The well of lost plots (18 page)

“And at least three at the front,” she added, snapping her pistol shut. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“How about giving them Heathcliff?” came a chorus of voices.

“
Other
than that?”

“I can try and get behind them,” I muttered, “if you give me covering fire—”

I was interrupted by an unearthly cry of terror from outside, followed by a sort of crunching noise, then another cry and sporadic machine-gun fire. There was a large thump and another shot, then a shout, then the ProCaths at the back started to open fire. But not at the house — at some unseen menace. We heard two more cries of terror, a few more gunshots, a slow tearing noise, then silence.

I got up and peered cautiously from the door. There was nothing outside except the soft snow, disturbed occasionally by dinner-plate-sized footprints.

We found only one complete body, tossed onto the roof of the pigsty.

“Look at this,” said Miss Havisham from where she was standing at the corner of the barn. It looked as though one of the ProCaths had been stationed there by the large quantity of spent cartridges, but what Havisham was actually pointing out were the four freshly dug grooves in the masonry, spaced about six inches apart.

“It looks like . . .
claw marks
,” I murmured.

“Must have caught the corner of the barn midswipe,” replied Miss Havisham thoughtfully, peering closer at the damaged stonework.

“It was Big Martin,” I said with a shiver. “Some of his friends had me pegged for dinner down on the twenty-second floor yesterday.”

“Then we should be glad Big Martin got to this bunch first. Mind you, I’ve heard rumors that the Big M was into classics — he might have been doing us a favor.”

We turned and walked through the snow back to the house.

“Who is Big Martin?” I asked.

“Less of a
who
and more of a
what
,” replied Miss Havisham, tramping her feet on the doorstep to get rid of the snow. “Even the Glatisant is nervous of Big Martin. He’s a law unto himself. I’d watch your back and eat plenty of cashews.”

“Cashews?”

“Big Martin
loathes
them. Unusually for a Book Fiend he has a sense of smell — one whiff and he’s off.”

“I’ll remember that.”

We returned to where the cast of
Wuthering Heights
were dusting themselves down. Joseph was muttering incomprehensibly to himself and trying to block the windows up with blankets.

“Well,” said Miss Havisham, clapping her hands together, “that was an exciting session, wasn’t it?”

“I am still leaving this appalling book,” retorted Heathcliff, who was back on full obnoxious form again.

“No you’re
not
,” replied Havisham.

“You just try and stop—”

Havisham, who was fed up with pussyfooting around and hated men like Heathcliff with a vengeance, grasped him by the collar and pinned his head to the table with her pistol pressed painfully into his neck.

“Listen here,” she said, her voice quavering with anger, “to me, you are worthless scum. Thank your lucky stars I am loyal to Jurisfiction. Many others in my place would have handed you over. I could kill you now and no one would be any the wiser.”

Heathcliff looked at me imploringly.

“I was outside when I heard the shot,” I told him.

“So were we!” exclaimed the rest of the cast eagerly, excepting Catherine Earnshaw, who simply scowled.

“Perhaps I
should
do it!” growled Havisham again. “Perhaps it would be a mercy. I could make it look like an accident!”

“No!” cried Heathcliff in a contrite tone. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to stay right here and just be plain old Mr. Heathcliff for ever and ever.”

Havisham slowly released her grasp. “Right,” she said, switching her pistol to
safe
and regaining her breath, “I think that pretty much concludes this session of Jurisfiction rage counseling. What did we learn?”

The cocharacters all stared at her, dumbstruck.

“Good. Same time next week, everyone?”

Generics are the chameleons of the Well. In general they were trained to do specific jobs but could be upgraded if the need arose. Occasionally a Generic would jump up spontaneously within the grade, but to jump from one grade to another without external help, they said, was impossible. From what I would learn,
impossible
was a word that should not be bandied about the Well without due thought — imagination being what it is, anything could happen — and generally did.

