Snell thought for a moment.
'A hundred and fifty.'
'Two hundred.'
'One seven five.'
'Two hundred and I'll throw in a case of mistaken identity, a pretty female double agent and a missing microfilm.'
'Done!'
'Pleasure doing business with you,' said Garcia as he handed over the head and took the money in return. 'Give my regards to Mr Perkins, won't you?'
He smiled, shook hands with us both, and departed.
'Oh, boy!' exclaimed Snell, excited as a kid with a new bicycle. 'Wait until Perkins sees this! Where do you think we should find it?'
I thought in all honesty that 'head-in-a-bag' plot devices were a bit lame, but being too polite to say so, I said instead:
'I liked the deep-freeze idea, myself.'
'Me too!' he enthused as we passed a small shop whose painted headboard read: Backstories built to order. No job too difficult. Painful childhoods a speciality.
'Backstories?'
'Sure. Every character worth their salt has a backstory. Come on in and have a look.'
We stooped and entered the low doorway. The interior was a workshop, small and smoky. There was a workbench in the middle of the room liberally piled with glass retorts, test tubes and other chemical apparatus; the walls, I noticed, were lined with shelves that held tightly stoppered bottles containing small amounts of colourful liquids, all with labels describing varying styles of backstory, from one named idyllic childhood to another entitled valiant war record.
'This one's nearly empty,' I observed, pointing to a large bottle with: Misguided feelings of guilt over the death of a loved one/partner ten years previously written on the label.
'Yes,' said a small man in a corduroy suit so lumpy it looked as though the tailor was still inside doing alterations, 'that one's been quite popular recently. Some are hardly used at all. Look above you.'
I looked up at the full bottles gathering dust on the shelves above. One was labelled Studied squid in Sri Lanka and another Apprentice Welsh mole-catcher.
'So what can I do for you?' enquired the backstoryist, gazing at us happily and rubbing his hands. 'Something for the lady? Ill-treatment at the hands of sadistic stepsisters? Traumatic incident with a wild animal? No? We've got a deal this week on unhappy love affairs; buy one and you get a younger brother with a drug problem at no extra charge.'
Snell showed the merchant his Jurisfiction badge.
'Business call, Mr Grnksghty – this is apprentice Next.'
'Ah!' he said, deflating slightly. 'The law.'
'Mr Grnksghty here used to write backstories for the Brontës and Thomas Hardy,' explained Snell, placing his bag on the floor and sitting on a table edge.
'Ah, yes!' replied the man, gazing at me over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles. 'But that was a long time ago. Charlotte Brontë, now she was a writer. A lot of good work for her, some of it barely used—'
'Yes, speaking,' interrupted Snell, staring vacantly at the array of glassware on the table. 'I'm with Thursday down in the Well … What's up?'
He noticed us both staring at him and explained:
'Footnoterphone. It's Miss Havisham.'
'It's so rude,' muttered Mr Grnksghty. 'Why can't he go outside if he wants to talk on one of those things?'
'It's probably nothing but I'll go and have a look,' said Snell, staring into space. He turned to look at us, saw Mr Grnksghty glaring at him and waved absently before going outside the shop, still talking.
'Where were we, young lady?'
'You were talking about Charlotte Brontë ordering backstories and then not using them.'
'Oh, yes.' The man smiled, delicately turning a tap on the apparatus and watching a small drip of an oily coloured liquid fall into a flask. 'I made the most wonderful backstory for both Edward and Bertha Rochester, but do you know she only used a very small part of it?'
'That must have been very disappointing.'
'It was.' He sighed. 'I am an artist, not a technician. But it didn't matter. I sold it lock, stock and barrel a few years back to The Wide Sargasso Sea. Harry Flashman from Tom Brown's Schooldays went the same way. I had Mr Pickwick's backstory for years but couldn't make a sale – I donated it to the Jurisfiction museum.'
'What do you make a backstory out of, Mr Grnksghty?'
'Treacle, mainly,' he replied, shaking the flask and watching the oily substance change to a gas, 'and memories. Lots of memories. In fact, the treacle is really only there as a binding agent. Tell me, what do you think of this upgrade to UltraWord™?'
