The well of lost plots (37 page)

“Well,” I began as we made ourselves more comfortable in the boat, lying down to look up at the stars, “there’s this upgrade called Ultra Word™, see, and . . .”

We stayed in each other’s arms for a long time, the small rowing boat adrift in the museum of my mind, the sea calming before us as we headed towards the gathering dawn.

Daphne Farquitt wrote her first book in 1936 and had by 1988 written three hundred others exactly like it.
The Squire of High Potternews
was arguably the least worst, although the best you could say about it was that it was a “different shade of terrible.” Astute readers have complained that
Potternews
originally ended quite differently, an observation also made about
Jane Eyre
. It is all they have in common.

THURSDAY NEXT,
The Jurisfiction Chronicles

THE FOLLOWING MORNING my head felt as if it had a road drill in it. I lay awake in bed, the sun streaming through the porthole. I smiled as I remembered the defeat of Aornis the night before and mouthed out loud:

“Landen Parke-Laine, Landen Parke-Laine!”

Then I remembered the loss of Miss Havisham and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. After a few minutes of introspection I sat up slowly and stretched. It was almost ten. I staggered to the bathroom and drank three glasses of water, brought it all up again and brushed my teeth, drank more water, sat with my head between my knees, then tiptoed back to bed to avoid waking Gran. She was fast asleep in the chair with a copy of
Finnegan’s Wake
on her lap. I knew I was going to have to apologize to Arnie and thank him for not taking advantage of the situation. I couldn’t believe I had made such a fool of myself but felt that I could, at a pinch, lay most of the blame at Aornis’s door.

I got up half an hour later and went downstairs, where I found Randolph and Lola at the breakfast table. They weren’t talking to each other and I noticed Lola’s small suitcase at the door.

“Thursday!” said Randolph, offering me a chair. “Are you okay?”

“Groggy,” I replied as Lola placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me that I inhaled gratefully. “Groggy but happy — I got Landen back. Thanks for helping me out last night — and I’m sorry if I made a complete idiot of myself. Arnie must think I’m the worst tease in the Well.”

“No, that’s me,” said Lola innocently. “Your Gran explained to us all about Aornis and Landen. We had no idea what was going on. Arnie understood and he said he’d drop around later and see how you were.”

I looked at Lola’s suitcase and then at the two of them, who were studiously ignoring each other.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m leaving to start work on
Girls Make All the Moves
.”

“That’s excellent news, Lola,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Randolph?”

“Yes, very good. All the clothes and boyfriends she wants.”

“You’re sour because you didn’t get that male-mentor part you wanted,” retorted Lola.

“Not at all,” replied Randolph, resentment bubbling under the surface. “I’ve been offered a small part in an upcoming Amis — a proper novel. A
literary
one.”

“Well, good luck to you,” replied Lola. “Send me a postcard if you can be troubled to talk to anyone in chicklit.”

“Guys,” I said, “don’t part like this!”

Lola looked at Randolph, who turned away. She sighed, stared at me for a moment and then got up.

“Well,” she said, picking up her case, “I’ve got to go. Fittings all morning, then rehearsals until six. Busy busy busy. I’ll keep in touch, don’t worry.”

I got up, held my head for a moment as it thumped badly, then hugged Lola, who hugged me back happily.

“Thanks for all the help, Thursday,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I wouldn’t have made it up to B-3 without you.”

She went to the door and stopped for a moment, looked across at Randolph, who was staring resolutely out the window at nothing in particular.

“Good-bye, Randolph.”

“Good-bye,” he said without looking up.

Lola looked at me, bit her lip and went across to him and kissed him on the back of the head. She returned to the door, said good-bye to me again and went out.

I sat down next to him. A large tear had rolled down his nose and dropped onto the table. I laid a hand on his.

“Randolph — !”

“I’m fine!” he growled. “I’ve just got a bit of grit in my eye!”

“Did you tell her how you felt?”

“No, I didn’t!” he snapped. “And what’s more, I don’t want you dictating to me what I should and shouldn’t do!”

He got up and stormed off to his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Hellooo!” said a Granny Next sort of voice. “Are you well enough to come upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can come and help me down.”

