'What have we to lose?' replied Jack with a good measure of stoicism. 'You get up to Jurisfiction and see what you can find out about the Book Inspectorate. I'll hold a few auditions and try to rebuild the scene from memory.'
He paused.
'And Thursday?' 'Yes?'
'Thanks.'
I drove back to the flying boat. Having said I wasn't going to get involved with any internal politics, I was surprised by how much of a kinship with Caversham Heights I was feeling. Admittedly, the book was pretty dreadful, but it was no worse than the average Farquitt — perhaps I felt this way because it was my home.
'Are you invited?'
'We all are,' she breathed excitedly. 'Apparently the organisers are borrowing a displacement field technology from SF. The long and short of it is that we will all be able to fit in the Starlight Room — it's going to be quite an event!'
'It certainly will,' I said, going upstairs. Lola followed me and watched from my bed as I changed out of Mary's clothes.
'You're quite important at Jurisfiction, aren't you?'
'Not really,' I replied, trying to do up my trouser button and realising that it was tighter than normal.
'Blast!' I said.
'What?'
'My trousers are too small.'
'Shrunk?'
'No …' I replied, staring into the mirror. There was no doubt about it. I was starting to put on a small amount of girth. I stared at it this way and that and Lola did the same, trying to figure out what I was looking at.
Catalogue shopping from the inside was a lot more fun than I had thought. Lola squeaked with delight at all the clothes on offer and tried about thirty different types of perfume before deciding not to buy any at all — she, in common with nearly all bookpeople, had no sense of smell. Watching her was like letting a child loose in a toy store — and her energy for shopping was almost unbelievable. It was while we were on the lingerie page that she asked me about Randolph.
'What do you think of him?'
'Oh, he's fine,' I replied non-committally, sitting on a chair and thinking of babies while Lola tried on one bra after another, each of which she seemed to love to bits until the next one. 'Why do you ask?'
'Well, I rather like him in a funny kind of way.'
'Does he like you?'
'I'm not sure. I think that's why he ignores me and makes jokes about my weight. Men always do that when they're interested. It's called subtext, Thursday — I'll tell you all about it some day.'
'Okay,' I said slowly, 'so what's the problem?'
'He doesn't really have a lot of, well, charisma.'
'There are lots of men out there, Lola,' I told her. 'Don't hurry. When I was seventeen I had the hots for this complete and utter flake named Darren. My mother disapproved, which made him into something of a magnet.'
'Ah!' said Lola. 'What about this bra?'
'I thought the pink suited you better.'
'Which pink? There were twelve.'
'The sixth pink, just after the tenth black and nineteenth lacy.'
'Okay, let's look at that one again.'
She rummaged through the pile, found what she wanted and said:
'Thursday?'
'Yes?'
'Randolph calls me a tart because I like boys. Do you think that's fair?'
'It's one of the great injustices of life,' I told her. 'If he did the same he'd be toasted as a "ladies' man". But Lola, have you met anyone who you really liked, someone with whom you'd like to spend more exclusive time?'
'You mean — a boyfriend?'
'Yes.'
She paused and looked at herself in the mirror.
'I don't think I'm written that way, Thurs. But you know, sometimes, just afterwards, you know, when there is that really nice moment and I'm in his big strong arms and feeling sleepy and warm and contented, I can feel there is something that I need just outside my grasp — something I want but can't have.'
'You mean love?'
'No — a Mercedes.'
She wasn't joking.[16]
It was my footnoterphone.
'Hang on, Lola — Thursday speaking.'[17]
I looked at Lola, who was trying on a basque.
'Yes,' I replied, 'why?'[18]
'The safe side of what?'[19]
'I see. What can I do for you apart from answering questions about pianos?'[20]
I wasn't busy. Apart from a Jurisfiction session tomorrow at midday, I was clear.
'Sure. Where and when?'[21]
'Okay.'
Lola was looking at me mournfully.
'Does this mean we'll have to miss out on the gym? We have to go to the gym — if I don't I'll feel guilty about eating all those cakes.'
'What cakes?'
'The ones I'm going to eat on the way to the gym.'
'I think you get enough exercise, Lola. But we've got half an hour yet — c'mon, I'll buy you a coffee.'
21
The Gryphon was a creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. In his youth he must have been a frightening creature to behold, but in his later years he wore spectacles and a scarf, which somewhat dented his otherwise fearsome appearance.
He was, I was told, one of the finest legal eagles around, and after Snell's death he became head of the Jurisfiction legal team. It was the Gryphon who managed to secure the record pay-out following the celebrated Farmer’s Wife v. Three Blind Mice case and was instrumental in reducing Nemo's piracy charges to 'accidental manslaughter'.
The Gryphon was reading my notes when I arrived and made small and incomprehensible noises as he flicked through the pages, grunting here and there and staring at me over his spectacles with large eyes.
'Well!' he said. 'We should be in for some fun now!'
'Fun?' I repeated. 'Defending a Class II fiction infraction?'
'I'm prosecuting a class action for blindness against the Triffids this afternoon,' said the Gryphon soberly, 'and the Martians' war crimes trial in War of the Worlds just drags on and on. Believe me, a fiction infraction is fun. Do you want to see my case load?'
'No thanks.'
'Okay. We'll see what their witnesses have to say and how Hopkins presents his case. I may decide not to put you on the stand. Please don't do anything stupid like grow — it nearly destroyed Alice's case there and then. And if the Queen orders your head to be cut off, ignore her.'
'Okay.' I sighed. 'Let's get on with it.'
The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their thrones when we arrived, but they were the only people in the courtroom who were seemingly composed — Alice's exit two pages earlier had caused a considerable amount of distress to the jury, who were back in their places but were bickering furiously with the foreman, a rabbit who stared back at them, nibbling a large carrot that he had somehow smuggled in.
The Knave of Hearts was being escorted back to the cells and the tarts — exhibit 'A' — were being taken away and replaced by the original manuscript of Jane Eyre. Seated before the King and Queen was prosecuting attorney Matthew Hopkins and a collection of very severe-looking birds. He glared at me with barely concealed venom. He looked a lot less amused than when we last crossed swords in The Trial, and he hadn't looked particularly amused then. The King was obviously the judge because he wore a large wig, but quite which part the Queen of Hearts was to play in the proceedings, I had no idea.
The twelve jurors calmed down and all started writing busily on their slates.
'What are they doing?' I whispered to the Gryphon. 'The trial hasn't even begun yet!'
'Silence in court!' yelled the White Rabbit in a shrill voice.
'Off with her head!' yelled the Queen.
The King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to find out who had been talking. The Queen nudged him and nodded in my direction.
'You there!' he said. 'You will have your say soon enough, Miss, Miss …'
'Next,' put in the White Rabbit after consulting his parchment.
'Really?' replied the King with some confusion. 'Does that mean we're done?'
'No, Your Majesty,' replied the White Rabbit patiently, 'her name is Next. Thursday Next.'
'I suppose you think that's funny?'
'No indeed, Your Majesty,' I replied. 'It was the name I was born with.'
The jurymen all frantically started to write 'It was the name I was born with' on their slates.
'You're an Outlander, aren't you?' said the Queen, who had been staring at me for some time.
'Yes, Your Majesty.'
'Then answer me this: when there are two people and one of them has left, who is left? The person who is left or the person who has left? I mean, they can't both be left, can they?'
'Herald, read the accusation!' said the King.
At this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:
'Miss Thursday Next is hereby accused of a fiction infraction Class II against the Jurisfiction penal code FAL/0605937 and pursuant to the BookWorld general law regarding continuity of plot lines, as ratified to the Council of Genres, 1584.'
'Consider your verdict,' said the King to the jury.
'Objection!' cried the Gryphon. 'There's a great deal to come before that!'
'Overruled!' shouted the King, adding: 'Or do I mean "sustained"? I always get the two mixed up — it's a bit like "feed a cold and starve a fever" or "starve a cold and feed a fever". I never know which is right. At any rate, you may call the first witness.'
The White Rabbit blew three more blasts on the trumpet, and called out:
'First witness!'
The first witness was Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper at Thornfield Hall, Rochester's home. She blinked and looked around the court slowly, smiling at Hopkins and glaring at me. She was assisted into the witness box by an usher who was in reality a large guinea pig.
'Do you promise to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?' asked the White Rabbit.
'I do.'
'Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly all wrote "write that down" on their slates.
'Mrs Fairfax,' began Hopkins, rising to his feet, 'I want you to tell me in your own words the events surrounding Miss Next's intrusion into Jane Eyre, starting at the beginning and not stopping until you get to the end …'
'And then what?' asked the King.
'Then she may stop,' said Hopkins with a trace of annoyance.
'Ah,' said the King in the voice of someone who thinks they understand a great deal but are sadly mistaken, 'proceed.'
