'Thursday Next' (№3) - The Well of Lost Plots

'I think,' replied the voice on the bullhorn, 'that we'll stick to my plan. You have one minute forty-five seconds.'

I reached the doorway of the kitchen, which was as devastated as the living room. Flour and beans from broken storage jars were strewn across the floor and a flurry of snowflakes were blowing in through the windows. I found the footnoterphone; it had been riddled with machine-gun fire. I cursed and crawled rapidly back towards the living room. I caught Havisham's eye and shook my head. She signalled for me to look out the back way and I did, going into the darkness of the pantry to peer out. I could see two of them, sitting in the snow, weapons ready. I dashed back to Havisham.

'How does it look?'

'Two at the back that I can see.'

'And at least three at the front,' she added. 'I'm open to suggestions.'

'How about giving them Heathcliff?' came a chorus of voices.

'Other than that?'

'I can try and get behind them,' I muttered, 'if you keep them pinned down—'

I was interrupted by an unearthly cry of terror from outside, followed by a sort of crunching noise, then another cry and sporadic machine-gun fire. There was a large thump and another shot, then a cry, then the ProCaths at the back started to open fire, too; but not at the house — at some unseen menace. Havisham and I exchanged looks and shrugged as a man came running into the house in panic; he was still holding his pistol, and because of that, his fate was sealed. Havisham fired two shots into him and he fell stone dead next to us, a look of abject terror on his face. There were a few more gunshots, another agonised cry, then silence. I shivered, and got up to peer cautiously from the door. There was nothing outside except the soft snow, disturbed occasionally by foot marks.

We found only one body, tossed on to the roof of the barn, but there was a great deal of blood, and what looked like the paw tracks of something very large and feline. I was staring at the dinner-plate-sized footprint slowly being obscured by the falling snow when Havisham laid her hand on my shoulder.

'Big Martin,' she said softly. 'He must have been following you.'

'Is he still?' I asked, understandably concerned.

'Who knows?' replied Miss Havisham. 'Big Martin is a law unto himself. Come back inside.'

We returned to where the cast were dusting themselves down. Joseph was muttering to himself and trying to block the windows up with blankets.

'Well,' said Miss Havisham, clapping her hands together, 'that was an exciting session, wasn't it?'

'I am still leaving this appalling book,' retorted Heathcliff, who was back on full obnoxious form again.

'No you're not,' replied Havisham.

'You just try and stop—'

Miss Havisham, who was fed up with pussyfooting around and hated men like Heathcliff with a vengeance, grasped him by the collar and pinned his head to the table with a well-placed gun barrel pressed painfully into his neck.

'Listen here,' she said, her voice quavering with anger, 'to me, you are worthless scum. Thank your lucky stars I am loyal to Jurisfiction. Many others in my place would have handed you over. I could kill you now and no one would be any the wiser.'

Heathcliff looked at me imploringly.

'I was outside when I heard the shot,' I told him.

So were we!' exclaimed the rest of the cast eagerly, excepting Catherine Earnshaw, who simply scowled.

'Perhaps I should do it!' growled Havisham again. 'Perhaps it would be a mercy. I could make it look like an accident—!'

'No!' cried Heathcliff in a contrite tone. 'I've changed my mind. I in going to stay right here and just be plain old Mr Heathcliff for ever and ever.'

Havisham stared at him and slowly released her grasp.

'Right,' she said, switching her pistol to safe and regaining her breath, 'I think that pretty much concludes this session of Jurisfiction Rage Counselling. What did we learn?'

The co-characters all stared at her, dumbstruck.

'Good. Same time next week, everyone?'

14

Educating the Generics

'Generics were the chameleons of the Well. In general they were trained to do specific jobs but could be upgraded if the need arose. Occasionally a Generic would jump up spontaneously within the grade, but to jump from one grade to another without external help, they said, was impossible. From what I would learn, "impossible" was a word that should not be bandied about the Well without due thought. Imagination being what it is, anything could happen — and generally did.'

THURSDAY NEXT — The Jurisfiction Chronicles

I made it home on my own after the 'mopping up' had finished in Wuthering Heights. The leader of the ProCath cell was well known to Jurisfiction, and preferred our guns on the inside to Big Martin's teeth on the outside. The house was repaired within a few lines, and because Havisham had been holding the rage counselling session between chapters, no one reading the book noticed anything. In fact, the only evidence of the attack now to be seen in the book was Hareton's shotgun, which exploded accidentally in chapter thirty-two, most likely as a result of a ricocheting bullet damaging the latching mechanism.