I assisted her down the stairs and sat her at the table, fetching a cushion or two from the living room.

“Thanks for your help, Gran. I made a complete fool of myself last night.”

“What’s life for? Don’t mention it. And by the way, it was Lola and me who undressed you, not the boys.”

“I think I was past caring.”

“All the same. Aornis will have a lot more trouble getting at you in the Outland, my dear — my experience of mnemonomorphs tends to be that once you dispose of a mindworm, the rest is easy. You won’t forget her in a hurry, I assure you.”

We chatted for an hour, Gran and I, about Miss Havisham, Landen, babies, Anton and all other things besides. She told me about her own husband’s eradication and his eventual return. I knew he
had
returned because without him there would be no me, but it was interesting to talk to her nonetheless. I felt well enough to go into
Caversham Heights
at midday to see how Jack was getting on.

“Ah!” said Jack as I arrived. “Just in time. I’ve been thinking about a full
Caversham Heights
makeover — do you want to have a look?”

“Go on, then.”

“Is anything the matter? You look a bit unwell.”

“I got myself pickled to the gills last night. I’ll be fine. What have you in mind?”

“Get in. I want you to meet someone.”

I climbed into the Allegro and he handed me a coffee. We were parked opposite a large redbrick semi in the north of the town. In the book we stake out this house for two days, eventually sighting the mayor emerging with crime boss Angel DeFablio. With the mayor character excised from the manuscript for an unspecified reason, it would be a long wait.

“This is Nathan Snudd,” said Jack, indicating a young man sitting in the backseat. “Nathan is a plotsmith who’s just graduated in the Well and has kindly agreed to help us. He has some ideas about the book that I wanted you to hear. Mr. Snudd, this is Thursday Next.”

“Hi,” I said, shaking his hand.

“The
Outlander
Thursday Next?”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating! Tell me, why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?”

“I don’t know. What are your ideas for the book?”

“Well,” said Nathan, affecting the manner of someone who knows a great deal, “I’ve being looking at what you have left and I’ve put together a rescue plan that uses the available budget, characters and remaining high points of the novel to best effect.”

“Is it still a murder inquiry?”

“Oh, yes; and the fight-rigging bit I think we can keep, too. I’ve bought a few cut-price plot devices from a bargain warehouse in the Well and sewn them in. For instance, I thought that instead of having one scene where Jack is suspended by DCI Briggs, you could have six.”

“Will that work?”

“Sure. Then there will be a bad-cop routine where an officer close to you is taking bribes and betrays you to the Mob. I’ve got this middle-aged, creepy housekeeper Generic we can adapt. In fact, I’ve got seventeen middle-aged, creepy housekeepers we can pepper about the book.”

“Mrs. Danvers, by any chance?” I asked.

“We’re working on a tight budget,” replied Snudd coldly, “let’s not forget that.”

“What else?”

“I thought there could be several gangster’s molls or a prostitute who wants to go straight and helps you out.”

“A ‘tart with a heart’?”

“In one. They’re ten a penny in the Well at the moment — we should be able to get five for a ha’penny.”

“Then what happens?”

“This is the good bit. Someone tries to kill you with a car bomb. I’ve bought this great little scene for you where you go to your car, are about to start it but find a small piece of wire on the floor mat. It’s a cinch and cheap, too. I can buy it wholesale from my cousin; he said he would throw in a missing consignment of Nazi bullion and a sad-loser-detective-drunk-at-a-bar-with-whiskey-and-a-cigarette scene. You are a sad, loner, loser maverick detective with a drink problem, yes?”

Jack looked at me and smiled. “No, not anymore. I live with my wife and have four amusing children.”

“Not on this budget.” Snudd laughed. “Humorous sidekicks — kids or otherwise — cost bundles.”

There was a tap on the window.

“Hello, Prometheus,” said Jack, “have you met Thursday Next? She’s from the Outland.”

Prometheus looked at me and put out a hand. He was an olive-skinned man of perhaps thirty, with tightly curled black hair close to his head. He had deep black eyes and a strong Grecian nose that was so straight you could have laid a set square on it.

“Outland, eh? What did you think of Byron’s retelling of my story?”

