The well of lost plots (4 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“What have you found out so far?”

She dug in her pocket for a notebook, couldn’t find it, so counted the points off on her fingers instead.

“Deceased’s name is Sonny DeFablio.”

There was a pause. Jack didn’t say anything, so Jones, now slightly startled, continued as though he had.

“Time of death? Too early to tell. Probably three A.M. last night, give or take an hour. We’ll know more when we get the corpse. Gun? We’ll know when . . .”

“. . . Jack, are you okay?”

He had sat down wearily and was staring at the ground, head in hands.

I looked around, but both Dr. Singh, her assistants and the unnamed officers were busily getting on with their parts, unwilling, it seemed, to get embroiled — or perhaps they were just embarrassed.

“I can’t do this anymore,” muttered Jack.

“Sir,” I persisted, trying to ad-lib, “do you want to see the body or can we remove it?”

“What’s the use?” sobbed the crushed protagonist. “No one is reading us; it doesn’t matter.”

I placed my hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve
tried
to make it more interesting,” he sobbed, “but nothing seems to work. My wife won’t speak to me, my job’s on the line, drugs are flooding into Reading and if I don’t make the narrative even remotely readable, then we all get demolished and there’s nothing left at all except an empty hole on the bookshelf and the memory of a might-have-been in the head of the author.”

“Your wife only left you because
all
loner, maverick detectives have domestic problems,” I explained. “I’m sure she loves you really.”

“No, no, she doesn’t,” he sobbed again. “All is lost. Don’t you see? It’s customary for detectives to drive unusual cars and I had a wonderful 1924 Delage-Talbot Supersport. The idea was stolen and replaced with that dreadful Austin Allegro. If any
scenes
get deleted, we’ll really be stuffed.”

He paused and looked up at me. “What’s your name?”

“Thursday Next.”

He perked up suddenly. “Thursday Next the Outlander Jurisfiction agent apprenticed to Miss Havisham Thursday Next?”

I nodded. News travels fast in the Well.

An excited gleam came into his eye. “I read about you in
The Word
. Tell me, would you have any way of finding out when the Book Inspectorate are due to read our story? I’ve lined up seven three-dimensional B-2 freelancers to come in and give the book a bit of an edge — just for an hour or so. With their help we might be able to hang on to it; all I need to know is the
when
.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spratt,” I sighed, “I’m new to all this; what exactly
is
the Council of Genres?”

“They look after fictional legislature, dramatic conventions, mainly — a representative from every genre sits on the Council — it is
they
who decide the conventions of storytelling, and it is
they
, through the Book Inspectorate, who decide whether an unpublished book is to be kept — or demolished.”

“Oh,” I replied, realizing that the BookWorld was governed by almost as many rules and regulations as my own, “then I can’t help you.”

“What about Text Grand Central? Do you know anyone there?”

TGC I
had
heard of: amongst other things, they monitored the books in the Great Library and passed any textual problems on to us at Jurisfiction, who were purely a policing agency — but I knew no more than that. I shook my head again.

“Blast!” he muttered, staring at the ground. “I’ve applied to the C of G for a cross-genre makeover, but you might as well try and speak to the Great Panjandrum himself.”

“Why don’t you change the book from
within
?”

“Change without permission?” he replied, shocked at my suggestion. “That would mean rebellion. I want to get the C of G’s attention, but not like that — we’d be crushed in less than a chapter!”

“But if the inspectorate haven’t been round yet,” I said slowly, “then how would they even know anything had changed?”

He thought about this for a moment. “Easier said than done — if I start to fool with the narrative, it might all collapse like a pack of cards!”

“Then start small, change
yourself
first. If that works, you can try to bend the plot slightly.”

“Y-esss,” said Jack slowly, “what did you have in mind?”

“Give up the booze.”

“How did you know about my drink problem?”

“All maverick, loner detectives with domestic strife have drinking problems. Give up the liquor and go home to your wife.”

