The Well of Lost Plots

by Jasper Fforde

'As a Greek drug dealer or something?' asked Nathan.

  'No,' replied Prometheus slightly testily, 'as Prometheus.'

  'Oh yeah?' Snudd laughed. 'What are you going to do? Steal fire from the DeFablio family and give it to Mickey Finn?'

  Prometheus stared at him as though he were a twit – which he was, I suppose.

  'No, I thought I could be here awaiting extradition back to the Caucasus by Zeus' lawyers or something, and Jack could be in charge of witness protection, trying to protect me against Zeus' hitmen – sort of like The Client but with gods instead of the Mob.'

  'If you want to cross genre we have to build from the ground up,' replied Snudd disparagingly, 'and that takes more money and expertise than you guys possess.'

  'What did you say?' asked Prometheus in a threatening manner.

  'You heard me. Everyone thinks it's easy to be a plotsmith.' He stabbed a finger in Prometheus' direction. 'Well, let me tell you Mr smart-alec-Greek-Titan-fire-giver, I didn't spend four years at plotschool to be told my job by an ex-convict!'

  Prometheus' lip quivered.

  'Okay,' he snarled, pulling up his sleeves. 'You and me. Right now, here on the sidewalk.'

  'C'mon,' said Jack in a soothing manner, 'this isn't going to get us anywhere. Snudd, I think perhaps you should listen to what Prometheus has to say. He might have a point.'

  'A point?' cried Snudd, getting out of the car but avoiding Prometheus. 'I'll tell you the point. You came to me wanting my help and I gave it – now I have to listen to dumb ideas from any myth that happens to wander along. This was a favour, Jack – my time isn't cheap. And since this is an ideas free-for-all, let me tell you a home truth: the Great Panjandrum himself couldn't sort out the problems in this book. And you know why? Because it was shit to begin with. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got two sub-plots to write for proper, paying, clients!'

  And without another word, he vanished.

  'Well,' said Prometheus, getting into the back seat, 'who needs cretins like him?'

  'Me,' sighed Jack. 'I need all the help I can get. What do you care what happens to us anyway?'

  'Well,' said the Titan slowly, 'I kind of like it here and all that mail redirection is a pain in the arse. What shall we do now?'

  'Lunch?' I suggested.

  'Good idea,' said Prometheus. 'I wait tables at Zorba's in the high street – I can get us a discount.'

  29

  Mrs Bradshaw and Solomon

  (Judgements) Inc.

  * * *

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

  JEREMY FNORP – The Ups and Downs of Act Breaks

  I went to work as normal the following morning, my head cleared and feeling better than I had for some time. Randolph, however, was inconsolable without Lola and had moped all the previous evening, becoming quite angry when I believed him when he said that nothing was the matter. Gran was out and I slept well for the first time in weeks. I even dreamed of Landen – and wasn't interrupted during the good parts, either.

  'I share your grief for Miss Havisham,' murmured Beatrice when I arrived at Norland Park.

  'Thank you.'

  'Rotten luck,' said Falstaff as I walked past. 'There were the remains of a fine woman about Havisham.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Miss Next?'

  It was the Bellman.

  'Can I have a word?'

  I walked over with him to his office and he shut the door.

  'Firstly, I am very sorry about Miss Havisham. Secondly, I'm having you moved to less demanding duties.'

  'I'm fine, really,' I assured him.

  'I'm sure you are – but since you have only recently qualified and are without a mentor, we felt it was better if you were taken off the active list for a while.'

  ' "We"?'

  He picked up his clipboard which had beeped at him. Havisham had told me that he never actually placed any papers in the all-important clipboard – the words were beamed directly there from Text Grand Central.

  'The Council of Genres has taken a personal interest in your case,' he said after reading the clipboard. 'I think they felt you were too valuable to lose through stress – an Outlander in Jurisfiction is quite a coup, as you know. You have powers of self-determination that we can only dream of. Take it in the good spirit it is meant, won't you?'

  'So I don't get to take Havisham's place at Jurisfiction?'

  'I'm afraid not. Perhaps when the dust has settled. Who knows? In the BookWorld, anything is possible.'