'How was your day today?' asked Gran.

'Very … expositional to begin with,' I said, falling into the sofa and tickling Pickwick, who had come over all serious and matronly, 'but it ended quite dramatically.'

'Did you have to be rescued again?'

'Not this time.'

'The first few days in a new job are always a bit shaky,' said Gran. 'Why do you have to work for Jurisfiction anyway?'

'It was part of the Exchange Programme deal.'

'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'Would you like me to make you an omelette?'

'Anything.'

'Right. I'll need you to crack the eggs and mix them and get me down the saucepan and …'

I heaved myself up and went through to the small galley, where the fridge was full of food, as always.

'Where's ibb and obb?' I asked.

'Out, I think,' replied Gran. 'Would you make us both a cup of tea while you're up?'

'Sure. I still can't remember Landen's second name, Gran — I've been trying all day.'

Gran came into the galley and sat on a kitchen stool, which happened to be right in the way of everything. She smelt of sherry, but for the life of me I didn't know where she hid it.

'But you remember what he looks like?'

I stopped what I was doing and stared out of the kitchen porthole.

'Yes,' I replied slowly, 'every line, every mole, every expression — but I still remember him dying in the Crimea.'

'That never happened, my dear,' she exclaimed. 'But the fact — I should use a bigger bowl if I were you — that you can remember his features proves he's not gone any more than yesterday. I should use butter and not oil; and if you have any mushrooms you could chop them up with a bit of onion and bacon — do you have any bacon?'

'Probably. You still haven't told me how you managed to find your way here, Gran.'

'That's easily explained,' she said. 'Tell me, did you manage to get a list of the most dull books you could find?'

Granny Next was one hundred and eight years old and was convinced that she couldn't die until she had read the ten most boring classics. On an earlier occasion I had suggested The Faerie Queene, Paradise Lost, Ivanhoe, Moby-Dick, A la recherche du temps perdu, Pamela and A Pilgrim's Progress. She had read them all and many others but was still with us. Trouble is, 'boring' is about as hard to quantify as 'pretty', so I really had to think of the ten books that she would find most boring.

'What about Silas Marner?'

'Only boring in parts — like Hard Times. You're going to have to do a little better than that — and if I were you I'd use a bigger pan, but on a lower heat.'

'Right,' I said, beginning to get annoyed, 'perhaps you'd like to cook? You've done most of the work so far.'

'No, no,' replied Gran, completely unfazed, 'you're doing fine.'

There was a commotion at the door and Ibb came in, followed closely by Obb.

'Congratulations!' I called out.

'What for?' asked Ibb, who was looking surprisingly different to Obb. For a start, Obb was at least four inches taller and its hair was darker than Ibb's, who was beginning to go blond.

'For becoming capitalised.'

'Oh, yes,' enthused Ibb, 'it's amazing what a day at St Tabularasa's will do for one. Tomorrow we'll finish our gender training and by the end of the week we'll be streamed into character groups.'

'I want to be a male mentor figure,' said Obb. 'Our tutor said that sometimes we can have a choice of what we do and where we go. Are you making supper?'

'No,' I replied, testing their sarcasm response, 'I'm giving my pet egg heat therapy.'

Ibb laughed — which was a good sign, I thought — and went off with Obb to practise whimsical retorts in case either of them was given a posting as a humorous sidekick.

'Teenagers,' said Granny Next, 'tch. I'd better make it a bigger omelette. Take over, would you? I'm going to have a rest.'

We all sat down to eat twenty minutes later. Obb had brushed its hair into a parting and Ibb was wearing one of Gran's gingham dresses.

'Hoping to be female?' I asked, passing Ibb a plate.

'Yes,' replied Ibb, 'but not one like you. I'd like to be more feminine and a bit hopeless — the sort that screams a lot when they get into trouble and have to be rescued.'

'Really?' I asked, handing Gran the salad. 'Why?'

Ibb shrugged. 'I don't know. I just like the idea of being rescued a lot, that's all — being carried off in big strong arms sort of … appeals. I thought I could have the plot explained to me a lot, too — but I should have a few good lines of my own, be quite vulnerable, yet end up saving the day owing to a sudden flash of idiot savant brilliance.'

