11
Introducing Ultra Word™

   "… First there was OralTrad, upgraded ten thousand years later by the rhyming (for easier recall) OralTradPlus. For thousands of years this was the only Story Operating System and it is still in use today. The system branched in two about twenty thousand years ago; on one side with CaveDaubPro (forerunner of PaintPlusV2.3, GrecianUrnV1.2, SculptMarble V1.4, and the latest, all-encompassing SuperArtisticExpression-5). The other strand, the Picto-Phonetic Storytelling Systems, started with ClayTablet V2.1 and went through several competing systems (WaxTablet, Papyrus, VellumPlus) before merging into the award-winning SCROLL, which was upgraded eight times to V3.5 before being swept aside by the all-new and clearly superior BOOK V1. Stable, easy to store and transport, compact and with a workable index, BOOK has led the way for nearly eighteen hundred years …'

WORDMASTER XAVIER LIBRIS – Story Operating Systems – The Early Years


   A small and rather pallid-looking man took his position on the dais; he could only just see over the lectern. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and was almost weighed down by the number of pens in his top pocket. We all took a seat and gazed at him with interest; UltraWord™ had been the talk of the Well for ages and everyone was keen to learn whether the rumours of its technical virtuosity were true.
   'Good morning, everyone,' began Libris in a nervous voice. 'Over the next thirty minutes I will try and explain a little about our latest operating system: BOOK Version 9, which we have code-named UltraWord™.'
   There was silence as the agents mulled this over. I got the feeling in that this was not just important but really important. Like being at the signing of a peace accord or something. Even Bradshaw, who was no fan of technology, was leaning forward and listening with interest, a frown etched on his forehead.
   Libris pulled the first sheet off a flipchart. There was a picture of an old book.
   'Well,' he began, 'when we first came up with the "page" concept in BOOK V1 we thought we'd reached the zenith of story containment – compact, easy to read and, by using integrated PageNumber™ and SpineTitle™ technologies, we had a system of indexing far superior to anything SCROLL could offer. Over the years—'
   Here he flipped the chart over to show us varying styles of books through the ages.
   '—we have been refining the BOOK system. Illustrations were the first upgrade at 1.1, standardised spelling at V3.1 and vowel and irregular verb stability in V4.2. Today we use BOOK V8.3, one of the most stable and complex ImaginoTransference technologies ever devised – the smooth transfer of the written word into the reader's imagination has never been faster.'
   He stopped for a moment. We all knew that BOOK V8.3 was excellent; apart from a few typos that crept in and the variable quality of stories – neither of which was the system's fault – it was good, very good indeed.
   'Constructing the books down in the sub-basements, although time consuming, seems to work well, even if it is a little chaotic.'
   There were murmurs of agreement from the assembled agents; it was clear that no one much liked it down there.
   'But,' went on Libris, 'endlessly recycling old ideas might not hold the reader's attention for that much longer – the Council of Genres' own market research seems to indicate that readers are becoming bored with the sameness of plot lines.'
   'I think it's already happened,' said the Bellman, then checked himself quickly, apologised for the interruption and let Libris carry on.
   'But,' continued Libris, 'to understand the problem we need a bit of history. When we first devised the BOOK system eighteen hundred years ago, we designed it mainly to record events – we never thought there would be such a demand for story. By the tenth century story usage was so low that we still had enough new plots to last over a thousand years. By the time the seventeenth century arrived this had lowered to six hundred – but there was still no real cause for worry. Then, something happened that stretched the operating system to the limit.'
   'Mass literacy,' put in Miss Havisham.
   'Exactly,' replied Libris. 'Demand for written stories increased exponentially during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Ten years before Pamela was published in 1740 we had enough new ideas to last another four hundred years; by Dickens' time ideas were almost wholly recycled, something we have been doing on and off since the thirteenth century to stave off the inevitable. But by 1884, to all intents and purposes, we had depleted our stock of original ideas.'
   There was muttering among the collected Jurisfiction agents.
   'Flatland,' said Bradshaw after pausing for a moment's reflection. 'It was the last original idea, wasn't it?'
   'Pretty much. The few leftover pieces were mopped up by the SF movement until the 1950s, but as far as pure ideas are concerned, 1884 was the end. We were expecting the worst – a meltdown of the whole BookWorld and a wholesale departure of readers. But that didn't happen. Against all expectations, recycled ideas were working.'
   'But isn't it the way they are told?' asked Havisham in her not-to-be-argued-with voice. 'Surely the permutations of storytelling are endless!'
   'Large perhaps, but not infinite, Miss Havisham. What I'm trying to say is that once all the permutations are used up there will be nowhere for us to go. The twentieth century has seen books being written and published at an unprecedented rate – even the introduction of the Procrastination1.3 and Writer'sBlock2.4 Outlander viruses couldn't slow the authors down. Plagiarism lawsuits are rising in the Outland; authors are beginning to write the same books. The way I see it we've got a year – possibly eighteen months – before the well of fiction runs dry.'
   He paused to let this sink in.
   'That's why we had to go back to the drawing board and rethink the whole situation.'
   He flipped the chart again and there were audible gasps. On the chart was written '32-plot story systems'.
   'As you know,' he went on, 'every Book Operating System has at its heart the basic eight-plot architecture we inherited from OralTrad. As we used to say: "No one will ever need more than eight plots.'"
   'Nine if you count Coming of Age,' piped up Beatrice.
   'Isn't that Journey of Discovery? said Tweed.
   'What's Macbeth, then?' asked Benedict.
   'Bitter Rivalry/Revenge, my dear,' answered Havisham.
   'I thought it was Temptation,' mused Beatrice, who liked to contradict Benedict whenever possible.
   'Please!' said the Bellman. 'We could argue these points all day. And if you let Libris finish, you can.'
   The agents fell silent. I guessed this was a perennial argument.
   'So the only way forward,' continued Libris, 'is to completely rebuild the operating system. If we go for a thirty-two-plot basis for our stories, there will be more ideas than you or I will know what to do with. The BookWorld won't have seen such an advance since the invention of movable type.'
   'I'm always supportive of new technology, Mr Libris,' said Lady Cavendish kindly, 'but isn't the popularity of books a fair indication of how the good the current system actually is?'
   'It depends what you mean by "popular". Only thirty per cent of the Outland read fiction on a regular basis – with UltraWord™ we aim to change all that. But I'm running ahead of myself – an abundance of new ideas is only half the story. Let me carry on and tell you what other benefits the new system will give us.'
   He flipped the chart again. This time it read: 'Enhanced Features'.
   'Firstly, UltraWord™ is wholly reverse compatible with all existing novels, plays and poetry. Furthermore, new books written with this system will offer bonus features that will enhance and delight.'
   'I say,' asked Bradshaw slowly, 'how do you hope to improve a book?'
   'Let me give you an example,' replied Libris enthusiastically. 'In books that we know at present, dialogue has to be dedicated to the people who are talking as the reader has no idea who is speaking from the words alone. This can be tricky if we want a large scene with many people talking to one another – it's very easy to get bogged down in the "… said George", "… replied Michael", "… added Paul" and suchlike; with the UltraWord™ Enhanced Character Identification™, a reader will have no trouble placing who is speaking to whom without all those tedious dialogue markers. In addition, UltraWord™ will be bundled with PlotPotPlus™, which gives the reader a potted précis if they are lost or have put the book down unfinished for a few months or more. Other options will be ReadZip™, PageGlow™ and three music tracks.'
   'How will the reader get these new features to work?' asked Lady Cavendish.
   'There will be a preferences page inserted just after the frontispiece.'
   'Touch sensitive?' I asked.
   'No,' replied Libris excitedly, 'read sensitive. Words that know when they are being read. On the preferences page you can also select WordClot™, which adjusts the vocabulary to the reader – no more difficult words, or, if you like difficult words, you can increase the vocabulary complexity.'
   There was silence as everyone took this in.
   'But to get back to your point, Lady Cavendish, a lot of people reject fiction because they find reading tedious and slow. At present levels the fastest throughput we can manage is about six words per second. With UltraWord™ we will have the technology to quadruple the uptake – something that will be very attractive to new readers.'
   'Cards on the table and all that, Libris,' said Bradshaw in a loud voice. 'Technology is all very well but unless we get it absolutely right, it could turn out to be a debacle of the highest order.'
   'You didn't like the ISBN positioning system either, Commander,' replied Libris, 'yet book navigation has never been easier.'
   They stared at one another until a loud belch rent the air. It was Falstaff.
   'I have lived,' he said, getting to his feet with a great deal of effort, 'through much in my time; some good, some bad – I was witness to the great vowel shift, and remember fondly those better days when puns, fat people and foreigners were funny beyond all. I saw the novel rise and the epic poem fall, I remember when you could get blind drunk, eat yourself ill and still have change for a whore out of sixpence. I remember when water would kill you and spirits would save you; I remember—