“That’s not how I’ve been written,” replied Jack slowly. “I just can’t do it — it would be going against type — the readers — !”

“Jack, there are no readers. And if you don’t at least try what I suggest, there
never
will be any readers — or any Jack Spratt. But if things go well, you might even be in . . . a sequel.”

“A sequel?” repeated Jack with a sort of dreamy look in his eyes. “You mean — a Jack Spratt
series
?”

“Who knows” — I shrugged — “maybe even one day — a boxed set.”

His eyes gleamed and he stood up. “A boxed set,” he whispered, staring into the middle distance. “It’s up to me, isn’t it?” he said in a slow voice.

“Yes. Change yourself, change the book — and soon, before it’s too late — make the novel into something the Book Inspectorate will
want
to read.”

“Okay,” he said at last, “beginning with the next chapter. Instead of arguing with Briggs about letting a suspect go without charging them, I’ll take my ex-wife out to lunch.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” I affirmed. “Not tomorrow or next chapter or even next page or paragraph — you’re going to change
now
.”

“We can’t! There are at least nine more pages while you and I discuss the state of the body with Dr. Singh and go through all that boring forensic stuff.”

“Leave it to me. We’ll jump back a paragraph or two. Ready?”

He nodded and we moved to the top of the previous page, just as Briggs was leaving.

Jack did indeed get it and Briggs departed.

He shivered in the cold and looked at the young DS again.

“Mary Jones, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What have you found out so far?”

She dug in her pocket for a notebook, couldn’t find it, so counted the points off on her fingers instead.

“Deceased’s name is Sonny DeFablio.”

“What else?”

“Your wife phoned.”

“She . . . did?”

“Yes. Said it was important.”

“I’ll drop by this evening.”

“She said it was
very
urgent,” stressed Jones.

“Hold the fort for me, would you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Jack walked from the crime scene leaving Jones with Dr. Singh.

“Right,” said Mary. “What have we got?”

We ran the scene together, Dr. Singh telling me all the information that she was more used to relating to Jack. She went into a huge amount of detail regarding the time of death and a more-than-graphic explanation of how she thought it had happened. Ballistics, trajectory, blood-splatter patterns, you name it. I was really quite glad when she finished and the chapter moved off to Jack’s improvised meeting with his ex-wife.

As soon as we were done, Dr. Singh turned to me and said in an anxious tone, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Not a clue.”

“Me neither,” replied the quasi pathologist. “You know that long speech I made just now about postmortem bruising, angles of bullet entry and discoloration of body tissues?”

“Yes?”

She leaned closer. “Didn’t understand a word. Eight pages of technical dialogue and haven’t the foggiest what I’m talking about. I only trained at Generic college as a mother figure in domestic potboilers. If I’d known I was to be drafted to
this
, I would have spent a few hours in a Cornwell. Do you have any clues as to what I’m actually meant to do?”

I rummaged in her bag and brought out a large thermometer.

“Try this.”

“What do I do with it?”

I pointed.

“You’re
kidding
me,” replied Dr. Singh, aghast.

Jurisfiction
is the name given to the policing agency that works
inside
books. Under a remit from the Council of Genres and working with the intelligence-gathering capabilities of Text Grand Central, the Prose Resource Operatives at Jurisfiction comprise a mixed bag of characters, most drawn from the ranks of fiction but some, like Harris Tweed and myself, from the real world. Problems in fiction are noticed by “spotters” employed at Text Grand Central, and from there relayed to the Bellman, a ten-yearly elected figure who runs Jurisfiction under strict guidelines laid down by the Council of Genres. Jurisfiction has its own code of conduct, technical department, canteen and resident washerwoman.

