'It's not nice being forgotten by the one you love.'
   'Well,' I began as we made ourselves more comfortable in the boat, lying down to look up at the stars, 'there's this upgrade called UltraWord™, see, and—'
   We stayed in each other's arms for a long time, the small rowing boat adrift in the museum of my mind, the sea calming before us as we headed towards the gathering dawn.

28
Lola departs and Heights again

   Daphne Farquitt wrote her first book in 1936 and by 1988 had written three hundred others exactly like it. The Squire of High Potternews was arguably the least worst although the best you could say about it was that it was a 'different shade of terrible'. Astute readers have complained that Potternews originally ended quite differently, an observation also made about Jane Eyre. It is all they have in common.'

THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles


   My head felt as if there were a jackhammer in it the following morning. I lay awake in bed, the sun streaming through the porthole. I smiled as I remembered my dream of the night before and mouthed out loud:
   'Landen Parke-Laine, Landen Parke-Laine!'
   I sat up slowly and stretched. It was almost ten. I staggered to the bathroom and drank three glasses of water, brought it all up again and brushed my teeth, drank more water, sat with my head between my knees and then tiptoed back to bed to avoid waking Gran. She was fast asleep in the chair with a copy of Finnegans Wake on her lap. I knew I was going to have to apologise to Arnie and thank him for not taking advantage of the situation. I couldn't believe I had made such a fool of myself but felt that I could, at a pinch, lay most of the blame at Aornis' door.
   I got up half an hour later and went downstairs, where I found Randolph and Lola at the breakfast table. They weren't talking to one another and I noticed Lola's small suitcase at the door.
   'Thursday!' said Randolph, offering me a chair. 'Are you okay?'
   'Groggy,' I replied as Lola placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, which I inhaled gratefully. 'Groggy but happy – I got Landen back. Thanks for helping me out last night – and I'm sorry if I made a complete idiot of myself. Arnie must think I'm the worst tease in the Well.'
   'No, that's me,' said Lola innocently. 'Your gran explained to us all about Aornis and Landen. We had no idea what was going on. Arnie understood and he said he'd drop around later and see how you were.'
   I looked at Lola's suitcase and then at the two of them; they were studiously ignoring one another.
   'What's going on?'
   'I'm leaving to start work on Girls Make all the Moves.'
   'That's excellent news, Lola,' I said, genuinely impressed. 'Randolph?'
   'Yes, very good. All the clothes and boyfriends she wants.'
   'You're sour because you didn't get that male-mentor part you wanted,' retorted Lola.
   'Not at all,' replied Randolph, resentment bubbling under the surface. 'I've been offered a small part in an upcoming Amis – a proper novel. A literary one.'
   'Well, good luck to you,' replied Lola. 'Send me a postcard if you can be troubled to talk to anyone in chicklit.'
   'Guys,' I said, 'don't part like this!'
   Lola looked at Randolph, who turned away. She sighed, stared at me for a moment and then got up.
   'Well,' she said, picking up her case, 'I've got to go. Fittings all morning then rehearsals until six. Busy, busy, busy. I'll keep in touch, don't worry.'
   I got up, held my head for a moment as it thumped badly, then hugged Lola, who hugged me back happily.
   'Thanks for all the help, Thursday,' she said, tears in her eyes. 'I wouldn't have made it up to B-3 without you.'
   She went to the door, stopped for a moment and looked across at Randolph, who was staring resolutely out of the window at nothing in particular.
   'Goodbye, Randolph.'
   'Goodbye,' he said without looking up.
   Lola looked at me, bit her lip and went across to him and kissed him on the back of the head. She returned to the door, said goodbye to me again and went out.
   I sat down next to him. A large tear had rolled down his nose and dropped on to the table. I laid a hand on his.
   'Randolph—!'
   'I'm fine!' he growled. 'I've just got a bit of grit in my eye!'
   'Did you tell her how you felt?'
   'No I didn't!' he snapped. 'And what's more I don't want you dictating to me what I should and shouldn't do!'
   He got up and stormed off to his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him.
   'Hellooo!' said a Granny Next sort of voice. 'Are you well enough to come upstairs?'
   'Yes.'
   'Then you can come and help me down.'
   I assisted her down the stairs and sat her at the table, fetching a cushion or two from the living room.
   'Thanks for your help, Gran. I made a complete fool of myself last night.'
   'What's life for?' she replied. 'Don't mention it. And by the way, it was Lola and me who undressed you, not the boys.'
   'I think I was past caring.'
   'All the same. Aornis will have a lot more trouble getting at you in the Outland, my dear – my experience of mnemonomorphs tends to be that once you dispose of a mindworm, the rest is easy. You won't forget her in a hurry, I assure you.'
   We chatted for an hour, Gran and I, about Miss Havisham, Landen, babies, Anton and all other things besides. She told me about her own husband's eradication and his eventual return. I knew he had returned because without him there would be no me, but it was interesting to talk to her nonetheless. I felt well enough to go into Caversham Heights at midday to see how Jack was getting on.

