It occurred to Skinner that at this juncture it might be politic town away and hide behind something.
Having done so (something turning out to be the door of the livery stable; there were horses in there somewhere, but they didn't seem inclined to bother him), he sat down on a pile of hay and did a bit of violent trembling. It didn't help much, but he knew what was expected of him.
'Are you planning on sitting there all day? Because I don't know about you, but I need a good clean and a shot of oil. You'd better put the kettle on.'
'Kettle?'
'You have to flush me out with boiling water, otherwise I rust. I'd have thought you'd have known that.'
'Hey.' Skinner closed his eyes. 'Have you got any idea what's happening to me?' he asked.
'Sure.'
'Well?'
'Boiling water. A drop of Rangoon oil, if you've got it And you use a feather or something to get the bits of dust and crap out of my works. Then I might consider explaining.'
Skinner hadn't the faintest idea what Rangoon oil was when it was at home, but he found a coffee pot and an iron stove with a broken leg, and there was water in the horses' troughs. He scalded his fingers painfully trying to dribble water out of the pot down the Scholfield's barrel. 'That's better. You've missed a bit down in the forcing cone, but you can do that later. Right then, why are you here?'
Skinner shook his head. 'You tell me,' he said.
'You shot your hero. You're not supposed to do that.'
'But that's crazy,' Skinner replied. 'People kill off their heroes all the time. Look at Shakespeare, for Chrissakes.'
'Ah, but not personally. They get other characters to do it for them. Actually taking a gun and shooting them yourself is against the rules.'
'What rules?'
'Which means,' the Scholfield went on, 'you have to take his place. That's only if he insists, of course. I guess Slim insisted. Probably he didn't like you very much.'
'But...'
'And who can blame him? You really made life hell for that sucker, believe me. How could you fail to notice he was meant to be a villain, for God's sake?'
Skinner shook his head. As a method of field testing the maxim 'Truth is stranger than fiction', it was certainly thorough; but he couldn't help wishing someone other than himself had got the job.
'All right,' he said wearily. 'So what do I do now? And how do I get back home?'
There was silence for a moment as the Scholfield considered its reply. Tact comes as naturally to full-bore handguns as, say, ice-skating to African elephants, but there comes a time when an exceptional individual is prepared to stand up and break the mould.
'In answer to your second question, you can't. Turning to the first question..
'Yes?'
'Assuming you're looking for a nice, simple, relatively painless answer to all your problems .
'Well?'
'You could always try shooting yourself.'
And he's still there,' Jane concluded. 'Thirty odd years later.' She paused. 'Isn't that awful?'
She waited for a reply. Eventually, she heard the sound of Regalian heaving a long sigh.
'Sunny up where you are, is it?'
'No, not particularly.'
'Right, so we can rule out sunstroke. And it isn't April the First, though it might conceivably be some forward-thinking individual getting his joke in early to avoid the seasonal bottleneck. Otherwise, I can only imagine you've been drinking.'
'But...'
'In which case,' Regalian went on, 'jolly good luck to you, I can see the merits of your chosen course of action. Still, I'd prefer it if the next time you ring me up to breathe gin fumes at me you don't choose my day off. Goodbye.'
'Hang on, will you?'
His author's voice. Unwillingly Regalian paused, then put the receiver back to his ear.
'Look,' Jane said, 'I know it all sounds a bit cockeyed...'
'Cock-eyed!'
'... But I'm convinced. I don't know why, but I am.'
'You're the fantasy expert.'
'Yes,' Jane replied. 'But that's got nothing to do with it. I swear to you, I believed him. I still do.'
'Listen,' Regalian said, 'I'm holding my watch close to the phone so you can hear the ticking. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine - there, another gullible idiot's just been born, you have company.'
'Look
Regalian sighed again. 'I know what you're going to say,' he said. 'You're going to say you're the writer and I'm just a poor bloody character, so why don't I do like I'm damned well told.'
'No,' Jane said. 'Actually, I wasn't going to say anything of the sort.'