   'Is there a point to all this?' asked Libris testily.
   'Ah!' replied Falstaff, trying to figure out where he was going with his speech. 'Oh, yes. I was there for the much-heralded Version 4 upgrade in 1841. "Change the way we read for ever," quoth the Council of Genres. And what happened? The Deep Text Crash. Almost everything by Euripides, Aeschylus and Sophocles gone for ever – and we created grammasites.'
   'It was never proven that Version 4 created the grammasites, Sir John—'
   'Come, come, Libris, have you dried your brain? I was there. I saw it. I know.'
   Libris put up his hands.
   'I didn't come here to argue, Sir John – I just want to stick to the facts. Anyhow, UltraWord™ is incompatible with grammasites; text will be locked – they'll have nothing to feed on.'
   'You hope, sir.'
   'We know,' replied Libris firmly, adding more slowly: 'Listen, Version 4 was a big mistake, we freely admit that – which is why we have taken so long to design and rigorously test UltraWord™. It is no small boast that we call it the Ultimate Reading Experience.'
   He paused for a moment.
   'It's here to stay, ladies and gentlemen – so get used to it.'
   He expected another attack from Falstaff but King Hal's old friend had sat down and was shaking his head sadly. No one else added anything.
   Libris took a step back and looked at the Bellman, who tingled his bell.
   'Well, thank you all for listening to WordMaster Libris' presentation, and I would like to thank him for coming here today to tell us all about it.'
   He started to clap his hands and we joined in – with the notable exceptions of Falstaff and Bradshaw.
   'Presentation booklets will be available shortly,' said the Bellman. 'Individual assignments will be given out in ten minutes. And remember: let's be careful out there. That's it. Session's over.'
   And he tingled his bell once more.

   Libris stepped down from the dais and melted away before Bradshaw had a chance to question him further. Miss Havisham rested her hand on his shoulder. Bradshaw was the only man to whom I had ever seen Miss Havisham show any friendliness at all. Born of a long working association, I think.
   'I'm too long in the tooth for this game, Havisham, old girl,' he muttered.
   'You and me both, Trafford. But who'd teach the young ones?'
   She nodded in my direction. I hadn't been described as 'young' for over a decade.
   'I'm spent, Estella,' said Bradshaw sadly. 'No more new technology for me. I'm going back to my own book for good. At least I won't have to put up with all this nonsense in Bradshaw of the Congo. Goodbye, old girl.'
   'Goodbye, Commander – send my regards to Mrs Bradshaw.'
   'Thank you. And to you, too. Miss … I'm sorry, what was your name again?'
   'Thursday Next.'
   'Of course it is. Well, toodle-oo.'
   And he smiled, tipped his pith helmet and was gone.
   'Dear old Bradshaw.' Miss Havisham smiled. 'He's retired about twelve times a year since 1938. I expect we'll see him again next week.'
   'Ah!' muttered the Bellman as he approached. 'Havisham and Next.'
   He consulted his clipboard for a moment.
   'You "weren't in the Outland on another land speed attempt, were you?'
   'Me?' replied Havisham. 'Of course not!'
   'Well,' murmured the Bellman, not believing her for an instant, 'the Council of Genres have told me that any Jurisfiction staff found abusing their privileges will be dealt with severely.'
   'How severely?'
   'Very severely.'
   'They wouldn't dare,' replied Havisham haughtily. 'Now, what have you got for us?'
   'You're chairing the Wuthering Heights rage counselling session.'
   'I've done my six sessions,' replied Havisham. 'It's Falstaff's turn.'
   'Now that's not true, is it?' replied the Bellman, 'You're only on your third. Changing counsellors every week is not the best way to do it. Everyone has to take their turn, Miss Havisham, even you.'
   She sighed. 'Very well.'
   'Good. Better not keep them waiting!'
   The Bellman departed rapidly before Havisham could answer. She stood silently for a moment, a bit like a volcano deciding whether to erupt or not. After a few moments her eyes flicked to mine.
   'Was that a smile?' she snapped.
   'No, Miss Havisham,' I replied, trying to hide my inner amusement that someone like her would try to counsel anyone about anything – especially rage.
   'Please do tell me what you think is so very funny,' she demanded. 'I really am very keen to know.'
   'It was a smile,' I said carefully, 'of surprise.'
   'Was it now?' she replied. 'Well, before you get the mistaken belief that I am somehow concerned about the feelings of such a pathetic bunch of characters, let's make it clear that I was ordered to do this job – same as being drafted on to Heathcliff Protection Duty. I'd sooner he were dead, personally speaking – but orders are orders. Fetch me a tea and meet me at my table.'

   There was a lot of excited chatter about the upgrade to UltraWord™ and I picked up snatches of conversation that ran the full gamut from condemnation to full support. Not that it mattered; Jurisfiction was only a policing agency and had little say in policy – that was all up to the higher powers at the Council of Genres. It really was like being back at SpecOps. I bumped into Vernham Deane at the refreshment table.
   'Well,' said Vernham, helping himself to a pastry, 'what do you think?'
   'Bradshaw and Falstaff seem a bit put out.'
   'Caution is sometimes an undervalued commodity,' he said warily. 'What does Havisham think?'
   'I'm really not sure.'
   'Vern!' said Beatrice, who had just joined us along with Lady Cavendish. 'Which plot does Winnie-the-Pooh have?'
   'Triumph of the Underdog?' he suggested.
   'Told you!' said Beatrice, turning to Cavendish. '"Bear with little brain triumphs over adversity." Happy?'
   'No,' she replied. 'It's Journey of Discovery all the way.'
   'You think every story is Journey of Discovery!'
   'It is.'
   They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.
   'Have you met Mrs Bradshaw yet?' asked Deane.
   I told him that I hadn't.
   'When you do, don't laugh or anything.'
   'Why?'
   'You'll see.'