THURSDAY NEXT,
The Jurisfiction Chronicles

BIG MARTIN HAD made a mess of the ProCath fanatics who had attacked us. The leader was identified by his dental records — why he had them on him, no one was quite sure. He had been a D-3 crew member in
On the Beach
and was replaced within twenty-four hours.
Wuthering Heights
was repaired within a few lines, and because Havisham had been holding the rage-counseling session
between
chapters, no one reading the book noticed anything. In fact, the only evidence of the attack now to be seen in the book was Hareton’s shotgun, which exploded accidentally in chapter 32, most likely as a result of a ricocheting bullet damaging the latching mechanism.

“How was your day today?” asked Gran as I walked back on board the Sunderland.

“Very . . .
expositional
to begin with,” I said, falling into a sofa and tickling Pickwick, who had come over all serious and matronly, “but it ended quite dramatically.”

“Did you have to be rescued again?”

“Yes and no.”

“The first few days in a new job are always a bit shaky,” said Gran. “Why do you have to work for Jurisfiction anyway?”

“It was part of the Exchange Program deal.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Would you like me to make you an omelette?”

“Anything.”

“Right. I’ll need you to crack the eggs and mix them and get me down the saucepan and . . .”

I heaved myself up and went through to the small galley, where the fridge was full of food, as always.

“Where’s ibb and obb?” I asked.

“Out, I think,” replied Gran. “Would you make us both a cup of tea while you’re up?”

“Sure. I still can’t remember Landen’s second name, Gran — I’ve been trying all day.”

Gran came into the galley and sat on a kitchen stool, which happened to be right in the way of everything. She smelt of sherry, but for the life of me I didn’t know where she hid it.

“But you remember what he looks like?”

I stopped what I was doing and stared out of the kitchen porthole.

“Yes,” I replied slowly, “every line, every mole, every expression — but I still remember him dying in the Crimea.”

“That
never
happened, my dear. But the fact — I should use a bigger bowl if I were you — you can remember his features proves he’s not gone any more than yesterday. I should use butter and not oil; and if you have any mushrooms, you could chop them up with a bit of onion and bacon — do you have any bacon?”

“Probably. You still didn’t tell me how you managed to find your way here, Gran.”

“That’s easily explained. Tell me, did you manage to get a list of the dullest books you could find?”

Granny Next was 108 years old and was convinced that she couldn’t die until she had read the ten most boring classics. On an earlier occasion I had suggested
Fairie Queene
,
Paradise Lost
,
Ivanhoe
,
Moby-Dick
,
A la recherche du temps perdu
,
Pamela
and
A Pilgrim’s Progress
. She had read them all and many others but was still with us. Trouble is, “boring” is about as hard to quantify as “pretty,” so I really had to think of the ten books that
she
would find most boring.

“What about
Silas Marner
?”

“Only boring in parts — like
Hard Times
. You’re going to have to do a little better than that — and if I were you, I’d use a bigger pan — but on a lower heat.”

“Right,” I said, beginning to get annoyed, “perhaps you’d like to cook? You’ve done most of the work so far.”

“No, no,” replied Gran, completely unfazed, “you’re doing fine.”

There was a commotion at the door and Ibb came in, followed closely by Obb.

“Congratulations!” I called out.

“What for?” asked Ibb, who no longer looked identical to Obb. For a start, Obb was at least four inches taller and its hair was darker than Ibb’s, which was beginning to go blond.

“For becoming capitalized.”

“Oh, yes,” enthused Ibb, “it’s amazing what a day at St. Tabularasa’s will do for one. Tomorrow we’ll finish our gender training, and by the end of the week we’ll be streamed into character groups.”

“I want to be a male mentor figure,” said Obb. “Our tutor said that sometimes we can have a choice of what we do and where we go. Are you making supper?”

“No,” I replied, testing their sarcasm response, “I’m giving my pet egg heat therapy.”

Ibb laughed — which was a good sign, I thought — and went off with Obb to practice whimsical retorts in case either of them was given a posting as a humorous sidekick.

“Teenagers,” said Granny Next. “Tch. I better make it a bigger omelette. Take over, would you? I’m going to have a rest.”

We all sat down to eat twenty minutes later. Obb had brushed its hair into a parting and Ibb was wearing one of Gran’s gingham dresses.