'Weren't you? Going to rely on innuendo and the unspoken threat, were you?'
'I was going to say,' Jane went on, 'that that wasn't all.'
'You mean there's more?'
'Yes.'
'Dear God,' Regalian exclaimed. 'Don't you think there's a risk of you wearing your imagination out if you carry on like this? I mean, you need it for work.'
'Look ...'
'Go on.' Regalian propped his feet on the table and unwrapped a toffee. 'I'm listening.'
CHAPTER FOUR
Having extracted from Jane her solemn promise of assistance and ten pounds in change, Hamlet went in search of something to keep body and soul together. After weighing up the available alternatives, he decided on sellotape.
They were due to meet again at four in Cheadle, under the station clock. Until then, all he had to do was stay out of trouble and try not to shed too many component parts. Easy enough, he reckoned, for someone who had spent the last four hundred years wrestling with insoluble moral dilemmas and stabbing people. A change is, after all, as good as a rest.
He found a public lavatory with an empty booth, and t for ten minutes or so taping himself up, until he resembled a transparent mummy or, if you prefer, a sausage in a skin. Provided that he avoided sudden movements and it didn't rain, he was all right for the time being.
He left the lavatory and strolled down the street. Up till now he had been too preoccupied with his problems to pay much attention to his surroundings, and it suddenly hit him that here he was, in Real Life.
Gosh.
Oh brave new world, that has such people in it. Hitherto, he had spent his life in the company of characters. Now characters aren't like people in many respects, and appearance is one of them. Characters, like film stars, are invariably strikingly handsome, meltingly beautiful, or at the very least charmingly ugly. You don't tend to get many ordinary-looking characters. Even First Citizen and A Courtier tend to look as if they've just stepped out of an underwear advertisement. It was only when passers-by started giving him odd looks and crossing the street that he realised that he was staring.
Another thing that struck him forcibly was the total aimlessness of everything they did. Where he came from, all the world was a stage and all the men and women merely players; they had their exits and their entrances, and everything they did or said either advanced the plot, developed character or filled in the gaps with jokes. It meant that life was initially hectic and, once you'd been in the play a few times, mind-gnawingly repetitive. Out here, there was absolutely no way of knowing what anybody was going to do next. It was intoxicating.
'God,' he said aloud (he was, after all, Hamlet, and old habits die hard), 'this is absolutely amazing! I want to stay here for ever and ever.'
He turned, and smiled winningly at a small child, who was prodding its mother in the ribs and drawing her attention to the fact that there was a man over there with a paper bag over his head. Because of the bag, the smile didn't achieve much, and in any event the mother whisked the child away with the practised speed of a waiter on piecework; but Hamlet didn't mind. It was all really fun. It was so much nicer than work.
Work, he thought. Let's see, it's half past three. Matinée time. Right now, I'd be starting that dismal bloody scene with the Players. Bugger that for a game of soldiers.
(And just then, at th
e theatre in Stratford on Avon, a very bemused actor playing Polonius was explaining to the Players that if Hamlet had been there, instead of having been called away to a vitally important business meeting, he'd have been urging them to hold, as it were, a mirror up to nature...)
He stopped in his tracks. Did he really have to go back? Why didn't he just stay here, settle down, enjoy himself or once? Get a job in a building society and become the Relatively Cheerful Dane?
A stray atom of pollen drifted into his nose, and he sneezed.
It's a sad fact of life that good noses are hard to come by; and in spare-part surgery, more than anything else, you get what you pay for. Norman Frankenbotham, struggling to make do on a pension, had had to settle for a job lot of nasal gear that had seen better days, and plenty of them. He'd done his best with polyurethane varnish and suture, and the result was fine for ordinary everyday breathing. Sneezes, however, are another matter; and if he'd had the chance for a quiet chat with his creation, Norman would have impressed upon him the vital importance of avoiding dust, pollen and similar irritants if he didn't want to end up with a face like something dreamed up by Stephen King after a late night snack of extra mature Cheddar.