   I poured some tea for Miss Havisham, remembering to put the milk in first. Deane ate a canapé and asked:
   'How are things with you these days? Last time we met you were having a little trouble at home.'
   'I'm living in the Well,' I told him, 'as part of the Character Exchange Programme.'
   'Really?' he said. 'What a lark. How's the latest Farquitt getting along?'
   'Well, I think,' I told him, always sensitive to Deane's slight shame at being a one-dimensional evil squire figure, 'the working title is Shameless Love.'
   'Sounds like a Farquitt.' Deane sighed. 'There'll be someone like me in it – there usually is. Probably a rustic serving girl who is ravaged by someone like me, too – and then cruelly cast out to have her baby in the poorhouse only to have her revenge ten chapters later.
   'Well, I don't know—'
   'It's not fair, you know,' he said, his mood changing. 'Why should I be condemned, reading after reading, to drink myself to a sad and lonely death eight pages before the end?'
   'Because you're the bad guy and they always get their comeuppance in Farquitt novels?'
   'It's still not fair.' He scowled. 'I've applied for an Internal Plot Adjustment countless times but they keep turning me down. You wouldn't have a word with Miss Havisham, would you? She's on the Council of Genres Plot Adjustment subcommittee, I'm told.'
   'Would that be appropriate?' I asked. 'Me talking to her, I mean? Shouldn't you go through the usual channels?'
   'Not really,' he retorted, 'but I'm willing to try anything. Speak to her, won't you?'
   I told him I would try but decided on the face of it that I probably wouldn't. Deane seemed pleasant enough at Jurisfiction but in The Squire of High Potternews he was a monster; dying sad, lonely and forgotten was probably just right for him – in narrative terms, anyway.

   I gave the tea to Miss Havisham, who broke off talking to Perkins abruptly as I approached. She gave me a grimace and vanished. I followed her to the second floor of the Great Library, where I found her in the Brontë section already with a copy of Wuthering Heights in her hand. I knew that she probably did have a soft spot for Heathcliff – but I imagined it was only the treacherous marsh below Penistone Crag.
   'Did you meet the three witches, by the way?' she asked.
   'Yes,' I replied. 'They told me—'
   'Ignore everything they say. Look at the trouble they got Macbeth into.'
   'But they said—'
   'I don't want to hear it. Claptrap and mumbo-jumbo. They are troublemakers and nothing more. Understand?'
   'Sure.'
   'Don't say "sure" – it's so slovenly! What's wrong with: "Yes, Miss Havisham"?'
   'Yes, Miss Havisham.'
   'Better, I suppose. Come, we are Brontë bound!'
   And we read ourselves into the pages of Wuthering Heights

12
Wuthering Heights

   'Wuthering Heights was the only novel written by Emily Brontë, which some say is just as well, and others, a crying shame. Quite what she would have written had she lived longer is a matter of some conjecture; given Emily's strong-willed and passionate character, probably more of the same. But one thing is certain; whatever feelings are aroused in the reader by Heights, whether sadness for the ill-matched lovers, irritability at Catherine's petulant ways or even profound rage at how stupid Heathcliff's victims can act as they meekly line up to be abused, one thing is for sure: the evocation of a wild and windswept place that so well reflects the destructive passion of the two central characters is captured here brilliantly – and some would say, it has not been surpassed.'

MILLON DE FLOSS – Wuthering Heights: Masterpiece or Turgid Rubbish?


   It was snowing when we arrived and the wind whipped the flakes into something akin to a large cloud of excitable winter midges. The house was a lot smaller than I imagined but no less shabby, even under the softening cloak of snow; the shutters hung askew and only the faintest glimmer of light showed from within. It was clear we were visiting the house not in the good days of old Mr Earnshaw but in the tenure of Mr Heathcliff, whose barbaric hold over the house seemed to be reflected in the dour and windswept abode that we approached.
   Our feet crunched on the fresh snow as we arrived at the front door and rapped upon the gnarled wood. It was answered, after a very long pause, by an old and sinewy man – who looked at us both in turn with a sour expression before recognition dawned across his tired features and he launched into an excited gabble:
   'It's bonny behaviour, lurking amang t' fields, after twelve o' t' night, wi' that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think I'm blind; but I'm noan: nowt ut t' soart! – I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed YAH, yah gooid-fur-nowt, slatternly witch! nip up and bolt into th' house, t' minute yah heard t' maister's horse-fit clatter up t' road!'
   'Never mind all that!' exclaimed Miss Havisham, to whom patience was an alien concept. 'Let us in, Joseph, or you'll be feeling my boot upon your trousers!'
   He grumbled but opened the door anyway. We stepped in amongst a swirl of snowflakes and tramped our feet upon the mat as the door was latched behind us.
   'What did he say?' I asked as Joseph carried on muttering to himself under his breath.
   'I have absolutely no idea,' replied Miss Havisham, shaking the snow from her faded bridal veil. 'In fact, nobody does. Come, you are to meet the others. For the rage counselling session, we insist that every major character within Heights attends.'
   There was no introductory lobby or passage to the room. The front door opened into a large family sitting room where six people were clustered around the hearth. One of the men rose politely and inclined his head in greeting. This, I learned later, was Edgar Linton, husband of Catherine Earnshaw, who sat next to him on the wooden settle and glowered meditatively into the fire. Next to them was a dissolute-looking man who appeared to be asleep, or drunk, or quite possibly both. It was clear that they were waiting for us, and equally clear from the lack of enthusiasm that counselling wasn't high on their list of priorities – or interests.
   'Good evening, everyone,' said Miss Havisham, 'and I'd like to thank you all for attending this Jurisfiction Rage Counselling session.'
   She sounded almost friendly; it was quite out of character and I wondered how long she could keep it up.
   'This is Miss Next, who will be observing this evening's session,' she went on. 'Now, I want us all to join hands and create a circle of trust to welcome her to the group. Where's Heathcliff?'
   'I have no idea where that scoundrel might be!' declaimed Linton angrily. 'Face down in a bog for all I care – the devil may take him and not before time!'
   'Oh!' cried Catherine, withdrawing her hand from Edgar's. 'Why do you hate him so? He, who loved me more than you ever could—!'
   'Now, now,' interrupted Havisham in a soothing tone. 'Remember what we said last week about name-calling? Edgar, I think you should apologise to Catherine for calling Heathcliff a scoundrel, and Catherine, you did promise last week not to mention how much you were in love with Heathcliff in front of your husband.'
   They grumbled their apologies.
   'Heathcliff is due here any moment,' said another servant, who I assumed was Nelly Dean. 'His agent said he had to do some publicity. Can we not start without him?'
   Miss Havisham looked at her watch.
   'We could get past the introductions, I suppose,' she replied, obviously keen to finish this up and go home. 'Perhaps we could introduce ourselves to Miss Next and sum up our feelings at the same time. Edgar, would you mind?'
   'Me? Oh, very well. My name is Edgar Linton, true owner of Thrushcross Grange, and I hate and despise Heathcliff because no matter what I do, my wife Catherine is still in love with him.'
   'My name is Hindley Earnshaw,' slurred the drunk, 'old Mr Earnshaw's eldest son. I hate and despise Heathcliff because my father preferred Heathcliff to me, and later, because that scoundrel cheated me out of my birthright.'
   'That was very good, Hindley,' said Miss Havisham, 'not one single swear word. I think we're making good progress. Who's next?'
   'I am Hareton Earnshaw,' said a sullen-looking youth who stared at the table as he spoke and clearly resented these gatherings more than most, 'son of Hindley and Frances. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he treats me as little more than a dog – and it's not as though I did anything against him, neither; he punishes me because my father treated him like a servant.'
   'I am Isabella,' announced a good-looking woman, 'sister of Edgar. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he lied to me, abused me, beat me and tried to kill me. Then, after I was dead, he stole our son and used him to gain control of the Linton inheritance.'
   'Lot of rage in that one,' whispered Miss Havisham. 'Do you see a pattern beginning to emerge?'
   'That they don't much care for Heathcliff?' I whispered back.
   'Does it show that badly?' she replied, a little crestfallen that her counselling didn't seem to be working as well as she'd hoped.
   'I am Catherine Linton,' said a confident and headstrong young girl of perhaps no more than sixteen, 'daughter of Edgar and Catherine. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he kept me prisoner for five days away from my dying father to force me to marry Linton – solely to gain the title of Thrushcross Grange, the true Linton residence.'
   'I am Linton,' announced a very sickly looking child, coughing into a pocket handkerchief, 'son of Heathcliff and Isabella. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he took away the only possible happiness I might have known, and let me die a captive, a pawn in his struggle for ultimate revenge.'
   'Hear, hear,' murmured Catherine Linton.
   'I am Catherine Earnshaw,' said the last woman, who looked around at the small group disdainfully, 'and I love Heathcliff more than life itself!'
   The group groaned audibly, several members shook their heads sadly and the younger Catherine did the 'fingers down throat' gesture.
   'None of you know him the way I do, and if you had treated him with kindness instead of hatred none of this would have happened!'
   'Deceitful harlot!' yelled Hindley, leaping to his feet. 'If you hadn't decided to marry Edgar for power and position, Heathcliff might have been half reasonable – no, you brought all this on yourself, you selfish little minx!'
   There was applause at this, despite Havisham's attempts to keep order.
   'He is a real man,' continued Catherine, amid a barracking from the group, 'a Byronic hero who transcends moral and social law; my love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks. Group, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being!'
   Isabella thumped the table and waved her finger angrily at Catherine.
   'A real man would love and cherish the one he married,' she shouted, 'not throw a carving knife at her and use and abuse all those around him in a never-ending quest for ultimate revenge for some perceived slight of twenty years ago! So what if Hindley treated him badly? A good Christian man would forgive him and learn to live in peace!'

