Something rotten (48 page)

Article in
The Toad,
August 4, 1988

I
went home two weeks later to a house that was so full of flowers it looked like Kew Gardens. I still didn’t have complete command of the right-hand side of my body but every day it seemed a little bit more like part of me, a little less numb. I sat and looked out the open French windows into the garden. The air was heavy with the scents of summer and the breeze gently played upon the net curtains. Friday was drawing with some crayons on the floor and I could hear the
clacketty-clack
of Landen’s old Underwood typewriter next door, and in the kitchen Louis Armstrong was on the wireless singing “La Vie en Rose.” It was the first time I had been able to relax for almost as long as I could remember. I was going to need an extended convalescence but would go back to work eventually—perhaps at SpecOps, perhaps at Jurisfiction, perhaps both.

“I came to say good-bye.”

It was Hamlet. I had learned from him earlier that William Shgakespeafe had managed to extricate
Hamlet
from
The Merry Wives of Windsor,
and both plays were as they should be. The one enigmatic, the other a spin-off.

“Are you sure you’re—”

He silenced me with a wave of his hand and sat down on the sofa while Alan gazed at him adoringly.

“I’ve learned a lot of things while I’ve been here,” he said. “I’ve learned that there are many Hamlets, and we love each one of them for their different interpretation. I liked Gibson’s because it has the least amount of dithering, Orson because he did it with the best voice, Gielgud for the ease in which he placed himself within the role and Jacobi for his passion. By the way, have you heard of this Branagh fellow?”

“No.”

“He’s just starting to get going. I’ve got a feeling his Hamlet will be stupendous.”

He thought for a moment.

“For centuries I’ve been worrying about audiences seeing me as a mouthy spoiled brat who can’t make up his mind about anything, but, having seen the real world, I can understand the appeal. My play is popular because my failings are
your
failings, my indecision the indecision of you all. We all know what has to be done; it’s just that sometimes we don’t know how to get there. Acting without thought doesn’t really help in the long run. I might dither for a while, but at least I make the right decision in the end: I bear my troubles
and
take arms against them. And thereby lies a message for all mankind, although I’m not
exactly
sure what it is. Perhaps there’s no message. I don’t really know. Besides, if I don’t dither, there’s no play.”

“So you’re not going to kill your uncle in the first act?”

“No. In fact, I’m going to leave the play exactly as it is. I’ve decided instead to focus my energies towards being the Jurisfiction agent for all of Shakespeare’s works. I’ll have a go at Marlowe, too—but I’m not keen on Webster.”

“That’s excellent news,” I told him. “Jurisfiction will be very happy.”

He paused. “I’m still a bit annoyed that someone told Ophelia about Emma. It wasn’t you, was it?”

“On my honor.”

He got up, bowed and kissed my hand. “Come and visit me, won’t you?”

“You can count on it,” I replied. “Just one question: where on earth did you find Daphne Farquitt? She’s the recluse’s recluse.”

He grinned. “I didn’t. By the morning of the SuperHoop, I had managed to gather about nine people. There’s a limit to how much anti-Kaine sentiment you can muster going door to door in Swindon at two in the morning.”

“So there never was a Farquitt Fan Club?”

“Oh, I’m sure there is somewhere, but Kaine didn’t know it, now, did he?”

I laughed. “I’ve a feeling you’re going to be an asset to Jurisfiction, Hamlet. And I want you to take something with you as a gift from me.”

“A gift? I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those before.”

“No? Well, always a first for everything. I want you to have . . . Alan.”

“The dodo?”

“I think he’d be an invaluable addition to Elsinore Castle—just don’t let him get into the main story.”

Hamlet looked at Alan, who looked back at him longingly.

“Thank you,” he said with as much sincerity as he could. “I’m deeply honored.”

Alan went a bit floppy as Hamlet picked him up, and a few moments later they both vanished back to Elsinore, Hamlet to further continue his work as a career procrastinator, and Alan to cause trouble in the Danish court.

“Hello, Sweetpea.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“You did a terrific job over that SuperHoop. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good.”