Hamlet froze; then, having looked round to make sure nobody was watching, he stooped quickly, feeling a few coils of sellotape giving way as he did so, retrieved the nose and sidled into a shop doorway, where he could examine the damage in the glass.
'Oh budder!' he exclaimed. 'By doze!'
Having replaced the bag, he stepped back into the street, breathing through his mouth and walking very carefully. He had reached a decision. He was going home, whatever it took. The spirit may have been willing, but the flesh was just a smidge too weak for his liking.
'Forget it,' Regalian said. 'There is absolutely no way 'Please.'
Regalian drew a deep breath, intending to let Jane know, with map references, where she could put her suggestion. He hesitated.
'Did you say,' he whispered, 'cowboys?'
'That's right.'
'Like, um, John Wayne and, er, Gary Cooper and, you know, um, thing?'
'Thing?'
'Audrey Murphy.'
'It's Audie, not Audrey. Yes, just like them. Why?'
'Oh, nothing.'
Like a fisherman detecting the faintest twitch on the line, Jane suddenly became alert. 'There's something, isn't there?' she asked. 'You like the idea, don't you?'
'It's the most stupid suggestion I've ever heard in all my-'
'Clint Eastwood.'
'Of all the hare-brained crazy schemes I've ever . Jane smiled into the telephone. 'Admit it,' she said, 'you're interested. You're a secret Western buff, right?'
'Absolutely not. We can't get films over here. The inter-dimensional interface buggers up reception, you just get snowstorms.'
'What is it, then? Books?'
'I have better things to do with my time. For example, being sick, or falling out of trees, or catching diphtheria...
Jane's grin widened. 'I know!' she said. 'It's the music, isn't it? You're a country and western fan.'
'No!' There was a pause. 'Not a fan, God forbid. Never in a million years.'
'But?'
'Occasionally,' Regalian said defensively, 'we do get the odd country song on the jukebox in the pub here. Once in a blue-'
'You sing along, don't you?'
'I do not.' Another pause. 'I may hum, sometimes, but-'
'There you are, then. Go on, be honest. You're dying for an excuse to wear your cowboy boots.'
'I do not possess a pair of-'
'And your ten-gallon hat. And your buckskin shirt.'
'Nor do I possess a buckskin shirt. They bring me out in a rash.'
'So you've tried one, have you?'
The voice at the other end of the line became stiff with coagulated dignity. 'I owe it to my craft to sample as many out-of-the-way experiences as possible, I grant you. I still draw the line at-'
'I can write you a pair of Colt forty-fives.'
'No, thank you.'
'With pearl handles.'
'Anachronism.'
'Pardon me?'
'Bone,' Regalian replied. 'Ivory, even. But not pearl.'
'How do you know that?'
'Um. Common knowledge. Read it in a magazine in a dentist's waiting room somewhere. Look ...
'You can have,' said Jane enticingly, 'any name you like. Kansas City Zeke. The Lightning Kid.'
'Do you mind? I've only just eaten.'
'All right then, you can be Jedediah Something. That authentic enough for you?'
'I really wouldn't know,' Regalian replied sternly. 'As I say, a mere fleeting acquaintance with some of the less painfully embarrassing examples of a certain popular musical genre-'
'You'll do it, then?'
'Escapist ephemera, the opium of the masses-'
'I'll get on to it,' said Jane, 'straight away.'
There was a long silence, during which Jane held her breath. A customer came up to the desk with three copies of the hardback for her to sign, but she ignored him.
'If you absolutely insist,' Regalian sighed. 'But I demand a full written indemnity, together with-'
'Ride 'em, cowboy.'
'Oh drop dead.'
'Whad the hed,' Hamlet demanded, 'kebt you? I'be been waitidd here for hours.'
Jane raised an eyebrow. 'Why are you talking in that funny voice?' she asked.
'Nud of your biddined. Now, I need a needuw and some thread, and-'
'Later. We've got a train to catch.'
'Slow dowd, will you? Do you wabt my ledz to fall off too?'