'I think you'll have no trouble getting a placement.' I sighed. 'But you seem quite specific — have you used someone in particular as a model?'

'Her!' exclaimed Ibb, drawing out a much-thumbed Outland copy of Silverscreen from beneath the table. On the cover was none other than Lola Vavoom, being interviewed for the umpteenth time about her husbands, her denial of any cosmetic surgery and her latest film — usually in that order.

'Gran!' I said sternly. 'Did you give Ibb that magazine?'

'Well—!'

'You know how impressionable Generics can be! Why didn't you give it a magazine with Jenny Gudgeon in it? She plays proper women— and can act, too.'

'Have you seen Ms Vavoom in My Sister Kept Geese'?' replied Gran indignantly. 'I think you'd be surprised — she shows considerable range.'

I thought about Cordelia Flakk and her producer friend Harry Flex wanting Lola to play me in a film. The idea was too awful to contemplate.

'You were going to tell us about subtext,' said Obb, helping itself to more salad.

'Oh, yes,' I replied, a distraction from Vavoom a welcome break. 'Subtext is the implied action behind the written word. Text tells the reader what the characters say and do but subtext tells us what they mean and feel. The wonderful thing about subtext is that it is common grammar, written in human experience — you can't understand it without a good working knowledge of people and how they interact. Got it?'

Ibb and Obb looked at one another.

'No.'

'Okay, let me give you a simple example. At a party, a man gives a woman a drink and she takes it without answering. What's going on?'

'She isn't very polite?' suggested Ibb.

'Perhaps,' I replied, 'but I was really looking for some sort of clue as to their relationship.'

Obb scratched its head and said: 'She can't speak because — er — she lost her tongue in an industrial accident owing to his negligence?'

'You're trying too hard. For what reason would someone not necessarily say "thank you" for something?'

'Because,' said Ibb slowly, 'they know one another?'

'Good. Being handed a drink at a party by your wife, husband, girlfriend or partner, you would as likely as not just take it; if it was from a host to a guest, then you would thank them. Here's another: there is a couple walking down the road — and she is walking eight paces behind him.'

'He has longer legs?' suggested Ibb.

'No.'

'They've broken down?'

'They've had an argument,' said Obb excitedly, 'and they live near by or they would be taking their car.'

'Could be,' I responded. 'Subtext tells you lots of things. Ibb, did you take the last piece of chocolate from the fridge?'

There was a pause.

'No.'

'Well, because you paused I know pretty confidently that you did.'

'Oh!' said Ibb. 'I'll remember that.'

There was a knock at the door.

I opened it to reveal Mary's ex-beau Arnold looking very dapper in a suit and holding a small bunch of flowers. Before he had time to open his mouth I had closed the door again.

'Ah!' I said, turning to Ibb and Obb. 'This is a good opportunity to study subtext. See if you can figure out what is going on behind our words — and Ibb, please don't feed Pickwick at the table.'

I opened the door again and Arnold, who had started to slink off, came running back.

'Oh!' he said with mock surprise. 'Mary not back yet?'

'No,' I replied. 'In fact, she probably won't be back for some time. Can I take a message?'

And I closed the door on him again.

'Okay,' I said to Ibb and Obb. 'What do you think is going on?'

'He's looking for Mary?' suggested Ibb.

'But he knows she's gone away,' said Obb. 'He must be coming to speak to you, Thursday.'

'Why?'

'For a date?'

'Good. What am I saying to him?'

Ibb and Obb thought hard.

'If you didn't want to see him you'd have told him to go away, so you might be the tiniest bit interested.'

'Excellent!' I told them. 'Let's see what happens next.'

I opened the door again to a confused-looking Arnold, who broke into a wide smile.

'Well,' he said, 'no message for Mary. It's just — we had planned to see Willow Lodge and the Limes this evening …'

I turned to Ibb and Obb, who shook their heads. They didn't believe it either.

'Well …' said Arnold slowly. '… perhaps you might like to come with me to the concert?'

I shut the door again.

'He pretended to have the idea about going to see Willow Lodge tonight,' said Ibb slowly and more confidently, 'when in fact I think he had it planned all along that way. I think he fancies you big time.'