For the next two hours we listened not only to Mrs Fairfax but also Grace Poole, Blanche Ingram and St John Rivers, all giving evidence to explain the old ending and how by calling 'Jane, Jane, Jane!' at Jane's bedroom I had changed the narrative completely. The jury tried to keep up with the proceedings, and they wrote as and when directed by the King until there was no more room on their slates, whereupon they tried to write on the benches in front of them, and failing that, on each other.
After every witness the smallest dormouse in the jury was excused for a trip to the bathroom, which gave the Gryphon time to explain to the King — who probably wouldn't have been able to touch his head with his eyes shut — the procedure of the law. When the dormouse returned the witness was given to the Gryphon for cross-examination, and every time he called: 'No further questions.' The afternoon wore on and it became hotter in the courtroom. The Queen grew more and more bored, and seemed to demand the verdict on a more and more frequent basis, once even asking during a witness's testimony.
And throughout this tedious performance, as the characters from Jane Eyre came and repeated the truth in front of me, a seemingly endless parade of guinea pigs interrupted the proceedings. Each one was immediately set upon and placed head first into a large canvas bag, then ejected from the court. Each time this happened there followed a quite inordinate amount of confusion, cries and noise. As the din grew to fever pitch the Queen would scream, 'Off with his head! Off with his head!' as though she were somehow in direct competition with the tumult. By the time the latest guinea pig had been thrown from the court, Grace Poole had vanished in a cloud of alcoholic vapours, and no one knew where she was.
'Never mind!' said the King, with an air of great relief. 'Call the next witness.' He added in an undertone to the Queen: 'Really, my dear, you must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!'
I watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list and read out at the top of his shrill little voice the name: 'Thursday Next!'
'Excuse me,' said the Gryphon, stirring himself from the lethargy he had shown throughout the trial, 'but Miss Next will not be giving evidence against herself in this court of law.'
'Is that allowed?' asked the King. The jury all looked at one another and shrugged.
'It proves she's guilty!' screamed the Queen. 'Off with her head! Off with—'
'It proves nothing of the sort,' interrupted the Gryphon. The Queen went scarlet and would probably have exploded had not the King laid his hand on her arm.
'Come, come, my dear,' he said softly, 'you must stay calm. All these orders of execution are probably not good for your hearts.' He chuckled. 'Hearts,' he said again. 'I say, I've made a joke, that's rather good, don't you think?'
The jury all laughed dutifully and the brighter ones explained to the more stupid ones what the joke was, and the stupid ones explained to the even stupider ones what a joke actually is.
Excuse me,' said the dormouse again, 'may I go to the bathroom?'
'Again?' bellowed the King. 'You must have a bladder the size of a peanut.'
'A grain of rice, so please Your Majesty,' said the dormouse, knees knocking together.
'Very well,' said the King, 'but make it quick. Now, can we reach a verdict?'
'Now who wants a verdict?' asked the Queen triumphantly.
'There's more evidence to come yet, please Your Majesty,' said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry. 'We have to hear from the defence yet.'
'The defence?' asked the King wearily. 'Haven't we just heard from them?'
'No, Your Majesty,' replied the White Rabbit. 'That was the prosecution.'
'The two always confuse me,' replied the King, staring at his feet, 'a bit like that "overruled" and "sustained" malarkey — which was which again?'
'The prosecution rests,' said Hopkins, who could see that this trial might last for months if he didn't get a move on, 'and I think,' he added, 'we have conclusively proved that Miss Next not only hanged the ending of Jane Eyre but was also premeditated in her actions. This is not a court of opinion, it is a court of law, and there is only one verdict which this court can reach — guilty.'
'I told you she was guilty,' muttered the King, getting up to leave.
'Please Your Majesty,' said the White Rabbit, 'that was just the prosecution summing-up. You must listen to the defence now.
'Ah!' said the King, sitting down again.
The Gryphon stood up and walked to the jury box. They all recoiled in fear as he scratched his chin with a large paw. The dormouse put up his hand again to be excused and was allowed to leave. When he had returned the Gryphon began.
'The question here is not whether Miss Next took a few textual and narrative liberties with the end of Jane Eyre, as my learne friend the prosecution has made so abundantly clear. We admit that she did.'
There was a gasp from the jury.
'No, I contend that while Miss Next broke the law in a technical sense, she did so for the best possible motives — love.'
The Gryphon paused for dramatic effect.
'Love?' said the King. 'Is that a defence?'
'Historically speaking,' whispered the White Rabbit, 'one of the best, Your Majesty.'
'Ah!' said the King. 'Proceed.'
'And not for her own love either,' continued the Gryphon. 'She did it so that two others who were in love might stay that way and not be parted. For such things are against the natural order, a court far higher than the court Miss Next faces today.'
There was silence, so he continued:
'I contend that Miss Next is a very extraordinary person with a selfless streak that demands the highest leniency from this court. I have only one witness to call who will prove the veracity of this defence. I call … Edward Rochester!'
There was a sharp intake of breath and the remaining guinea pig fainted clean away. The clerks of the court, unsure what to do, popped the guinea pig in a sack and sat on it.
'Call Edward Rochester!' cried the White Rabbit in his shrill voice, a demand that was echoed four times with a succession of voices each diminished further by the distance.
We heard his footfalls shuffle on the floor before we saw him, a slightly hesitant stride with the click of a cane for punctuation. He walked slowly into the courtroom with a fragile yet resolute air, and scanned the room carefully to gauge, as well as he could, which of the shapes before him were judge, jury and counsel. The change I had wrought upon Jane Eyre had not been without its price. Rochester had lost a hand and had only the milkiest vision in one eye. I put my hand to my mouth as I watched his form shuffle into the silenced courtroom. If I had known the outcome of my actions, would I still have taken them? Acheron's perfidy had been the author of Rochester's ills, but I had been the catalyst.
Edward's face was healed although badly scarred, but it did no desperate harm to his looks. He took the oath, his features glowering beneath the dark hair that hung in front of his face.
'Excuse me,' said the dormouse who was sitting closest to Rochester, 'would you sign my slate, please?'
Rochester gave a dour half-smile, took the stylus and said:
'Name?'
'Alan.'
Rochester signed and returned the slate and was instantly handed eleven more, all wiped clean of their carefully written notes.
'Enough!' roared the King. 'I will not have my court turned into a haven for autograph hunters! We pursue the truth here, not celebrities!'
There was dead silence.
'But if you wouldn't mind,' said the King, passing his notebook down to Rochester and adding quietly: 'It's for my daughter.'
'And your daughter's name?' asked Rochester, pen poised.
'Rupert.'
Rochester signed the book and passed it back.
'Mr Rochester,' said the Gryphon, 'I wonder if you might expound in your own words on what Miss Next's actions have done for you?'
The court fell silent. Even the King and Queen were interested to hear what Mr Rochester had to say.
'To me alone?' replied Rochester slowly. 'Nothing. For us, my own dear sweet Jane and I — everything!'
He clenched the hand that carried his wedding ring, rubbing the band of gold with his thumb, trying to turn his feelings into words.
'What has Miss Next not done for us?' he intoned quietly. 'She has given us everything we could want. She has released us both from a prison that was not of our making, a dungeon of depression from which we thought we should never be free. Miss Next gave us the opportunity to love and be loved — I can think of no greater gift anyone could have been given, no word in my head can express the thanks that are ours, for her.'
There was silence in the courtroom. Even the Queen had fallen quiet and was staring — quite like a fish, I thought — at Rochester.
The Gryphon's voice broke the silence.
'Your witness.'
'Ah!' said Hopkins, gathering his thoughts. 'Tell me, Mr Rochester, just to confirm one point: did Miss Next change the end of your novel?'
'Although I am now, as you see, maimed,' replied Rochester, 'no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut tree in Thornfield orchard, I am happier than I have ever been. Yes, sir, Miss Next changed the ending, and I thank her every evening for it!'
Hopkins smiled.
'No further questions.'
'Well,' said the Gryphon after the court had been adjourned for the King to consider what form the sentence should take. The Queen, unusually for her, had called for acquittal. The word sounded alien on her lips and everyone stared at her with shock when she said it — Bill the lizard almost choked and had to be slapped on the back.
'The outcome was a foregone conclusion,' said the Gryphon, nodding his respect to Hopkins, who was organising some notes with the White Rabbit, 'but I knew Rochester would put a good show on for you. The King and Queen of Hearts may be the stupidest couple ever to preside over a court, but they are, after all, Hearts, and since you were undeniably guilty, we needed a court to show a bit of compassion when it came to sentencing.'
'Compassion?' I echoed with some surprise. 'With the Queen of "Off with her head"?'