  He handed me a scrap of paper.

  'Report to Solomon on the twenty-sixth floor. Good luck!'

  I got up, thanked the Bellman and left his office. There was silence as I walked back past the other agents, who looked at me apologetically. I had been canned through no fault of my own, and everyone knew it. I sat down at Havisham's desk and looked at all her stuff. She had been replaced by a Generic in Expectations, and although they would look almost identical, it could never be the same person. The Havisham that I knew had been lost at Pendine Sands. I sighed. Perhaps demotion was a good thing. After all, I did have a lot to learn and working with the C of G for a bit probably had its merits.

  'Miss Next?'

  It was Commander Bradshaw.

  'Hello, sir.'

  He smiled and raised his hat.

  'Would you care to have tea with me on the veranda?'

  'I'd be delighted.'

  He smiled, took me by the arm and jumped us both into Bradshaw Hunts Big Game. I had never been to East Africa, either in our world or this, but it was as beautiful as I had imagined it from the many images I had grown up with. Bradshaw's house was a low colonial building with a veranda facing the setting sun; the land around the house was wild scrub and whistling thorns, herds of wildebeest and zebra wandering across in a desultory manner, their hoofs kicking up red dust as they moved.

  'Quite beautiful, wouldn't you say?'

  'Extraordinary,' I replied, staring at the scenery.

  'Isn't it just?' He grinned. 'Appreciate a woman who knows beauty when she sees it.'

  His voice dropped a tone.

  'Havisham was one of the finest,' he said. 'A little too fast for me, but a good egg in a scrap. She was very fond of you.'

  'And I of her.'

  'I had a look at the wreck of the Bluebird when it returned to Wemmick's Stores,' he added. 'Looked like an accident, my girl, nothing more. Mr Toad was pretty cut up about it and got into a helluva pickle for visiting the Outland without permission.'

  'Did Havisham confide in you about Perkins?'

  'Only that she thought he'd been murdered.'

  'Had he?'

  'Who knows? The office think it's Deane but we'll never know for sure until we arrest him. Have you met the memsahib? My darling, this is Thursday Next – a colleague from work.'

  I looked up and jumped slightly because Mrs Bradshaw was, in fact, a gorilla. She was large and hairy and was dressed only in a floral-patterned pinafore.

  'Good evening,' I said, slightly taken aback, 'a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bradshaw.'

  'Good evening,' replied the gorilla politely. 'Would you like some cake with your tea? Alphonse has made an excellent lemon sponge.'

  'That would be nice, thank you,' I spluttered as Mrs Bradshaw stared at me with her dark, deep-set eyes.

  'Excellent!' she said. 'I'll be out in a jiffy to join you. Feet, Trafford.'

  'What? Oh!' said Bradshaw, taking his boots off the chair opposite. When Mrs Bradshaw had left he turned and said to me in a very serious whisper:

  'Tell me, did you notice anything odd abo
ut the memsahib?'

  'Er,' I began, not wanting to hurt his feelings, 'not really.'

  'Think,' he said, 'it's important. Is there anything about her that strikes you as a little out of the ordinary?'

  'Well, she's only wearing a pinafore,' I managed to say.

  'Does that bother you?' he asked in all seriousness. 'Whenever male visitors attend I always have her cover up. She's a fine-looking gal, wouldn't you agree? Drive any man wild, wouldn't you say?'

  'Very fine,' I agreed.

  He shuffled in his chair and drew closer.

  'Anything else?' he said, staring at me intently. 'Anything at all. I won't be upset.'

  'Well,' I began slowly, 'I couldn't help noticing that she was …'

  'Yes?'

  '… a gorilla.'

  'Hmm,' he said, leaning back, 'our little subterfuge didn't fool you, then?'

  I'm afraid not.'

  'Melanie!' he shouted. 'Please come and join us.'

  Mrs Bradshaw lumbered back on to the veranda and sat in one of the club armchairs, which creaked under her weight.

  'She knows, Melanie.'

  'Oh!' said Mrs Bradshaw, producing a fan and hiding her face. 'However did you find out?'

