'Of her. Wife of a good friend.'
   'Well, don't get too chummy. She tries and fails to kill you three times. The second time with a bomb under your car on Monday, then next Friday at eleven in the morning – but she fails and you, ultimately, choose for her to die. I shouldn't really be telling you this, but as we discussed, we've got bigger fish to fry.'
   'What bigger fish to fry?'
   'Sweetpea,' he said, giving me his stern 'father knows best' voice, 'I'm really not going to go through it all again. Now I have to get back to work – there's a TimePhoon brewing in the Dark Ages and if we don't sort it out we'll be picking anachronisms out of the timeline for a century.'
   'Wait – you're working at the ChronoGuard?'
   'I've told you all about this already! Do try and keep up – you're going to need all your wits about you over the next week. Now, get back to the house and I'll start the world up again.'
   He wasn't in a very chatty mood, but since I would be seeing him later and would find out then what we had just discussed, there didn't seem a lot of point in talking anyway, so I bade him goodbye, and as I walked up the garden path time returned to normal with a snap. The pigeon flew on, the traffic continued to move and everything carried on as usual. Time had stopped so completely that everything my father and I had talked about occupied no time at all. Still, at least this meant I wouldn't have to be constantly looking over my shoulder as I knew when she would try to get rid of me. Mind you, I wasn't looking forward to her death at my hands. Spike would be severely pissed off.

   I returned to the kitchen, where Mum was still hard at work cooking my bacon and eggs. To her and Friday I had been gone less than twenty seconds.
   'What was that noise when you were at the door, Thursday?'
   'Probably a car backfiring.'
   'Funny,' she said, 'I could have sworn it was a high-velocity bullet striking wood. Two eggs or one?'
   'Two, please.'
   1 picked up the newspaper, which was running a five-page expose revealing that 'Danish pastries' were actually brought to Denmark by displaced Viennese bakers in the sixteenth century. 'In what other ways,' thundered the article, 'have the dishonest Danes made fools of us?' I shook my head sadly and turned to another page.

   Mum said she could look after Friday until teatime, something I got her to promise before she had fully realised the implications of nappy changing and saw just how bad his manners were at breakfast. He yelled, 'Ut enim ad veniam!', which might have meant: 'Look how far I can throw my porridge!' as a spoonful of oatmeal flew across the kitchen, much to the delight of DH82, who had learned pretty quickly that hanging around messy toddlers at mealtimes was an extremely productive pastime.
   Hamlet came down to breakfast, followed, after a prudent gap, by Emma. They bade each other good morning in such an obvious way that only their serious demeanour kept me from laughing out loud.
   'Did you sleep well, Lady Hamilton?' asked Hamlet.
   'I did, thank you. My room faces east for the morning light, you know.'
   'Ah!' replied Hamlet. 'Mine doesn't. I believe it was once the boxroom. It has pretty pink wallpaper and a bedside light shaped like Tweetie-pie. Not that I noticed much, of course, being fast asleep – on my own.'
   'Of course.'

   'Let me show you something,' said Mum after breakfast.
   I followed her down to Mycroft's workshop. Alan had kept Mum's dodos trapped in the potting shed all night and even now threatened to peck anyone who so much as looked at him 'in a funny way'.
   'Pickwick!' I said sternly. 'Are you going to let your son bully those dodos?'
   Pickwick looked the other way and pretended to have an itchy foot. To be honest she couldn't control Alan any more than I could. Only half an hour previously he had chased the postman out of the garden with an angry plink-plink-plink noise, something even the postman had to admit 'was a first'.
   Mum opened the side door to the large workshop and we entered. This was where my Uncle Mycroft did all his inventing. It was here that he had demonstrated, among many other things, translating carbon paper, a sarcasm early warning device, Nextian geometry and, most important to me, the Prose Portal – the method by which I first entered fiction. Mother was always nervous in Mycroft's lab. Many years ago he had developed some four-dimensional paper, the idea being that you could print on the same sheet of paper again and again, isolating the different over-printings in marginally different time zones that could be read by the use of temporal spectacles. By going to the nanosecond level, a million sheets of text or pictures could be stored on one sheet of paper in a single second. Brilliant – but the paper looked identical to a standard sheet of A4, and it had been a long, contentious family argument that my mother used the irreplaceable prototype to line the compost bucket. It was no wonder she was careful near his inventions.
   'What did you want to show me?'
   She smiled and led me to the end of the workshop. There, next to my stuff, which she had rescued from my apartment, was the unmistakable shape of my Porsche 356 Speedster hidden beneath a dustsheet.
   'I've run the engine every month and kept it MOTed for you. I even took it for a spin a couple of times.'
   She pulled the sheet off with a flourish. The car still looked slightly shabby after our various encounters, but just the way I liked it. I gently touched the bullet holes that had been made by Hades all those years ago, and the bent front wing where I had slid it into the River Severn. I opened the garage doors.
   'Thanks, Mum. Sure you're all right with the boy Friday?'
   'Until four this afternoon. But you have to promise me something.'
   'What's that?'