'It's just her little way,' replied the Gryphon. 'She never actually executes anyone. I was just worried for a moment that they might try to hold you on remand until the sentencing, but fortunately the King isn't very up on legal terminology.'
'What do you think I'll get?'
'Do you know,' replied the Gryphon, 'I have absolutely no idea. Time will tell. I'll see you around, Next!'
I made my way slowly back to the Jurisfiction offices, where I found Miss Havisham.
'How did it go?' she asked.
'Guilty as charged.'
'Bad luck. When's the sentencing?'
'Not a clue.'
'Might not be for years, Thursday. I've got something for you.'
She passed me across the report I had written for her regarding Shadow the Sheepdog. I read the mark on the cover, then read it again, then looked at Havisham.
'A++ Hons?' I echoed, incredulously.
'Think I'm being over-generous?' she asked.
'Well, yes,' I said, feeling confused. 'I was forcibly married and then nearly murdered!'
'Marriage by force is not recognised, Next. But bear this in mind: We've given that particular assignment to every new Jurisfiction apprentice for the past thirty-two years and every single one has failed.'
I gaped at her.
'Even Harris Tweed.'
'Tweed was married to Mr Townsperson?'
'Apart from that bit. He didn't even manage to buy the pigs — let alone fool the vet. You did well, Next. Your cause-and-effect technique is good. Needs work, but good.'
'Oh!' I said, kind of relieved, then added after a moment's reflection: 'But I could have been killed!'
'You wouldn't have been killed,' she assured me. 'Jurisfiction has eyes and ears everywhere — we're not that reckless with our apprentices. Your multiple-choice mark was ninety-three per cent. Congratulations. Pending final submissions to the Council of Genres, you're made.'
I thought about this and felt some pride in it, despite knowing in my heart of hearts that this would not be a long appointment — as soon as I could return to the Outland, I would.
'Did you find out anything about Perkins?'
'Nothing,' I replied. 'Any news of Vernham Deane?'
'Vanished without trace. The Bellman's going to talk to us about it.'
'Could the two be related?'
'Perhaps,' she said, slightly mysteriously. 'I'll have to make further enquiries. Ask me again tomorrow.'
22
'Ah!' said Gran as I walked through the door. 'There you are! How were things at work today?'
'Good and bad,' I told her, sitting on the sofa and undoing the top button of my trousers. 'The good news is I passed the Jurisfiction practical; the bad news is that I was found guilty of my fiction infraction.'
'What was the sentence?'
'I'll have to wait for that.'
'Waiting's the worst part,' she murmured. 'I was up for murder once and the worst part of it all was waiting for the jury to come back with their verdict. Longest eight hours of my life.'
'I believe you. Did you go home today?'
She nodded. 'I brought you a few bits and bobs. I notice there is no chocolate here in the WOLP — nothing worth eating, anyway.'
'Did you find anything out about Yorrick Kaine?'
'Not much,' replied Gran, eating the chocolate she had brought for me, 'but he's not in hiding or anything. He's bought another publishing house and at the same time trying to rebuild his political career after that Cardenio debacle.'
'Ah. Where are Lola and Randolph?'
'At a party, I think. You look all done in — why don't you get an early night?'
'And have what's-her-name pester me?'
She looked at me seriously through her large-framed spectacles. 'Aornis. It's Aornis. Remember?'
'Yes. Who was my husband again?'
'Landen. He was eradicated by the Chronoguard, yes?'
I remembered and my heart sank.
'Yes,' I said in a quiet voice. I had been happy in my non-remembering state but now I could feel the anger rising again.
'Sometimes I think it would be better if I just forgot, Gran.'
'Never say that, Thursday!' said Gran so sharply I jumped and she had to rest for a moment to get her breath back and eat a few more chocolates. 'Aornis has no right to take that which does not belong to her and you must be strong with her, and yourself— retake your memories!'
'Easier said than done, Gran,' I said, trying to grab a chocolate as they were pulled out of my reach. 'I want to dream about—'
'Landen.'
'Landen, yes — I want to dream about him again. He's there but we don't talk like we used to.'
The door banged open and Randolph walked in. He ignored us both and hung up his coat.
'Randolph?' I said. 'You okay?'
'Me?' he said, not looking at either of us. 'I'm fine. It's that tarty little bitchlet who's going to come to a sticky end — she can't talk to a man without wanting to add him to her collection!'
And he walked out.
'Is she all right?' I called after him, but all we heard was the door to their bedroom slam shut. We looked at one another and shrugged.
'Where were we?'
'I was telling you how I never dream about Landen the way I used to. We used to go to the really great memories we shared. We never got to — you know — but it was wonderful. At least I had some control of where I went when the "Sable Goddess" laid down her cloak.'
Gran looked at me and patted my hand reassuringly.
'You need to make her feel she's winning, Thursday. Lull her into a trap. She might think she is in command but she's only in your mind and you are the one who controls what you think. Our memories are precious and should never be sullied by an outside agent.'
'Of course — but how?'
'Well,' said Gran, passing me a chocolate she didn't like, 'it isn't Aornis up there, my dear, it's only your memory of her. She's alone and afraid too. Without the real Aornis here in the BookWorld she doesn't have so much power; all she can do is try and—'
The door burst open again. This time it was Lola. She looked as though she had been crying. She stopped dead when she saw us.
'Ah!' she said. 'Is rat-face shit-for-brains in?'
'Do you mean Randolph?'
'Who else?'
'Then yes, he is.'
'Right!' she announced. 'I'll go and sleep over at Nemo's.'
She started to leave.
'Wait!' I said. 'What's going on?'
She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Her bag slid down and hung off her elbow, which spoiled the illusion, but Lola was past caring.
'I went to meet him for coffee after college and blow me if he's not talking to that little D-2 runt — you know, the one with the silly eyes and the stupid snorty laugh?'
'Lola,' I said quietly, 'they were probably just talking.'
She looked at her hands for a moment.
'You're right,' she announced, 'and what do I care anyway? They clearly deserve one another!'
'I heard that!' said a voice from the back of the flying boat. Randolph strode into the kitchen and waved a finger at Lola, who glared back angrily.
'You've got a nerve accusing me of being with another woman when you've slept with almost everyone at school!'
'And so what if I have?' screamed Lola. 'Who are you, my father? Have you been spying on me?'
'Even the worst spy in the genre couldn't fail to notice what you're up to — don't you know the meaning of the word "discretion"?'
'One-dimensional!'
'Cardboard!'
'Stereotype!'
'Predictable!'
'Jerk-off!'
'ARSEHOLE!'
'Duck, Gran,' I whispered as Lola picked up a vase and threw it at Randolph. It missed and went sailing over the top of our heads to shatter on the far wall.
'Okay,' I said loudly, using my best and most assertive voice, 'any more crap out of you two and you can live somewhere else. Randolph, you can sleep on the sofa. Lola, you can go to your room. And if I hear a peep out of either of you I'll have you both allocated to knitting patterns — GET IT?'
They went quiet, mumbled something about being sorry and walked slowly from the kitchen.
'Oh, that was good, balls-for-brains,' muttered Lola as they moved off, 'get us both into trouble, why don't you?'
'Me?' he returned angrily. 'Your knickers are off so often I'm amazed you bother with them at all.'
'DID YOU HEAR ME?' I yelled after them, and there was quiet.
Gran was picking bits of broken vase from the table top. 'Where were we?' she asked.
'Er … retaking my memories?'
'Exactly so. She'll be wanting to try and break you down, so things are going to get worse before they get better — only when she thinks she has defeated you can we go on the offensive.'
'What do you mean by getting worse? Hades? Landen's eradication? Darren? How far do I have to go?'
'Back to the worst time of all — the truth about what happened during the charge.'
'Anton.'
I groaned and rubbed my face.
'I don't want to go back there, Gran, I can't!'
'Then she'll pick away at your memory until there is nothing left; she doesn't want that — she's after revenge. You have to go back to the Crimea, Thursday. Face up to the worst and grow stronger from it.'
'No,' I said, 'I won't go back there and you can't make me.'
I got up without a word and went to have a bath, trying to soak away the worries. Aornis, Landen, Goliath, the ChronoGuard and now Perkins and Snell's murders here in the BookWorld; I'd need a bath the size of Windermere to soak those away. I had come to Caversham Heights to stay away from crisis and conflict — but they seemed to follow me around like a stray dodo.
I stayed in the bath long enough to need to top it up with hot water twice, and when I came out I found Gran sitting on the laundry basket outside the door.
'Ready?' she asked softly.
'Yes,' I replied, 'I'm ready.'