   'Ah!' said Jack as I arrived. 'Just in time. I've been thinking about a reworking – do you want to have a look?'
   'Go on, then.'
   'Is anything the matter? You look a bit unwell.'
   'I got myself pickled to the gills last night. I'll be fine. What have you in mind?'
   'Get in. I want you to meet someone.'
   I climbed into the Allegro and he handed me a coffee. We were parked opposite a large red-brick semi in the north of the town. In the book we stake out this house for two days, eventually sighting the mayor emerging with crime boss Angel DeFablio. With the mayor character excised from the manuscript for an unspecified reason, it would be a long wait.
   'This is Nathan Snudd,' said Jack, indicating a young man sitting on the back seat. 'Nathan is a plotsmith who's just graduated in the Well and has kindly agreed to help us. He has some ideas about the book that I wanted you to hear. Mr Snudd, this is Thursday Next.'
   'Hi,' I said, shaking his hand.
   'The Outlander Thursday Next?'

   'Yes.'
   'Fascinating! Tell me, why doesn't glue stick to the inside of the bottle?'
   'I don't know. What are your ideas for the book?'
   'Well,' said Nathan, affecting the manner of someone who knows a great deal, 'I've being looking at what you have left and I've put together a rescue plan that uses the available budget, characters and remaining high points of the novel to best effect.'
   'Is it still a murder inquiry?'
   'Oh yes; and the fight-rigging bit I think we can keep, too. I've bought a few cut-price plot devices from a bargain warehouse in the Well and sewn them in. For instance, I thought that instead of having one scene where Jack is suspended by DCI Briggs, you could have six.'
   'Will that work?'
   'Sure. Then there will be a "bad cop" routine where an officer close to you is taking bribes and betrays you to the Mob. I've got this middle-aged creepy housekeeper Generic we can adapt. In fact, I've got seventeen middle-aged creepy housekeepers we can pepper about the book.'
   'Mrs Danvers, by any chance?' I asked.
   'We're working to a tight budget,' replied Snudd coldly, 'let's not forget that.'
   'What else?'
   'I thought there could be several gangster's molls or a prostitute who wants to go straight and helps you out.'
   'A "tart with a heart"?'
   'In one. They're ten a penny in the Well at the moment – we should be able to get five for a ha’penny.'
   'Then what happens?'
   'This is the good bit. Someone tries to kill you with a car bomb. I've bought this great little scene for you where you go to your car, are about to start it but find a small piece of wire on the floor mat. It's a cinch and cheap, too. I can buy it wholesale from my cousin; he said he would throw in a missing consignment of Nazi bullion and a sad loser detective drunk at a bar with whisky and a cigarette scene. You are a sad loner loser maverick detective with a drink problem, yes?'
   Jack looked at me and smiled.
   'No,' he said, 'not any more. I live with my wife and have four amusing children.'
   'Not on this budget.' Snudd laughed. 'Humorous sidekicks – kids or otherwise – cost bundles.'
   There was a tap on the window.
   'Hello, Prometheus,' said Jack. 'Have you met Thursday Next? She's from the Outland.'
   Prometheus looked at me and put out a hand. He was an olive-skinned man of perhaps thirty, with tightly curled black hair close to his head. He had deep black eyes and a strong Grecian nose that was so straight you could have laid a set-square on it.
   'Outland, eh? What did you think of Byron's retelling of my story?'
   'I thought it excellent.'
   'Me too. When are we going to get the Elgin marbles back?'
   'No idea.'