   'Ah!' said the young Catherine, also jumping up and yelling to be heard above the uproar of accusations and pent-up frustrations. 'There we have the nub of the problem. Heathcliff is as far from Christian as one can be; a devil in human form who seeks to ruin all those about him!'
   'I agree with Catherine,' said Linton weakly. 'The man is wicked and rotten to the core!'
   'Come outside and say that!' yelled the elder Catherine, brandishing a fist.
   'You would have him catch a chill and die, I suppose?' replied the younger Catherine defiantly, glaring at the mother who had died giving birth to her. 'It was your haughty spoilt airs that got us into this whole stupid mess in the first place! If you loved him as much as you claim, why didn't you just marry him and have done with it?'
   'CAN WE HAVE SOME ORDER PLEASE!' yelled Miss Havisham so loudly that the whole group jumped. They looked a bit sheepish and sat down, grumbling slightly.
   'Thank you. Now, all this yelling is not going to help, and if we are to do anything about the rage inside Wuthering Heights we are going to have to act like civilised human beings and discuss our feelings sensibly.'
   'Hear, hear,' said a voice from the shadows. The group fell silent and turned in the direction of the newcomer, who stepped into the light accompanied by two minders and someone who looked like his agent. The newcomer was dark, swarthy and extremely handsome. Up until meeting him I had never comprehended why the characters in Wuthering Heights behaved in the sometimes irrational ways that they did; but after witnessing the glowering good looks, the piercing dark eyes, I understood. Heathcliffhad an almost electrifying charisma; he could have charmed a cobra into a knot.
   'Heathcliff!' cried Catherine, leaping into his arms and hugging him tightly. 'Oh, Heathcliff, my darling, how much I've missed you!'
   'Bah!' cried Edgar, swishing his cane through the air in anger. 'Put down my wife immediately or I swear to God I shall—'
   'Shall what?' enquired Heathcliff. 'You gutless popinjay! My dog has more valour in its pizzle than you possess in your entire body! And Linton, you weakling, what did you say about me being "wicked and rotten"?'
   'Nothing,' said Linton quietly.
   'Mr Heathcliff,' said Miss Havisham sternly, 'it doesn't pay to be late for these sessions, nor to aggravate your co-characters.'
   'The devil take your sessions, Miss Havisham,' he said angrily. 'Who is the star of this novel? Who do the readers expect to see when they pick up this book? Me. Who has won the "Most Troubled Romantic Lead" at the BookWorld Awards seventy-seven times in a row? Me. All me. Without me, Heights is a tediously overlong provincial potboiler of insignificant interest. I am the star of this book and I'll do as I please, my lady, and you can take that to the Bellman, the Council, or all the way to the Great Panjandrum for all I care!'
   He pulled a signed glossy photo of himself from his breast pocket and passed it to me with a wink. The odd thing was, I actually recognised him. He had been acting with great success in Hollywood under the name of Buck Stallion, which probably explained where he got his money from; he could have bought Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights three times over on his salary.
   'The Council of Genres has decreed that you will attend the sessions, Heathcliff,' said Havisham coldly. 'If this book is to survive we have to control the emotions within it; as it is the novel is three times more barbaric than when first penned – left to its own devices it won't be long before murder and mayhem start to take over completely. Remember what happened to that once gentle comedy of manners, Titus Andronicus? It's now the daftest, most cannibalistic bloodfest in the whole of Shakespeare. Heights will go the same way unless you can all somehow contain your anger and resentment!'
   'I don't want to be made into a pie!' moaned Linton.
   'Brave speech,' replied Heathcliff sardonically, 'very brave.' He leaned closer to Miss Havisham, who stood her ground defiantly. 'Let me "share" something with your little group. Wuthering Heights and all who live within her may go to the devil for all I care. It has served its purpose as I honed the delicate art of treachery and revenge – but I'm now bigger than this book and bigger than all of you. There are better novels waiting for me out there, that know how to properly service a character of my depth!'
   There was a gasp from the assembled characters as this new intelligence sank in. Without Heathcliff there would be no book – and in consequence, none of them, either.
   'You wouldn't make it into Spot's Birthday without the Council's permission,' growled Havisham. 'Try and leave Heights and we'll make you wish you'd never been written!'
   Heathcliff laughed.
   'Nonsense! The Council has urgent need of characters such as I; leaving me stuck in the classics where I am only ever read by bored English students is a waste of one of the finest romantic leads ever written. Mark my words, the Council will do whatever it takes to attract a greater readership – a transfer will not be opposed by them or anyone else, I can assure you of that!'
   'What about us?' wailed Linton, coughing and on the verge of tears. 'We'll be reduced to text!'
   'Best thing for all of you!' growled Heathcliff. 'And I'll be there at the shoreline, ready to rejoice at your last strangled cry as you dip beneath the waves!'
   'And me?' asked Catherine.
   'You will come with me.' Heathcliff smiled, softening. 'You and I will live again in a modern novel, without all these trappings of Victorian rectitude; I thought we could reside in a spy thriller somewhere, and have a boxer puppy with one ear that goes down—'
   There was a loud detonation and the front door exploded inwards in a cloud of wood splinters and dust. Havisham instantly pushed Heathcliff to the ground and laid herself across him, yelling:
   'Take cover!'
   She fired her small derringer as a masked man jumped through the smoking doorway firing a machine gun. Havisham's bullet struck home and the figure crumpled in a heap. One of Heathcliff's two minders took rounds in the neck and chest from the first assailant but the second minder pulled out his own sub-machine gun and opened up as more assassins ran in. Linton fainted on the spot, quickly followed by Isabella and Edgar. At least it stopped them screaming. I drew my gun and fired along with the minder and Havisham as another masked figure came through the door; we got him but one of his bullets caught the second bodyguard in the head, and he dropped lifeless to the flags. I crawled across to Havisham and also laid myself across Heathcliff, who whimpered:
   'Help me! Don't let them kill me! I don't want to die!'
   'Shut up!' yelled Havisham, and Heathcliff was instantly quiet. I looked around. His agent was cowering under a briefcase and the rest of the cast were hiding beneath the oak table. There was a pause.
   'What's going on?' I hissed.
   'ProCath attack,' murmured Havisham, reloading her pistol in the sudden quiet. 'Support of the young Catherine and hatred of Heathcliff run deep in the BookWorld; usually it's only a lone gunman – I've never seen anything this well coordinated before. I'm going to jump out with Heathcliff; I'll be back for you straight away.'
   She mumbled a few words but nothing happened. She tried them again out loud but still nothing.
   'The devil take them!' she muttered, pulling her mobile footnoterphone from the folds of her wedding dress. 'They must be using a textual sieve.'
   'What's a textual sieve?'
   'I don't know – it's never fully explained.'
   She looked at the mobile footnoterphone and shook it despairingly.
   'Blast! No signal. Where's the nearest footnoterphone?'
   'In the kitchen,' replied Nelly Dean, 'next to the bread basket.'
   'We have to get word to the Bellman. Thursday, I want you to go to the kitchen—'
   But she never got to finish her sentence as a barrage of machine-gun fire struck the house, decimating the windows and shutters; the curtains danced as they were shredded, the plaster erupting off the wall as the shots slammed into it. We kept our heads down as Catherine screamed, Linton woke up only to faint again, Hindley took a swig from a hip flask and Heathcliff convulsed with fear beneath us. After about ten minutes the firing stopped. Dust hung lazily in the air and we were covered with plaster, shards of glass and wood chips.
   'Havisham!' said a voice on a bullhorn from outside. 'We wish you no harm! Just surrender Heathcliff and we'll leave you alone!'
   'No!' cried the older Catherine, who had crawled across to us and was trying to clasp Heathcliff's head in her hands. 'Heathcliff, don't leave me!'
   'I have no intention of doing any such thing,' he said in a muffled voice, nose pressed hard into the flags by myself and Havisham's combined weight. 'Havisham, I hope you remember your orders.'
   'Send out Heathcliff and we will spare you and your apprentice!' yelled the bullhorn again. 'Stand in our way and you'll both be terminated!'
   'Do they mean it?' I asked.
   'Oh, yes,' replied Havisham grimly. 'A group of ProCaths attempted to hijack Madame Bovary last year to force the Council to relinquish Heathcliff.'
   'What happened?'
   'The ones who survived were reduced to text,' replied Havisham, 'but it hasn't stopped the ProCath movement. Do you think you can get to the footnoterphone?'
   'Sure – I mean, yes, Miss Havisham.'
   I crawled towards the kitchen.
   'We'll give you two minutes,' said the voice on the bullhorn again. 'After that, we're coming in.'
   'I have a better deal,' yelled Havisham.