I slept in my own bed — Gran said she would sit in the armchair and wake me if things looked as though they were getting out of hand. I stared at the ceiling, the gentle curve of the wooden panelling and the single-domed ceiling light. I stayed awake for hours, long after Gran had fallen asleep and dropped her copy of Tristram Shandy on the floor. Night and sleep had once been a time of joyous reunion with Landen, a collection of moments that I treasured: tea and hot buttered crumpets, curled up in front of a crackling log fire, or golden moments on the beach, cavorting in slow motion as the sun went down. But no longer. With Aornis about, my memory was now a battleground. And with the whistle of an artillery shell I was back where I least wanted to be — the Crimea.
'So there you are!' cried Aornis, grinning at me from her seat in the armoured personnel carrier as the wounded were removed. I had returned from the lines to the forward dressing station where the disaster had generated a state of sustained and highly controlled panic. Cries of 'Medic!' and swearing punctuated the air, while less than three miles away we could still hear the sound of the Russian guns pummelling the remains of the Wessex Light Tank. Sergeant Tozer stepped from the back of the APC with his hand still inside the leg of a soldier as he tried to staunch the bleeding; another soldier blinded by splinters was jabbering on about some girl he had left back home in Bradford on Avon.
'You haven't dreamed for a few nights,' said Aornis as we watched the casualties being unloaded. 'Have you missed me?'
'Not even an atom,' I replied, adding: 'Are we done?' to the medics unloading the APC.
'We're done!' came back the reply, and with my foot I flicked the switch that raised the rear door.
'Where do you think you're going?' asked a red-faced officer I didn't recognise.
'To pick up the rest, sir!'
'The hell you are!' he replied. 'We're sending in Red Cross trucks under a flag of truce!'
It would take too long and we both knew it. I dropped back into the earner, revved the engine and was soon heading back into the fray. The amount of dust thrown up might screen me — as long as the guns kept firing. Even so, I still felt the whine of a near-miss and once an explosion went off close by, the concussion shattering the glass in the instrument panel.
'Disobeying a direct order, Thursday?' said Aornis scathingly. 'They'll court-martial you!'
'But they didn't,' I replied, 'they gave me a medal instead.'
'But you didn't go back for a gong, did you?'
'It was my duty. What do you want me to say?'
The noise grew louder as I drove towards the front line. I felt something large pluck at my vehicle and the roof opened up, revealing in the dust a shaft of sunlight that was curiously beautiful. The same unseen hand picked up the carrier and threw it in the air. It ran along on one track for a few yards and then fell back upright. The engine was still functioning, the controls still felt right; I carried on, oblivious to the damage. It was only when I reached up for the wireless switch that I realised the roof had been partially blown off, and it was only later that I discovered an inch-long gash in my chin.
'It was your duty, all right, Thursday, but it was not for the army, regiment, brigade or platoon — certainly not for English interests in the Crimea. You went back for Anton, didn't you?'
Everything stopped. The noise, the explosions, everything. My brother Anton. Why did she have to bring him up?
'Anton,' I whispered.
'Your dear brother Anton,' replied Aornis. 'Yes. You worshipped him. From the time he built you a tree house in the back garden. You joined the army to be like him, didn't you?'
I said nothing. It was true, all true. Tears started to course down my cheeks. Anton had been, quite simply, the best elder brother a girl could have. He always had time for me and always included me in whatever he got up to. My anger at losing him had been driving me for longer than I cared to remember.
'I brought you here so you can remember what it's like to lose a brother. If you could find the man that killed Anton, what would you do to him?'
'Losing Anton was not the moral equivalent of killing Acheron,' I shouted. 'Hades deserved to die — Anton was just doing his misguided patriotic duty!'
We had arrived outside the remains of Anton's APC. The guns were firing more sporadically now, picking their targets more carefully; I could hear the sound of small arms as the Russian infantry advanced to retake the lost ground. I released the rear door. It was jammed but it didn't matter; the side door had vanished with the roof and I rapidly packed twenty-two wounded soldiers into an APC designed to carry eight. I closed my eyes and started to cry. It was like seeing a car accident about to happen, the futility of knowing something is about to occur but being unable to do anything about it.
'Hey, Thuzzy!' said Anton in the voice I knew so well. Only he had ever called me that; it was the last word he would speak. I opened my eyes and there he was, as large as life and, despite the obvious danger, smiling.
'No!' I shouted, knowing full well what was going to happen next. 'Stop! Don't come over here!'
But he did, as he had done all those years before. He stepped out of cover and ran across to me. The side of my APC was blown open and I could see him clearly.
'Please, no!' I shouted, my eyes full of tears. The memory of that day would fill my mind for years to come. I would immerse myself in work to get away from it.
'Come back for me, Thuz—!'
And then the shell hit him.
He didn't explode; he just sort of vanished in a red mist. I didn't remember driving back and I didn't remember being arrested and confined to barracks. I didn't remember anything up until the moment Sergeant Tozer told me to have a shower and clean myself up. I remember treading on the small pieces of sharp bone that washed out of my hair in the shower.
'This is what you try and forget, isn't it?' said Aornis, smiling at me as I tugged my fingers through my matted hair, heart thumping, the fear and pain of loss tensing my every muscle and numbing my senses. I tried to grab her by the throat in the shower but my fingers collapsed on nothing and I barked my knuckles on the shower stall. I swore and thumped the wall.
'You all right, Thursday?' said Prudence, a W/T operator from Lincoln in the next shower. 'They said you went back. Is that true?'
'Yes, it's true,' put in Aornis, 'and she'll be going back again right now!'
The shower room vanished and we were back on the battlefield, heading towards the wrecked armour amid the smoke and dust.
'Well!' said Aornis, clapping her hands happily. 'We should be able to manage at least eight of these before dawn — don't you just hate reruns?'
I stopped the APC near the smashed tank and the wounded were heaved aboard.
'Hey, Thursday!' said a familiar male voice. I opened one eye and looked across at the soldier with his face bloodied and less than ten seconds of existence remaining on his slate. But it wasn't Anton — it was another officer, the one I had met earlier and with whom I had become involved.
'Thursday!' said Gran in a loud voice. 'Thursday, wake up!'
I was back in my bed on the Sunderland, drenched in sweat. I wished it had all just been a bad dream; but it was a bad dream and that was the worst of it.
'Anton's not dead,' I gabbled. 'He didn't die in the Crimea it was that other guy and that's the reason he's not here now because he died and I've been telling myself it was because he was eradicated by the ChronoGuard but he wasn't and—'
'Thursday!' snapped Gran. 'Thursday, that is not how it happened. Aornis is trying to fool with your mind. Anton died in the charge.'
'No, it was the other guy—'
'Landen?'
But the name meant little to me. Gran explained about Aornis and Landen and mnemonomorphs and, although I understood what she was saying, I didn't fully believe her. After all, I had seen the Landen fellow die in front of my own eyes, hadn't I?
'Gran,' I said, 'are you having one of your fuzzy moments?'
'No,' she replied, 'far from it.'
But her voice didn't have the same sort of confidence it usually did. She wrote Landen on my hand with a felt pen and I went back to sleep wondering what Anton was up to and thinking about the short and passionate fling I had enjoyed in the Crimea with that lieutenant, the one whose name I couldn't remember — the one who died in the charge.
23
I felt tired and washed out the following morning Gran was still fast asleep, snoring loudly with Pickwick on her lap, when I got up I made a cup of coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table reading Movable Type and feeling grotty when there was a gentle rap at the door I looked up too quickly and my head throbbed.
'Yes?' I called
'It's Dr Fnorp I teach Lola and Randolph.'
I opened the door, checked his ID and let him in He was a tall man who seemed quite short and was dark haired although on occasion seemed blond. He spoke with a notable accent from nowhere at all, and he had a limp — or perhaps not He was a Generic's Generic -all things to all people.
'Coffee?'
'Thank you,' he said, adding 'Ah-ha!' when he saw the article I had been reading 'Every year there are more categories!'
He was referring to the BookWorld Awards which had, I noted earlier, been sponsored by Ultra Word™.
'"Dopiest Shakespearean Character,'" he read. 'Othello should win that one hands down. Are you going to the Bookies?'
He paused.
'And Thursday?' 'Yes?'
'Thanks.'
I drove back to the flying boat. Having said I wasn't going to get involved with any internal politics, I was surprised by how much of a kinship with Caversham Heights I was feeling. Admittedly, the book was pretty dreadful, but it was no worse than the average Farquitt — perhaps I felt this way because it was my home.
* * *
'Are we going shopping now?' asked Lola, who had been waiting for me. 'I need something to wear for the BookWorld Awards the week after next.''Are you invited?'
'We all are,' she breathed excitedly. 'Apparently the organisers are borrowing a displacement field technology from SF. The long and short of it is that we will all be able to fit in the Starlight Room — it's going to be quite an event!'
'It certainly will,' I said, going upstairs. Lola followed me and watched from my bed as I changed out of Mary's clothes.
'You're quite important at Jurisfiction, aren't you?'
