A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (122 page)

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Authors: Jasper Fforde

BOOK: A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5
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“What will you have, Ham—I mean, Cousin Eddie?”
“What is there?”
“Espresso, mocha, latte, white mocha, hot chocolate, decaf, recaf, nocaf, somecaf, extracaf, Goliachino™ . . . what's the matter?”
Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice laid out in front of him.
“To espresso or to latte, that is the question,” he muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for something he couldn't easily supply: a decision. “Whether 'tis tastier on the palate to choose white mocha over plain,” he continued in a rapid garble, “or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache—”
“Cousin Eddie!” I said sharply. “Cut it out!”
“To froth, to sprinkle, perchance to drink, and in that—”
“He'll have a mocha with extra cream, please.”
Hamlet stopped abruptly once the burden of decision was taken from him.
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his temples, “I don't know what came over me. All of a sudden I had this overwhelming desire to talk for a very long time without actually
doing
anything. Is that normal?”
“Not for me. I'll have a latte, Mr.
Cheese,
” I said, watching his reaction carefully.
He still didn't seem to recognize me. He rang up the cost and then started making the coffees.
“Do you remember me?”
He narrowed his eyes and stared at me carefully for a moment or two. “No.”
“Thursday Next?”
His face broke into a broad grin, and he put out a large hand for me to shake, welcoming me as an old workmate rather than a past nemesis. I faltered, then shook his hand slowly.
“Miss Next! Where have you been? Prison?”
“Away.”
“Ah! But you're well?”
“I'm okay,” I said suspiciously, retrieving my hand. “How are you?”
“Not bad!” he laughed, looking at me sideways for a moment and narrowing his eyes. “You've changed. What is it?”
“Almost no hair?”
“That's it. We were looking for you everywhere. You spent almost eighteen months in the Goliath top ten most wanted—although you never made it to the number-one slot.”
“I'm devastated.”
“No one has ever spent ten months on the list,” carried on Cheese with a sort of dreamy, nostalgic look. “The next longest was three weeks. We looked
everywhere
for you!”
“But you gave up?”
“Goodness me, no,” replied Cheese. “Perseverance is what Goliath does best. There was a restructuring of corporate policy, and we were
reallocated.
”
“You mean fired.”
“No one is ever fired from Goliath,” said Cheese in a shocked tone. “Cots to coffins. You've heard the adverts.”
“So just moved on from bullying and terrifying and into lattes and mochas?”
“Haven't you heard?” said Cheese, frothing up some milk. “Goliath has moved its corporate image away from the ‘overbearing bully' and more towards ‘peace, love and understanding.' ”
“I heard something about it last night,” I replied, “but you'll forgive me if I'm not convinced.”
“Forgive is what Goliath does best, Miss Next. Faith is a difficult commodity to imbue—and that's why violent and ruthless bullies like me have to be reallocated. Our corporate seer, Sister Bettina, foresaw a necessity for us to change to a faith-based corporate-management system, but the rules concerning new religions are quite strict—we have to make changes to the corporation that are meaningful and genuine. That's why the old Goliath Internal Security Service is now known as Goliath Is Seriously Sorry—you see, we even kept the old initials so we didn't have to divert money away from good causes to buy new headed notepaper.”
“Or have to change them back when this charade has been played out.”
“You know,” said Cheese, waving a finger at me, “you always were just that teensy-weensy bit cynical. You should learn to be more trusting.”
“Trusting. Right. And you think the public will believe this touchy-feely, good-Lord-we're-sorry-forgive-us-please crap after four decades of rampant exploitation?”
“Rampant exploitation?” echoed Cheese in a dismayed tone. “I don't think so. ‘Proactive greater goodification' was more what we had in mind—and it's five decades, not four. Are you sure your cousin Eddie isn't Danish?”
“
Definitely
not.”
I thought about Brik Schitt-Hawse, the odious Goliath agent who'd had my husband eradicated in the first place. “What about Schitt-Hawse? Where does he work these days?”
“I think he moved into some post in Goliathopolis. I really don't move in those circles anymore. Mind you, we should all get together for a reunion and have a drink! What do you think?”
“I think I'd rather have my husband back,” I replied darkly.
“Oh!” said Cheese, suddenly remembering just what particular unpleasantness he and Goliath had done to me. Then he added slowly, “You must
hate
us!”
“Just a lot.”
“We can't have that. Repent is what Goliath does best. Have you applied for a Goliath Unfair Treatment Reversal?”
I stared at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Well,” he began, “Goliath has been allowing disgruntled citizens to apply to have reversed any unfair or unduly harsh measures taken against them—sort of a big apology, really. If Goliath is to become the opiate of the masses, we must first atone for our sins. We like to right any wrongs and then have a good strong hug to show we really mean it.”
“Hence your demotion to coffee-shop attendant.”
“Exactly so!”
“How do I apply?”
“We've opened an Apologarium in Goliathopolis; you can take the free shuttle from Tarbuck Graviport. They'll tell you what to do.”
“Harmonious peace, eh?”
“Peace is what Goliath does best, Miss Next. Just fill out a form and see one of our trained apologists. I'm sure they can get your husband back in a jiffy!”
I took the mocha with extra cream and the latte and sat by the window, staring at the SpecOps Building in silence. Hamlet sensed my disquiet and busied himself on a list of things he wanted to tell Ophelia but didn't think he would be able to, then another list of things he should tell her but won't. Then a list of all the different lists he had written about Ophelia and, finally, a letter of appreciation to Sir John Gielgud.
“I'm going to sort out a few things,” I said after a while. “Don't move from here, and don't tell anyone who you really are. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Hamlet, Prince of . . . just kidding. I'm your cousin Eddie.”
“Good. And you have cream on your nose.”
6.
Spec Ops
The Special Operations Network was the agency that looked after areas too specialized to be undertaken by the regular police. There were over thirty SpecOps divisions. SO-1 policed us all, SO-12 was the ChronoGuard, and SO-13 dealt with reengineered species. SO-17 was the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations and SO-32 the Horticultural Enforcement Agency. I had been SO-27, the Literary Detectives. Ten years authenticating Milton and tracking down forged Shakespeareana. After my work actually
within
fiction, it all seemed a bit tame. At Jurisfiction I could catch a horse as it bolted—in the Literary Detectives, it was like wandering around a very large field armed with only a halter and a photograph of a carrot.
Thursday Next,
Private Journals
 