“Did I tell you that as soon as Zvlkx got hit by that Number 23 bus, the Ultimate Likelihood Index of that Armageddon rose to eighty-three percent?”

“No, you never told me that.”

“Just as well really—I wouldn’t have wanted you to panic.”

“Dad, who
was
St. Zvlkx?”

He leaned closer. “Don’t tell a soul, but he was someone named Steve Schultz of the Toast Marketing Board. I think I might have recruited him, or he might have approached me to help—I’m not sure. History has rewritten itself so many times I’m really not sure how it was to begin with—it’s a bit like trying to guess the original color of a wall when it’s been repainted eight times. All I can say is that everything turned out okay—and that things are far weirder than we
can
know. But the main thing is that Goliath now answers to the Toast Marketing Board and Kaine is out of power. The whole thing has been rubber-stamped into historical fact, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“How did you manage to jump Schultz or Zvlkx or whoever he was all the way from the thirteenth century without the ChronoGuard spotting what you were up to?”

“Where do you hide a pebble, Sweetpea?”

“On a beach.”

“And where do you hide a thirteenth-century impostor saint?”

“With . . . lots of other thirteenth-century impostor saints?”

He smiled.

“You sent all twenty-eight of them forward just to hide St. Zvlkx?”

“Twenty-seven, actually—one of them
was
real. But I didn’t do it alone. I needed someone to whip up a timephoon in the Dark Ages as cover. Someone with remarkable skills as a time traveler. An expert who can surf the time line with a skill I will never possess.”

“Me?”

He chuckled. “No, silly—
Friday.
”

The little boy looked up when he heard his name and chewed a crayon, made a face and spat the bits on Pickwick, who jumped up in fright and ran away to hide.

“Meet the future head of the ChronoGuard, Sweetpea. How did you think he survived Landen’s eradication?”

I stared at the little boy, who stared back, and smiled.

Dad looked at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to go. Nelson’s up to his old tricks again. Time waits for no man, as we say.”

44.

Final Curtain

Neanderthals Make New Year’s “At Risk” List

Neanderthals, the once extinct cousins of
Homo sapien,
were yesterday granted “at risk” status along with the Edible Dormouse and Poorly Crested Grebe. Incoming Chancellor Mr. Redmond van de Poste of the Toast Party granted them this honor as recognition of their work during the Swindon-Reading SuperHoop. Mr. van de Poste met with neanderthals and read from a specially prepared speech. “Personally, I really don’t give a button over your status,” he told them, “but it’s politically expedient and vote-winning to be doing something to help lowly clods like you gain some sort of limited freedom.” His speech was received warmly by the neanderthals, who were expecting half-truths and disinformation. “An application to become ‘endangered,’ ” continued Mr. van de Poste, “will be looked at on its merits in the New Year—if we can be bothered.”

Article in the
Swindon Daily Eyestrain,
September 7, 1988

I
was well enough to be given an award three weeks later at a mayoral lunch. Lord Volescamper presented the whole SuperHoop team with a special “Swindon Star” medal, especially struck for the purpose. The only neanderthal to show up was Stig, who understood what it meant to me, even if he couldn’t truly understand the concept of individual aggrandizement.

There was a party afterwards, and everyone wanted to chat to me, mostly to ask me if I would play any more professional croquet. I met Handley Paige again, who jumped when he saw me and downed a drink nervously.

“I’ve decided not to kill off my Emperor Zhark character,” he announced quickly. “I’d just like to make that point right now, in case anyone might think I was going to stop writing Zhark books, which I’m not. Not at all. Not ever.” He looked around nervously.

“I’m sorry?” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Oh . . . right,” he replied sarcastically, tried to drink from his empty glass and then strode off to the bar.

“What was all that about?” asked Landen.

“Search me.”

Spike was at the party, too, and he sidled up to me as I was fetching another drink.

“What did she say to you when she took your place?”

I turned to face him; I wasn’t surprised that he knew Cindy had replaced me. The semidead was his field of expertise, after all.