'Not really,' I replied, trying to do up my trouser button and realising that it was tighter than normal.
'Blast!' I said.
'What?'
'My trousers are too small.'
'Shrunk?'
'No …' I replied, staring into the mirror. There was no doubt about it. I was starting to put on a small amount of girth. I stared at it this way and that and Lola did the same, trying to figure out what I was looking at.
Catalogue shopping from the inside was a lot more fun than I had thought. Lola squeaked with delight at all the clothes on offer and tried about thirty different types of perfume before deciding not to buy any at all — she, in common with nearly all bookpeople, had no sense of smell. Watching her was like letting a child loose in a toy store — and her energy for shopping was almost unbelievable. It was while we were on the lingerie page that she asked me about Randolph.
'What do you think of him?'
'Oh, he's fine,' I replied non-committally, sitting on a chair and thinking of babies while Lola tried on one bra after another, each of which she seemed to love to bits until the next one. 'Why do you ask?'
'Well, I rather like him in a funny kind of way.'
'Does he like you?'
'I'm not sure. I think that's why he ignores me and makes jokes about my weight. Men always do that when they're interested. It's called subtext, Thursday — I'll tell you all about it some day.'
'Okay,' I said slowly, 'so what's the problem?'
'He doesn't really have a lot of, well, charisma.'
'There are lots of men out there, Lola,' I told her. 'Don't hurry. When I was seventeen I had the hots for this complete and utter flake named Darren. My mother disapproved, which made him into something of a magnet.'
'Ah!' said Lola. 'What about this bra?'
'I thought the pink suited you better.'
'Which pink? There were twelve.'
'The sixth pink, just after the tenth black and nineteenth lacy.'
'Okay, let's look at that one again.'
She rummaged through the pile, found what she wanted and said:
'Thursday?'
'Yes?'
'Randolph calls me a tart because I like boys. Do you think that's fair?'
'It's one of the great injustices of life,' I told her. 'If he did the same he'd be toasted as a "ladies' man". But Lola, have you met anyone who you really liked, someone with whom you'd like to spend more exclusive time?'
'You mean — a boyfriend?'
'Yes.'
She paused and looked at herself in the mirror.
'I don't think I'm written that way, Thurs. But you know, sometimes, just afterwards, you know, when there is that really nice moment and I'm in his big strong arms and feeling sleepy and warm and contented, I can feel there is something that I need just outside my grasp — something I want but can't have.'
'You mean love?'
'No — a Mercedes.'
She wasn't joking.[16]
It was my footnoterphone.
'Hang on, Lola — Thursday speaking.'[17]
I looked at Lola, who was trying on a basque.
'Yes,' I replied, 'why?'[18]
'The safe side of what?'[19]
'I see. What can I do for you apart from answering questions about pianos?'[20]
I wasn't busy. Apart from a Jurisfiction session tomorrow at midday, I was clear.
'Sure. Where and when?'[21]
'Okay.'
Lola was looking at me mournfully.
'Does this mean we'll have to miss out on the gym? We have to go to the gym — if I don't I'll feel guilty about eating all those cakes.'
'What cakes?'
'The ones I'm going to eat on the way to the gym.'
'I think you get enough exercise, Lola. But we've got half an hour yet — c'mon, I'll buy you a coffee.'
21
Who stole the tarts?
'My first adult foray into the BookWorld had not been without controversy. I had entered Jane Eyre and changed the ending. Originally, Jane goes off to India with the drippy St John Rivers, but in the ending that I engineered, Jane and Rochester married. I made the decision from the heart, which I had not been trained to do but couldn't help myself. Everyone liked the new ending but my actions weren't without criticism. Technically I had committed a fiction infraction, and I would have to face the music. My first hearing in Kafka's The Trial had been inconclusive. The trial before the King and Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland would not be as strange — it would be stranger.'
THURSDAY NEXT — The Jurisfiction Chronicles
The Gryphon was a creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. In his youth he must have been a frightening creature to behold, but in his later years he wore spectacles and a scarf, which somewhat dented his otherwise fearsome appearance.
He was, I was told, one of the finest legal eagles around, and after Snell's death he became head of the Jurisfiction legal team. It was the Gryphon who managed to secure the record pay-out following the celebrated Farmer’s Wife v. Three Blind Mice case and was instrumental in reducing Nemo's piracy charges to 'accidental manslaughter'.
The Gryphon was reading my notes when I arrived and made small and incomprehensible noises as he flicked through the pages, grunting here and there and staring at me over his spectacles with large eyes.
'Well!' he said. 'We should be in for some fun now!'
'Fun?' I repeated. 'Defending a Class II fiction infraction?'
'I'm prosecuting a class action for blindness against the Triffids this afternoon,' said the Gryphon soberly, 'and the Martians' war crimes trial in War of the Worlds just drags on and on. Believe me, a fiction infraction is fun. Do you want to see my case load?'
'No thanks.'
'Okay. We'll see what their witnesses have to say and how Hopkins presents his case. I may decide not to put you on the stand. Please don't do anything stupid like grow — it nearly destroyed Alice's case there and then. And if the Queen orders your head to be cut off, ignore her.'
'Okay.' I sighed. 'Let's get on with it.'
The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their thrones when we arrived, but they were the only people in the courtroom who were seemingly composed — Alice's exit two pages earlier had caused a considerable amount of distress to the jury, who were back in their places but were bickering furiously with the foreman, a rabbit who stared back at them, nibbling a large carrot that he had somehow smuggled in.
The Knave of Hearts was being escorted back to the cells and the tarts — exhibit 'A' — were being taken away and replaced by the original manuscript of Jane Eyre. Seated before the King and Queen was prosecuting attorney Matthew Hopkins and a collection of very severe-looking birds. He glared at me with barely concealed venom. He looked a lot less amused than when we last crossed swords in The Trial, and he hadn't looked particularly amused then. The King was obviously the judge because he wore a large wig, but quite which part the Queen of Hearts was to play in the proceedings, I had no idea.
The twelve jurors calmed down and all started writing busily on their slates.
'What are they doing?' I whispered to the Gryphon. 'The trial hasn't even begun yet!'
'Silence in court!' yelled the White Rabbit in a shrill voice.
'Off with her head!' yelled the Queen.
The King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to find out who had been talking. The Queen nudged him and nodded in my direction.
'You there!' he said. 'You will have your say soon enough, Miss, Miss …'
'Next,' put in the White Rabbit after consulting his parchment.
'Really?' replied the King with some confusion. 'Does that mean we're done?'
'No, Your Majesty,' replied the White Rabbit patiently, 'her name is Next. Thursday Next.'
'I suppose you think that's funny?'
'No indeed, Your Majesty,' I replied. 'It was the name I was born with.'
The jurymen all frantically started to write 'It was the name I was born with' on their slates.
'You're an Outlander, aren't you?' said the Queen, who had been staring at me for some time.
'Yes, Your Majesty.'
'Then answer me this: when there are two people and one of them has left, who is left? The person who is left or the person who has left? I mean, they can't both be left, can they?'
'Herald, read the accusation!' said the King.
At this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:
'Miss Thursday Next is hereby accused of a fiction infraction Class II against the Jurisfiction penal code FAL/0605937 and pursuant to the BookWorld general law regarding continuity of plot lines, as ratified to the Council of Genres, 1584.'
'Consider your verdict,' said the King to the jury.
'Objection!' cried the Gryphon. 'There's a great deal to come before that!'
'Overruled!' shouted the King, adding: 'Or do I mean "sustained"? I always get the two mixed up — it's a bit like "feed a cold and starve a fever" or "starve a cold and feed a fever". I never know which is right. At any rate, you may call the first witness.'
The White Rabbit blew three more blasts on the trumpet, and called out:
'First witness!'
The first witness was Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper at Thornfield Hall, Rochester's home. She blinked and looked around the court slowly, smiling at Hopkins and glaring at me. She was assisted into the witness box by an usher who was in reality a large guinea pig.
'Do you promise to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?' asked the White Rabbit.
'I do.'
'Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly all wrote "write that down" on their slates.
'Mrs Fairfax,' began Hopkins, rising to his feet, 'I want you to tell me in your own words the events surrounding Miss Next's intrusion into Jane Eyre, starting at the beginning and not stopping until you get to the end …'
'And then what?' asked the King.
'Then she may stop,' said Hopkins with a trace of annoyance.
'Ah,' said the King in the voice of someone who thinks they understand a great deal but are sadly mistaken, 'proceed.'
For the next two hours we listened not only to Mrs Fairfax but also Grace Poole, Blanche Ingram and St John Rivers, all giving evidence to explain the old ending and how by calling 'Jane, Jane, Jane!' at Jane's bedroom I had changed the narrative completely. The jury tried to keep up with the proceedings, and they wrote as and when directed by the King until there was no more room on their slates, whereupon they tried to write on the benches in front of them, and failing that, on each other.
