A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (121 page)

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Authors: Jasper Fforde

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For it was, of course, a
Hamlet
WillSpeak machine, and the mannequin Hamlet sat looking blankly out at the flesh-and-blood Hamlet standing next to me.
“—To die, to sleep, to sleep—perchance to dream—”
“Well, that's a play, and out here in the Outland, people act out that play.”
“With me?”
“Of you.
Pretending
to be you.”
“But I'm the real me?”
“—Who would fardels bear—”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Ahhh, “ he said after a few moments of deep thought, “I see. Like the whole
Murder of Gonzago
thing. I wondered how it all worked. Can we go and see me sometime?”
“I . . .
suppose,
” I answered uneasily. “Do you really want to?”
“—from whose bourn no traveler returns—”
“Of course. I've heard that some people in the Outland think I am a dithering twit unable to make up his mind rather than a dynamic leader of men, and these ‘play' things you describe will prove it to me one way or the other.”
I tried to think of the movie in which he prevaricates the least. “We could get the Zeffirelli version out on video for you to look at.”
“Who plays me?”
“Mel Gibson.”
“—Thus conscience does make cowards of us all—”
Hamlet stared at me, mouth open. “But that's
incredible!
” he said ecstatically. “I'm Mel's biggest fan!” He thought for a moment. “So . . . Horatio must be played by Danny Glover, yes?”
“—sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought—”
“No, no. Listen: the
Lethal Weapon
series is nothing like
Hamlet
.”
“Well,” replied the Prince reflectively, “in that I think you might be mistaken. The Martin Riggs character begins with self-doubt and contemplates suicide over the loss of a loved one but eventually turns into a decisive man of action and kills all the bad guys. Same as the
Road Warrior
series, really. Is Ophelia played by Patsy Kensit?”
“No,” I replied, trying to be patient, “Helena Bonham Carter.”
He perked up when he heard this. “This gets better and better! When I tell Ophelia, she'll flip—if she hasn't already.”
“Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “you'd better see the Olivier version instead. Come on, we've work to do.”
“—their currents turn awry / And lose the name of action.”
The WillSpeak Hamlet stopped clicking and whirring and sat silent once more, waiting for the next florin.
5.
Ham (let) and Cheese
“Seven Wonders of Swindon” Naming Bureaucracy Unveiled
After five years of careful consideration, Swindon City Council has unveiled the naming procedure for the city's much vaunted “Seven Wonders” tourism plan. The twenty-seven-point procedure is the most costly and complicated piece of bureaucracy the city has ever devised and might even be included as one of the wonders itself. The plan will be be undertaken by the Swindon Special Committee for Wonders, which will consider applications prepared by the Seven Wonders Working Party from six separate name-selection subcommittees. Once chosen, the wonders will be further scrutinized by eight different oversight committees before being adopted. The byzantine and needlessly expensive system is already tipped to win the coveted Red Tape Award from
Bureaucracy Today
.
Article in
Swindon Globe News,
June 12, 1988
 
 
 
 
 
I
drove to the car park above the Brunel Centre and bought a pay-and-display ticket, noting how they had almost tripled in price since I was here last. I looked in my purse. I had fifteen pounds, three shillings and an old Skyrail ticket.
“Short of cash?” asked Hamlet as we walked down the stairs to the street-level concourse.
“Let's just say I'm very ‘receipt rich' at present.”
Money had never been a problem in the BookWorld. All the details of life were taken care of by something called Narrative Assumption. A reader would
assume
you had gone shopping, or gone to the toilet, or brushed your hair, so a writer never needed to outline it—which was just as well, really. I'd forgotten all about the real-world trivialities, but I was actually quite enjoying them, in a mind-dulling sort of way.
“It says here,” said Hamlet, who had been reading the newspaper, “that Denmark invaded England and put hundreds of innocent English citizens to death without trial!”
“It was the Vikings in
786,
Hamlet. I hardly think that warrants the headline BLOODTHIRSTY DANES GO ON RAMPAGE. Besides, at the time they were no more Danish than we were English.”
“So we're not the historical enemies of England?”
“Not at all.”
“And eating rollmop herrings won't lead to erectile dysfunction?”
“No. And keep your voice down. All these people are real, not D-7 generic crowd types. Out here, you only exist in a play.”
“Okay,” he said, stopping at an electronics shop and staring at the TVs. “Who's she?”
“Lola Vavoom. An actress.”
“Really? Has she ever played Ophelia?”
“Many times.”
“Was she better than Helena Bonham Carter?”
“Both good—just
different.
”
“Different? What do you mean?”
“They both brought different things to the role.”
Hamlet laughed. “I think you're confusing the matter, Thursday. Ophelia is just Ophelia.”
“Not out here. Listen, I'm just going to see how bad my overdraft is.”
“How you Outlanders complicate matters!” he murmured. “If we were in a book right now, you'd be accosted by a solicitor who tells you a wealthy aunt has died and left you lots of money—and then we'd just start the next chapter with you in London making your way to Kaine's office disguised as a cleaning woman.”
“Excuse me!” said a suited gentleman who looked suspiciously like a solicitor. “But are you Thursday Next?”
I glanced nervously at Hamlet.
“Perhaps.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Wentworth of Wentworth, Wentworth and Wentworth, Solicitors. I'm the second Wentworth, if you're interested.”
“And?”
“And . . . I wonder if I could have your autograph? I followed your
Jane Eyre
escapade with a great deal of interest.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and signed his autograph book. Mr. Wentworth thanked me and hurried off.
“You had me worried for a moment there,” said Hamlet. “I thought I was meant to be the fictitious one.”
“You are.” I smiled. “And don't you forget it.”
 
