The well of lost plots (26 page)

“We’ll get round to that, don’t you worry.”

I wasn’t going to take any chances and go through the same rigmarole as I had with Mr. Phillips, so I looked around furtively and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but . . . wicked men are planning to steal Shadow and sell him off for medical experiments!”

“No!” exclaimed the vet, eyes open wide.

“Indeed,” I replied, adding in a hushed tone, “and what’s more, we suspect that these men might not even be English.”

“You mean . . . Johnny Foreigners?” asked the vet, visibly shocked.

“Probably French. Now, are you with me on this?”

“Absolutely!” he breathed. “What are we going to do?”

“Swap dogs. When Johnny arrives, you tell him to go outside for a moment, we swap the dogs, when he comes back, you unwrap the bandages, the dog can see — and you say this dialogue instead.”

I handed him a scrap of paper. He looked at it thoughtfully.

“So Shadow stays here and the
swapped
Shadow is abducted by Johnny Foreigner and used for medical experiments?”

“Something like that. But not a word to anyone, you understand?”

“Word of honor!” replied the vet.

So I gave him the collie, and sure enough, when Johnny brought in the blinded Shadow, the vet told him to go and get some water, we swapped dogs and when Johnny returned, lo and behold, the dog could see again. The vet feigned complete surprise and Johnny, of course, was delighted. They left soon after.

I stepped from the office where I had been hiding.

“How did I do?” asked the vet, washing his hands.

“Perfect. There could be a medal in it for you.”

It all seemed to have gone swimmingly well. I couldn’t believe my luck. But more than that, I had the feeling that Havisham might actually be quite proud of her apprentice — at the very least this should make up for having to rescue me from the grammasites. Pleased, I opened the door to the street and was surprised to find that a lot of the locals had gathered, and they all seemed to be staring at me. My feeling of euphoria over the completed mission suddenly evaporated as unease welled up inside me.

“It’s time! It’s time!” announced one of the ladies I had seen earlier.

“Time for what?”

“Time for a wedding!”

“Whose?” I asked, not unreasonably.

“Why
yours
, of course!” she answered happily. “You touched Mr. Townsperson’s hand. You are betrothed.
It is the law
!”

The crowd surged towards me and I reached, not for my gun, but for my TravelBook in order to get out quickly. It was the wrong choice. Within a few moments I had been overpowered. They took my book and gun, then held me tightly and propelled me towards a nearby house, where I was forced into a wedding dress that had seen a lot of previous use and was several sizes too big.

“You won’t get away with this!” I told them as they hurriedly brushed and plaited my hair with two men holding my head. “Jurisfiction know where I am and will come after me, I swear!”

“You’ll get used to married life,” exclaimed one of the women, her mouth full of pins. “They
all
complain to begin with — but by the end of the afternoon they are as meek as lambs. Isn’t that so, Mr. Rustic?”

“Aye, Mrs. Passerby,” said one of the men holding my arms, “like lambs, meek.”

“You mean there were others?”

“There is nothing like a good wedding,” said one of the other men, “nothing except—”

Here Mr. Rustic nudged him and he was quiet.

“Nothing except
what
?” I asked, struggling again.

“Oh, hush!” said Mrs. Passerby. “You made me drop a stitch! Do you really want to look a mess on your wedding day?”

“Yes.”

Ten minutes later, bruised and with my hands tied behind my back and a garland of flowers in my badly pinned hair, I was being escorted towards the small village church. I managed to grab the lych-gate on the way in but was soon pulled clear. A few moments later I was standing at the altar next to Mr. Townsperson, who was neatly dressed in a morning suit. He smiled at me happily and I scowled back.

“We are gathered here today in the eyes of God to bring together this woman and this man . . .”

I struggled but it was no good.

“This proceeding has no basis in law!” I shouted, attempting to drown out the vicar. He signaled to the verger, who placed a bit of sticking plaster over my mouth. I struggled again, but with four burly farmworkers holding me, it was useless. I watched with a sort of strange fascination as the wedding proceeded, the villagers sniveling with happiness in the small church. When it came to the vows, my head was vigorously nodded for me, and a ring pressed on my finger.