   'That you'll come to my Eradications Anonymous group this evening.'
   'Mum—!'
   'It will do you good. You might enjoy it. Might meet someone. Might make you forget Linden.'
   'Landen. His name's Landen. And I don't need or want to forget him.'
   'Then the group will support you. Besides, you might learn something. Oh, and would you take Hamlet with you? Mr Bismarck has a bee in his bonnet about Danes because of that whole silly Schleswig-Holstein thingummy.'
   I narrowed my eyes. Could Joffy be right?
   'What about Emma? Do you want me to take her, too?'
   'No. Why?'
   'Er, no reason.'
   I picked up Friday and gave him a kiss.
   'Be good, Friday. You're staying with Nana for the day.'
   Friday looked at me, looked at Mum, stuck his finger up his nose and said: 'Sunt in culpa qui officia id est laborum?'
   I ruffled his hair and he showed me a bogey he had found. I declined the present, wiped his hand with a hanky, then went to look for Hamlet. I found him in the front garden demonstrating a thrust-and-parry sword fight to Emma and Pickwick. Even Alan had left off bullying the other dodos and was watching in silence. I called out to Hamlet and he came running.
   'Sorry,' said the prince as I opened the garage doors, just demonstrating how that damn fool Laertes gets his comeuppance.'
   I showed him how to get into the Porsche, dropped in myself, started the engine and drove off down the hill towards the Brunei Centre.
   'You seem to be getting on very well with Emma.'
   'Who?' asked Hamlet, unconvincingly vague.
   'Lady Hamilton.'
   'Oh, her. Nice girl. We have a lot in common.'
   'Such as—?'
   'Well,' said Hamlet, thinking hard, 'we both have a good friend called Horatio.'
   We motored on down past the magic roundabout and I pointed out the new stadium with its four floodlighting towers standing tall among the low housing.
   'That's our croquet stadium,' I said, 'thirty thousand seats. Home of the Swindon Mallets croquet team.'
   'Croquet is a national sport out here?'
   'Oh yes,' I replied, knowing a thing or two about it since I used to play myself. 'It has evolved a lot since the early days. For a start the teams are bigger – ten a side in World Croquet League. The players have to get their balls through the hoops in the quickest possible time, so it can be quite rough. A stray ball can pack a wallop and a flailing mallet is potentially lethal. The WCL insist on body armour and perspex barriers for the spectators.'
   I turned left into Manchester Road and parked behind a Griffin-6 Lowrider.
   'What now?'
   'Haircut. You don't think I'm going to spend the next few weeks looking like Joan of Arc, do you?'
   'Ah!' said Hamlet. 'You hadn't mentioned it for a while so I'd stopped noticing. If it's all right with you, I'll just stay here and write a letter to Horatio. Does "pirate" have one "t" or two?'
   'One.'
   I walked into Mum's hairdresser. The stylists looked at my hair with a sort of shocked numbness until Lady Volescamper, who along with her increasingly eccentric mayoral husband constituted Swindon's most visible aristocracy, suddenly pointed at me and said in a strident tone that could shatter glass:
   'That's the style I want. Something new. Something retro – something to cause a sensation at the Swindon Mansion House Ball!'
   Mrs Barnet, who was both the chief stylist and official gossip laureate of Swindon, kept her look of horror to herself and then said diplomatically:
   'Of course. And may I say that Her Grace's boldness matches her sense of style.'
   Lady Volescamper returned to her Femole magazine, appearing not to recognise me, which was just as well – the last time I went to Vole Towers a hell beast from the darkest depths of the human imagination trashed the entrance lobby.
   'Hello, Thursday,' said Mrs Barnet, wrapping a sheet around me with an expert flourish, 'haven't seen you for a while.'
   'I've been away.'
   'In prison?'
   'No – just away.'
   'Ah. How would you like it? I have it on good authority that the "Joan of Arc" look is set to be quite popular this summer.'
   'You know I'm not a fashion person, Gladys. Just get rid of the dopey haircut, would you?'
   'As madame wishes.' She hummed to herself for a moment, then asked: 'Been on holiday this year?'

   I got back to the car a half-hour later to find Hamlet talking to a traffic warden, who seemed so engrossed in whatever he was telling her that she wasn't writing me a ticket.
   'And that,' said Hamlet as soon as I came within earshot, making a thrusting motion with his hand, 'was when I cried: "A rat, a rat!" and killed the unseen old man. Hello, Thursday – goodness, that's short, isn't it?'
   'It's better than it was. C'mon, I've got to go and get my job back.'
   'Job?' asked Hamlet as we drove off, leaving a very indignant traffic warden, who wanted to know what happened next.
   'Yes. Out here you need money to live.'
   'I've got lots,' said Hamlet generously. 'You should have some of mine.'
   'Somehow I don't think fictional kroner from an unspecified century will cut the mustard down at the First Goliath – and put the skull away. They aren't generally considered a fashion accessory here in the Outland.'
   'They're all the rage where I come from.'
   'Well, not here. Put it in this Tesco's bag.'
   'STOP!'
   I screeched to a halt.
   'What?'
   'That, over there. It's me!'

