Something rotten (12 page)

“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.”

“Yes, but—”

“And the traffic police said they saw you aiding and abetting a known serial dangerous driver on the A419 north of Swindon.”

“That’s—”

“But what’s worse was that you lied to me systematically from the moment you came under my command. You said you would learn to play golf, and you never so much as picked up a putter.”

“But—”

“I have proof of your lies, too. I personally visited every single golf club, and not one of them had ever let someone of your description play golf there—not even on the practice ranges. How do you explain
that,
eh?”

“Well—”

“You vanish from sight two and a half years ago. Not a word. Had to demote you. Star employee. Newspapers had a field day. Upset my swing for weeks.”

“I’m sorry if it upset your golf, sir.”

“You’re rather in the soup, young lady.”

He stared at me in exactly the sort of way my English teacher used to at school, and I had that sudden and dangerously overpowering urge to laugh out loud. Luckily, I didn’t.

“What have you got to say for yourself ?”

“I can explain, if you’ll let me.”

“My girl, I’ve been trying to get you to tell me for five—”

The door opened again, and in walked Colonel Flanker of SO-1. He ran Internal Affairs, the SpecOps Police. About as welcome as worms and another old bête noire of mine. If Hicks was bad, Flanker was worse. Braxton only wanted me to do some sort of disciplinary nonsense—Flanker would want to lock me up for good,
after
I had led them to my father.

“So!” he said as soon as he saw me. “It’s true. Thank you, Braxton, my prisoner. Officer Jodrell, cuff her.”

Jodrell walked over to me, took one of my wrists and placed it behind my back. There didn’t seem to be much point of running; I could see at least three other SO-1 agents hovering near the door. I thought of Friday. If only Bowden had got to me a few minutes earlier!

“Just a minute, Mr. Flanker,” said Braxton, closing my file. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Arresting Miss Next on charges of being AWOL, dereliction of duty and illegal possession of bootleg cheese—for starters.”

“She was on assignment for SO-23,” said Braxton, staring at him evenly, “undercover for the Cheese Squad.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Braxton lying? For
me?

“The Cheese Squad?” echoed Flanker with some surprise.

“Yes,” replied Braxton, who, once started, clearly found the subterfuge and reckless use of his authority somewhat exciting. “She’s been in deep cover in Wales for two years on a clandestine espionage operation monitoring illegal cheese factories. The cheeses with her fingerprints on them were part of an illegal cross-border shipment that she helped seize.”

“Really?” said Flanker, his confidence rattled.

“On my word. She’s not under arrest, she’s being debriefed. It seems that the operation was under the control of Joe Martlet. Full details will be available from him.”

“You know as well as I do that Joe was shot dead by the Cheese Mafia two weeks ago.”

“It was a tragedy,” admitted Braxton. “Fine man, Martlet—one of the best. Could play a three under par with ease and never swore when he drove it into the rough—and hence Miss Next’s reappearance,” he added without a pause. I’d never seen anyone lie so well before. Not even me. Not even Friday when I found he’d raided the cookie jar with Pickwick’s help.

“Is this true?” asked Flanker. “Two years undercover in Wales?”

“Ydy, ond dydy hi ddim wedi bwrw glaw
pob
dydd!”
I replied in my best Welsh.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment without speaking.

“I was just reassigning her to the Literary Detectives when you walked in the door,” added Braxton.

Flanker looked at Braxton, then at me, then at Braxton again. He nodded to Jodrell, who released me.

“Very well. But I want a full report on my desk Tuesday.”

“You can have it Friday, Mr. Flanker. I’m a very busy man.”

Flanker glared at me for a moment, then addressed Braxton: “Since Miss Next is back with the Literary Detectives perhaps you would be good enough to appoint her the SO-14 Danish Book Seizure Liaison Officer. My boys are pretty good at the seizure stuff, but to be honest, none of them can tell a Mark Twain from a Samuel Clemens.”

“I’m not sure I want—” I began.

“I think you should be happy to assist me, Miss Next, don’t you? A chance to make amends for past transgressions, yes?”

Braxton answered for me.

“I’m sure Miss Next would be happy to assist in any way she can, Mr. Flanker.”