Jasper Fforde - The Well of Lost Plots

The elevator plunged rapidly downwards.

'Are you still being bothered by junk footnoterphones?'

'A little.' [8]

'You'll get used to ignoring them.'

The bell sounded and the elevator doors slid open, introducing a chill wind. It was darker than the floor we had just visited and several disreputable-looking characters stared at us from the shadows. I moved to get out but Snell stopped me. He looked about and whispered:

'This is the twenty-second sub-basement. The roughest place in the Well. A haven for cut-throats, bounty hunters, murderers, thieves, cheats, shape-shifters, scene-stealers, brigands and plagiarists.'

'We don't tolerate these sorts of places back home,' I murmured.

'We encourage them here,' explained Snell. 'Fiction wouldn't be much fun without its fair share of scoundrels, and they have to live somewhere.'

I could feel the menace as soon as we stepped from the elevator.

Low mutters were exchanged among several hooded figures who stood close by, the faces obscured by the shadows, their hands bony and white. We walked past two large cats with eyes that seemed to dance with fire; they stared at us hungrily and licked their lips.

'Dinner,' said one, looking us both up and down. 'Shall we eat them together or one by one?'

'One by one,' said the second cat, who was slightly bigger and a good deal more fearsome, 'but we'd better wait until Big Martin gets here.'

'Oh yeah,' said the first cat, retracting his claws quickly, 'so we'd better.'

Snell had ignored the two cats completely; he glanced at his watch and said:

'We're going to the Slaughtered Lamb to visit a contact of mine. Someone has been cobbling together Plot Devices from half-damaged units that should have been condemned. It's not only illegal — it's dangerous. The last thing anyone needs is a Do we cut the red wire or the blue wire ? plot device going off an hour too early and ruining the suspense — how many stories have you read where the bomb is defused with an hour to go?'

'Not many, I suppose.'

'You suppose right. We're here.'

The gloomy interior of the Slaughtened Lamb was shabby and smelt of beer. Three ceiling fans stirred the smoke-filled atmosphere and a band was playing a melancholy tune in one corner. The dark walls were spaced with individual booths where sombreness was an abundant commodity; the bar in the centre seemed to be the lightest place in the room and gathered there, like moths to a light, were an odd collection of people and creatures, all chatting and talking in low voices. The atmosphere in the room was so thick with dramatic cliches you could have cut it with a knife.

'See over there?' said Snell, indicating two men who were deep in conversation.

'Yes.'

'Mr Hyde talking to Blofeld. In the next booth are Von Stalhein and Wackford Squeers. The tall guy in the cloak is Emperor Zhark, tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy. The one with the spines is Mrs Tiggy-winkle — they'll be on a training assignment, just like us.'

'Mrs Tiggy-winkle is an apprentice?' I asked incredulously, staring at the large hedgehog who was holding a basket of laundry and sipping delicately at a dry sherry.

'No; Zhark is the apprentice — Tiggy's a full agent. She deals with children's fiction, runs the Hedge-pigs Society — and does our washing.'

'Hedge-pigs society?' I echoed. 'What does that do?'

'They advance hedgehogs in all branches of literature. Mrs Tiggy-winkle was the first to get star billing and she's used her position to further the lot of her species; she's got references into Kipling, Carroll, Aesop and four mentions in Shakespeare. She's also good with really stubborn stains — and never singes the cuffs.'

' Tempest, Midsummer Night's Dream, Macbeth ,' I muttered, counting them off on my fingers. 'Where's the fourth?'

' Henry VI Part 1 , act four, scene 1: "hedge-born swaine".'

'I always thought that was an insult, not a hedgehog,' I observed. ' Swaine can be a country lad just as easily as a pig — perhaps more so.'

Snell sighed. 'Well, we've given her the benefit of the doubt — it helps with the indignity of being used as a croquet ball in Alice . Don't mention Tolstoy or Berlin when she's about, either — conversation with Tiggy is easier when you avoid talk of theoretical sociological divisions and stick to the question of washing temperatures for woollens.'

'I'll remember that,' I murmured. 'The bar doesn't look so bad with all those pot plants scattered around, does it?'

Snell sighed again.

'They're Triffids , Thursday. The big blobby thing practising golf swings with the Jabberwock is a Krell, and that rhino over there is Rataxis. Arrest anyone who tries to sell you Soma tablets, don't buy any Bottle Imps no matter how good the bargain, and above all don't look at Medusa . If Big Martin or the Questing Beast turn up, run like hell. Get me a drink and I'll see you back here in five minutes.'

'Right.'

He departed into the gloom and I was left feeling a bit ill at ease. I made my way to the bar and ordered two drinks. On the other side of the bar a third cat had joined the two I had seen previously. The newcomer pointed to me but the others shook their heads and whispered something in his ear. I turned the other way and jumped in surprise as I came face to face with a curious creature that looked as though it had escaped from a bad science fiction novel — it was all tentacles and eyes. A smile may have flicked across my face because the creature said in a harsh tone:

'What's the problem, never seen a Thraal before?'

I didn't understand; it sounded like a form of Courier Boldbut I wasn't sure so said nothing, hoping to brazen it out.

'Hey!'it said. 'I'm talking to you, Two-eyes.'

The altercation had attracted another man, who looked like the product of some bizarre genetic experiment gone hopelessly wrong.

'He says he doesn't like you.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I don't like you either,' said the man in a threatening tone, adding, as if I needed proof: 'I have the death sentence in seven genres.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' I assured him, but this didn't seem to work.

'You're the one who'll be sorry!'

'Come, come, Nigel,' said a voice I recognised. 'Let me buy you a drink.'

This wasn't to the genetic experiment's liking, for he moved quickly to his weapon; there was a sudden blur of movement and in an instant I had my automatic pressed hard against his head — Nigel's gun was still in his shoulder holster. The bar went quiet.

'You're quick, girlie,' said Nigel. 'I respect that.'

'She's with me,' said the newcomer. 'Let's all just calm down.'

I lowered my gun and replaced the safety catch. Nigel nodded respectfully and returned to his place at the bar with the odd-looking alien.

'Are you all right?'

It was Harris Tweed. He was a fellow Jurisfiction agent and Outlander, just like me. The last time I had seen him was three days ago in Lord Volescamper's library when we flushed out the renegade fictioneer Yorrick Kaine after he had invoked the Questing Beast to destroy us. Tweed had been carried off by the exuberant bark of a bookhound and I had not seen him since.

'Thanks for that, Tweed,' I said. 'What did the alien thing want?'

'He was a Thraal, Thursday — speaking in Courier Bold, the traditional language of the Well. Thraals are not only all eyes and tentacles, but mostly mouth, too — he'd not have harmed you. Nigel, on the other hand, has been known to go a step too far on occasion. What are you doing alone in the twenty-second sub-basement anyway?'

'I'm not alone. Havisham's busy so Snell's showing me around.'