THURSDAY NEXT,
The Jurisfiction Chronicles

DR. SINGH DIDN’T waste the opportunity, and she gathered together several other trainee pathologists she knew from the Well. They all sat spellbound as I recounted the limited information I possessed. Exhausted, I managed to escape four hours later. It was evening when I finally got home. I opened the door to the flying boat and kicked off my shoes. Pickwick rushed up to greet me and tugged excitedly at my trouser leg. I followed her through to the living room and then had to wait while she remembered where she had left her egg. We finally found it rolled behind the hi-fi and I congratulated her, despite there being no change in its appearance.

I returned to the kitchen. ibb and obb had been studying
Mrs. Beeton’s
all day, and ibb was attempting steak diane with french fries. Landen used to cook that for me and I suddenly felt lonesome and small, so far from home I might well be on Pluto. obb was making the final touches to a fully decorated four-tier wedding cake.

“Hello, ibb,” I said, “how’s it going?”

“How’s what going?” replied the Generic in that annoying literal way that they spoke. “And I’m obb.”

“Sorry — obb.”

“Why are you sorry? Have you done something?”

“Never mind.”

I sat down at the table and opened a package that had arrived. It was from Miss Havisham and contained the Jurisfiction Standard Entrance Exam. I had joined Jurisfiction almost by accident — I had wanted to get Landen out of “The Raven” and getting involved with the agency seemed to be the best way to learn. But Jurisfiction had grown on me and I now felt strongly about maintaining the solidity of the written word. It was the same job I had undertaken at SpecOps, just from the other side. But it struck me that, on this occasion, Miss Havisham was wrong — I was not yet ready for full membership.

The hefty tome consisted of five hundred questions, nearly all of them multiple choice. I noticed that the exam was self-invigilating; as soon as I opened the book a clock in the top left-hand corner started to count down from two hours. The questions were mostly about literature, which I had no problem with. Jurisfiction law was trickier and I would probably need to consult with Miss Havisham. I made a start and ten minutes later was pondering question forty-six:
Which of the following poets never used the outlawed word
majestic
in their work
? when there was a knock at the door accompanied by a peal of thunder.

I closed the exam book and opened the door. On the jetty were three ugly, old crones dressed in filthy rags. They had bony features, rough and warty skin, and they launched into a well-rehearsed act as soon as the door opened.

“When shall we three meet again?” said the first witch. “In Thurber, Wodehouse, or in Greene?”

“When the hurly-burly’s done,” added the second, “when the story’s thought and spun!”

There was a pause until the second witch nudged the third.

“That will be Eyre the set of sun,” she said quickly.

“Where the place?”

“Within the text.”

“There to meet with MsNext!”

They stopped talking and I stared, unsure of what I was meant to do.

“Thank you very much,” I replied, but the first witch snorted disparagingly and wedged her foot in the door as I tried to close it.

“Prophecies, kind lady?” she asked as the other two cackled hideously.

“I really don’t think so,” I answered, pushing her foot away, “perhaps another time.”

“All hail, MsNext! Hail to thee, citizen of Swindon!”

“Really, I’m sorry — and I’m out of change.”

“All hail, MsNext, hail to thee, full Jurisfiction agent, thou shalt be!”

“If you don’t go,” I began, starting to get annoyed, “I’ll—”

“All hail, MsNext, thou shalt be Bellman thereafter!”

“Sure I will. Go on, clear off, you imperfect speakers — bother someone else with your nonsense!”

“A shilling!” said the first. “And we shall tell you more — or less, as you please.”

I closed the door despite their grumbling and went back to my multiple choice. I’d only answered question forty-nine:
Which of the following is not a gerund
? when there was another knock at the door.

“Blast!” I muttered, getting up and striking my ankle on the table leg. It was the three witches again.

“I thought I told you—”

“Sixpence, then,” said the chief hag, putting out a bony hand.

“No,” I replied firmly, rubbing my ankle, “I
never
buy anything at the door.”

They all started up then: “
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up—”

I shut the door again. I wasn’t superstitious and had far more important things to worry about. I had just sat down again, sipped at my tea and answered the next question:
Who wrote
Toad of Toad Hall? when there was another rap at the door.