“Twenty-two thousand pounds?” I said to the cashier. “Are you sure?”
The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.
“Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred eight pounds and four shillings three pence ha'penny—
overdrawn,
” she added, in case I had missed it. “Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won five thousand pounds. Since you weren't here, we upped your credit limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to pay for the additional interest.”
“How very thoughtful of you.”
“Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always aims to please.”
“Are you
sure
you wouldn't rather go with the ‘wealthy aunt' scenario?” asked Hamlet, being no help at all.
“No. Shhh.”
“We haven't had a single deposit from you for nearly two and a half years,” continued the bank clerk.
“I've been away.”
“Prison?”
“No. So the rest of my overdraft is . . . ?”
“Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven't got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn't reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn't received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humor—you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a check in the near future?”
“Not really. Um . . . any chance of raising my credit limit?”
The cashier arched an eyebrow. “I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?”
 
I gave them Mum's address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales—one of which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.
Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in
Lake Wobegon Days
.
“Okay, I give up,” said Hamlet quite suddenly. “How does it all turn out?”
“How does
what
all turn out?”
He spread his arms out wide.
“All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that SuperHoop thing and the big company—what's it called again?”
“Goliath?”
“Right. How does it all turn out?”
“I haven't the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.”
Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept. “How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?”
“That's part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.”
“There is no pleasure in anticipation,” said Hamlet glumly. “Except perhaps,” he added, “in killing that old fool Polonius.”
“My point exactly,” I replied. “Where you come from, events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance further on in the story.”
“It's clear you haven't read
Hamlet
for a—
LOOK OUT!
”
Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller—the size that works on sidewalks and paths—bore rapidly down upon us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.
“Are you okay?” asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.
“I'm fine—thanks to you.”
“Goodness!” said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. “Are you all right?”
“Not hurt in the least. What happened?”
“I don't know,” replied the workman, scratching his head. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“Really, I'm fine.”
We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn't look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what he could charge to insurance.
“You see?” I said to Hamlet as we walked away.
“What?”
“This is
exactly
what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing—after all, not every incident in life
has
a meaning.”
“Tell that to the scholars who study
me,
” Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding, “If the real world were a book, it would
never
find a publisher. Overlong, detailed to the point of distraction—and ultimately, without a major resolution.”
“Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “that's exactly what we like about it.”
 
We reached the SpecOps Building. It was of a sensible Germanic design built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades' plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of
Jane Eyre
. Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.
“Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?”
“Please.”
We walked into the Café Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.
“Hey!” said the man behind the counter who seemed somehow familiar. “We don't serve those kind in here!”
“What kind?”
“The
Danish
kind.”
Goliath was obviously working with Kaine on this particular nonsense.
“He's not Danish. He's my cousin Eddie from Wolverhampton.”
“Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?”
I thought quickly. “Because . . . he's insane. Isn't that right, Cousin Eddie?”
“Yes,” said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was not much of a problem. “When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”
“See?”
“Well, that's all right, then.”
I started as I realized why he seemed familiar. It was Mr. Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner, Mr. Chalk, had made my life difficult before I left. He didn't have his goatee anymore, but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it—his name was on his Café Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars, one for washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn't show any sign of recognizing me.

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