  Before I could say anything Hamlet had jumped out of the car and run across the road to a coin-operated machine on the comer of the street. I parked the Speedster and walked over to join him. He was staring with delight at the simple box, the top half of which was glazed; inside was a suitably attired mannequin visible from the waist up.
   'It's called a Will-Speak machine,' I said, passing him a carrier bag. 'Here – put the skull in the bag like I asked.'
   'What does it do?'
   'Officially it's called a Shakespeare Soliloquy Vending Automaton,' I explained. 'You put in two shillings and get a short snippet from Shakespeare.'
   'Of me?'
   'Yes,' I said, 'of you.'
   For it was, of course, a Hamlet Will-Speak machine, and the mannequin Hamlet sat looking blankly out at the flesh-and-blood Hamlet standing next to me.
   'Can we hear a bit?' asked Hamlet excitedly.
   'If you want. Here.'
   I dug out a coin and placed it in the machine. There was a whirring and clicking as the dummy came to life.
   'To be, or not to be,' began the mannequin in a hollow metallic voice. The machine had been built in the thirties and was now pretty much worn out. 'That is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind–'
   Hamlet was fascinated, like a child listening to a tape recording of their own voice for the first time.
   'Is that really me?' he asked.
   'The words are yours – but actors do it a lot better.'
   '—or to take arms against a sea of troubles–'
   'Actors?'
   'Yes. Actors, playing Hamlet.'
   He looked confused.
   '—That flesh is heir to–'
   'I don't understand.'
   'Well,' I began, looking around to check that no one was listening, 'you know that you are Hamlet, from Shakespeare's Hamlet?
   'Yes?'
   '—To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream–'
   'Well, that's a play, and out here in the Outland, people act out that play.'
   'With me?'
   'Of you. Pretending to be you.'
   'But I'm the real me?'
   '—Who would fardels bear–'
   'In a manner of speaking.'
   'Ahhh,' he said after a few moments of deep thought, 'I see. Like the whole Murder of Gonzago thing. I wondered how it all worked. Can we go and see me some time?'
   'I . . . suppose,' I answered uneasily. 'Do you really want to?'
   '—from whose bourn No traveller returns–'
   'Of course. I've heard that some people in the Outland think I am a dithering twit unable to make up his mind rather than a dynamic leader of men, and these "play" things you describe will prove it to me one way or the other.'
   I tried to think of the movie in which he prevaricates the least.
   'We could get the Zeffirelli version out on video for you to look at.'
   'Who plays me?'
   'Mel Gibson.'
   '—Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all–'
   Hamlet stared at me, mouth open.
   'But that's incredible!' he said ecstatically. 'I'm Mel's biggest fan!' He thought for a moment. 'So. . . Horatio must be played by Danny Glover, yes?'
   '—sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought–'
   'No, no. Listen: the Lethal Weapon series is nothing like Hamlet.'
   'Well,' replied the prince reflectively, 'in that I think you might be mistaken. The Martin Riggs character begins with self-doubt and contemplates suicide over the loss of a loved one, but eventually turns into a decisive man of action and kills all the bad guys.' He paused for a moment. 'Same as the Mad Max series, really. Is Ophelia played by Patsy Kensit?'
   'No,' I replied, trying to be patient, 'Helena Bonham Carter.'
   He perked up when he heard this.
   'This gets better and better! When I tell Ophelia, she'll flip – if she hasn't already.'
   'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'you'd better see the Olivier version instead. Come on, we've work to do.'
   '—their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.'
   The Will-Speak Hamlet stopped clicking and whirring and sat silent once more, waiting for the next florin.

5
Ham(let) and Cheese

   'SEVEN WONDERS OF SWINDON' NAMING BUREAUCRACY UNVEILED
   After five years of careful consideration, Swindon City Council has unveiled the naming procedure for the city's much-vaunted 'Seven Wonders' tourism plan. The twenty-seven-point procedure is the most costly and complicated piece of bureaucracy the city has ever devised and might even be included is one of the wonders itself. The plan will be undertaken by the Swindon Special Committee for Wonders which will consider applications prepared by the Seven Wonders Working Party from MX separate name selection subcommittees. Once chosen, the Wonders will be further scrutinized by eight different oversight committees, before being adopted. The byzantine and needlessly expensive system is already tipped to win the coveted 'Red Tape' award from Bureaucracy Today.

Article in Swindon Globe News, 12 June 1988


   I drove to the car park above the Brunel Centre and bought a pay-and-display ticket, noting how they had almost tripled in price since I was here last. I looked in my purse. I had fifteen pounds, three shillings and an old Skyrail ticket.
   'Short of cash?' asked Hamlet as we walked down the stairs to the street-level concourse.
   'Let's just say I'm very "receipt rich" at present.' Money had never been a problem in the BookWorld. All the details of life were taken care of by something called 'Narrative Assumption'. A reader would assume you had gone shopping, or gone to the toilet, or brushed your hair, so a writer never needed to outline it – which was just as well, really. I'd forgotten all about the real-world trivialities, but I was actually quite enjoying them, in a mind-dulling sort of way.
   'It says here,' said Hamlet, who had been reading the newspaper, 'that Denmark invaded England and put hundreds of innocent English citizens to death without trial!'
   'It was the Vikings in 786, Hamlet. I hardly think that warrants the headline: "Bloodthirsty Danes Go on Rampage". Besides, at the time they were no more Danish than we were English.'
   'So we're not the historical enemies of England?'
   'Not at all.'
   'And eating rollmop herrings won't lead to erectile dysfunction?'
   'No. And keep your voice down. All these people are real, not D-7 generic crowd types. Out here, you only exist in a play.'
   'Okay,' he said, stopping at an electronics shop and staring at the TVs. 'Who's she?'
   'Lola Vavoom. An actress.'
   'Really? Has she ever played Ophelia?'
   'Many times.'
   'Was she better than Helena Bonham Carter?'
   'Both good – just different.'
   'Different? What do you mean?'
   'They both brought different things to the role.'
   Hamlet laughed.
   'I think you're confusing the matter, Thursday. Ophelia is just Ophelia.'
   'Not out here. Listen, I'm just going to see how bad my overdraft is.'
   'How you Outlanders complicate matters!' he murmured. 'If we were in a book right now you'd be accosted by a solicitor who tells you a wealthy aunt has died and left you lots of money – and then we'd just start the next chapter with you in London making your way to Kaine's office disguised as a cleaning woman.'
   'Excuse me—!' said a suited gentleman who looked suspiciously like a solicitor. 'But are you Thursday Next?'
   I glanced nervously at Hamlet.
   'Perhaps.'
   'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr Wentworth of Wentworth, Wentworth and Wentworth, Solicitors. I'm the second Wentworth, if you're interested.'
   'And?'
   'And . . . I wonder if I could have your autograph? I followed your Jane Eyre escapade with a great deal of interest.'
   I breathed a sigh of relief and signed his autograph book. Mr Wentworth thanked me and hurried off.
   'You had me worried for a moment there,' said Hamlet. 'I thought I was meant to be the fictitious one.'
   I smiled. 'You are, and don't you forget it.'