   Prometheus, more generally known as the fire-giver, was a Titan who had stolen fire from the gods and given it to mankind, a good move or a terrible one, depending on which papers you read. As punishment Zeus had him chained to a rock in the Caucasus where his liver was picked out every night by eagles, only to regrow during the day. He looked quite healthy, in spite of it. Quite what he was doing in Caversham Heights, I had no idea.
   'I heard you had a spot of bother,' he said to Jack. 'Something about the plot falling to pieces?'
   'My attempts to keep it secret don't appear to be working,' muttered Jack. 'I don't want a panic. Most Generics have a heart of gold but if there is the sniff of a problem with the narrative they'll abandon Heights like rats from a ship – and an influx of Generics seeking employment in the Well could set the Book Inspectorate off like a rocket.'
   'Ah,' replied the Titan, 'tricky indeed. I was wondering if I could offer my services in any way?'
   'As a Greek drug dealer or something?' asked Nathan.
   'No,' replied Prometheus slightly testily, 'as Prometheus.'
   'Oh yeah?' Snudd laughed. 'What are you going to do? Steal fire from the DeFablio family and give it to Mickey Finn?'
   Prometheus stared at him as though he were a twit – which he was, I suppose.
   'No, I thought I could be here awaiting extradition back to the Caucasus by Zeus' lawyers or something, and Jack could be in charge of witness protection, trying to protect me against Zeus' hitmen – sort of like The Client but with gods instead of the Mob.'
   'If you want to cross genre we have to build from the ground up,' replied Snudd disparagingly, 'and that takes more money and expertise than you guys possess.'
   'What did you say?' asked Prometheus in a threatening manner.
   'You heard me. Everyone thinks it's easy to be a plotsmith.' He stabbed a finger in Prometheus' direction. 'Well, let me tell you Mr smart-alec-Greek-Titan-fire-giver, I didn't spend four years at plotschool to be told my job by an ex-convict!'
   Prometheus' lip quivered.
   'Okay,' he snarled, pulling up his sleeves. 'You and me. Right now, here on the sidewalk.'
   'C'mon,' said Jack in a soothing manner, 'this isn't going to get us anywhere. Snudd, I think perhaps you should listen to what Prometheus has to say. He might have a point.'
   'A point?' cried Snudd, getting out of the car but avoiding Prometheus. 'I'll tell you the point. You came to me wanting my help and I gave it – now I have to listen to dumb ideas from any myth that happens to wander along. This was a favour, Jack – my time isn't cheap. And since this is an ideas free-for-all, let me tell you a home truth: the Great Panjandrum himself couldn't sort out the problems in this book. And you know why? Because it was shit to begin with. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got two sub-plots to write for proper, paying, clients!'
   And without another word, he vanished.
   'Well,' said Prometheus, getting into the back seat, 'who needs cretins like him?'
   'Me,' sighed Jack. 'I need all the help I can get. What do you care what happens to us anyway?'
   'Well,' said the Titan slowly, 'I kind of like it here and all that mail redirection is a pain in the arse. What shall we do now?'
   'Lunch?' I suggested.
   'Good idea,' said Prometheus. 'I wait tables at Zorba's in the high street – I can get us a discount.

29
Mrs Bradshaw and Solomon
(Judgements) Inc.

   'The "police officer being suspended by reluctant boss" plot device was pretty common in the crime genre. It usually happened just before a down-ending second act, when the author sets things up so the reader thinks that there is no way the hero can extricate himself. A down-ending second usually heralds an up-ending third but not always; you can finish a third down but it usually works better if the end of the second is up – which means the end of the first should be up, not down.'