'I have yet to hear about it properly,' I admitted.
'I particularly like the idea of ReadZip™,' mused the small man, adding a drop of red liquid and watching the result with great interest. 'They say they will be able to crush War and Peace into eighty-six words and still retain the scope and grandeur of the original.'
'Seeing is believing,' I replied.
'Not down here,' Mr Grnksghty corrected me. 'Down here, reading is believing.'
There was a pause as I took this in.
'Mr Grnksghty?'
'Yes?'
'How do you pronounce your name?'
At that moment Snell strolled back in.
'That was Miss Havisham,' he announced, retrieving his head. 'Thank you for your time, Mr Grnksghty – come on, we're off.'
Snell led me down the corridor past more shops and traders until we arrived at the bronze-and-wood elevators. The doors opened and several small street urchins ran out holding cleft sticks with a small scrap of paper wedged in them.
'Ideas on their way to the books-in-progress,' explained Snell as we stepped into the elevator. 'Trading must have just started. You'll find the Idea Sales and Loan department on the seventeenth floor.'
The elevator plunged rapidly downwards.
'Are you still being bothered by junk footnoterphones?'
'A little.'8
'You'll get used to ignoring them.'
The bell sounded and the elevator doors slid open, introducing a chill wind. It was darker than the floor we had just visited and several disreputable-looking characters stared at us from the shadows. I moved to get out but Snell stopped me. He looked about and whispered:
'This is the twenty-second sub-basement. The roughest place in the Well. A haven for cut-throats, bounty hunters, murderers, thieves, cheats, shape-shifters, scene-stealers, brigands and plagiarists.'
'We don't tolerate these sorts of places back home,' I murmured.
'We encourage them here,' explained Snell. 'Fiction wouldn't be much fun without its fair share of scoundrels, and they have to live somewhere.'
I could feel the menace as soon as we stepped from the elevator.
Low mutters were exchanged among several hooded figures who stood close by, the faces obscured by the shadows, their hands bony and white. We walked past two large cats with eyes that seemed to dance with fire; they stared at us hungrily and licked their lips.
'Dinner,' said one, looking us both up and down. 'Shall we eat them together or one by one?'
'One by one,' said the second cat, who was slightly bigger and a good deal more fearsome, 'but we'd better wait until Big Martin gets here.'
'Oh yeah,' said the first cat, retracting his claws quickly, 'so we'd better.'
Snell had ignored the two cats completely; he glanced at his watch and said:
'We're going to the Slaughtered Lamb to visit a contact of mine. Someone has been cobbling together Plot Devices from half-damaged units that should have been condemned. It's not only illegal – it's dangerous. The last thing anyone needs is a Do we cut the red wire or the blue wire? plot device going off an hour too early and ruining the suspense – how many stories have you read where the bomb is defused with an hour to go?'
'Not many, I suppose.'
'You suppose right. We're here.'
The gloomy interior of the Slaughtened Lamb was shabby and smelt of beer. Three ceiling fans stirred the smoke
-filled atmosphere and a band was playing a melancholy tune in one corner. The dark walls were spaced with individual booths where sombreness was an abundant commodity; the bar in the centre seemed to be the lightest place in the room and gathered there, like moths to a light, were an odd collection of people and creatures, all chatting and talking in low voices. The atmosphere in the room was so thick with dramatic cliches you could have cut it with a knife.
'See over there?' said Snell, indicating two men who were deep in conversation.
'Yes.'
'Mr Hyde talking to Blofeld. In the next booth are Von Stalhein and Wackford Squeers. The tall guy in the cloak is Emperor Zhark, tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy. The one with the spines is Mrs Tiggy-winkle – they'll be on a training assignment, just like us.'
'Mrs Tiggy-winkle is an apprentice?' I asked incredulously, staring at the large hedgehog who was holding a basket of laundry and sipping delicately at a dry sherry.
'No; Zhark is the apprentice – Tiggy's a full agent. She deals with children's fiction, runs the Hedge-pigs Society – and does our washing.'
'Hedge-pigs society?' I echoed. 'What does that do?'