   'Twenty-two thousand pounds?' I said to the cashier. 'Are you sure?'
   The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.
   'Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred and eight pounds and four shillings three pence ha'penny – overdrawn,' she added, in case I had missed it. 'Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won five thousand pounds. Since you weren't here we upped your credit limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to pay for the additional interest.'
   'How very thoughtful of you.'
   'Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always aim to please.'
   'Are you sure you wouldn't rather go with the "wealthy aunt" scenario?' asked Hamlet, being no help at all.
   'No. Shhh.'
   'We haven't had a single deposit from you for nearly two and a half years,' continued the bank clerk.
   'I've been away.'
   'Prison?'
   'No. So the rest of my overdraft is—?'
   'Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven't got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn't reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn't received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humour – you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a cheque in the near future?'
   'Not really. Um – any chance of raising my credit limit?'
   The cashier arched an eyebrow.
   'I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?'

   I gave them Muni's address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales – one of which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.
   Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon Days.
   'Okay, I give up,' said Hamlet quite suddenly. 'How does it all turn out?'
   'How does what all turn out?'
   He spread his arms out wide.
   'All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that Superhoop thing and the big company – what's it called again?'
   'Goliath?'
   'Right. How does it all turn out?'
   'I haven't the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.'
   Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept.

   'How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?'
   'That's part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.'
   'There is no pleasure in anticipation,' said Hamlet glumly. 'Except perhaps,' he added, 'in killing that old fool Polonius.'
   'My point exactly,' I replied. 'Where you come from events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance farther on in the story.'
   'It's clear you haven't read Hamlet for a– LOOK OUT!'
   Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller – of the size that works on sidewalks and paths – bore rapidly down on us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.
   'Are you okay?' asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.
   'I'm fine – thanks to you.'
   'Goodness!' said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. 'Are you all right?'
   'Not hurt in the least. What happened?'
   'I don't know,' replied the workman, scratching his head. 'Are you sure you're okay?'
   'Really, I'm fine.'
   We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn't look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what else he could charge to insurance.
   'You see?' I said to Hamlet as we walked away.
   'What?'
   'This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing – after all, not every incident in life has a meaning.'
   'Tell that to the scholars who study me,' Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding: 'If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Over-long, detailed to the point of distraction – and ultimately without a major resolution.'
   'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'that's exactly what we like about it.'
   We reached the SpecOps building. It was of a sensible Germanic design, built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades' plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre. Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.
   'Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?'
   'Please.'
   We walked into the Cafe Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.
   'Hey!' said the man behind the counter, who seemed somehow familiar. 'We don't serve that kind in here!'
   'What kind?'
   'The Danish kind.'
   Goliath were obviously working with Kaine on this particular nonsense.
   'He's not Danish. He's my cousin Eddie from Wolverhampton.'
   'Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?'
   I thought quickly.
   'Because . . . he's insane. Isn't that right, Cousin Eddie?'
   'Yes,' said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was not much of a problem. 'When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.'
   'See?'
   'Well, that's all right, then.'
   I started as I realised why he seemed familiar. It was Mr Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner Mr Chalk had made my life difficult before I left. He didn't have his goatee any more but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it – his name was on his Cafe Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars – one for washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn't show any sign of recognising me.
   'What will you have, Ham– I mean, Cousin Eddie?'
   'What is there?'
   'Espresso, Mocha, Latte, White Mocha, Hot Chocolate, Decaff, Recaff, Nocaff, Somecaff, Extracaff, Goliachmo™ . . . what's the matter?'
   Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice laid out in front of him.
   'To espresso or to latte, that is the question,' he muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for something he couldn't easily supply: a decision. 'Whether ’tis tastier on the palette to choose white mocha over plain,' he continued in a rapid garble, 'or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache—'
   'Cousin Eddie!' I said sharply. 'Cut it out!'
   'To froth, to sprinkle, perchance to drink, and in that—'
   'He'll have a mocha with extra cream, please.'
   Hamlet stopped abruptly once the burden of decision was taken from him.
   'Sorry,' he said, rubbing his temples, 'I don't know what came over me. All of a sudden I had this overwhelming desire to talk for a very long time without actually doing anything. Is that normal?'
   'Not for me. I'll have a latte, Mr Cheese,' I said, watching his reaction carefully.
   He still didn't seem to recognise me. He rang up the cost and then started making the coffees.
   'Do you remember me?'
   He narrowed his eyes and stared at me carefully for a moment or two.
   'No.'
   'Thursday Next?'