I opened the door again.

'I'm sorry, no,' I told him hastily. 'Happily married.'

'It's not a date,' exclaimed Arnold quickly, just a lift to a concert. Here, take the ticket anyway. I've no one else to give it to; if you don't want to go, just bin it.'

I shut the door again.

'Ibb's wrong,' said Obb. 'He really fancies you, but he's blown it by being too desperate — it would be hard for you to respect someone who would almost start begging.'

'Not bad,' I replied. 'Let's see how it turns out.'

I opened the door again and stared into Arnold's earnest eyes.

'You miss her, don't you?'

'Miss who?' asked Arnold, seemingly nonchalant.

'Denial of love!' yelled Ibb and Obb from behind me. 'He doesn't really fancy you at all — he's in love with Mary and wants a date on the rebound!'

Arnold looked suspicious.

'What's going on?'

'Subtext classes,' I explained. 'Sorry for being rude. Do you want to come in for a coffee?'

'Well, I should be going really—'

'Playing hard to get!' hooted Ibb, and Obb added quickly: 'The balance of power has tipped in his favour because you've been rude to him with all that door nonsense, and now you're going to have to insist that he comes in for coffee, even if that means being nicer to him than you originally intended!'

'Are they always like this?' enquired Arnold, stepping inside.

'They learn fast,' I observed. 'That's Ibb and that's Obb. Ibb and Obb, this is Arnold.'

'Hello!' said Arnold, thinking for a moment. 'Do you Generics want to go and see Willow Lodge and the Limes?'

They looked at one another for a moment, realised they were sitting just that little bit too close, and moved apart.

'Do you?' said Ibb.

'Well, only if you want to—'

'I'm easy — it's your decision.'

'Well, y-es, I'd really like to.'

'Then let's go — unless you've made other plans—?'

'No, no, I haven't.'

They got up, took the tickets from Arnold and were out the door in a flash.

I laughed and went through to the galley.

'Who's the elderly woman?' asked Arnold.

'It's my gran,' I replied, switching on the kettle and getting out the coffee.

'Is she … you know?'

'Goodness me no!' I exclaimed. 'She's only asleep. She's one hundred and eight.'

'Really? Why is she dressed in this dreadful blue gingham?'

'Has been for as long as I can remember. She came here to make sure I didn't forget my husband. Sorry. That makes me sound as though I'm labouring the point, doesn't it?'

'Listen,' said Arnold, 'don't worry. I didn't mean to come over all romantic just then. But Mary, well, she's quite something, you know, and I'm not just in love with her because I was written that way — this one's for real. Like Nelson and Emma, Bogart and Bacall—'

'Finch-Hatton and Blixen. Yes, I know. I've been there.'

'Denys was in love with Baron Blixen?'

'Karen Blixen.'

'Oh.'

He sat down and I placed a coffee in front of him.

'So, tell me about your husband.'

'Hah!' I said, smiling. 'You don't want me to bore you about Landen.'

'It's not boring. You listen to me when I hark on about Mary.'

I stirred my coffee absently, running through my memories of Landen to make sure they were all there. Gran mumbled something about lobsters in her sleep.

'It must have been a hard decision to come and hide out here,' said Arnold quietly. 'I don't imagine Thursdays generally do that sort of thing.'

'You're right,' I replied, 'they don't. But sometimes falling back and regrouping is not the same as running away.'

'Tactical withdrawal?'

'Right. What would you do to get together with Mary again?'

'Anything.'

'And I with Landen. I will get him back — just not quite yet. But the strange thing is,' I added slightly wistfully, 'when he comes back he won't even know he's been gone — it's not as though he's waiting for me to reactualise him.'

We chatted for about an hour. He told me about the Well and I talked about the Outland. He was just trying to get me to repeat 'irrelevant benevolent elephant' when Gran woke up with a yell, shouting: 'The French! The French!' and had to be calmed down with a glass of warm whisky before I put her to bed.

'I'd better be going,' said Arnold. 'Mind if I drop round again?'

'Not at all,' I replied, 'that would be nice.'

I went to bed after that and was still awake when Ibb and Obb returned from the concert. They were giggling and made a very noisy cup of tea before retiring. I lay back and tried to sleep, hoping that I would dream of being back at our house, the one that Landen and I shared when we were married. Failing that, on holiday somewhere. Failing that when we first met, and if that wasn't available, an argument — and lastly, anything with Landen in it at all. Aornis, however, had other ideas.