Regalian strode into the bar, a character with motivation. There was a moment of stunned silence, during which you could have heard a pin drop on deep satin cushions, followed by the first snigger, followed by laughter, freestyle, at will.
Regalian ignored it. He stopped at the counter, placed a pointed toecap on the brass rail, and called for whisky.
'I beg your pardon?' asked the barmaid. Her name was Trish, and when trade was slack she knitted for her niece s baby.
'You heard me,' Regalian growled. 'Whisky. And keep it coming.' He slapped a silver dollar down on the counter-top, spilling a small plate of peanuts.
'There's no need to take that tone with me,' said Trish. 'And watch what you're doing, will you? You'll scratch the formica.'
After the novelty of Regalian making an idiot of himself in a different way had worn off, the other occupants of the bar drifted away, leaving him alone with his drink, his rather uncomfortable clothes (the shirt itched) and his thoughts.
It posed an interesting technical problem. In theory it's impossible for a character from one writer's books to get into someone else's book (that would be plagiarism). In practice it happens all the time, but usually by accident, or at least unconsciously. Doing it on purpose is one of the hardest tasks an author can undertake. When it's attempted, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a new character is created in a totally new book. Both the book and the character strongly resemble the originals, but with subtle differences that generally sabotage the attempt.
Over a second glass of whisky, Regalian did his best to recall what he had learnt in Theory class at character school. This didn't come easily (he'd spent most Theory lessons trying to analyse the motivation of the girl sitting opposite) but, with the third, fourth and fifth whiskies, things began to come back to him, albeit rather bedraggled and with several days' growth of beard. He considered.
Authorship theory, he remembered, is a subdivision of basic creation theory. Creation theory is easy.
In an infinite, curved universe, everything is possible. One needs only to recognise the possibility of a particular set of circumstances, and it then exists, somewhere, in some form. This is creation theory. Let there be light; and there is light. Let, by the same token, there be huge single-cell life forms called greebles who inhabit ventilation shafts and eat the smell of cheese, and there are greebles. The difference i
s that light is a fairly sensible, practical concept which can fit into virtually all reality systems; whereas greebles can only subsist in the really low-rent backstreets of reality where nobody gives a damn any more, and where no one with any sense ever goes except as the result of a horrible accident.
Fine, said Regalian to himself, that's basic creation theory. He found a half-eaten packet of smoky bacon crisps in his jacket pocket and started to chew.
Authors do to creation theory what highly paid accountants do to the tax laws; without breaking the rules, they contrive to bend them to such an extent that they might as well be made of Plasticine.
Authors take untrue things, people who don't exist, events that never happened, and make other people believe in them. Belief is water poured on the blazing chip-pan of creation. A fictional thing which people believe in can never be real, but it can exist far more vehemently than any number of real things which are too boring for anybody to be interested in. The shipping forecast is real) but The Archers live because people want them to.
Basic authorship theory.
'More whisky.'
'That'll be one pound forty, please.'
'Here.'
'Sorry, we don't take foreign money here.'
'Hey, this is a saloon, ain't it?'
'Well, it says saloon bar on the door.'
'Right. Well, in any saloon this side of the Rio Bravo, a silver dollar buys a bottle of raw drinkin' whisky. Or are you callin' me a liar?'
Trish's brows furrowed. On the one hand, the better part of her intellect advised her that she was going to have fun and games persuading them to accept silver dollars at the bank in the morning. On the other hand, an influential minority of her could see the logic; and besides, a big coin made of pure silver's got to be worth a lot of money, hasn't it?
'Right you are, then,' she said.
Basic authorship theory, as amended by the publishers' lawyers, goes on to say that characters can exist without being real, on the strict understanding that they stay inside their books and don't ever get loose, because of the damage they would inevitably cause this side of the screen.
Basic authorship theory, as further amended by the writers' agents, goes further and states that in any event a character belongs to his author body, soul and merchandising rights, and has to do exactly what he's told on pain of editing.
My Hero Tom Holt. Page 5