JEREMY FNORP – The Ups and Downs of Act Breaks


   I went to work as normal the following morning, my head cleared and feeling better than I had for some time. Randolph, however, was inconsolable without Lola and had moped all the previous evening, becoming quite angry when I believed him when he said that nothing was the matter. Gran was out and I slept well for the first time in weeks. I even dreamed of Landen – and wasn't interrupted during the good parts, either.
   'I share your grief for Miss Havisham,' murmured Beatrice when I arrived at Norland Park.
   'Thank you.'
   'Rotten luck,' said Falstaff as I walked past. 'There were the remains of a fine woman about Havisham.'
   'Thank you.'
   'Miss Next?'
   It was the Bellman.
   'Can I have a word?'
   I walked over with him to his office and he shut the door.
   'Firstly, I am very sorry about Miss Havisham. Secondly, I'm having you moved to less demanding duties.'
   'I'm fine, really,' I assured him.
   'I'm sure you are – but since you have only recently qualified and are without a mentor, we felt it was better if you were taken off the active list for a while.'
   ' "We"?'
   He picked up his clipboard which had beeped at him. Havisham had told me that he never actually placed any papers in the all-important clipboard – the words were beamed directly there from Text Grand Central.
   'The Council of Genres has taken a personal interest in your case,' he said after reading the clipboard. 'I think they felt you were too valuable to lose through stress – an Outlander in Jurisfiction is quite a coup, as you know. You have powers of self-determination that we can only dream of. Take it in the good spirit it is meant, won't you?'
   'So I don't get to take Havisham's place at Jurisfiction?'
   'I'm afraid not. Perhaps when the dust has settled. Who knows? In the BookWorld, anything is possible.'
   He handed me a scrap of paper.
   'Report to Solomon on the twenty-sixth floor. Good luck!'
   I got up, thanked the Bellman and left his office. There was silence as I walked back past the other agents, who looked at me apologetically. I had been canned through no fault of my own, and everyone knew it. I sat down at Havisham's desk and looked at all her stuff. She had been replaced by a Generic in Expectations, and although they would look almost identical, it could never be the same person. The Havisham that I knew had been lost at Pendine Sands. I sighed. Perhaps demotion was a good thing. After all, I did have a lot to learn and working with the C of G for a bit probably had its merits.
   'Miss Next?'
   It was Commander Bradshaw.
   'Hello, sir.'
   He smiled and raised his hat.
   'Would you care to have tea with me on the veranda?'
   'I'd be delighted.'
   He smiled, took me by the arm and jumped us both into Bradshaw Hunts Big Game. I had never been to East Africa, either in our world or this, but it was as beautiful as I had imagined it from the many images I had grown up with. Bradshaw's house was a low colonial building with a veranda facing the setting sun; the land around the house was wild scrub and whistling thorns, herds of wildebeest and zebra wandering across in a desultory manner, their hoofs kicking up red dust as they moved.
   'Quite beautiful, wouldn't you say?'
   'Extraordinary,' I replied, staring at the scenery.
   'Isn't it just?' He grinned. 'Appreciate a woman who knows beauty when she sees it.'
   His voice dropped a tone.
   'Havisham was one of the finest,' he said. 'A little too fast for me, but a good egg in a scrap. She was very fond of you.'
   'And I of her.'
   'I had a look at the wreck of the Bluebird when it returned to Wemmick's Stores,' he added. 'Looked like an accident, my girl, nothing more. Mr Toad was pretty cut up about it and got into a helluva pickle for visiting the Outland without permission.'
   'Did Havisham confide in you about Perkins?'
   'Only that she thought he'd been murdered.'
   'Had he?'
   'Who knows? The office think it's Deane but we'll never know for sure until we arrest him. Have you met the memsahib? My darling, this is Thursday Next – a colleague from work.'
   I looked up and jumped slightly because Mrs Bradshaw was, in fact, a gorilla. She was large and hairy and was dressed only in a floral-patterned pinafore.
   'Good evening,' I said, slightly taken aback, 'a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bradshaw.'
   'Good evening,' replied the gorilla politely. 'Would you like some cake with your tea? Alphonse has made an excellent lemon sponge.'
   'That would be nice, thank you,' I spluttered as Mrs Bradshaw stared at me with her dark, deep-set eyes.
   'Excellent!' she said. 'I'll be out in a jiffy to join you. Feet, Trafford.'
   'What? Oh!' said Bradshaw, taking his boots off the chair opposite. When Mrs Bradshaw had left he turned and said to me in a very serious whisper:
   'Tell me, did you notice anything odd about the menisahib?'
   'Er,' I began, not wanting to hurt his feelings, 'not really.'
   'Think,' he said, 'it's important. Is there anything about her that strikes you as a little out of the ordinary?'
   'Well, she's only wearing a pinafore,' I managed to say.
   'Does that bother you?' he asked in all seriousness. 'Whenever male visitors attend I always have her cover up. She's a fine-looking gal, wouldn't you agree? Drive any man wild, wouldn't you say?'
   'Very fine,' I agreed.
   He shuffled in his chair and drew closer.
   'Anything else?' he said, staring at me intently. 'Anything at all. I won't be upset.'
   'Well,' I began slowly, 'I couldn't help noticing that she was …'
   'Yes?'
   '… a gorilla.'