“. . . I now pronounce you man and wife! You may kiss the bride.”

Mr. Townsperson loomed closer. I tried to back away but was held tightly. Mr. Townsperson kissed me tenderly on the sticking plaster that covered my mouth. As he did so, an excited murmur went up from the congregation.

There was applause and I was dragged towards the main door, covered in confetti and made to pose for a wedding photograph. For the picture the sticking plaster was removed so I had time to make my protestations.

“No coerced wedding was ever recognized by law!” I bellowed. “Let me go
right now
and I may not report you!”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Townsperson,” said Mrs. Passerby, addressing me, “in ten minutes it really won’t matter. You see, we rarely get the opportunity to perform nuptials as no one in here ever gets married — the Well never went so far as to offer us that sort of luxury.”

“What about the others you mentioned?” I asked, a sense of doom rising within me. “Where are the other brides who were forced into marriage?”

Everyone looked solemn, clasped their hands together and stared at the ground.

“What’s going on? What will happen in ten minutes?”

I turned as the four men let go of me and saw the vicar again. But he wasn’t cheery this time. He was solemn, and well he might be. Before him was a freshly dug grave.
Mine
.

“Oh my God!” I muttered.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered . . . ,” began the vicar as the same townsfolk began to sniffle into their hankies again. But this time the tears weren’t of happiness — they were of
sorrow
.

I cursed myself for being so careless. Mr. Townsperson had my automatic and released the safety. I looked around desperately. Even if I had been able to get a message to Havisham, I doubted whether she could have made it in time.

“Mr. Townsperson,” I said in a quiet voice, staring into his eyes, “my own husband! You would kill your bride?”

He trembled slightly and glanced at Mrs. Passerby. “I’m . . . I’m afraid so, my dear,” he faltered.

“Why?” I asked, stalling for time.

“We need the . . . need the—”

“For Panjandrum’s sake get on with it or I shall!” snapped Mrs. Passerby, who seemed to be the chief instigator of all this. “I need my emotional fix!”

“Wait!” I said. “You’re after
emotion
?”

“They call us
sentiment junkies
,” said Mr. Townsperson sadly. “It’s not our fault. We are all Generics rated between C-7 and D-3; we don’t have many emotions of our own but are smart enough to know what we’re missing.”

“If you don’t kill her, I shall!” mumbled Mr. Rustic, tapping my “husband” on the elbow.

He pulled away. “She has a right to know. She is my wife, after all.” He looked nervously left and right.

“Go on.”

“We started with humorous one-liners that offered a small kick. That kept us going for a few months, but soon we wanted more: laughter, joy, happiness in any way we could get it. Thrice-monthly garden fetes, weekly harvest festivals and tombola four times a day were not enough; we wanted . . . the
hard stuff
.”

“Grief,” murmured Mrs. Passerby, “grief, sadness, sorrow, loss — we wanted it but we wanted it
strong
. Ever read
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
?”

I nodded.

“We wanted that. Our hearts raised by the happiness of a wedding and then dashed by the sudden death of the bride!”

I stared at the slightly crazed Generics. Unable to generate emotions synthetically from within the confines of their happy rural idyll, they had embarked upon a systematic rampage of enforced weddings and funerals to give them the high they desired. I looked at the graves in the churchyard and wondered how many others had suffered this fate.

“We will all be devastated by your death, of course,” whispered Mrs. Passerby, “but we will get over it — the slower the better!”

“Wait!” I said. “I have an idea!”

“We don’t want ideas, my love,” said Mr. Townsperson, pointing the gun at me again, “we want
emotion
.”

“How long will this fix last?” I asked him. “A day? How sad can you be for someone you barely know?”

They all looked at one another. I was right. The fix they were getting by killing and burying me would last them until teatime if they were lucky.

“You have a better idea?”

“I can give you more emotion than you know how to handle, feelings so strong you won’t know what to do with yourselves.”

“She’s lying!” cried Mrs. Passerby dispassionately. “Kill her now — I can’t wait any longer! I need the sadness! Give it to me!”