After every witness the smallest dormouse in the jury was excused for a trip to the bathroom, which gave the Gryphon time to explain to the King — who probably wouldn't have been able to touch his head with his eyes shut — the procedure of the law. When the dormouse returned the witness was given to the Gryphon for cross-examination, and every time he called: 'No further questions.' The afternoon wore on and it became hotter in the courtroom. The Queen grew more and more bored, and seemed to demand the verdict on a more and more frequent basis, once even asking during a witness's testimony.
And throughout this tedious performance, as the characters from Jane Eyre came and repeated the truth in front of me, a seemingly endless parade of guinea pigs interrupted the proceedings. Each one was immediately set upon and placed head first into a large canvas bag, then ejected from the court. Each time this happened there followed a quite inordinate amount of confusion, cries and noise. As the din grew to fever pitch the Queen would scream, 'Off with his head! Off with his head!' as though she were somehow in direct competition with the tumult. By the time the latest guinea pig had been thrown from the court, Grace Poole had vanished in a cloud of alcoholic vapours, and no one knew where she was.
'Never mind!' said the King, with an air of great relief. 'Call the next witness.' He added in an undertone to the Queen: 'Really, my dear, you must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!'
I watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list and read out at the top of his shrill little voice the name: 'Thursday Next!'
'Excuse me,' said the Gryphon, stirring himself from the lethargy he had shown throughout the trial, 'but Miss Next will not be giving evidence against herself in this court of law.'
'Is that allowed?' asked the King. The jury all looked at one another and shrugged.
'It proves she's guilty!' screamed the Queen. 'Off with her head! Off with—'
'It proves nothing of the sort,' interrupted the Gryphon. The Queen went scarlet and would probably have exploded had not the King laid his hand on her arm.
'Come, come, my dear,' he said softly, 'you must stay calm. All these orders of execution are probably not good for your hearts.' He chuckled. 'Hearts,' he said again. 'I say, I've made a joke, that's rather good, don't you think?'
The jury all laughed dutifully and the brighter ones explained to the more stupid ones what the joke was, and the stupid ones explained to the even stupider ones what a joke actually is.
Excuse me,' said the dormouse again, 'may I go to the bathroom?'
'Again?' bellowed the King. 'You must have a bladder the size of a peanut.'
'A grain of rice, so please Your Majesty,' said the dormouse, knees knocking together.
'Very well,' said the King, 'but make it quick. Now, can we reach a verdict?'
'Now who wants a verdict?' asked the Queen triumphantly.
'There's more evidence to come yet, please Your Majesty,' said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry. 'We have to hear from the defence yet.'
'The defence?' asked the King wearily. 'Haven't we just heard from them?'
'No, Your Majesty,' replied the White Rabbit. 'That was the prosecution.'
'The two always confuse me,' replied the King, staring at his feet, 'a bit like that "overruled" and "sustained" malarkey — which was which again?'
'The prosecution rests,' said Hopkins, who could see that this trial might last for months if he didn't get a move on, 'and I think,' he added, 'we have conclusively proved that Miss Next not only hanged the ending of Jane Eyre but was also premeditated in her actions. This is not a court of opinion, it is a court of law, and there is only one verdict which this court can reach — guilty.'
'I told you she was guilty,' muttered the King, getting up to leave.
'Please Your Majesty,' said the White Rabbit, 'that was just the prosecution summing-up. You must listen to the defence now.
'Ah!' said the King, sitting down again.
The Gryphon stood up and walked to the jury box. They all recoiled in fear as he scratched his chin with a large paw. The dormouse put up his hand again to be excused and was allowed to leave. When he had returned the Gryphon began.
'The question here is not whether Miss Next took a few textual and narrative liberties with the end of Jane Eyre, as my learne friend the prosecution has made so abundantly clear. We admit that she did.'
There was a gasp from the jury.
'No, I contend that while Miss Next broke the law in a technical sense, she did so for the best possible motives — love.'
The Gryphon paused for dramatic effect.
'Love?' said the King. 'Is that a defence?'
'Historically speaking,' whispered the White Rabbit, 'one of the best, Your Majesty.'
'Ah!' said the King. 'Proceed.'
'And not for her own love either,' continued the Gryphon. 'She did it so that two others who were in love might stay that way and not be parted. For such things are against the natural order, a court far higher than the court Miss Next faces today.'
There was silence, so he continued:
'I contend that Miss Next is a very extraordinary person with a selfless streak that demands the highest leniency from this court. I have only one witness to call who will prove the veracity of this defence. I call … Edward Rochester!'
There was a sharp intake of breath and the remaining guinea pig fainted clean away. The clerks of the court, unsure what to do, popped the guinea pig in a sack and sat on it.
'Call Edward Rochester!' cried the White Rabbit in his shrill voice, a demand that was echoed four times with a succession of voices each diminished further by the distance.
We heard his footfalls shuffle on the floor before we saw him, a slightly hesitant stride with the click of a cane for punctuation. He walked slowly into the courtroom with a fragile yet resolute air, and scanned the room carefully to gauge, as well as he could, which of the shapes before him were judge, jury and counsel. The change I had wrought upon Jane Eyre had not been without its price. Rochester had lost a hand and had only the milkiest vision in one eye. I put my hand to my mouth as I watched his form shuffle into the silenced courtroom. If I had known the outcome of my actions, would I still have taken them? Acheron's perfidy had been the author of Rochester's ills, but I had been the catalyst.
Edward's face was healed although badly scarred, but it did no desperate harm to his looks. He took the oath, his features glowering beneath the dark hair that hung in front of his face.
'Excuse me,' said the dormouse who was sitting closest to Rochester, 'would you sign my slate, please?'
Rochester gave a dour half-smile, took the stylus and said:
'Name?'
'Alan.'
Rochester signed and returned the slate and was instantly handed eleven more, all wiped clean of their carefully written notes.
'Enough!' roared the King. 'I will not have my court turned into a haven for autograph hunters! We pursue the truth here, not celebrities!'
There was dead silence.
'But if you wouldn't mind,' said the King, passing his notebook down to Rochester and adding quietly: 'It's for my daughter.'
'And your daughter's name?' asked Rochester, pen poised.
'Rupert.'
Rochester signed the book and passed it back.
'Mr Rochester,' said the Gryphon, 'I wonder if you might expound in your own words on what Miss Next's actions have done for you?'
The court fell silent. Even the King and Queen were interested to hear what Mr Rochester had to say.
'To me alone?' replied Rochester slowly. 'Nothing. For us, my own dear sweet Jane and I — everything!'
He clenched the hand that carried his wedding ring, rubbing the band of gold with his thumb, trying to turn his feelings into words.
'What has Miss Next not done for us?' he intoned quietly. 'She has given us everything we could want. She has released us both from a prison that was not of our making, a dungeon of depression from which we thought we should never be free. Miss Next gave us the opportunity to love and be loved — I can think of no greater gift anyone could have been given, no word in my head can express the thanks that are ours, for her.'
There was silence in the courtroom. Even the Queen had fallen quiet and was staring — quite like a fish, I thought — at Rochester.
The Gryphon's voice broke the silence.
'Your witness.'
'Ah!' said Hopkins, gathering his thoughts. 'Tell me, Mr Rochester, just to confirm one point: did Miss Next change the end of your novel?'
'Although I am now, as you see, maimed,' replied Rochester, 'no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut tree in Thornfield orchard, I am happier than I have ever been. Yes, sir, Miss Next changed the ending, and I thank her every evening for it!'
Hopkins smiled.
'No further questions.'
'Well,' said the Gryphon after the court had been adjourned for the King to consider what form the sentence should take. The Queen, unusually for her, had called for acquittal. The word sounded alien on her lips and everyone stared at her with shock when she said it — Bill the lizard almost choked and had to be slapped on the back.
'The outcome was a foregone conclusion,' said the Gryphon, nodding his respect to Hopkins, who was organising some notes with the White Rabbit, 'but I knew Rochester would put a good show on for you. The King and Queen of Hearts may be the stupidest couple ever to preside over a court, but they are, after all, Hearts, and since you were undeniably guilty, we needed a court to show a bit of compassion when it came to sentencing.'
'Compassion?' I echoed with some surprise. 'With the Queen of "Off with her head"?'
'It's just her little way,' replied the Gryphon. 'She never actually executes anyone. I was just worried for a moment that they might try to hold you on remand until the sentencing, but fortunately the King isn't very up on legal terminology.'
'What do you think I'll get?'
'Do you know,' replied the Gryphon, 'I have absolutely no idea. Time will tell. I'll see you around, Next!'
I made my way slowly back to the Jurisfiction offices, where I found Miss Havisham.