  'Hmm,' he said, leaning back, 'our little subterfuge didn't fool you, then?'
   I'm afraid not.'
   'Melanie!' he shouted. 'Please come and join us.'
   Mrs Bradshaw lumbered back on to the veranda and sat in one of the club armchairs, which creaked under her weight.
   'She knows, Melanie.'
   'Oh!' said Mrs Bradshaw, producing a fan and hiding her face. 'However did you find out?'
   A servant appeared with a tray of tea, left it on the table, bowed and withdrew.
   'Is it the hair?' she asked, delicately pouring the tea with her feet.
   'Partly,' I admitted.
   'I told you the powder wouldn't cover it up,' she said to Bradshaw in a scolding tone, 'and I'm not shaving. It makes one itch so. One lump or two?'
   'One, please,' I replied, asking: 'Is it a problem?'
   'It's no problem here,' said Mrs Bradshaw. 'I often feature in my husband's books and nowhere does it specify precisely that I am anything but human.'
   'We've been married for over fifty years,' added Bradshaw. 'The problem is that we've had an invitation to the Bookies next week and the memsahib is a little awkward in public.'
   'To hell with them all,' I replied. 'Anyone who can't accept that the woman you love is a gorilla isn't worth counting as a friend!'
   'Do you know,' said Mrs Bradshaw, 'I think she's right. TrafFord?'
   'Right also!' He grinned. 'Appreciate a woman who knows when to call a wife a gorilla. Hoorah! Lemon sponge, anyone?'