 
 
 
 
I
pushed open the door to the station and walked in. The building was shared with Swindon's regular force and seemed slightly shabbier than I remembered.The walls were the same dismal shade of green, and I could smell the faint aroma of boiled cabbage from the canteen on the second floor. In truth, my stay here in late '85 had not actually been that long—most of my SpecOps career had been undertaken in London.
I walked over to the main desk, expecting to see Sergeant Ross. He had been replaced by someone who seemed too young to be a police officer, much less a desk sergeant.
“I'm here to get my old job back,” I announced.
“Which was?”
“Literary Detective.”
He chuckled. Unkindly, I thought.
“You'll need to see the commander,” he replied without taking his gaze from the book he was scribbling in. “Name?”
“Thursday Next.”
A hush descended slowly on the room, beginning with those closest to me and moving outwards with my whispered name like ripples in a pool. Within a few moments I was being stared at in silence by at least two dozen assorted police and SpecOps officers, a couple of Gaskell impersonators and an ersatz Coleridge. I gave an embarrassed smile and looked from blank face to blank face, trying to figure out whether to run, or to fight, or what. My heart beat faster as a young officer quite close to me reached into his breast pocket and pulled out—a notebook.
“Please,” he said. “I wonder if I might have your autograph?”
“Well, no—of course not.”
I breathed a sign of relief, and pretty soon I was having my back slapped and being congratulated on the whole
Jane Eyre
adventure. I'd forgotten the celebrity thing but also noticed that there were officers in the room who were interested in me for another reason—SO-1, probably.
“I need to see Bowden Cable,” I said to the desk sergeant, realizing that if anyone could help, it was my old partner. He smiled, picked up a phone, announced me and wrote out a visitor's pass, then told me to go to Interview Suite 16 on the third floor. I thanked my newfound acquaintances, made my way to the elevators and ascended to the third floor. When the lift doors rattled open I walked with a hurried step towards Room 16. Halfway there I was accosted by Bowden, who slid his arm in mine and steered me into an empty office.
“Bowden!” I said happily. “How are you?”
He hadn't changed much in the past two years. Fastidiously neat, he was wearing the usual pinstripe suit but without jacket, so he must have been in a hurry to meet me.
“I'm good, Thursday, real good. But where the hell have you been?”
“I've been—”
“You can tell me later. Thank the GSD I got to you first! We don't have a lot of time. Goodness! What have you done to your hair?”
“Well, Joan of—”
“You can tell me later. Ever heard of Yorrick Kaine?”
“Of course! I'm here to—”
“No time for explanations. He's not fond of you at all. He has a personal adviser named Ernst Stricknene who calls us
every day
to ask if you've returned. But this morning—
he didn't call!
”
“So?”
“So he knows you're back. Why is the Chancellor interested in you, anyway?”
“Because he's fictional, and I want to take him back to the BookWorld where he belongs.”
“That coming from anyone but you, I'd laugh. Is that really true?”
“As true as I'm standing here.”
“Well, your life is in danger, that's all I know. Ever heard of the assassin known as the—”
“Windowmaker?”
“How did you know?”
“I have my sources. Any idea who took out the contract?”
“Well, they've killed sixty-seven people—sixty-eight if they did Samuel Pring—and they
definitely
did the number on Gordon Duff-Rolecks, whose death really only benefited—”
“Kaine.”
“Exactly. You need to take particular care. More than that, we need you back as a full serving member of the Literary Detectives. We've got one or two problems that need ironing out in our department.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well, you're AWOL at best and a cheese smuggler at worst. So we've concocted a cover story of such bizarre complexity and outrageous daring that it can only be true. Here it is: in a parallel universe ruled entirely by lobsters, you—”
But at that moment, the door opened and a familiar figure walked in. I say familiar, but not exactly welcome. It was Commander Braxton Hicks, head of SpecOps here in Swindon.
I could almost hear Bowden's heart fall—mine, too.
Hicks still had a job because of me, but I didn't expect that to count for much. He was a company man, a bean counter—more fond of his precious budget than anything else. He had never given me any quarter, and I didn't expect any now.
“Ah, found you!” said the Commander in a serious tone. “Miss Next. They told me you'd arrived. Been giving us the little run-around, haven't you?”
“She's been—” began Bowden.
“I'm sure Miss Next can explain for herself, hmmm?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Close the door behind you, eh?”
Bowden gave a sickly smile and slinked out of the interview room.
 
Braxton sat, opened my file and stroked his large mustache thoughtfully.
“Absent without leave for over two years, demoted eighteen months ago, nonreturn of SpecOps weapon, badge and ruler, pencil, eight pens and a dictionary.”
“I can explain—”
“Then there is the question of the illegal cheese we found under a Hispano-Suiza at your picnic two and half years ago. I have sworn affidavits from everyone present that you were alone, met them up there, and that the cheese was yours.”

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