15

Landen Parke-somebody

'Before Aornis Hades, the existence of mnemonomorphs was suspected only by SO-5 who, through deceit, idleness or forgetfulness, never told anyone else. The files on mnemonomorphs are kept in eight different locations and updated automatically between each location every week. An ability to control entropy does not necessarily go with the skill to alter memories; indeed, Aornis has been the only entity (thus far that we know about) who can do such a thing. As Miss Next demonstrated between 1986 and 1987, mnemonomorphs are not without their Achilles heel. There is one question we would all like to know about Aornis, however, since no physical evidence of her remains: was she real, or just a bad memory?'

BLAKE LAMME (EX-SO-5) — Remember Them? A Study of Mnemonomorphs

'Dear, sweet Thursday!' muttered a patronising voice that was chillingly familiar. I opened my eyes. I was on the roof of Thornfield Hall, Rochester's house in Jane Eyre. It was the time and place of the final showdown with Acheron Hades. The old house was on fire and I could feel the roof growing hot beneath my feet. I coughed in the smoke and felt my eyes begin to smart. Next to me was Edward Rochester, cradling a badly wounded hand. Acheron had already thrown Rochester's poor wife Bertha over the parapet and he was now preparing to finish us both off.

'Sweet madness, eh?' He laughed. 'Jane is with her cousins; the narrative is with her, and I have the manual!'

He waved it at me, deposited it in his pocket and picked up his gun.

'Who's first?'

I ignored Hades and looked around. The patronising 'Dear, sweet Thursday!' voice had not been his — it had belonged to Aornis. She was wearing the same designer clothes as she had when I last saw her — she was only a memory, after all.

'Hey!' said Acheron. I'm talking to you!'

I turned and dutifully fired and Hades caught the approaching bullet — as he had when this happened for real. He opened his fist; the slug was flattened into a small lead disc. He smiled and a shower of sparks flew up behind him.

But I wasn't so interested in Acheron this time around.

'Aornis!' I shouted. 'Show yourself, coward!'

'No coward I!' said Aornis, stepping from behind a large chimney piece.

'What are you doing to me?' I asked angrily, pointing my gun at her. She didn't seem to be in the least put out — in fact, she seemed more concerned with preventing the dirt from the roof soiling her suede shoes.

'Welcome.' She laughed. 'To the museum of your mind!'

The roof at Thornfield vanished and was replaced by the interior of the abandoned church where Spike and I were about to do battle with the Supreme Evil Being that was stuck in his head. It had happened for real a few weeks ago; the memories were still fresh — it was all chillingly lifelike.

'I am the curator in this museum,' said Aornis as we moved again to the dining room at home when I was eight, a small girl with pigtails and as precocious as they come. My father — before his eradication, of course — was carving the roast and telling me that if I kept on being a nuisance I would be made to go to my room.

'Familiar to you?' asked Aornis. 'I can call on any of the exhibits I want. Do you remember this?'

And we were back on the banks of the Thames, during my father's abortive attempt to rescue the two-year-old Landen. I felt the fear, the hopelessness squeezing my chest so tight I could barely breathe. I sobbed.

'I can run it again if you want to. I can run it for you every night for ever. Or I can delete it completely. How about this one?'

Night came on and we were in the area of Swindon where young couples go with their cars to get a bit of privacy. I had come here with Darren, a highly unlikely infatuation. He loomed close to me in an amorous embrace in the back of his Morris 8. I was seventeen and impulsive — Darren was eighteen and repulsive. I could smell his beery breath and a post-adolescent odour that was so strong you could have grabbed the air and wrung the stench from it with your bare hands. I could see Aornis outside the car, grinning at me, and through the laboured panting of Darren, I screamed.

'But this isn't the worst place we could go.' Aornis grinned through the window. 'We can go back to the Crimea and unlock memories that have been too terrifying even for you. The suppressed memories, the ones you block out to let you carry on during the day.'

'No,' I said. 'Aornis, not the charge—!'

But there we were, in the last place I wanted to be, driving my APC into the massed field artillery of the Russian army that August afternoon in 1973. Of the eighty-four APCs and light tanks that advanced into the Russian guns, only two vehicles returned. Out of the five hundred and thirty-four soldiers involved, fifty-one survived.