   I took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and walked out into the lobby of the Council of Genres, clasping the orders that the Bellman had given me.
   'Excuse me,' I said to the receptionist, who was busy fielding calls on a footnoterphone, I have to report to Mr Solomon.'
   'Seventh door on the left,' she said without looking up. I walked down the corridor among the thronging mass of bureaucrats going briskly hither and thither clasping buff files as though their lives and existence depended on it, which they probably did.
   I found the correct door. It opened on to a vast waiting room full of bored people who all clutched numbered tickets and stared vacantly at the ceiling. There was another door at the far end with a desk next to it manned by a single receptionist. He stared at my sheet when I presented it, sniffed and said:
   'How did you know I was single?'
   'When?'
   'Just then, in your description of me.'
   'I meant single as in solitary.'
   'Ah. You're late. I'll wait ten minutes for you and "His Lordship" to get acquainted, then send the first lot in. Okay?'
   'I guess.'
   I opened the door to reveal another long room, this time with a single table at the far end of it. Sitting at the desk was an elderly bewhiskered man dressed in long robes who was dictating a letter to a stenographer. The walls of the room were covered with copies of letters from satisfied clients; he obviously took himself very seriously.
   'Thank you for your letter dated the seventh of this month,' said the elderly man as I walked closer. 'I am sorry to inform you that this office no longer deals with problems arising with or appertaining to junk footnoterphones. I suggest you direct your anger towards the FNP's complaints department. Yours very cordially, Solomon. That should do it. Yes?'
   'Thursday Next reporting for duty.'
   'Ah!' he said, rising and giving me a hand to shake. 'The Outlander. Is it true that – out there – two or more people can talk at the same time"?'
   'In the Outland it happens all the time.'
   'And do cats do anything else but sleep?'
   'Not really.'
   'I see. And what do you make of this?'
   He lifted a small traffic cone on to his desk and presented it with a dramatic nourish.
   'It's … it's a traffic cone.'
   'Something of a rarity, yes?'
   I chose my words carefully.
   'In many areas of the Outland they are completely unknown.'
   'I collect Outlandish objects,' he said with a great deal of pride. 'You must come and see my novelty teapot collection.'
   'I'd be delighted.'
   He sat down and indicated for me to take a chair. 'I was sorry to hear about Miss Havisham; she was one of the best operatives Jurisfiction ever had. Will there be a memorial?'
   'Tuesday.'
   'I'll be sure to send flowers. Welcome to the Judgement of Solomon©. It's arbitration, mainly, a bit of licensing. We need someone to look after the crowds outside. They can get a bit impassioned sometimes.'
   'You're King Solomon?'
   The old man laughed.
   'Me? You must be joking! There aren't enough minutes in the day for one Solomon – as soon as he did that "divide the baby in two" thing, everyone and his uncle wanted him to arbitrate, from corporate takeovers to playground disputes. So he did what any right-thinking businessman would do: he franchised. How else do you think he could afford the temple and the chariots and the navy and whatnot? The land he sold to Hiram of Tyre? Give me a break! My real name's Kenneth.'
   I looked a little doubtful.
   'I know what you're thinking. "The Judgement of Kenneth" does sound a bit daft – that's why we are licensed to give judgements under his name. All above board, I assure you. You have to purchase the cloak and grow a beard and go on the training course, but it works out very well. The real Solomon works from home but he sticks to the ultimate riddles of existence these days.'
   'What if a franchisee makes a dishonest judgement?'
   'Very simple.' Kenneth smiled. 'The offender will be smitten from on high and forced to spend a painful eternity being tortured mercilessly by sadistic demons from the fieriest depths of Hell. Solomon's very strict about that.'
   'I see.'
   'Good. Let's see the first punter.'
   I went to the door and asked for ticket-holder number thirty-two. A small man with a briefcase walked with me up to Kenneth's table. His knees became quite weak by the time he arrived but he managed to contain himself well.
   'Name?'
   'Mr Toves from Text Grand Central, Your Eminence.'
   'Reason?'
   'I need to ask for more exemptions from the "I before E except after C" rule.'
   'More?'
   'It's part of the upgrade to UltraWord™, Your Honour.'
   'Very well, go ahead.'
   'Feisty.'
   'Approved.'
   'Feigned.'
   'Approved.'
   'Weighty.'
   'Approved.'
   'Believe.'
   'Not approved.'
   'Reigate.'
   'Approved.'
   'That's it for the moment,' said the small man, passing his papers across for Kenneth to sign.
   'It is the Judgement of Solomon©,' said Kenneth slowly, 'that these words be exempt from Rule 7b of the arbitrary spelling code as ratified by the Council of Genres.'
   He stamped the paper and the small man scurried off.
   'What's next?'
   But I was thinking. Although I had been told to ignore the three witches, their premonition about the 'I before E except after C' rule had just come true. In fact, the 'blinded dog' had barked, the 'hedge-pig' had ironed, and Mrs Passer-by had cried '’Tis time, '’tis time!' Was there something in it? Did they really think I was to be the Bellman? And what was that about the 'thrice read rule'?
   'I'm a busy man,' said Kenneth, glaring at me. 'I don't need day dreamers!'
   'I'm sorry,' I began, 'I was thinking of something the three witches told me.'
   'Charlatans!' announced Kenneth. 'And worse – the competition. If you see them again, try to pinch their mailing list, won't you? In the meantime, can we have the next customer?'
   I ushered them in. It was several characters from Wuthering Heights and they were all glaring at one another so much they didn't even recognise me. Heathcliff was wearing dark glasses and saying nothing; he was accompanied by his agent and a lawyer.
   'Proceed!'