'They advance hedgehogs in all branches of literature. Mrs Tiggy-winkle was the first to get star billing and she's used her position to further the lot of her species; she's got references into Kipling, Carroll, Aesop and four mentions in Shakespeare. She's also good with really stubborn stains – and never singes the cuffs.'
'Tempest, Midsummer Night's Dream, Macbeth,' I muttered, counting them off on my fingers. 'Where's the fourth?'
'Henry VI Part 1, act four, scene 1: "hedge-born swaine".'
'I always thought that was an insult, not a hedgehog,' I observed. 'Swaine can be a country lad just as easily as a pig – perhaps more so.'
Snell sighed. 'Well, we've given her the benefit of the doubt – it helps with the indignity of being used as a croquet ball in Alice. Don't mention Tolstoy or Berlin when she's about, either – conversation with Tiggy is easier when you avoid talk of theoretical sociological divisions and stick to the question of washing temperatures for woollens.'
'I'll remember that,' I murmured. 'The bar doesn't look so bad with all those pot plants scattered around, does it?'
Snell sighed again.
'They're Triffids, Thursday. The big blobby thing practising golf swings with the Jabberwock is a Krell, and that rhino over there is Rataxis. Arrest anyone who tries to sell you Soma tablets, don't buy any Bottle Imps no matter how good the bargain, and above all don't look at Medusa. If Big Martin or the Questing Beast turn up, run like hell. Get me a drink and I'll see you back here in five minutes.'
'Right.'
He departed into the gloom and I was left feeling a bit ill at ease. I made my way to the bar and ordered two drinks. On the other side of the bar a third cat had joined the two I had seen previously. The newcomer pointed to me but the others shook their heads and whispered something in his ear. I turned the other way and jumped in surprise as I came face to face with a curious creature that looked as though it had escaped from a bad science fiction novel – it was all tentacles and eyes. A smile may have flicked across my face because the creature said in a harsh tone:
'What's the problem, never seen a Thraal before?'
I didn't understand; it sounded like a form of Courier Bold but I wasn't sure so said nothing, hoping to brazen it out.
'Hey!' it said. 'I'm talking to you, Two-eyes.'
The altercation had attracted another man, who looked like the product of some bizarre genetic experiment gone hopelessly wrong.
'He says he doesn't like you.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I don't like you either,' said the man in a threatening tone, adding, as if I needed proof: 'I have the death sentence in seven genres.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I assured him, but this didn't seem to work.
'You're the one who'll be sorry!'
'Come, come, Nigel,' said a voice I recognised. 'Let me buy you a drink.'
This wasn't to the genetic experiment's liking, for he moved quickly to his weapon; there was a sudden blur of movement and in an instant I had my automatic pressed hard against his head – Nigel's gun was still in his shoulder holster. The bar went quiet.
'You're quick, girlie,' said Nigel. 'I respect that.'
'She's with me,' said the newcomer. 'Let's all just calm down.'
I lowered my gun and replaced the safety catch. Nigel nodded respectfully and returned to his place at the bar with the odd-looking alien.
'Are you all right?'
It was Harris Tweed. He was a fellow Jurisfiction agent and Outlander, just like me. The last time I had seen him was three days ago in Lord Volescamper's library when we flushed out the renegade fictioneer Yorrick Kaine after he had invoked the Questing Beast to destroy us. Tweed had been carried off by the exuberant bark of a bookhound and I had not seen him since.
'Thanks for that, Tweed,' I said. 'What did the alien thing want?'
'He was a Thraal, Thursday – speaking in Courier Bold, the traditional language of the Well. Thraals are not only all eyes and tentacles, but mostly mouth, too – he'd not have harmed you. Nigel, on the other hand, has been known to go a step too far on occasion. What are you doing alone in the twenty-second sub-basement anyway?'
'I'm not alone. Havisham's busy so Snell's showing me around.'
'Ah,' replied Tweed, looking about. 'Does this mean you're taking your entrance exams?'
'Third of the way through the written already. Did you track down Kaine?'