'How did it go?' she asked.
'Guilty as charged.'
'Bad luck. When's the sentencing?'
'Not a clue.'
'Might not be for years, Thursday. I've got something for you.'
She passed me across the report I had written for her regarding Shadow the Sheepdog. I read the mark on the cover, then read it again, then looked at Havisham.
'A++ Hons?' I echoed, incredulously.
'Think I'm being over-generous?' she asked.
'Well, yes,' I said, feeling confused. 'I was forcibly married and then nearly murdered!'
'Marriage by force is not recognised, Next. But bear this in mind: We've given that particular assignment to every new Jurisfiction apprentice for the past thirty-two years and every single one has failed.'
I gaped at her.
'Even Harris Tweed.'
'Tweed was married to Mr Townsperson?'
'Apart from that bit. He didn't even manage to buy the pigs — let alone fool the vet. You did well, Next. Your cause-and-effect technique is good. Needs work, but good.'
'Oh!' I said, kind of relieved, then added after a moment's reflection: 'But I could have been killed!'
'You wouldn't have been killed,' she assured me. 'Jurisfiction has eyes and ears everywhere — we're not that reckless with our apprentices. Your multiple-choice mark was ninety-three per cent. Congratulations. Pending final submissions to the Council of Genres, you're made.'
I thought about this and felt some pride in it, despite knowing in my heart of hearts that this would not be a long appointment — as soon as I could return to the Outland, I would.
'Did you find out anything about Perkins?'
'Nothing,' I replied. 'Any news of Vernham Deane?'
'Vanished without trace. The Bellman's going to talk to us about it.'
'Could the two be related?'
'Perhaps,' she said, slightly mysteriously. 'I'll have to make further enquiries. Ask me again tomorrow.'
22
Crimean nightmares
'Echolocator: An artisan who will enter a book close to publication and locate echoed words and destroy echoed words in the publication. As a general rule, identical words (with exceptions such as names, small words and modified repetitions) cannot be repeated within fifteen words as it interrupts the smooth transfer of images into the reader's mind. (See ImaginoTransference Device User’s Manual, page 782.) Although echoes can be jarring to the eye they are more jarring when read out loud, which belies their origin from the first OralTrad Operating System. (See also OralTradPlus, Operating Systems, History of.)
UA OF W CAT— The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)
'Ah!' said Gran as I walked through the door. 'There you are! How were things at work today?'
'Good and bad,' I told her, sitting on the sofa and undoing the top button of my trousers. 'The good news is I passed the Jurisfiction practical; the bad news is that I was found guilty of my fiction infraction.'
'What was the sentence?'
'I'll have to wait for that.'
'Waiting's the worst part,' she murmured. 'I was up for murder once and the worst part of it all was waiting for the jury to come back with their verdict. Longest eight hours of my life.'
'I believe you. Did you go home today?'
She nodded. 'I brought you a few bits and bobs. I notice there is no chocolate here in the WOLP — nothing worth eating, anyway.'
'Did you find anything out about Yorrick Kaine?'
'Not much,' replied Gran, eating the chocolate she had brought for me, 'but he's not in hiding or anything. He's bought another publishing house and at the same time trying to rebuild his political career after that Cardenio debacle.'
'Ah. Where are Lola and Randolph?'
'At a party, I think. You look all done in — why don't you get an early night?'
'And have what's-her-name pester me?'
She looked at me seriously through her large-framed spectacles. 'Aornis. It's Aornis. Remember?'
'Yes. Who was my husband again?'
'Landen. He was eradicated by the Chronoguard, yes?'
I remembered and my heart sank.
'Yes,' I said in a quiet voice. I had been happy in my non-remembering state but now I could feel the anger rising again.
'Sometimes I think it would be better if I just forgot, Gran.'
'Never say that, Thursday!' said Gran so sharply I jumped and she had to rest for a moment to get her breath back and eat a few more chocolates. 'Aornis has no right to take that which does not belong to her and you must be strong with her, and yourself— retake your memories!'
'Easier said than done, Gran,' I said, trying to grab a chocolate as they were pulled out of my reach. 'I want to dream about—'
'Landen.'
'Landen, yes — I want to dream about him again. He's there but we don't talk like we used to.'
The door banged open and Randolph walked in. He ignored us both and hung up his coat.
'Randolph?' I said. 'You okay?'
'Me?' he said, not looking at either of us. 'I'm fine. It's that tarty little bitchlet who's going to come to a sticky end — she can't talk to a man without wanting to add him to her collection!'
And he walked out.
'Is she all right?' I called after him, but all we heard was the door to their bedroom slam shut. We looked at one another and shrugged.
'Where were we?'
'I was telling you how I never dream about Landen the way I used to. We used to go to the really great memories we shared. We never got to — you know — but it was wonderful. At least I had some control of where I went when the "Sable Goddess" laid down her cloak.'
Gran looked at me and patted my hand reassuringly.
'You need to make her feel she's winning, Thursday. Lull her into a trap. She might think she is in command but she's only in your mind and you are the one who controls what you think. Our memories are precious and should never be sullied by an outside agent.'
'Of course — but how?'
'Well,' said Gran, passing me a chocolate she didn't like, 'it isn't Aornis up there, my dear, it's only your memory of her. She's alone and afraid too. Without the real Aornis here in the BookWorld she doesn't have so much power; all she can do is try and—'
The door burst open again. This time it was Lola. She looked as though she had been crying. She stopped dead when she saw us.
'Ah!' she said. 'Is rat-face shit-for-brains in?'
'Do you mean Randolph?'
'Who else?'
'Then yes, he is.'
'Right!' she announced. 'I'll go and sleep over at Nemo's.'
She started to leave.
'Wait!' I said. 'What's going on?'
She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Her bag slid down and hung off her elbow, which spoiled the illusion, but Lola was past caring.
'I went to meet him for coffee after college and blow me if he's not talking to that little D-2 runt — you know, the one with the silly eyes and the stupid snorty laugh?'
'Lola,' I said quietly, 'they were probably just talking.'
She looked at her hands for a moment.
'You're right,' she announced, 'and what do I care anyway? They clearly deserve one another!'
'I heard that!' said a voice from the back of the flying boat. Randolph strode into the kitchen and waved a finger at Lola, who glared back angrily.
'You've got a nerve accusing me of being with another woman when you've slept with almost everyone at school!'
'And so what if I have?' screamed Lola. 'Who are you, my father? Have you been spying on me?'
'Even the worst spy in the genre couldn't fail to notice what you're up to — don't you know the meaning of the word "discretion"?'
'One-dimensional!'
'Cardboard!'
'Stereotype!'
'Predictable!'
'Jerk-off!'
'ARSEHOLE!'
'Duck, Gran,' I whispered as Lola picked up a vase and threw it at Randolph. It missed and went sailing over the top of our heads to shatter on the far wall.
'Okay,' I said loudly, using my best and most assertive voice, 'any more crap out of you two and you can live somewhere else. Randolph, you can sleep on the sofa. Lola, you can go to your room. And if I hear a peep out of either of you I'll have you both allocated to knitting patterns — GET IT?'
They went quiet, mumbled something about being sorry and walked slowly from the kitchen.
'Oh, that was good, balls-for-brains,' muttered Lola as they moved off, 'get us both into trouble, why don't you?'
'Me?' he returned angrily. 'Your knickers are off so often I'm amazed you bother with them at all.'
'DID YOU HEAR ME?' I yelled after them, and there was quiet.
Gran was picking bits of broken vase from the table top. 'Where were we?' she asked.
'Er … retaking my memories?'
'Exactly so. She'll be wanting to try and break you down, so things are going to get worse before they get better — only when she thinks she has defeated you can we go on the offensive.'
'What do you mean by getting worse? Hades? Landen's eradication? Darren? How far do I have to go?'
'Back to the worst time of all — the truth about what happened during the charge.'
'Anton.'
I groaned and rubbed my face.
'I don't want to go back there, Gran, I can't!'
'Then she'll pick away at your memory until there is nothing left; she doesn't want that — she's after revenge. You have to go back to the Crimea, Thursday. Face up to the worst and grow stronger from it.'
'No,' I said, 'I won't go back there and you can't make me.'
I got up without a word and went to have a bath, trying to soak away the worries. Aornis, Landen, Goliath, the ChronoGuard and now Perkins and Snell's murders here in the BookWorld; I'd need a bath the size of Windermere to soak those away. I had come to Caversham Heights to stay away from crisis and conflict — but they seemed to follow me around like a stray dodo.
I stayed in the bath long enough to need to top it up with hot water twice, and when I came out I found Gran sitting on the laundry basket outside the door.
'Ready?' she asked softly.
'Yes,' I replied, 'I'm ready.'