   His face broke into a broad grin and he put out a large hand for me to shake, welcoming me as an old workmate rather than a past nemesis. I faltered, then shook his hand slowly.
   'Miss Next! Where have you been? Prison?'
   'Away.'
   'Ah! But you're well?'
   'I'm okay,' I said suspiciously, retrieving my hand. 'How are you?'
   'Not bad!' He laughed, looking at me sideways for a moment and narrowing his eyes. 'You've changed. What is it?'
   'Almost no hair?'
   'That's it. We were looking for you everywhere. You spent almost eighteen months in the Goliath "top ten most wanted" although you never made it to the number-one slot.'
   'I'm devastated.'
   'No one has ever spent ten months on the list,' carried on Cheese with a sort of dreamy nostalgic look, 'the next longest was three weeks. We looked everywhere for you!'
   'But you gave up?'
   'Goodness me no,' replied Cheese. 'Perseverance is what Goliath do best. There was a restructuring of corporate policy and we were reallocated.'
   'You mean fired.'
   'No one is ever fired from Goliath,' said Cheese in a shocked tone. 'Cots to coffins. You've heard the adverts.'
   'So, just moved on from bullying and terrifying and into lattes and mochas?
   'Haven't you heard?' said Cheese, frothing up some milk. 'Goliath has moved its corporate image away from the "overbearing bully" and more towards "peace, love and understanding".'
   'I heard something about it last night,' I replied, 'but you'll forgive me if I'm not convinced.'
   'Forgive is what Goliath do best, Miss Next. Faith is a difficult commodity to imbue – and that's why violent and ruthless bullies like me have to be reallocated. Our corporate seer Sister Bettina foresaw a necessity for us to change to a faith-based corporate management system, but the rules concerning new religions are quite strict – we have to make changes to the corporation that are meaningful and genuine. That's why the old Goliath Internal Security Service is now known as Goliath Is Seriously Sorry – you see, we even kept the old initials so we didn't have to divert money away from good causes to buy new headed notepaper.'
   'Or have to change it back when this charade has been played out.'
   'You know,' said Cheese, waving a finger at me, 'you always were just that teensy-weensy bit cynical. You should learn to be more trusting.'
   'Trusting. Right. And you think the public will believe this touchy-feely good-Lord-we're-sorry-forgive-us-please crap after four decades of rampant exploitation?'
   'Rampant exploitation?' echoed Cheese in a dismayed tone. 'I don't think so. "Proactive greater goodification" was more what we had in mind – and it's five decades, not four. Are you sure your cousin Eddie isn't Danish?'
   'Definitely not.'
   I thought about Brik Schitt-Hawse, the odious Goliath agent •who had my husband eradicated in the first place.
   'What about Schitt-Hawse? Where does he work these days?'
   'I think he moved into some post in Goliathopolis. I really don't move in those circles any more. Mind you, we should all get together for a reunion and have a drink! What do you think?'
   'I think I'd rather have my husband back,' I replied darkly.
   'Oh!' said Cheese, suddenly remembering just what particular unpleasantness he and Goliath had done to me, then adding slowly: 'You must hate us!'
   'Just a lot.'
   'We can't have that. Repent is what Goliath do best. Have you applied for a Goliath Unfair Treatment Reversal?'
   I stared at him and raised an eyebrow.
   'Well,' he began, 'Goliath have been allowing disgruntled citizens to apply to have reversed any unfair or unduly harsh measures taken against them – sort of a big apology, really. If Goliath is to become the opiate of the masses, we must first atone for our sins. We like to right any wrongs, and then have a good strong hug to show we really mean it.'
   'Hence your demotion to coffee shop attendant.'
   'Exactly so!'
   'How do I apply?'
   'We've opened an Apologarium in Goliathopolis; you can take the free shuttle from the Tarbuck Graviport. They'll tell you what to do.'
   'Harmonious peace, eh?'
   'Peace is what Goliath do best, Miss Next. Just fill out a form and see one of our trained apologists. I'm sure they can get your husband back in a jiffy!'
   I took the mocha-with-extra-cream and latte and sat by the window, staring at the SpecOps building in silence. Hamlet sensed my disquiet and busied himself with a list of things he wanted to tell Ophelia but didn't think he would be able to, then another list of things he should tell her, but wouldn't. Then a list of all the different lists he had written about Ophelia, and finally a letter of appreciation to Sir John Gielgud.
   'I'm going to sort out a few things,' I said after a while. 'Don't move from here and don't tell anyone who you really are. Understand?'
   'Yes.'
   'Who are you?'
   'Hamlet, Prince of . . . just kidding. I'm your cousin Eddie.'
   'Good. And you have cream on your nose.'

6
SpecOps

   'The Special Operations Network was the agency that looked after areas too specialised to be undertaken by the regular police. There were over thirty SpecOps divisions. SO-1 policed us all, SO-12 were the ChronoGuard and SO-13 dealt with re-engineered species. SO-17 were the ''Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations" and SO-32 the Horticultural Enforcement Agency. I had been in SO-27, the Literary Detectives. Ten years authenticating Milton and tracking down forged Shakespeareana. After my work actually within fiction it all seemed a bit tame. At Jurisfiction I could catch a horse as it bolted – in the Literary Detectives it was like wandering around a very large field armed with only a halter and a photograph of a carrot.'