“Hoping to be female?” I asked, passing Ibb a plate.

“Yes,” replied Ibb, “but not one like you. I’d like to be more feminine and a bit hopeless — the sort that screams a lot when they get into trouble and has to be rescued.”

“Really?” I asked, handing Gran the salad. “Why?”

Ibb shrugged. “I don’t know. I just like the idea of being rescued a lot, that’s all — being carried off in big, strong arms sort of . . .
appeals
. I thought I could have the plot explained to me a lot, too — but I should have a few good lines of my own, be quite vulnerable, yet end up saving the day due to a sudden flash of idiot savant brilliance.”

“I think you’ll have no trouble getting a placement,” I sighed, “but you seem quite specific — have you used someone in particular as a model?”

“Her!” exclaimed Ibb, drawing out a much thumbed Outland copy of
Silverscreen
from beneath the table. On the cover was none other than Lola Vavoom, being interviewed for the umpteenth time about her husbands, her denial of any cosmetic surgery and her latest film — usually in that order.

“Gran!” I said sternly. “Did you give Ibb that magazine?”

“Well — !”

“You
know
how impressionable Generics can be! Why didn’t you give her a magazine with Jenny Gudgeon in it? She plays proper women — and can act, too.”

“Have you seen Ms. Vavoom in
My Sister Kept Geese
?” replied Gran indignantly. “I think you’d be surprised — she shows considerable range.”

I thought about Cordelia Flakk and her producer friend Harry Flex wanting Lola to play me in a film. The idea was too awful to contemplate.

“You were going to tell us about subtext,” said Obb, helping itself to more salad.

“Oh, yes,” I replied, a distraction from Vavoom a welcome break. “Subtext is the implied action behind the written word. Text tells the reader what the characters
say and do
but subtext tells us what they
mean and feel
. The wonderful thing about subtext is that it is common grammar, written in human experience — you can’t understand it without a good working knowledge of people and how they interact. Got it?”

Ibb and Obb looked at one another. “No.”

“Okay, let me give you a simple example. At a party, a man gives a woman a drink and she takes it without answering. What’s going on?”

“She isn’t very polite?” suggested Ibb.

“Perhaps,” I replied, “but I was really looking for some sort of clue as to their relationship.”

Obb scratched its head and said, “She can’t speak because, er, she lost her tongue in an industrial accident due to his negligence?”

“You’re trying too hard. For what reason would someone not
necessarily
say ‘thank you’ for something?”

“Because,” said Ibb slowly, “they know one another?”

“Good. Being handed a drink at a party by your wife, husband, girlfriend or partner, you would as likely as not just take it; if it was from a host to a guest, then you would thank them. Here’s another: there is a couple walking down the road — and she is walking eight paces behind him.”

“He has longer legs?” suggested Ibb.

“No.”

“They’ve broken down?”

“They’ve had an argument,” said Obb excitedly, “and they live nearby or they would be taking their car.”

“Could be,” I responded. “Subtext tells you lots of things. Ibb, did you take the last piece of chocolate from the fridge?”

There was a pause. “No.”

“Well, because you paused, I know pretty confidently that you did.”

“Oh!” said Ibb. “I’ll remember
that
.”

There was a knock at the door.

I opened it to reveal Mary’s ex-beau Arnold looking very dapper in a suit and holding a small bunch of flowers. Before he had time to open his mouth, I had closed the door again.

“Ah!” I said, turning to Ibb and Obb. “This is a good opportunity to study subtext. See if you can figure out what is going on
behind
our words — and Ibb,
please
don’t feed Pickwick at the table.”

I opened the door again, and Arnold, who had started to slink off, came running back.

“Oh!” he said with mock surprise. “Mary not back yet?”

“No. In fact, she probably won’t be back for some time. Can I take a message?”

And I closed the door on his face again.

“Okay,” I said to Ibb and Obb, “what do you think is going on?”

“He’s looking for Mary?” suggested Ibb.

“But he
knows
she’s gone away,” said Obb. “He must be coming to speak to
you
, Thursday.”