It was the moment before the barrage began. My CO, Major Phelps, was riding on the outside as he liked to do, foolhardy idiot that he was, and to my left and right I could see the other armoured vehicles throwing up large swathes of summer dust from the parched land. We could be seen for miles. The first salvo was so unexpected that I thought the munitions in a light tank had simply ignited by accident; the whine of a near-miss made me realise that it hadn't. I changed direction instantly and started to zigzag. I looked to Phelps for orders but he was slumped in the hatch; he had lost the lower part of his arm and was unconscious. The barrage was so intense that it became a single rumbling growl, the pressure waves thumping the APC so hard that it was all I could do to keep my hands on the controls.

I read the official report two years later; there had been forty-two guns trained on us from a thousand yards and they had expended three hundred and eighty-seven rounds of high-explosive shells — about four to each vehicle. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel.

Sergeant Tozer took command and ordered me to an APC that had lost its tracks and been thrown upside down. I parked behind the wrecked carrier as Tozer and the squad jumped out to retrieve the wounded.

'But what were you really thinking about?' asked Aornis, who was beside me in the carrier, looking disdainfully at the dust and oil.

'Escape,' I said. 'I was terrified. We all were.'

'Next!' yelled Tozer. 'Stop talking to Aornis and take us to the next APC!'

I pulled away as another explosion went off. I saw a turret whirling through the air, a pair of legs dangling from beneath it.

I drove to the next APC, the shrapnel hitting our carrier almost continuously like hail on a tin roof. The survivors were firing impotently back with their rifles; it wasn't looking good. The APC was filled with the wounded and as I turned round something hit the carrier a glancing blow. It was a dud; it had struck us obliquely and bounced off — I would see the yard-long gouge in the armour plate the following day. Within a hundred yards we were in relative safety as the dust and smoke screened our retreat; pretty soon we had passed the forward command post where all the officers were shouting into their field telephones, and on to the dressing areas beyond. Even though I knew this was a dream, the fear felt as real as it had on the day, and tears of frustration welled up inside me. I thought Aornis would carry on with this memory for the return run to the barrage, but there was clearly a technique behind her barbaric game; in a blink we were back on the roof at Thornfield Hall.

Acheron carried on where he had left off; he was looking at me with a triumphant expression.

'It may come as some consolation,' he carried on, 'that I planned to bestow upon you the honour of becoming Felix9— Who are you?'

He was looking at Aornis.

'Aornis,' she said shyly.

Acheron gave a rare smile and lowered his gun.

'Aornis?' he echoed. 'Little Aornis?' She nodded and ran across to give him a hug.

'My goodness!' he said, looking her over carefully. 'How you have grown! Last time I saw you you were this high and had barely even started torturing animals. Tell me: did you follow us into the family business or did you flunk out like that loser Styx?'

'I'm a mnemonomorph!' she said proudly, eager for her sibling's approval.

'Of course!' he said. 'I should have guessed. We're in that Next woman's memories right now, aren't we?'

She nodded enthusiastically.

'Attagirl! Tell me, did she actually kill me? I'm only here as the memory of me in her mind, after all.'

'I'm afraid not,' said Aornis glumly, 'she killed you well and good.'

'By using treachery? Did I die a Hades?'

'I'm afraid not — it was a noble victory.'

'Bitch!'

'Seconded. But I'll have the revenge you deserve, dear brother, you can be sure of that.'

A family reunion like this should have been heart warming but I can't say I was moved. Still, at least it kept us away from the Crimea.

'Mother's very upset with you,' said Aornis, who had the Hades penchant for straight talking.

'Why?'

'Why do you think? You murdered Styx.'

'Styx was a fool and he brought shame on the Hades family. If Father were still alive he would have done the job himself

'Well, Mother was very upset about it and I think you should apologise.'

'Okay, next time. Wait a moment, I'm dead — I can't apologise to anyone. You apologise for me.'

'I'm a mnemonomorph, remember — and this is only me as a mindworm; a sort of satellite persona, if you like. Listen, if I knew where Thursday was, she'd be dead already. No, when I can report back to Aornis proper, this is what we'll do—'

'Psssst!' said a voice close to my ear. It was Granny Next.