THURSDAY NEXT – Private Journals


   I pushed open the door to the station and walked in. The building was shared with Swindon's regular force and seemed slightly shabbier than I remembered. The walls were the same dismal shade of green and I could smell the faint aroma of boiled cabbage from the canteen on the second floor. In truth, my stay here in late '85 had not actually been that long – most of my SpecOps career had been undertaken in London.
   I walked over to the main desk, expecting to see Sergeant Ross. He had been replaced by someone who seemed too young to be a police officer, much less a desk sergeant.
   'I'm here to get my old job back,' I announced.
   'Which was?'
   'Literary Detective.'
   He chuckled. Unkindly, I thought.
   'You'll need to see the commander,' he replied without taking his gaze from the book he was scribbling in. 'Name?'
   'Thursday Next.'
   A hush descended slowly on the room, beginning with those closest to me and moving outwards with my whispered name like ripples in a pool. Within a few moments I was being stared at in silence by at least two dozen assorted police and SpecOps officers, a couple of Gaskell impersonators and an ersatz Colendge. I gave an embarrassed smile and looked from blank face to blank face, trying to figure out whether to run, or to fight, or what. My heart beat faster as a young officer quite close to me reached into his breast pocket and pulled out . . . a notebook.
   'Please,' he said, 'I wonder if I might have your autograph?'
   'Well, of course.'
   I breathed a sigh of relief, and pretty soon I was having my back slapped and being congratulated on the whole Jane Eyre adventure. I'd forgotten the celebrity thing but also noticed that there were officers in the room who were interested in me for another reason – SO-1, probably.
   'I need to see Bowden Cable,' I said to the desk sergeant, realising that if anyone could help, it was my old partner. He smiled, picked up a phone, announced me and wrote out a visitor's pass, then told me to go to interview suite sixteen on the third floor. I thanked my new-found acquaintances, made my way to the elevators and ascended to the third floor. When the lift doors rattled open I walked with a hurried step towards room sixteen. Halfway there I was accosted by Bowden, who slid his arm in mine and steered me into an empty office.
   'Bowden!' I said happily. 'How are you?'
   He hadn't changed much in the past two years. Fastidiously neat, he was wearing the usual pinstripe suit but without a jacket, so he must have been in a hurry to meet me.
   'I'm good, Thursday, real good. But where the hell have you been?'
   'I've been—'
   'You can tell me later. Thank the GSD I got to you first! We don't have a lot of time. Goodness! What have you done to your hair?'
   'Well, Joan of—'
   'You can tell me later. Ever heard of Yorrick Kaine?'
   'Of course! I'm here to—'
   'No time for explanations. He's not fond of you at all. He has a personal adviser named Ernst Stncknene who calls us every day to ask if you've returned. But this morning – he didn't call!'
   'So?'
   'So he knows you're back. Why is the Chancellor interested in you, anyway?'
   'Because he's fictional and I want to take him back to the BookWorld where he belongs.'
   'Coming from anyone but you I'd laugh. Is that really true?'
   'As true as I'm standing here.'
   'Well, your life is in danger, that's all I know. Ever heard of the assassin known as the—'
   'Windowmaker?'
   'How did you know?'
   'I have my sources. Any idea who took out the contract?'
   'Well, they've killed sixty-seven people – sixty-eight if they did Samuel Pring – and they definitely did the number on Gordon DuffRolecks, whose death really only benefited—'
   'Kaine.'
   'Exactly. You need to take particular care. More than that, we need you back as a full serving member of the Literary Detectives. We've got one or two problems that need ironing out in our department.'
   'So what do we do?'
   'Well, you're AWOL at best and a cheese smuggler at worst. So we've concocted a cover story of such bizarre complexity and outrageous daring that it can only be true. Here it is: in a parallel universe ruled entirely by lobsters you—'
   But at that moment the door opened and a familiar figure walked in. I say familiar but he was not exactly welcome. It was Commander Braxton Hicks, head of SpecOps here in Swindon.
   I could almost hear Bowden's heart fall – mine too.
   Hicks still had a job because of me but I didn't expect that to count for much. He was a company man, a bean counter – more fond of his precious budget than anything else. He had never given me any quarter and I didn't expect any now.
   'Ah, found you!' said the commander in a senous tone. 'Miss Next. They told me you'd arrived. Been giving us the run-around, haven't you?'
   'She's been—' began Bowden.
   'I'm sure Miss Next can explain for herself, hmm?'
   'Yes, sir.'
   'Good. Close the door behind you, eh?'
   Bowden gave a sickly smile and slunk out of the interview room.

   Braxton sat, opened my file and stroked his large moustache thoughtfully.
   'Absent without leave for over two years, demoted eighteen months ago, non-return of SpecOps weapon, badge and ruler, pencil, eight pens and a dictionary.'
   'I can explain—'
   'Then there is the question of the illegal cheese we found under a Hispano-Suiza at your picnic two and a half years ago. I have sworn affidavits from everyone present that you were alone, met them up there and the cheese was yours.'
   'Yes, but—'
   'And the traffic police said they saw you aiding and abetting a known serial dangerous driver on the A419 north of Swindon.'
   'That's—'
   'But what's worse was that you lied to me systematically from the moment you came under my command. You said you would learn to play golf and you never so much as picked up a putter.'