   'Wuthering Heights first-person narrative dispute,' said the lawyer, placing a sheet of paper on the table.
   'Let me see,' said Kenneth slowly, studying the report. 'Mr Lockwood, Catherine Earnshaw, Heathcliff, Nelly Dean, Isabella and Catherine Linton. Are you all here?'
   They nodded their heads. Heathclif looked over his sunglasses at me and winked.
   'Well,' murmured Kenneth at length, 'you all believe that you should have the first-person narrative, is that it?'
   'No, Your Worshipfulness,' said Nelly Dean, ''’tis the otherways. None of us want it. It's a curse to any honest Generic – and some not so honest.'
   'Hold your tongue, serving girl!' yelled Heathcliff.
   'Murderer!'
   'Say that again!'
   'You heard me!'
   And they all started to yell at one another until Kenneth banged his gavel on the desk and they were all instantly quiet. The Judgement of Solomon© was the last form of arbitration; there was no appeal from here and they all knew it.
   'It is the Judgement of Solomon© that … you should all have the first-person narrative.'
   'What?!' yelled Mr Lockwood. 'What kind of loopy idea is that? How can we all be the first person?'
   'It is fair and just,' replied Kenneth, placing his fingertips together and staring at them all serenely.
   'What will we do?' asked Catherine sarcastically. 'Talk at the same time?'
   'No,' replied Kenneth. 'Mr Lockwood, you will introduce the story and you, Nelly, will tell the major part of it in deep retrospection; the others will have their say in the following ratios.'
   He scribbled on the back of an envelope, signed it and handed it over. They all grumbled for a bit, Nelly Dean the most.
   'Mrs Dean,' said Kenneth, 'you are, for better or worse, the single linking factor for all the families. Consider yourself lucky I did not give the whole book to you. It is the Judgement of Solomon© – now go!'
   And they all filed out, Nelly complaining bitterly while Heathcliff strode ahead, ignoring all the others.
   'That was quite good,' I said as soon as they had left.
   'Do you think so?' asked Kenneth, genuinely pleased by my praise. 'Judgementing is not for everyone but I quite like it. The trick is to be scrupulously fair and just – you could do with a few Solomon franchises in the Outland. Tell me, do you think Lola will be going to the Bookie awards next week?'
   'You know Lola?'
   'Let's just say I have made her acquaintance in the course of my duties.'
   'I'm sure she'll be there – on the chicklit table, I should imagine. She's starring in Girls Make all the Moves.'
   'Is she really?' he said slowly. 'Who's next?'
   'I don't know; it depends on the choice available. Sometimes she goes through them alphabetically, other times in order of height.'
   'Not Lola, next for me.'
   'Sorry,' I said, flushing slightly, 'I'll go and get them.'
   It was Emperor Zhark. He seemed surprised to see me and told me what a great agent Miss Havisham had been. I walked him in and he and Kenneth both started when they saw one another. They had clearly met before – but not for some time.
   'Zhark!' cried Kenneth, walking around to the front of the desk and offering the emperor a Havana cigar. 'You old troublemaker! Haven't seen you for ages! What are you up to?'
   'Tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy,' he replied modestly.
   'Get away! Old "Sneaky Zharky" of Form 5C, St Tabularasa's – who'd have thought it?'
   'It's "Emperor" Zhark now, old chum,' he said through gritted teeth.
   'Glad to hear it. Whatever happened to Captain Ahab? Haven't seen him since we left school.'
   'Ahab?' queried the emperor, brow furrowed.
   'You remember. One leg and madder than the March Hare. Set fire to his own trousers for a bet and stocked the school pond with piranhas.'
   'Oh, him,' replied Zhark. 'Last I heard he was convinced a white whale was after him – but that was years ago. We should have a reunion; one falls out of touch so easily in the BookWorld.'
   'Don't I know it,' returned Kenneth sadly.
   They sat in silence for a moment, recalling various school friends, I imagine.
   'So, Zharky old boy, how can I help you?'
   'It's the Rambosians,' he said at last. 'They just refuse to cede power to me.'
   'How awkward for you. Is there any reason why they should?'
   'Stability, old man, stability. The Rambosians have been responsible for numerous acts of savage satire in the Galactic Federation's daily redtop, Stars My Destination. They lampoon me constantly and the cartoons are shockingly insulting.'
   'So you want to invade?'
   'Of course not; that would be wasteful of resources. No, I want them to open their arms and worship me as their one true God. They will give ultimate executive power to me, and in return I will protect them with the might of the Zharkian Empire.'
   'Hmm,' replied Kenneth thoughtfully, 'that wouldn't be because the planet Rambosia is composed of eighteen trillion tons of valuable A-class nutmeg, now, would it?'
   'Not in the least,' replied the emperor unconvincingly.
   'Very well,' said Kenneth. 'It is the Judgement of Solomon© that you make peace with the Rambosians.'
   'What?!'
   The emperor jumped to his feet and went as dark as a thundercloud. He wagged a finger at Kenneth.
   'You'll never play golf at the Old White Male Club again,' he yelled. 'I'll have you blackballed so far out you won't be able to get your hat checked even if you come in the company of the Great Panjandrum himself!'
   And so saying, he threw his cloak behind him, made a large huffing noise, turned on his heels and strode to the door.
   'Well,' said Kenneth, 'tyrants are all the same – shocking temper when they don't get their own way! Who's next?'