I slept in my own bed — Gran said she would sit in the armchair and wake me if things looked as though they were getting out of hand. I stared at the ceiling, the gentle curve of the wooden panelling and the single-domed ceiling light. I stayed awake for hours, long after Gran had fallen asleep and dropped her copy of Tristram Shandy on the floor. Night and sleep had once been a time of joyous reunion with Landen, a collection of moments that I treasured: tea and hot buttered crumpets, curled up in front of a crackling log fire, or golden moments on the beach, cavorting in slow motion as the sun went down. But no longer. With Aornis about, my memory was now a battleground. And with the whistle of an artillery shell I was back where I least wanted to be — the Crimea.
'So there you are!' cried Aornis, grinning at me from her seat in the armoured personnel carrier as the wounded were removed. I had returned from the lines to the forward dressing station where the disaster had generated a state of sustained and highly controlled panic. Cries of 'Medic!' and swearing punctuated the air, while less than three miles away we could still hear the sound of the Russian guns pummelling the remains of the Wessex Light Tank. Sergeant Tozer stepped from the back of the APC with his hand still inside the leg of a soldier as he tried to staunch the bleeding; another soldier blinded by splinters was jabbering on about some girl he had left back home in Bradford on Avon.
'You haven't dreamed for a few nights,' said Aornis as we watched the casualties being unloaded. 'Have you missed me?'
'Not even an atom,' I replied, adding: 'Are we done?' to the medics unloading the APC.
'We're done!' came back the reply, and with my foot I flicked the switch that raised the rear door.
'Where do you think you're going?' asked a red-faced officer I didn't recognise.
'To pick up the rest, sir!'
'The hell you are!' he replied. 'We're sending in Red Cross trucks under a flag of truce!'
It would take too long and we both knew it. I dropped back into the earner, revved the engine and was soon heading back into the fray. The amount of dust thrown up might screen me — as long as the guns kept firing. Even so, I still felt the whine of a near-miss and once an explosion went off close by, the concussion shattering the glass in the instrument panel.
'Disobeying a direct order, Thursday?' said Aornis scathingly. 'They'll court-martial you!'
'But they didn't,' I replied, 'they gave me a medal instead.'
'But you didn't go back for a gong, did you?'
'It was my duty. What do you want me to say?'
The noise grew louder as I drove towards the front line. I felt something large pluck at my vehicle and the roof opened up, revealing in the dust a shaft of sunlight that was curiously beautiful. The same unseen hand picked up the carrier and threw it in the air. It ran along on one track for a few yards and then fell back upright. The engine was still functioning, the controls still felt right; I carried on, oblivious to the damage. It was only when I reached up for the wireless switch that I realised the roof had been partially blown off, and it was only later that I discovered an inch-long gash in my chin.
'It was your duty, all right, Thursday, but it was not for the army, regiment, brigade or platoon — certainly not for English interests in the Crimea. You went back for Anton, didn't you?'
Everything stopped. The noise, the explosions, everything. My brother Anton. Why did she have to bring him up?
'Anton,' I whispered.
'Your dear brother Anton,' replied Aornis. 'Yes. You worshipped him. From the time he built you a tree house in the back garden. You joined the army to be like him, didn't you?'
I said nothing. It was true, all true. Tears started to course down my cheeks. Anton had been, quite simply, the best elder brother a girl could have. He always had time for me and always included me in whatever he got up to. My anger at losing him had been driving me for longer than I cared to remember.
'I brought you here so you can remember what it's like to lose a brother. If you could find the man that killed Anton, what would you do to him?'
'Losing Anton was not the moral equivalent of killing Acheron,' I shouted. 'Hades deserved to die — Anton was just doing his misguided patriotic duty!'
We had arrived outside the remains of Anton's APC. The guns were firing more sporadically now, picking their targets more carefully; I could hear the sound of small arms as the Russian infantry advanced to retake the lost ground. I released the rear door. It was jammed but it didn't matter; the side door had vanished with the roof and I rapidly packed twenty-two wounded soldiers into an APC designed to carry eight. I closed my eyes and started to cry. It was like seeing a car accident about to happen, the futility of knowing something is about to occur but being unable to do anything about it.
'Hey, Thuzzy!' said Anton in the voice I knew so well. Only he had ever called me that; it was the last word he would speak. I opened my eyes and there he was, as large as life and, despite the obvious danger, smiling.
'No!' I shouted, knowing full well what was going to happen next. 'Stop! Don't come over here!'
But he did, as he had done all those years before. He stepped out of cover and ran across to me. The side of my APC was blown open and I could see him clearly.
'Please, no!' I shouted, my eyes full of tears. The memory of that day would fill my mind for years to come. I would immerse myself in work to get away from it.
'Come back for me, Thuz—!'
And then the shell hit him.
He didn't explode; he just sort of vanished in a red mist. I didn't remember driving back and I didn't remember being arrested and confined to barracks. I didn't remember anything up until the moment Sergeant Tozer told me to have a shower and clean myself up. I remember treading on the small pieces of sharp bone that washed out of my hair in the shower.
'This is what you try and forget, isn't it?' said Aornis, smiling at me as I tugged my fingers through my matted hair, heart thumping, the fear and pain of loss tensing my every muscle and numbing my senses. I tried to grab her by the throat in the shower but my fingers collapsed on nothing and I barked my knuckles on the shower stall. I swore and thumped the wall.
'You all right, Thursday?' said Prudence, a W/T operator from Lincoln in the next shower. 'They said you went back. Is that true?'
'Yes, it's true,' put in Aornis, 'and she'll be going back again right now!'
The shower room vanished and we were back on the battlefield, heading towards the wrecked armour amid the smoke and dust.
'Well!' said Aornis, clapping her hands happily. 'We should be able to manage at least eight of these before dawn — don't you just hate reruns?'
I stopped the APC near the smashed tank and the wounded were heaved aboard.
'Hey, Thursday!' said a familiar male voice. I opened one eye and looked across at the soldier with his face bloodied and less than ten seconds of existence remaining on his slate. But it wasn't Anton — it was another officer, the one I had met earlier and with whom I had become involved.
'Thursday!' said Gran in a loud voice. 'Thursday, wake up!'
I was back in my bed on the Sunderland, drenched in sweat. I wished it had all just been a bad dream; but it was a bad dream and that was the worst of it.
'Anton's not dead,' I gabbled. 'He didn't die in the Crimea it was that other guy and that's the reason he's not here now because he died and I've been telling myself it was because he was eradicated by the ChronoGuard but he wasn't and—'
'Thursday!' snapped Gran. 'Thursday, that is not how it happened. Aornis is trying to fool with your mind. Anton died in the charge.'
'No, it was the other guy—'
'Landen?'
But the name meant little to me. Gran explained about Aornis and Landen and mnemonomorphs and, although I understood what she was saying, I didn't fully believe her. After all, I had seen the Landen fellow die in front of my own eyes, hadn't I?
'Gran,' I said, 'are you having one of your fuzzy moments?'
'No,' she replied, 'far from it.'
But her voice didn't have the same sort of confidence it usually did. She wrote Landen on my hand with a felt pen and I went back to sleep wondering what Anton was up to and thinking about the short and passionate fling I had enjoyed in the Crimea with that lieutenant, the one whose name I couldn't remember — the one who died in the charge.
23
Jurisfiction
session number 40320
'Snell was buried in the Text Sea. It was invited guests only so although Havisham went, I did not Both Perkins and Snell's places were to be taken by B-2 Generics who had been playing them for a while in tribute books — the copies you usually find in cheaply printed book-of-the-month choices. As they lowered Snell's body into the sea to be reduced to letters, the Bellman tingled his bell and spoke a short eulogy for both of them Havisham said it was very moving — but the most ironic part of it was that the entire Perkins & Snell detective series was to be offered as a boxed set, and neither of them would ever know it.'
THURSDAY NEXT The Jurisfiction Chronicles
I felt tired and washed out the following morning Gran was still fast asleep, snoring loudly with Pickwick on her lap, when I got up I made a cup of coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table reading Movable Type and feeling grotty when there was a gentle rap at the door I looked up too quickly and my head throbbed.
'Yes?' I called
'It's Dr Fnorp I teach Lola and Randolph.'
I opened the door, checked his ID and let him in He was a tall man who seemed quite short and was dark haired although on occasion seemed blond. He spoke with a notable accent from nowhere at all, and he had a limp — or perhaps not He was a Generic's Generic -all things to all people.
'Coffee?'
'Thank you,' he said, adding 'Ah-ha!' when he saw the article I had been reading 'Every year there are more categories!'
He was referring to the BookWorld Awards which had, I noted earlier, been sponsored by Ultra Word™.
'"Dopiest Shakespearean Character,'" he read. 'Othello should win that one hands down. Are you going to the Bookies?'