   There was pause.
   'And that is?' spoke the bullhorn.
   'Leave now and I will be merciful when I find you.'
   'I think,' replied the voice on the bullhorn, 'that we'll stick to my plan. You have one minute forty-five seconds.'
   I reached the doorway of the kitchen, which was as devastated as the living room. Flour and beans from broken storage jars were strewn across the floor and a flurry of snowflakes were blowing in through the windows. I found the footnoterphone; it had been riddled with machine-gun fire. I cursed and crawled rapidly back towards the living room. I caught Havisham's eye and shook my head. She signalled for me to look out the back way and I did, going into the darkness of the pantry to peer out. I could see two of them, sitting in the snow, weapons ready. I dashed back to Havisham.
   'How does it look?'
   'Two at the back that I can see.'
   'And at least three at the front,' she added. 'I'm open to suggestions.'
   'How about giving them Heathcliff?' came a chorus of voices.
   'Other than that?'
   'I can try and get behind them,' I muttered, 'if you keep them pinned down—'
   I was interrupted by an unearthly cry of terror from outside, followed by a sort of crunching noise, then another cry and sporadic machine-gun fire. There was a large thump and another shot, then a cry, then the ProCaths at the back started to open fire, too; but not at the house – at some unseen menace. Havisham and I exchanged looks and shrugged as a man came running into the house in panic; he was still holding his pistol, and because of that, his fate was sealed. Havisham fired two shots into him and he fell stone dead next to us, a look of abject terror on his face. There were a few more gunshots, another agonised cry, then silence. I shivered, and got up to peer cautiously from the door. There was nothing outside except the soft snow, disturbed occasionally by foot marks.
   We found only one body, tossed on to the roof of the barn, but there was a great deal of blood, and what looked like the paw tracks of something very large and feline. I was staring at the dinner-plate-sized footprint slowly being obscured by the falling snow when Havisham laid her hand on my shoulder.
   'Big Martin,' she said softly. 'He must have been following you.'
   'Is he still?' I asked, understandably concerned.
   'Who knows?' replied Miss Havisham. 'Big Martin is a law unto himself. Come back inside.'
   We returned to where the cast were dusting themselves down. Joseph was muttering to himself and trying to block the windows up with blankets.
   'Well,' said Miss Havisham, clapping her hands together, 'that was an exciting session, wasn't it?'
   'I am still leaving this appalling book,' retorted Heathcliff, who was back on full obnoxious form again.
   'No you're not,' replied Havisham.
   'You just try and stop—'
   Miss Havisham, who was fed up with pussyfooting around and hated men like Heathcliff with a vengeance, grasped him by the collar and pinned his head to the table with a well-placed gun barrel pressed painfully into his neck.
   'Listen here,' she said, her voice quavering with anger, 'to me, you are worthless scum. Thank your lucky stars I am loyal to Jurisfiction. Many others in my place would have handed you over. I could kill you now and no one would be any the wiser.'
   Heathcliff looked at me imploringly.
   'I was outside when I heard the shot,' I told him.
   So were we!' exclaimed the rest of the cast eagerly, excepting Catherine Earnshaw, who simply scowled.
   'Perhaps I should do it!' growled Havisham again. 'Perhaps it would be a mercy. I could make it look like an accident—!'
   'No!' cried Heathcliff in a contrite tone. 'I've changed my mind. I in going to stay right here and just be plain old Mr Heathcliff for ever and ever.'
   Havisham stared at him and slowly released her grasp.
   'Right,' she said, switching her pistol to safe and regaining her breath, 'I think that pretty much concludes this session of Jurisfiction Rage Counselling. What did we learn?'
   The co-characters all stared at her, dumbstruck.
   'Good. Same time next week, everyone?'

14
Educating the Generics

   'Generics were the chameleons of the Well. In general they were trained to do specific jobs but could be upgraded if the need arose. Occasionally a Generic would jump up spontaneously within the grade, but to jump from one grade to another without external help, they said, was impossible. From what I would learn, "impossible" was a word that should not be bandied about the Well without due thought. Imagination being what it is, anything could happen – and generally did.'

THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles


   I made it home on my own after the 'mopping up' had finished in Wuthering Heights. The leader of the ProCath cell was well known to Jurisfiction, and preferred our guns on the inside to Big Martin's teeth on the outside. The house was repaired within a few lines, and because Havisham had been holding the rage counselling session between chapters, no one reading the book noticed anything. In fact, the only evidence of the attack now to be seen in the book was Hareton's shotgun, which exploded accidentally in chapter thirty-two, most likely as a result of a ricocheting bullet damaging the latching mechanism.
   'How was your day today?' asked Gran.
   'Very … expositional to begin with,' I said, falling into the sofa and tickling Pickwick, who had come over all serious and matronly, 'but it ended quite dramatically.'
   'Did you have to be rescued again?'
   'Not this time.'
   'The first few days in a new job are always a bit shaky,' said Gran. 'Why do you have to work for Jurisfiction anyway?'
   'It was part of the Exchange Programme deal.'
   'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'Would you like me to make you an omelette?'
   'Anything.'
   'Right. I'll need you to crack the eggs and mix them and get me down the saucepan and …'
   I heaved myself up and went through to the small galley, where the fridge was full of food, as always.
   'Where's ibb and obb?' I asked.
   'Out, I think,' replied Gran. 'Would you make us both a cup of tea while you're up?'
   'Sure. I still can't remember Landen's second name, Gran – I've been trying all day.'
   Gran came into the galley and sat on a kitchen stool, which happened to be right in the way of everything. She smelt of sherry, but for the life of me I didn't know where she hid it.
   'But you remember what he looks like?'
   I stopped what I was doing and stared out of the kitchen porthole.
   'Yes,' I replied slowly, 'every line, every mole, every expression – but I still remember him dying in the Crimea.'
   'That never happened, my dear,' she exclaimed. 'But the fact – I should use a bigger bowl if I were you – that you can remember his features proves he's not gone any more than yesterday. I should use butter and not oil; and if you have any mushrooms you could chop them up with a bit of onion and bacon – do you have any bacon?'
   'Probably. You still haven't told me how you managed to find your way here, Gran.'
   'That's easily explained,' she said. 'Tell me, did you manage to get a list of the most dull books you could find?'
   Granny Next was one hundred and eight years old and was convinced that she couldn't die until she had read the ten most boring classics. On an earlier occasion I had suggested The Faerie Queene, Paradise Lost, Ivanhoe, Moby-Dick, A la recherche du temps perdu, Pamela and A Pilgrim's Progress. She had read them all and many others but was still with us. Trouble is, 'boring' is about as hard to quantify as 'pretty', so I really had to think of the ten books that she would find most boring.
   'What about Silas Marner?'
   'Only boring in parts – like Hard Times. You're going to have to do a little better than that – and if I were you I'd use a bigger pan, but on a lower heat.'
   'Right,' I said, beginning to get annoyed, 'perhaps you'd like to cook? You've done most of the work so far.'
   'No, no,' replied Gran, completely unfazed, 'you're doing fine.'
   There was a commotion at the door and Ibb came in, followed closely by Obb.
   'Congratulations!' I called out.
   'What for?' asked Ibb, who was looking surprisingly different to Obb. For a start, Obb was at least four inches taller and its hair was darker than Ibb's, who was beginning to go blond.
   'For becoming capitalised.'
   'Oh, yes,' enthused Ibb, 'it's amazing what a day at St Tabularasa's will do for one. Tomorrow we'll finish our gender training and by the end of the week we'll be streamed into character groups.'
   'I want to be a male mentor figure,' said Obb. 'Our tutor said that sometimes we can have a choice of what we do and where we go. Are you making supper?'
   'No,' I replied, testing their sarcasm response, 'I'm giving my pet egg heat therapy.'
   Ibb laughed – which was a good sign, I thought – and went off with Obb to practise whimsical retorts in case either of them was given a posting as a humorous sidekick.
   'Teenagers,' said Granny Next, 'tch. I'd better make it a bigger omelette. Take over, would you? I'm going to have a rest.'
   We all sat down to eat twenty minutes later. Obb had brushed its hair into a parting and Ibb was wearing one of Gran's gingham dresses.
   'Hoping to be female?' I asked, passing Ibb a plate.
   'Yes,' replied Ibb, 'but not one like you. I'd like to be more feminine and a bit hopeless – the sort that screams a lot when they get into trouble and have to be rescued.'
   'Really?' I asked, handing Gran the salad. 'Why?'
   Ibb shrugged. 'I don't know. I just like the idea of being rescued a lot, that's all – being carried off in big strong arms sort of … appeals. I thought I could have the plot explained to me a lot, too – but I should have a few good lines of my own, be quite vulnerable, yet end up saving the day owing to a sudden flash of idiot savant brilliance.'
   'I think you'll have no trouble getting a placement.' I sighed. 'But you seem quite specific – have you used someone in particular as a model?'
   'Her!' exclaimed Ibb, drawing out a much-thumbed Outland copy of Silverscreen from beneath the table. On the cover was none other than Lola Vavoom, being interviewed for the umpteenth time about her husbands, her denial of any cosmetic surgery and her latest film – usually in that order.
   'Gran!' I said sternly. 'Did you give Ibb that magazine?'
   'Well—!'
   'You know how impressionable Generics can be! Why didn't you give it a magazine with Jenny Gudgeon in it? She plays proper women– and can act, too.'
   'Have you seen Ms Vavoom in My Sister Kept Geese'?' replied Gran indignantly. 'I think you'd be surprised – she shows considerable range.'
   I thought about Cordelia Flakk and her producer friend Harry Flex wanting Lola to play me in a film. The idea was too awful to contemplate.
   'You were going to tell us about subtext,' said Obb, helping itself to more salad.
   'Oh, yes,' I replied, a distraction from Vavoom a welcome break. 'Subtext is the implied action behind the written word. Text tells the reader what the characters say and do but subtext tells us what they mean and feel. The wonderful thing about subtext is that it is common grammar, written in human experience – you can't understand it without a good working knowledge of people and how they interact. Got it?'
   Ibb and Obb looked at one another.
   'No.'
   'Okay, let me give you a simple example. At a party, a man gives a woman a drink and she takes it without answering. What's going on?'
   'She isn't very polite?' suggested Ibb.
   'Perhaps,' I replied, 'but I was really looking for some sort of clue as to their relationship.'
   Obb scratched its head and said: 'She can't speak because – er – she lost her tongue in an industrial accident owing to his negligence?'
   'You're trying too hard. For what reason would someone not necessarily say "thank you" for something?'
   'Because,' said Ibb slowly, 'they know one another?'
   'Good. Being handed a drink at a party by your wife, husband, girlfriend or partner, you would as likely as not just take it; if it was from a host to a guest, then you would thank them. Here's another: there is a couple walking down the road – and she is walking eight paces behind him.'
   'He has longer legs?' suggested Ibb.
   'No.'
   'They've broken down?'