  A servant appeared with a tray of tea, left it on the table, bowed and withdrew.

  'Is it the hair?' she asked, delicately pouring the tea with her feet.

  'Partly,' I admitted.

  'I told you the powder wouldn't cover it up,' she said to Bradshaw in a scolding tone, 'and I'm not shaving. It makes one itch so. One lump or two?'

  'One, please,' I replied, asking: 'Is it a problem?'

  'It's no problem here,' said Mrs Bradshaw. 'I often feature in my husband's books and nowhere does it specify precisely that I am anything but human.'

  'We've been married for over fifty years,' added Bradshaw. 'The problem is that we've had an invitation to the Bookies next week and the memsahib is a little awkward in public.'

  'To hell with them all,' I replied. 'Anyone who can't accept that the woman you love is a gorilla isn't worth counting as a friend!'

  'Do you know,' said Mrs Bradshaw, 'I think she's right. Trafford?'

  'Right also!' He grinned. 'Appreciate a woman who knows when to call a wife a gorilla. Hoorah! Lemon sponge, anyone?'

  I took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and walked out into the lobby of the Council of Genres, clasping the orders that the Bellman had given me.

  'Excuse me,' I said to the receptionist, who was busy fielding calls on a footnoterphone, I have to report to Mr Solomon.'

  'Seventh door on the left,' she said without looking up. I walked down the corridor among the thronging mass of bureaucrats going briskly hither and thither clasping buff files as though their lives and existence depended on it, which they probably did.

  I found the correct door. It opened on to a vast waiting room full of bored people who all clutched numbered tickets and stared vacantly at the ceiling. There was another door at the far end with a desk next to it manned by a single receptionist. He stared at my sheet when I presented it, sniffed and said:

  'How did you know I was single?'

  'When?'

  'Just then, in your description of me.'

  'I meant single as in solitary.'

  'Ah. You're late. I'll wait ten minutes for you and "His Lordship" to get acquainted, then send the first lot in. Okay?'

  'I guess.'

  I opened the door to reveal another long room, this time with a single table at the far end of it. Sitting at the desk was an elderly bewhiskered man dressed in long robes who was dictating a letter to a stenographer. The walls of the room were covered with copies of letters from satisfied clients; he obviously took himself very seriously.

  'Thank you for your letter dated the seventh of this month,' said the elderly man as I walked closer. 'I am sorry to inform you that this office no longer deals with problems arising with or appertaining to junk footnoterphones. I suggest you direct your anger towards the FNP's complaints department. Yours very cordially, Solomon. That should do it. Yes?'

  'Thursday Next reporting for duty.'

  'Ah!' he said, rising and giving me a hand to shake. 'The Outlander. Is it true that – out there – two or more people can talk at the same time?'

  'In the Outland it happens all the time.'

  'And do cats do anything else but sleep?'

  'Not really.'

  'I see. And what do you make of this?'

  He lifted a small traffic cone on to his desk and presented it with a dramatic nourish.

  'It's … it's a traffic cone.'

  'Something of a rarity, yes?'

  I chose my words carefully.

  'In many areas of the Outland they are completely unknown.'

  'I collect Outlandish objects,' he said with a great deal of pride. 'You must come and see my novelty teapot collection.'

  'I'd be delighted.'

  He sat down and indicated for me to take a chair. 'I was sorry to hear about Miss Havisham; she was one of the best operatives Jurisfiction ever had. Will there be a memorial?'

  'Tuesday.'

  'I'll be sure to send flowers. Welcome to the Judgement of Solomon©. It's arbitration, mainly, a bit of licensing. We need someone to look after the crowds outside. They can get a bit impassioned sometimes.'

  'You're King Solomon?'

  The old man laughed.

  'Me? You must be joking! There aren't enough minutes in the day for one Solomon – as soon as he did that "divide the baby in two" thing, everyone and his uncle wanted him to arbitrate, from corporate takeovers to playground disputes. So he did what any right-thinking businessman would do: he franchised. How else do you think he could afford the temple and the chariots and the navy and whatnot? The land he sold to Hiram of Tyre? Give me a break! My real name's Kenneth.'