   'But—'
   'I have proof of your lies, too. I personally visited every single golf club and not one of them had ever let someone of your description play golf there – not even on the practice ranges. How do you explain that, eh?'
   'Well—'
   'You vanish from sight two and a half years ago. Not a word. Had to demote you. Star employee. Newspapers had a field day. Upset my swing for weeks.'
   'I'm sorry if it upset your golf, sir.'
   'You're rather in the soup, young lady.'
   He stared at me in exactly the sort of way my English teacher used to at school, and I had that sudden and dangerously overpowering urge to laugh out loud. Luckily, I didn't.
   'What have you got to say for yourself?'
   'I can explain, if you'll let me.'
   'My girl, I've been trying to get you to tell me for five—'
   The door opened again and in walked Colonel Flanker of SO-1 with another officer. Flanker ran Internal Affairs, the SpecOps police. About as welcome as worms and another old bête noire of mine. If Hicks was bad, Flanker was worse. Braxton only wanted me to undergo some sort of disciplinary nonsense – Flanker would want to lock me up for good, after I had led them to my father.
   'So!' he said as soon as he saw me. 'It's true. Thank you, Braxton, my prisoner. Officer Jodrell, cuff her.'
   Jodrell walked over to me, took one of my wrists and placed it behind my back. There didn't seem to be much point in running; I could see at least three other SO-1 agents hovering near the door. I thought of Friday. If only Bowden had got to me a few minutes earlier—!
   'Just a minute, Mr Flanker,' said Braxton, closing my file. 'What do you think you're doing?'
   'Arresting Miss Next on charges of being AWOL, dereliction of duty and illegal possession of bootleg cheese – for starters.'
   'She was on assignment for SO-23,' said Braxton, staring at him evenly, 'undercover for the Cheese Squad.'
   I couldn't believe my ears. Braxton lying? For me?
   'The Cheese Squad?' echoed Flanker with some surprise.
   'Yes,' replied Braxton, who once started clearly found the subterfuge and reckless use of his authority somewhat exciting. 'She's been in deep cover in Wales for two years on a clandestine espionage operation monitoring illegal cheese factones. The cheese with her fingerprints on was part of an illegal cross-border shipment that she helped seize.'
   'Really?' said Flanker, his confidence rattled.
   'On my word. She's not under arrest, she's being debriefed. It seems that the operation was under the control of Joe Martlet. Full details will be available from him.'
   'You know as well as I do that Joe was shot dead by the cheese mafia two weeks ago.'
   'It was a tragedy,' admitted Braxton. 'Fine man, Martlet – one of the best. Could play a three under par with ease and never swore when he drove into the rough and hence Miss Next's reappearance,' he added without a pause. I'd never seen anyone lie so well before. Not even me. Not even Friday when I found he'd raided the cookie jar with Pickwick's help.
   'Is this true?' asked Flanker. 'Two years undercover in Wales?'
   ' Ydy, ond dydy hi ddim wedi bwrw glaw pob dydd!' I replied in my best Welsh.
   Flanker narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment without speaking.
   'I was just reassigning her to the Literary Detectives when you walked in the door,' added Braxton.
   Flanker looked at Braxton, then at me, then at Braxton again. He nodded at Jodrell, who released me.
   'Very well. But I want a full report on my desk Tuesday.'
   'You can have it Friday, Mr Flanker. I'm a very busy man.'
   Flanker glared at me for a moment, then addressed Braxton: 'Since Miss Next is back with the Literary Detectives perhaps you would be good enough to appoint her as SO-14 Danish Book Seizure Liaison Officer. My boys are pretty good at the seizure stuff but to be honest none of them can tell a Mark Twain from a Samuel Clemens.'
   'I'm not sure I want—' I began.
   'I think you should be happy to assist me, Miss Next, don't you? A chance to make amends for past transgressions, yes?'
   Braxton answered for me.
   'I'm sure Miss Next would be happy to assist in any way she can, Mr Flanker.'
   Flanker gave a rare smile.
   'Good. I'll have the divisional head of SO-14 get in touch with you.' He turned to Braxton. 'But I'll still need that report on Tuesday.'
   'You'll get it,' replied Braxton, 'on Friday.'
   Flanker glared at us both and without another word strode from the room, his minions at his heels. When the door closed I breathed a sigh of relief.
   'Sir, I—'
   'I don't want to hear anything more about it,' replied Braxton sharply, gathering up his papers. 'I retire in two months' time and wanted to do something that made my whole pen-pushing, play-it-safe, shiny-arse career actually be worth it. I don't know what's going to happen to the LiteraTec division with all this insane Danish book-burning stuff, but what I do know is that people like you need to stay in it. Lead them on a merry goose-chase, young lady – I can keep Flanker wrapped up in red tape pretty much for ever.'
   'Braxton,' I said, giving him a spontaneous hug, 'you're a darling!'
   'Nonsense!' he said gruffly, and a tad embarrassed. 'But I do expect a little something in return.'
   'And that is?'
   'Well,' he said slowly, his eyes dropping to the ground, 'I wonder if you and I might—'
   'Might what?'
   'Might . . . play golf on Sunday. A few holes.' His eyes gleamed. 'Just for you to get the taste. Believe me, as soon as you grasp the handle of a golf club you'll be hooked for ever! Mrs Hicks need never know. How about it?'
   'I'll be there at nine,' I told him, laughing.
   'You'll be a long time waiting – I get there at eleven.'
   'Eleven it is.'
   I shook his hand and walked out of the door a free woman. Sometimes help arrives from the last place you expect it.