  'They've had an argument,' said Obb excitedly, 'and they live near by or they would be taking their car.'
   'Could be,' I responded. 'Subtext tells you lots of things. Ibb, did you take the last piece of chocolate from the fridge?'
   There was a pause.
   'No.'
   'Well, because you paused I know pretty confidently that you did.'
   'Oh!' said Ibb. 'I'll remember that.'
   There was a knock at the door.
   I opened it to reveal Mary's ex-beau Arnold looking very dapper in a suit and holding a small bunch of flowers. Before he had time to open his mouth I had closed the door again.
   'Ah!' I said, turning to Ibb and Obb. 'This is a good opportunity to study subtext. See if you can figure out what is going on behind our words – and Ibb, please don't feed Pickwick at the table.'
   I opened the door again and Arnold, who had started to slink off, came running back.
   'Oh!' he said with mock surprise. 'Mary not back yet?'
   'No,' I replied. 'In fact, she probably won't be back for some time. Can I take a message?'
   And I closed the door on him again.
   'Okay,' I said to Ibb and Obb. 'What do you think is going on?'
   'He's looking for Mary?' suggested Ibb.
   'But he knows she's gone away,' said Obb. 'He must be coming to speak to you, Thursday.'
   'Why?'
   'For a date?'
   'Good. What am I saying to him?'
   Ibb and Obb thought hard.
   'If you didn't want to see him you'd have told him to go away, so you might be the tiniest bit interested.'
   'Excellent!' I told them. 'Let's see what happens next.'
   I opened the door again to a confused-looking Arnold, who broke into a wide smile.
   'Well,' he said, 'no message for Mary. It's just – we had planned to see Willow Lodge and the Limes this evening …'
   I turned to Ibb and Obb, who shook their heads. They didn't believe it either.
   'Well …' said Arnold slowly. '… perhaps you might like to come with me to the concert?'
   I shut the door again.
   'He pretended to have the idea about going to see Willow Lodge tonight,' said Ibb slowly and more confidently, 'when in fact I think he had it planned all along that way. I think he fancies you big time.'
   I opened the door again.
   'I'm sorry, no,' I told him hastily. 'Happily married.'
   'It's not a date,' exclaimed Arnold quickly, just a lift to a concert. Here, take the ticket anyway. I've no one else to give it to; if you don't want to go, just bin it.'
   I shut the door again.
   'Ibb's wrong,' said Obb. 'He really fancies you, but he's blown it by being too desperate – it would be hard for you to respect someone who would almost start begging.'
   'Not bad,' I replied. 'Let's see how it turns out.'
   I opened the door again and stared into Arnold's earnest eyes.
   'You miss her, don't you?'
   'Miss who?' asked Arnold, seemingly nonchalant.
   'Denial of love!' yelled Ibb and Obb from behind me. 'He doesn't really fancy you at all – he's in love with Mary and wants a date on the rebound!'
   Arnold looked suspicious.
   'What's going on?'
   'Subtext classes,' I explained. 'Sorry for being rude. Do you want to come in for a coffee?'
   'Well, I should be going really—'
   'Playing hard to get!' hooted Ibb, and Obb added quickly: 'The balance of power has tipped in his favour because you've been rude to him with all that door nonsense, and now you're going to have to insist that he comes in for coffee, even if that means being nicer to him than you originally intended!'
   'Are they always like this?' enquired Arnold, stepping inside.
   'They learn fast,' I observed. 'That's Ibb and that's Obb. Ibb and Obb, this is Arnold.'
   'Hello!' said Arnold, thinking for a moment. 'Do you Generics want to go and see Willow Lodge and the Limes?'
   They looked at one another for a moment, realised they were sitting just that little bit too close, and moved apart.
   'Do you?' said Ibb.
   'Well, only if you want to—'
   'I'm easy – it's your decision.'
   'Well, y-es, I'd really like to.'
   'Then let's go – unless you've made other plans—?'
   'No, no, I haven't.'
   They got up, took the tickets from Arnold and were out the door in a flash.
   I laughed and went through to the galley.
   'Who's the elderly woman?' asked Arnold.
   'It's my gran,' I replied, switching on the kettle and getting out the coffee.
   'Is she … you know?'
   'Goodness me no!' I exclaimed. 'She's only asleep. She's one hundred and eight.'
   'Really? Why is she dressed in this dreadful blue gingham?'
   'Has been for as long as I can remember. She came here to make sure I didn't forget my husband. Sorry. That makes me sound as though I'm labouring the point, doesn't it?'
   'Listen,' said Arnold, 'don't worry. I didn't mean to come over all romantic just then. But Mary, well, she's quite something, you know, and I'm not just in love with her because I was written that way – this one's for real. Like Nelson and Emma, Bogart and Bacall—'
   'Finch-Hatton and Blixen. Yes, I know. I've been there.'
   'Denys was in love with Baron Blixen?'
   'Karen Blixen.'
   'Oh.'
   He sat down and I placed a coffee in front of him.
   'So, tell me about your husband.'
   'Hah!' I said, smiling. 'You don't want me to bore you about Landen.'
   'It's not boring. You listen to me when I hark on about Mary.'
   I stirred my coffee absently, running through my memories of Landen to make sure they were all there. Gran mumbled something about lobsters in her sleep.
   'It must have been a hard decision to come and hide out here,' said Arnold quietly. 'I don't imagine Thursdays generally do that sort of thing.'
   'You're right,' I replied, 'they don't. But sometimes falling back and regrouping is not the same as running away.'
   'Tactical withdrawal?'
   'Right. What would you do to get together with Mary again?'
   'Anything.'
   'And I with Landen. I will get him back – just not quite yet. But the strange thing is,' I added slightly wistfully, 'when he comes back he won't even know he's been gone – it's not as though he's waiting for me to reactualise him.'
   We chatted for about an hour. He told me about the Well and I talked about the Outland. He was just trying to get me to repeat 'irrelevant benevolent elephant' when Gran woke up with a yell, shouting: 'The French! The French!' and had to be calmed down with a glass of warm whisky before I put her to bed.
   'I'd better be going,' said Arnold. 'Mind if I drop round again?'
   'Not at all,' I replied, 'that would be nice.'

   I went to bed after that and was still awake when Ibb and Obb returned from the concert. They were giggling and made a very noisy cup of tea before retiring. I lay back and tried to sleep, hoping that I would dream of being back at our house, the one that Landen and I shared when we were married. Failing that, on holiday somewhere. Failing that when we first met, and if that wasn't available, an argument – and lastly, anything with Landen in it at all. Aornis, however, had other ideas.

15
Landen Parke-somebody

   'Before Aornis Hades, the existence of mnemonomorphs was suspected only by SO-5 who, through deceit, idleness or forgetfulness, never told anyone else. The files on mnemonomorphs are kept in eight different locations and updated automatically between each location every week. An ability to control entropy does not necessarily go with the skill to alter memories; indeed, Aornis has been the only entity (thus far that we know about) who can do such a thing. As Miss Next demonstrated between 1986 and 1987, mnemonomorphs are not without their Achilles heel. There is one question we would all like to know about Aornis, however, since no physical evidence of her remains: was she real, or just a bad memory?'