“I’m Jurisfiction. I can bring more jeopardy and strife into this book than a thousand Blytons could give you in a lifetime!”

“You could?” echoed the townspeople excitedly, lapping up the expectation I was generating.

“Yes — and here’s how I can prove it. Mrs. Passerby?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Townsperson told me earlier he thought you had a fat arse.”

“He said
what
?” she replied angrily, her face suffused with joy as she fed off the hurt feelings I had generated.

“I most certainly said no such thing!” blustered Mr. Townsperson, obviously getting a big hit himself from the indignation.

“Us, too!” yelled the townsfolk excitedly, eager to see what else I had in my bag of goodies.

“Nothing before you untie me!”

They did so with great haste; sorrow and happiness had kept them going for a long time, but they had grown bored — I was here like a dealer, offering new and different experiences.

I asked for my gun and was handed it, the townspeople watching me expectantly like a dodo waiting for marshmallows.

“For a start,” I said, rubbing my wrists and throwing the wedding ring aside, “I can’t remember who got me pregnant!”

There was a sudden silence.

“Shocking!” said the vicar. “Outrageous, morally repugnant — mmmm!”

“But better than that,” I added, “if you had killed me, you would also have killed my unborn son — guilt like that could have lasted for months!”

“Yes!” yelled Mr. Rustic. “Kill her now!”

I pointed the gun at them and they stopped in their tracks.

“You’ll always regret not having killed me,” I murmured.

The townsfolk went quiet and mused upon this, the feeling of loss coursing through their veins.

“It feels wonderful!” said one of the farmworkers, taking a seat on the grass to focus his mind more carefully on the strange emotional potpourri of a missed opportunity of double murder.

But I wasn’t done yet. “I’m going to report you to the Council of Genres and tell them how you tried to kill me — you could be shut down and reduced to text!”

I had them now. They all had their eyes closed and were rocking backwards and forwards, moaning quietly.

“Or perhaps,” I added, beginning to back away, “I won’t.”

I pulled off the wedding dress at the lych-gate and looked back. The townspeople were laid out on the ground, eyes closed, surfing their inner feelings on a cocktail of mixed emotions. They wouldn’t be down for days.

I picked up my jacket and TravelBook on the way to the vet’s, where the blind Shadow was waiting for me. I had completed the mission, even if I had come a hairsbreadth from a sticky end. I could do better, and would, given time. I heard a low, growly voice close at hand.

“What happens to me? Am I reduced to text?”

It was Shadow.

“Officially, yes.”

“I see. And unofficially?”

I thought for a moment.

“Do you like rabbits?”

“Rather.”

I pulled out my TravelBook.

“Good. Give me your paw. We’re off to Rabbit Grand Central.”

BookStackers:
To rid a book of the mispeling vyrus, many thousands of dictionaries are moved into the offending novel and stacked either side of the outbreak as a
mispeling barrage
. The wall of dictionaries is then moved in, paragraph by paragraph, until the vyrus is forced into a single sentence, then a word, then smothered completely. The job is done by BookStackers, usually D-grade Generics, although for many years the Anti-mispeling Fast Response Group (AFRG) has been manned by over five thousand WOLP-surplus Mrs. Danvers. (See
Danvers, Mrs., Over-production of
.)

CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE,
Guide to the Great Library

IT WAS THREE days later. I had just had my early-morning vomit and was lying back in bed, staring at Gran’s note and trying to make sense of it. One word.
Remember
. What was I meant to remember? She hadn’t yet returned from the Medici court, and although the note might have been the product of a Granny Next “fuzzy moment,” I still felt uneasy. There was something else. Beside my bed was a sketch of an attractive man in his late thirties. I didn’t know who he was — which was odd, because I had sketched it.

There was an excited knock at the door. It was Ibb. It had been looking more feminine all week and had even gone so far as to put on haughty airs all day Wednesday. Obb, on the other hand, had been insisting it was right about everything, knew everything, and had sulked when I proved it wrong, and we all knew where
that
was leading.