“She said that she wanted to make up for some of the misery she had caused, and she knew she would never hold either you or Betty again.”

“You could have refused her, but I’m glad you didn’t. I loved her, but she was rotten to the core.”

He fell silent for a moment and I touched him on the arm.

“Not entirely rotten, Spike. She loved you both very much.”

He looked at me and smiled.

“I know. You did the right thing, Thursday. Thank you.”

And he hugged me, and was gone.

I answered lots more questions regarding the SuperHoop match, and when I decided enough was enough, I asked Landen to take me home.

We drove towards home in the Speedster, Landen driving and Friday in a baby seat in the back, right next to Pickwick, who didn’t want to be left alone now that Alan had gone.

“Land?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you ever think it odd that I survived?”

“I’m grateful that you did, of course—”

“Stop the car a minute.”

“Why?”

“Just do as I say.”

He pulled up, and I very carefully climbed out and walked towards where two familiar figures were sitting on the pavement outside a Goliath Coffee Shop. I approached silently and sat down next to the larger of the two before he’d even noticed. He looked around and jumped visibly when he saw me.

“Once,” said a sad and familiar voice, “you would never have been able to sneak up on a Gryphon!”

I smiled. He was a creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. He wore spectacles and a scarf under his trench coat, which somewhat dented his otherwise fearsome appearance. He was fictional, to be sure, but he was also head of Jurisfiction’s legal team, my lawyer—and a friend.

“Gryphon!” I said with some surprise. “What are you doing in the Outland?”

“Here to see you,” he whispered, looking around and lowering his voice. “Have you met Mock Turtle? He’s now my number two at the legal desk.”

He gestured towards where a turtle with the head of a calf was staring mournfully into space. He was, like the Gryphon, straight out of the pages of
Alice in Wonderland
.

“How do you do?”

“Okay—I suppose,” sighed the Mock Turtle, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

“So what’s up?” I asked.

“It’s quite serious—too serious for the footnoterphone. And I needed an excuse to do some Outlander research on traffic islands. Fascinating things.”

I felt hot and prickly all of a sudden. Not about traffic islands, of course, about my
conviction.
The Fiction Infraction. I had changed the ending of
Jane Eyre
and was found guilty by the Court of Hearts. All that was missing was the sentence.

“What did I get?”

“It’s not that bad!” exclaimed the Gryphon, snapping his fingers at the Mock Turtle, who passed him a sheet of paper now stained with his own tears.

I took the paper and scanned the semiblurred contents.

“It’s a bit unusual,” admitted the Gryphon. “I think the bit about the gingham is unnaturally cruel—might be the cause of an appeal on its own.”

I stared at the paper. “Twenty years of my life in blue gingham,” I murmured.

“And you can’t die until you’ve read the ten most boring books,” added the Gryphon.

“My gran had to do the same,” I explained, feeling just a little puzzled.

“Not possible,” said the Mock Turtle, drying his eyes. “This sentence is unique, as befits the crime. You can take the twenty years of gingham anytime you want—not necessarily now.”

“But my gran had this punishment—”

“You’re mistaken,” replied the Gryphon firmly, retrieving the paper, folding it and placing it in his pocket, “and we had better be off. Will you be at Bradshaw’s golden wedding anniversary?”

“Y-es,” I said slowly, still confused.

“Good. Page 221,
Bradshaw and the Diamond of M’shala
. It’s bring-a-bottle-and-a-banana. Drag your husband along. I know he’s real, but no one’s perfect—we’d all like to meet him.”

“Thank you. What about—”

“Goodness!” said the Gryphon, consulting a large pocket-watch. “Is that the time? We’ve got a lobster quadrille to perform in ten pages!”

The Mock Turtle cheered up a bit when he heard this, and in a moment they were gone.

I walked slowly back to where Landen and Friday were waiting for me in the car.

“Dah!” said Friday really loudly.

“There!” said Landen. “He most definitely said ‘Dad’!” He noticed my furrowed brow. “What’s up?”

“Landen, my gran on my mother’s side died in 1968.”

“And?”