7
The Literary Detectives

   GOLIATH CORPORATION PUBLISH BROAD DENIAL
   The Goliath Corporation yesterday attempted to head off annoying and time-wasting speculation by issuing the broadest denial to date. 'Quite simply, we deny everything,' said Mr Toedee, the Goliath head PR operative, 'including any story that you might have heard now or in the future.' Goliath's shock tactics reflected the growing unease with Goliath's unaccountability, especially over its advanced weapons division. 'It's very simple,' continued Mr Toedee, 'until we have been elevated to a faith when everything can be denied using the "Goliath work in mysterious ways" excuse, we expressly deny possessing, or any involvement with, the Ovinator, anti-smote technology, "Speed-grow" tomatoes or Diatrymas running wild in the New Forest. In fact, we don't know what any of these things are.' To cries of 'What is an Ovinator?' and 'Tomatoes?', Mr Toedee declared the press conference over, blessed everyone and departed.

Article in The Toad on Sunday. 3 July 1988


   I found Bowden fretting in the LiteraTec office and related what had happened.
   'Well, well,' he said at last, 'I think old Braxton's got a crush.'
   'Oh, stop it!'
   The office we were sitting in resembled a large library in a country house somewhere. It was two storeys high, with shelves crammed full of books covering every square inch of wall space. A spiral staircase led to a catwalk which ran around the wall, enabling access to the upper galleries. It was neat and methodical – but somehow less busy than I remembered.
   'Where is everyone?'
   'When you were here last we had a staff of eight. Now it's only Victor, me and Malm. All the rest were reassigned or laid off.'
   'All SpecOps departments?'
   Bowden laughed.
   'Of course not! The bully boys at SO-I4 are alive and well and answer to Yorrick Kaine's every order. SO-1 haven't seen many cuts, either—'
   'Thursday, 'what a delightful surprise!'
   It was Victor Analogy, my old boss here at the Swindon LiteraTecs. He was an elderly gentleman with large mutton-chop sideburns, dressed in a neat tweed suit and bow tie. He had taken off his jacket owing to the summer heat but still managed to cut a very dashing figure, despite his advanced age.
   'Victor, you're looking very well!'
   'And you, dear girl. What devilry have you been up to since last we met?'
   'It's a long story.'
   'The best sort. Let me guess: inside fiction?'
   'In one.'
   'What's it like?'
   'It's quite good, really. Confusing at times and subject to moments of extreme imaginative overload, but varied and the weather's generally pretty good. Can we talk safely in here?'
   Victor nodded and we sat down. I told them about Jurisfiction, the Council of Genres and everything else that had happened to me during my tenure as Bellman. I even told them loosely about my involvement in The Solution of Edwin Drood, which amused them both no end.
   'I've always wondered about that,' mused Victor thoughtfully. 'But you're sure about Yorrick Kaine being fictional?'
   I told him that I was.
   He stood up and walked to the window.
   'You'll have a hard time getting close,' said Victor thoughtfully. 'Does he know you're back?'
   'Definitely,' said Bowden.
   'Then you could be threatening his position as absolute ruler of England almost as much as President Formby. I should keep on your toes, my girl. Is there anything we can do to help?'
   I thought for a moment.
   'There is, actually. We can't find which book Yorrick Kaine has escaped from. He could be using a false name and we should contact any readers who might recognise the Chancellor's somewhat crazed antics from an obscure character they might have encountered somewhere. We at Jurisfiction have been going through the Great Library at our end but we've still drawn a blank – every character in fiction has been accounted for.'
   'We'll do what we can, Thursday – when can you rejoin us?'
   'I don't know,' I answered slowly, 'I have to get my husband back. Remember I told you he was eradicated by the Chrono-Guard?'
   'Yes; Lindane, wasn't it?'
   'Landen. If it wasn't for him I'd probably stay inside fiction.'
   We all fell silent for a moment.
   'So,' I said cheerfully, 'what's been happening in the world of the LiteraTecs?'
   Victor frowned.
   'We don't hold with the book-burning lark of Kaine's. You heard about the order to start incinerating Danish literature?'
   I nodded.
   'Kierkegaard's works are being rounded up as we speak. I told Braxton that if we were asked to do any of it we'd resign.'
   'Oh – ah.'
   'I'm not sure I like the way you said that,' said Bowden.
   I winced.
   'I agreed to be the SO-14 Danish Book Seizure Liaison Officer for Flanker – sorry. I didn't have much of a choice.'
   'I see that as good news,' put in Bowden. 'You can have them searching in places where they won't find any Danish books. Just be careful. Flanker has been suspicious ever since we said we were too busy to find out who was planning to smuggle copies of The Concept of Dread to Wales for safe-keeping.'
   Bowden laughed and lowered his voice.
   'It wasn't an excuse.' He chuckled. 'We actually were too busy – gathering copies of banned books ready for transportation to Wales!'
   Victor grimaced.
   'I really don't want to hear this, Bowden. If you get caught we'll all be for the high jump!'
   'Some things are worth going to jail for, Victor,' replied Bowden in an even tone. 'As LiteraTecs we swore to uphold and defend the written word – not indulge a crazed politician's worst paranoic fantasies.'
   'Just be careful.'
   'Of course,' replied Bowden, 'it might come to nothing if we can't find a way to get the books out of England – the Welsh border shouldn't be a problem since Wales aligned itself with Denmark. I don't suppose you have any ideas how to get across the English border post?'
   'I'm not sure,' I replied. 'How many copies of banned books do you want to smuggle anyway?'
   'About four truckloads.'
   I whistled. Things – like cheese, for instance – were usually smuggled in to England. I didn't know how I'd get banned books out.
   'I'll give it a shot. What else is going on?'
   'Usual stuff,' replied Bowden. 'Faked Milton, Jonson, Swift . . . Montague and Capulet street gangs . . . someone discovered a first draft of The Mill on the Floss entitled The Sploshing of the Weirs. Also, the Daphne Farquitt Specialist Bookshop went up in smoke.'
   'Insurance scam?'
   'No – probably anti-Farquitt protesters again.'

   Farquitt had penned her first bodice-ripping novel in 1932 and had been writing pretty much the same one over and over again ever since. Loved by many and hated by a vitriolic minority, Farquitt was England's leading romantic novelist.
   'There's also been a huge increase in the use of performance-enhancing drugs by novelists,' added Victor. 'Last year's Booker speed-writing winner was stripped of his award when he tested positive for Cartlandromin. And only last week Handley Paige only narrowly missed a two-year writing ban for failing a random dope test.'
   'Sometimes I wonder if we don't have too many rules,' murmured Victor pensively, and we all three sat in silence, nodding thoughtfully for a moment.
   Bowden broke the silence. He produced a piece of stained paper wrapped in a cellophane evidence bag and passed it across to me.
   'What do you make of this?'
   I read it, not recognising the words but recognising the style. It was a sonnet by Shakespeare – and a pretty good one, too.
   'Shakespeare – but it's not Elizabethan; the mention of Basil Brush would seem to indicate that – but it feels like his. What did the Verse Metre Analyser say about it?'
   'Ninety-one per cent probability of Will as the author,' replied Victor.
   'Where did you get it?'
   'Off the body of a down-and-out by the name of Shaxtper killed on Tuesday evening. We think someone has been cloning Shakespeares.'
   'Cloning Shakespeares? Are you sure? Couldn't it just be a ChronoGuard "temporal kidnap" sort of thing?'
   'No. Blood analysis tells us they were all vaccinated at birth against rubella, mumps and so forth.'
   'Wait – you've got more than one?'
   'Three,' said Bowden. 'There's been something of a spate recently.'
   'When can you come back to work, Thursday?' asked Victor solemnly. 'As you can see, we need you.'
   I paused for a moment.
   'I'm going to need a week to get my life into gear first, sir. There are a few pressing matters that I have to attend to.'
   'What, may I ask,' said Victor, 'is more important than Montague and Capulet street gangs, cloned Shakespeares, smuggling Kierkegaard out of the country and authors using banned substances?'
   'Finding reliable childcare.'
   'Goodness!' said Victor. 'Congratulations! You must bring the little squawker in some time. Mustn't she, Bowden?'
   'Absolutely.'
   'Bit of a problem, that,' murmured Victor. 'Can't have you dashing around the place only to have to get home at five to make Junior's tea. Perhaps we'd better handle all this on our own.'
   'No,' I said with an assertiveness that made them both jump. 'No, I'm coming back to work. I just need to sort a few things out. Does SpecOps have a creche?'
   'No.'
   'Ah. Well, I suspect I shall think of something. If I get my husband back there won't be a problem. I'll call you tomorrow.'
   There was a pause.
   'Well, we have to respect that, I suppose,' said Victor solemnly. 'We're just glad that you're back. Aren't we, Bowden?'
   'Yes,' replied my ex-partner, 'very glad indeed.'