  I looked a little doubtful.

  'I know what you're thinking. "The Judgement of Kenneth" does sound a bit daft – that's why we are licensed to give judgements under his name. All above board, I assure you. You have to purchase the cloak and grow a beard and go on the training course, but it works out very well. The real Solomon works from home but he sticks to the ultimate riddles of existence these days.'

  'What if a franchisee makes a dishonest judgement?'

  'Very simple.' Kenneth smiled. 'The offender will be smitten from on high and forced to spend a painful eternity being tortured mercilessly by sadistic demons from the fieriest depths of Hell. Solomon's very strict about that.'

  'I see.'

  'Good. Let's see the first punter.'

  I went to the door and asked for ticket-holder number thirty-two. A small man with a briefcase walked with me up to Kenneth's table. His knees became quite weak by the time he arrived but he managed to contain himself well.

  'Name?'

  'Mr Toves from Text Grand Central, Your Eminence.'

  'Reason?'

  'I need to ask for more exemptions from the "I before E except after C" rule.'

  'More?'

  'It's part of the upgrade to UltraWord™, Your Honour.'

  'Very well, go ahead.'

  'Feisty.'

  'Approved.'

  'Feigned.'

  'Approved.'

  'Weighty.'

  'Approved.'

  'Believe.'

  'Not approved.'

  'Reigate.'

  'Approved.'

  'That's it for the moment,' said the small man, passing his papers across for Kenneth to sign.

  'It is the Judgement of Solomon©,' said Kenneth slowly, 'that these words be exempt from Rule 7b of the arbitrary spelling code as ratified by the Council of Genres.'

  He stamped the paper and the small man scurried off.

  'What's next?'

  But I was thinking. Although I had been told to ignore the three witches, their premonition about the 'I before E except after C' rule had just come true. In fact, the 'blinded dog' had barked, the 'hedge-pig' had ironed, and Mrs Pas
ser-by had cried ' 'Tis time, 'tis time!' Was there something in it? Did they really think I was to be the Bellman? And what was that about the 'thrice read rule'?

  'I'm a busy man,' said Kenneth, glaring at me. 'I don't need day dreamers!'

  'I'm sorry,' I began, 'I was thinking of something the three witches told me.'

  'Charlatans!' announced Kenneth. 'And worse – the competition. If you see them again, try to pinch their mailing list, won't you? In the meantime, can we have the next customer?'

  I ushered them in. It was several characters from Wuthering Heights and they were all glaring at one another so much they didn't even recognise me. Heathcliff was wearing dark glasses and saying nothing; he was accompanied by his agent and a lawyer.

  'Proceed!'

  'Wuthering Heights first-person narrative dispute,' said the lawyer, placing a sheet of paper on the table.

  'Let me see,' said Kenneth slowly, studying the report. 'Mr Lockwood, Catherine Earnshaw, Heathcliff, Nelly Dean, Isabella and Catherine Linton. Are you all here?'

  They nodded their heads. Heathclif looked over his sunglasses at me and winked.

  'Well,' murmured Kenneth at length, 'you all believe that you should have the first-person narrative, is that it?'

  'No, Your Worshipfulness,' said Nelly Dean, ' 'tis the otherways. None of us want it. It's a curse to any honest Generic – and some not so honest.'

  'Hold your tongue, serving girl!' yelled Heathcliff.

  'Murderer!'

  'Say that again!'

  'You heard me!'

  And they all started to yell at one another until Kenneth banged his gavel on the desk and they were all instantly quiet. The Judgement of Solomon© was the last form of arbitration; there was no appeal from here and they all knew it.

  'It is the Judgement of Solomon© that … you should all have the first-person narrative.'

  'What?!' yelled Mr Lockwood. 'What kind of loopy idea is that? How can we all be the first person?'

  'It is fair and just,' replied Kenneth, placing his fingertips together and staring at them all serenely.

  'What will we do?' asked Catherine sarcastically. 'Talk at the same time?'

  'No,' replied Kenneth. 'Mr Lockwood, you will introduce the story and you, Nelly, will tell the major part of it in deep retrospection; the others will have their say in the following ratios.'