“I thought it excellent.”

“Me, too. When are we going to get the Elgin marbles back?”

“No idea.”

Prometheus, more generally known as the fire-giver, was a Titan who had stolen fire from the gods and given it to mankind, a good move or a terrible one, depending on which papers you read. As punishment, Zeus had him chained to a rock in the Caucasus, where his liver was picked out every night by eagles, only to regrow during the day. He looked quite healthy, in spite of it. What he was doing in
Caversham Heights
, I had no idea.

“I heard you had a spot of bother,” he said to Jack, “something about the plot falling to pieces?”

“My attempts to keep it secret don’t appear to be working,” muttered Jack. “I don’t want a panic. Most Generics have a heart of gold, but if there is the sniff of a problem with the narrative, they’ll abandon
Heights
like rats from a ship — and an influx of Generics seeking employment to the Well could set the Book Inspectorate off like a rocket.”

“Ah,” replied the Titan, “tricky indeed. I was wondering if I could offer my services in any way?”

“As a Greek drug dealer or something?” asked Nathan.

“No,” replied Prometheus slightly testily, “as Prometheus.”

“Oh, yeah?” Snudd laughed. “What are you going to do? Steal fire from the DeFablio family and give it to Mickey Finn?”

Prometheus stared at him as though he were a twit — which he was, I suppose.

“No, I thought I could be here awaiting extradition back to the Caucasus by Zeus’ lawyers or something — and Jack could be in charge of witness protection, trying to protect me against Zeus’ hit men — sort of like
The Client
but with gods instead of the Mob.”

“If you want to cross-genre we have to build from the ground up,” replied Snudd disparagingly, “and that takes more money and expertise than you guys will
ever
possess.”

“What did you say?” asked Prometheus in a threatening manner.

“You heard me. Everyone thinks it’s easy to be a plotsmith.”

“What you’ve described,” continued the Titan, showing great restraint, “isn’t a crime thriller — it’s a mess.”

Snudd prodded Prometheus on the tie and sneered, “Well, let me tell you, Mr. Smart-Aleck-Greek-Titan-fire-giver, I didn’t spend four years at Plotschool to be told my job by an ex-convict!”

The Titan’s lip quivered. “Okay,” he snarled, pulling up his shirtsleeves, “you and me. Right now, here on the sidewalk.”

“C’mon,” said Jack in a soothing manner, “this isn’t going to get us anywhere. Snudd, I think perhaps you should listen to what Prometheus has to say. He might have a point.”

“A point?” cried Snudd, getting out of the car but avoiding Prometheus. “I’ll tell you the point. You came to me wanting my help and I gave it — now I have to listen to dumb ideas from any myth that happens to wander along. This was a
favor
, Jack — my time isn’t cheap. And since this is an ideas free-for-all, let me tell you a home truth: the Great Panjandrum himself couldn’t sort out the problems in this book. And you know why? Because it was shit to begin with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got two subplots to write for proper, paying clients!”

And without another word, Snudd vanished.

“Well,” said Prometheus, getting into the backseat, “who needs cretins like him?”

“Me,” sighed Jack, “I need all the help I can get. What do you care what happens to us anyway?”

“Well,” said the Titan slowly, “I kind of like it here, and all that mail redirection is a pain in the arse. What shall we do now?”

“Lunch?” I suggested.

“Good idea,” said Prometheus. “I wait tables at Zorba’s in the high street — I can get us a discount.”

The “police officer being suspended by reluctant boss” plot device was pretty common in the crime genre. It usually happened just before a down-ending second act, when the author sets things up so the reader thinks that there is no way the hero can extricate himself. A down-ending second usually heralds an up-ending third, but not always; you can finish a third down, but it usually works better if the end of the second is up — which means the end of the first should be up, not down.

JEREMY FNORP,
The Ups and Downs of Act Breaks

I WENT TO WORK as normal the following morning, my head cleared and feeling better than I had for some time. Randolph, however, was inconsolable without Lola and had moped all the previous evening, becoming quite angry that I believed him when he said that nothing was the matter. Gran was out and I slept well for the first time in weeks. I even dreamt of Landen — and wasn’t interrupted during the good parts, either.