'No. We went all the way to London, where we lost the scent. Bookhounds don't work so well in the Outland and besides, we have to get special permission to pursue PageRunners into the real world.'
'What does the Bellman say about that?'
'He's for it, of course,' replied Tweed, 'but the launch of UltraWord™ has dominated the Council of Genre's discussion time. We'll get round to Kaine in due course.'
I was glad of this; Kaine wasn't only an escapee from fiction but a dangerous right-wing politician back home. I would be only too happy to see him back inside whatever book he'd escaped from – permanently.
At that moment Snell returned and nodded a greeting to Tweed, who returned it politely.
'Good morning, Mr Tweed,' said Snell. 'Will you join us for a drink?'
'Sadly, I cannot,' replied Tweed. 'I'll see you tomorrow morning at roll-call, yes?'
'Odd sort of fellow,' remarked Snell as soon as Tweed had left. 'What was he doing here?'
I handed Snell his drink and we sat down in an empty booth. It was near the three cats and they stared at us hungrily while consulting a large recipe book.
'I had a bit of trouble at the bar and Tweed stepped in to help.'
'Good thing, too. Ever see one of these?'
He rolled a small globe across the table and I picked it up. It was a little like a Christmas decoration but a lot more sturdy. There was a small legend complete with a barcode and ID number printed on the side.
'Suddenly, a Shot Rang Out! FAD/167945,' I read aloud. 'What does it mean?'
'It's a stolen freeze-dried Plot Device. Crack it open and pow! – the story goes off at a tangent.'
'How do we know it's stolen?'
'It doesn't have a Council of Genres seal of approval. Without one, these things are worthless. Log it as evidence when you get back to the office.'
He took a sip of his drink, coughed and stared into the glass.
'W-what is this?'
'I'm not sure but mine is just as bad.'
'Not possible. Hello, Emperor, have you met Thursday Next? Thursday, this is Emperor Zhark.'
There was a tall man swathed in a high-collared cloak standing next to our table. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and very precise goatee. He looked at me with cold dark eyes and raised an eyebrow imperiously.
'Greetings,' he intoned indifferently. 'You must send my regards to Miss Havisham. Snell, how is my d
efence looking?'
'Not too good, Your Mercilessness,' he replied. 'Annihilating all the planets in the Cygnus cluster might not have been a very good move.'
'It's those bloody Rambosians,' Zhark said angrily. 'They threatened my empire. If I didn't destroy entire star systems no one would have any respect for me; it's for the good of galactic peace, you know – stability, and anyway, what's the point in possessing a devastatingly destructive death-ray if you can't use it?'
'Well, I should keep that to yourself. Can't you claim you were cleaning it when it went off or something?'
'I suppose,' said Zhark grudgingly. 'Is there a head in that bag?'
'Yes,' replied Snell. 'Do you want to have a look?'
'No thanks. Special offer, yes?'
'What?'
'Special offer. You know, clearance sale. How much did you pay for it?'
'Only a … hundred,' he said, glancing at me. 'Less than that, actually.'
'You were done.' Zhark laughed. 'They're forty a half-dozen at CrimeScene, Inc. – with double stamps, too.'
Snell's face flushed with anger and he jumped up.
'The little scumbag!' he spat. 'I'll have him in a bag when I see him again!'
He turned to me.
'Will you be all right getting out on your own?'
'Sure.'
'Good,' he replied through gritted teeth. 'See you later!'
'Hold it!' I said, but it was too late. He had vanished.
'Problems?' asked Zhark.
'No,' I replied slowly, holding up the dirty pillowcase. 'He just forgot his head – and careful, Emperor, there's a Triffid creeping up behind you.'
Zhark turned to face the Triffid, who stopped, thought better of an attack and rejoined his friends, who were cooling their roots at the bar.
Zhark departed and I looked around. On the next table a fourth cat had joined the other three. It was bigger than the others and considerably more battle scarred – it had only one eye and both ears had large bites taken out of them. They all licked their lips as the newest cat said in a low voice: 'Shall we eat her?'
'Not yet,' replied the first cat, 'we're waiting for Big Martin.'
The Well of Lost Plots Page 6