BLAKE LAMME (EX-SO-5) – Remember Them? A Study of Mnemonomorphs


   'Dear, sweet Thursday!' muttered a patronising voice that was chillingly familiar. I opened my eyes. I was on the roof of Thornfield Hall, Rochester's house in Jane Eyre. It was the time and place of the final showdown with Acheron Hades. The old house was on fire and I could feel the roof growing hot beneath my feet. I coughed in the smoke and felt my eyes begin to smart. Next to me was Edward Rochester, cradling a badly wounded hand. Acheron had already thrown Rochester's poor wife Bertha over the parapet and he was now preparing to finish us both off.
   'Sweet madness, eh?' He laughed. 'Jane is with her cousins; the narrative is with her, and I have the manual!'
   He waved it at me, deposited it in his pocket and picked up his gun.
   'Who's first?'
   I ignored Hades and looked around. The patronising 'Dear, sweet Thursday!' voice had not been his – it had belonged to Aornis. She was wearing the same designer clothes as she had when I last saw her – she was only a memory, after all.
   'Hey!' said Acheron. I'm talking to you!'
   I turned and dutifully fired and Hades caught the approaching bullet – as he had when this happened for real. He opened his fist; the slug was flattened into a small lead disc. He smiled and a shower of sparks flew up behind him.
   But I wasn't so interested in Acheron this time around.
   'Aornis!' I shouted. 'Show yourself, coward!'
   'No coward I!' said Aornis, stepping from behind a large chimney piece.
   'What are you doing to me?' I asked angrily, pointing my gun at her. She didn't seem to be in the least put out – in fact, she seemed more concerned with preventing the dirt from the roof soiling her suede shoes.
   'Welcome.' She laughed. 'To the museum of your mind!'
   The roof at Thornfield vanished and was replaced by the interior of the abandoned church where Spike and I were about to do battle with the Supreme Evil Being that was stuck in his head. It had happened for real a few weeks ago; the memories were still fresh – it was all chillingly lifelike.
   'I am the curator in this museum,' said Aornis as we moved again to the dining room at home when I was eight, a small girl with pigtails and as precocious as they come. My father – before his eradication, of course – was carving the roast and telling me that if I kept on being a nuisance I would be made to go to my room.
   'Familiar to you?' asked Aornis. 'I can call on any of the exhibits I want. Do you remember this?'
   And we were back on the banks of the Thames, during my father's abortive attempt to rescue the two-year-old Landen. I felt the fear, the hopelessness squeezing my chest so tight I could barely breathe. I sobbed.
   'I can run it again if you want to. I can run it for you every night for ever. Or I can delete it completely. How about this one?'
   Night came on and we were in the area of Swindon where young couples go with their cars to get a bit of privacy. I had come here with Darren, a highly unlikely infatuation. He loomed close to me in an amorous embrace in the back of his Morris 8. I was seventeen and impulsive – Darren was eighteen and repulsive. I could smell his beery breath and a post-adolescent odour that was so strong you could have grabbed the air and wrung the stench from it with your bare hands. I could see Aornis outside the car, grinning at me, and through the laboured panting of Darren, I screamed.
   'But this isn't the worst place we could go.' Aornis grinned through the window. 'We can go back to the Crimea and unlock memories that have been too terrifying even for you. The suppressed memories, the ones you block out to let you carry on during the day.'
   'No,' I said. 'Aornis, not the charge—!'
   But there we were, in the last place I wanted to be, driving my APC into the massed field artillery of the Russian army that August afternoon in 1973. Of the eighty-four APCs and light tanks that advanced into the Russian guns, only two vehicles returned. Out of the five hundred and thirty-four soldiers involved, fifty-one survived.
   It was the moment before the barrage began. My CO, Major Phelps, was riding on the outside as he liked to do, foolhardy idiot that he was, and to my left and right I could see the other armoured vehicles throwing up large swathes of summer dust from the parched land. We could be seen for miles. The first salvo was so unexpected that I thought the munitions in a light tank had simply ignited by accident; the whine of a near-miss made me realise that it hadn't. I changed direction instantly and started to zigzag. I looked to Phelps for orders but he was slumped in the hatch; he had lost the lower part of his arm and was unconscious. The barrage was so intense that it became a single rumbling growl, the pressure waves thumping the APC so hard that it was all I could do to keep my hands on the controls.
   I read the official report two years later; there had been forty-two guns trained on us from a thousand yards and they had expended three hundred and eighty-seven rounds of high-explosive shells – about four to each vehicle. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel.
   Sergeant Tozer took command and ordered me to an APC that had lost its tracks and been thrown upside down. I parked behind the wrecked carrier as Tozer and the squad jumped out to retrieve the wounded.
   'But what were you really thinking about?' asked Aornis, who was beside me in the carrier, looking disdainfully at the dust and oil.
   'Escape,' I said. 'I was terrified. We all were.'
   'Next!' yelled Tozer. 'Stop talking to Aornis and take us to the next APC!'
   I pulled away as another explosion went off. I saw a turret whirling through the air, a pair of legs dangling from beneath it.
   I drove to the next APC, the shrapnel hitting our carrier almost continuously like hail on a tin roof. The survivors were firing impotently back with their rifles; it wasn't looking good. The APC was filled with the wounded and as I turned round something hit the carrier a glancing blow. It was a dud; it had struck us obliquely and bounced off – I would see the yard-long gouge in the armour plate the following day. Within a hundred yards we were in relative safety as the dust and smoke screened our retreat; pretty soon we had passed the forward command post where all the officers were shouting into their field telephones, and on to the dressing areas beyond. Even though I knew this was a dream, the fear felt as real as it had on the day, and tears of frustration welled up inside me. I thought Aornis would carry on with this memory for the return run to the barrage, but there was clearly a technique behind her barbaric game; in a blink we were back on the roof at Thornfield Hall.
   Acheron carried on where he had left off; he was looking at me with a triumphant expression.
   'It may come as some consolation,' he carried on, 'that I planned to bestow upon you the honour of becoming Felix9– Who are you?'
   He was looking at Aornis.
   'Aornis,' she said shyly.
   Acheron gave a rare smile and lowered his gun.
   'Aornis?' he echoed. 'Little Aornis?' She nodded and ran across to give him a hug.
   'My goodness!' he said, looking her over carefully. 'How you have grown! Last time I saw you you were this high and had barely even started torturing animals. Tell me: did you follow us into the family business or did you flunk out like that loser Styx?'
   'I'm a mnemonomorph!' she said proudly, eager for her sibling's approval.
   'Of course!' he said. 'I should have guessed. We're in that Next woman's memories right now, aren't we?'
   She nodded enthusiastically.
   'Attagirl! Tell me, did she actually kill me? I'm only here as the memory of me in her mind, after all.'
   'I'm afraid not,' said Aornis glumly, 'she killed you well and good.'
   'By using treachery? Did I die a Hades?'
   'I'm afraid not – it was a noble victory.'

  'Bitch!'
   'Seconded. But I'll have the revenge you deserve, dear brother, you can be sure of that.'
   A family reunion like this should have been heart warming but I can't say I was moved. Still, at least it kept us away from the Crimea.
   'Mother's very upset with you,' said Aornis, who had the Hades penchant for straight talking.
   'Why?'
   'Why do you think? You murdered Styx.'
   'Styx was a fool and he brought shame on the Hades family. If Father were still alive he would have done the job himself
   'Well, Mother was very upset about it and I think you should apologise.'
   'Okay, next time. Wait a moment, I'm dead – I can't apologise to anyone. You apologise for me.'
   'I'm a mnemonomorph, remember – and this is only me as a mindworm; a sort of satellite persona, if you like. Listen, if I knew where Thursday was, she'd be dead already. No, when I can report back to Aornis proper, this is what we'll do—'
   'Psssst!' said a voice close to my ear. It was Granny Next.
   'Gran!' I said. 'Am I glad to see you!'
   'C'mon,' she said, 'while Aornis is distracted.'
   She took my hand and led me across the roof to the window where we entered the building. But instead of the burning remains of Thornfield Hall we were on the sidelines of a croquet match. Not any croquet match: it was a World Croquet League final – a SuperHoop. I used to play croquet quite seriously until SpecOps work absorbed all my free time. The two teams were in their body armour, leaning on their willow mallets and discussing strategy during a time-out.
   'Okay,' said Aubrey Jarnbe, who was wearing the captain's sweater, 'Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Spike, you'll take it from there and croquet their yellow – Stig will defend you. George, I want you to mark their number five. He's a Neanderthal, so you're going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you're going to foul the duchess – when the vicar gives you the red card, I'm calling in Thursday. Yes?'
   They all looked at me. I was in body armour too. I was a substitute. A croquet mallet was slung round my wrist with a lanyard and I was holding a helmet.
   'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'
   'I'm fine,' I said slowly, 'I'll wait for your command.'
   'Good.'
   A horn went off, indicating the time-out was over. I looked up at the Scoreboard. Swindon was losing 12 hoops to 21.
   'Gran,' I said slowly, watching the team run out to continue play, 'I don't remember this.'
   'Of course not!' she said, as though I were a fool. 'This is one of mine. Aornis will never find us here.'
   'Wait a moment,' I said, 'how can I be dreaming with your memories?'
   'Tch, tch,' she scolded, 'so many questions! It will all be explained in due course. Now, do you want to go into some of that deep, dreamless sleep, and get some rest?'
   'Oh, please!' '
   'Good. Aornis will not bother you again tonight – I shall watch over you.'

   She approached a burly croquet player who had only one ear. After saying a few words, she pointed at me. I looked around at the stadium. It was the Swindon croquet stadium, yet somehow different. Behind me in the dignitaries' box I was surprised to see Yorrick Kaine speaking to one of his assistants. Next to him was President Formby, who gave me a smile and a wave. I turned away, my eyes looking into the crowd and falling upon the one person that I did want to see. It was Landen, and he was bouncing a young child on his lap.
   'Landen!' I shouted, but a cheer went up from the crowd and I was drowned out. But he did see me, and smiled. He held the infant's hand and made it wave too. Gran tugged my shoulder pad to get my attention.
   'Gran,' I said, 'it's Lan—'

   And then the mallet struck my head. Blackness and oblivion. As usual, just when I got to the good bit.