Jasper Fforde - The Well of Lost Plots

'I saw it all,' said another Spongg truck driver — a proper one this time. 'Whoever he is he needs to go back to driving school and take a few lessons.'

'Well, the show's over,' I told them. 'Mr Morris Marina Driver, is your car drivable?'

'I think so,' replied the eight identical middle-aged drivers in unison.

'Then get it out of here. Generic Truck Driver?'

'Yes?'

'Find a tow rope and get this heap of junk off the road.'

He left to do my bidding as the eight Morris Marina drivers drove off in their identically spluttering cars.

I was waving the cars around the stranded truck when there was a crackle in the air. The cubist truck vanished from the roadside leaving nothing but the faint smell of cantaloupes. I stared at the space left by the truck. The drivers were more than happy that this obstacle to their ordered lives had been removed, and they sounded their horns at me to get out of the way. I examined the area of the road carefully but found nothing except a single bolt made in the same style as the truck — no texture, just the same cubic shape. I walked back to my car, placed it in my bag, and drove on.

Jack was waiting for me outside Mickey Finn's Gym, situated above a couple of shops in Coley Avenue. We were there to question a boxing promoter about allegations of fight fixing. It was the best scene in Caversham Heights — gritty, realistic, and with good characterisation and dialogue. I met Jack slightly earlier while the story was off on a sub-plot regarding a missing consignment of ketamine, so there was time for a brief word together. Caversham Heights wasn't first-person — which was just as well, really, as I didn't think Jack had the depth of character to support it.

'Good morning, Jack,' I said as I walked up, 'how are things?'

He looked a lot happier than the last time I saw him and smiled agreeably, handing me coffee in a paper cup.

'Excellent, Mary — I should call you Mary, shouldn't I, just in case I have a slip of the tongue when we're being read? Listen, I went to see my wife Madeleine last night, and after a heated exchange of opinions we came to some sort of agreement.'

'You're going back to her?'

'Not quite,' replied Jack, taking a sip of coffee, 'but we agreed that if I stopped drinking and never saw Agatha Diesel again, she would consider it!'

'Well, that's a start, isn't it?'

'Yes,' replied Jack, 'but it might not be as simple as you think. I received this in the post this morning.'

He handed me a letter. I unfolded it and read:

Dear Mr Spratt,

It has come to our attention that you may be attempting to give up the booze and reconcile with your wife. While we approve of this as a plot device to generate more friction and inner conflicts, we most strongly advise you not to carry it through to a happy reconciliation, as this would put you in direct contravention of Rule IIc of the Union of Sad Loner Detectives' Code, as ratified by the Union of Literary Detectives, and it will ultimately result in your expulsion from the association with subsequent loss of benefits.

I trust you will do the decent thing and halt this damaging and abnormal behaviour before it leads to your downfall.

PS. Despite repeated demands, you have failed to drive a classic car or pursue an unusual hobby. Please do so at once or face the consequences.

'Hmm,' I muttered, 'it's signed Poi—'

'I know who it's signed by,' replied Jack sadly, retrieving the letter. 'The union is very powerful. They have influence that goes all the up to the Great Panjandrum. This could hasten the demolition of Caversham Heights , not delay it. Father Brown wanted to renounce the priesthood umpteen times, but, well, the union—'

'Jack,' I said, 'what do you want?'

'Me?'

'Yes, you.'

He sighed.

'It's not as simple as that. I have a responsibility for the seven hundred and eighty-six other characters in this book. Think of it — all those Generics sold off like post-Christmas turkeys or reduced to text. It makes me shudder just to think about it!'

'That might happen anyway, Jack. At least this way we have a fighting chance. Do your own thing. Break away from the norm.'

He sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair.

'But what about the conflicts' ? Isn't that the point of being a loner detective? The appalling self-destruction, the inner battles within ourselves that add spice to the proceedings and enable the story to advance more interestingly? We can't just have murder-interview-interview-second murder-conjecture-interview-conjecture-false ending-dramatic twist-resolution, can we? Where's the interest if a detective doesn't get romantically involved with someone who has something to do with the first murder? Why, I might never have to make a choice between justice and my own personal feelings ever again!'

'And what if you don't?' I persisted. 'It needn't be like that. There's more than one way to make a story interesting.'

'Okay,' he said, 'let's say I do live happily with Madeleine and the kids — what am I going to do for sub-plots? In a story like this conflict, for want of a better word, is good. Conflict is right. Conflict works .'

He gazed at me angrily, but I knew he still believed in himself — the fact that we were even having this conversation proved that.

'It doesn't have to be marital conflicts,' I told him. 'We could get a few sub-plots from the Well and sew them in — I agree the action can't always stay with you, but if we— Hello, I think we've got company.'

A pink Triumph Herald had pulled up with a middle-aged woman in it. She got out, walked straight up to Jack and slapped him hard in the face.

'How dare you!' she screamed. 'I waited three hours for you at the Sad & Single wine bar — what happened?'

'I told you, Agatha. I was with my wife.'

'Sure you were,' she spat, her voice rising. 'Don't patronise me with your pathetic little lies — who are you screwing this time? One of those little tarts down at the station?'

'It's true,' he replied in an even voice, more shocked than outraged. 'I told you last night — it's all over, Agatha.'

'Oh yes? I suppose you put him up to this?' she said, looking at me, scorn and anger in her eyes. 'You come down here on a character exchange with your Outlander airs and self-determination bullshit and think you can improve the storyline? The supreme arrogance of you people!'

She stopped for a moment and looked at the pair of us.

'You're sleeping together, aren't you?'

'No,' I told her firmly, 'and if there aren't some improvements round here soon, there won't be a book. If you want a transfer out of here, I'm sure I can arrange something—'

'It's all so easy for you, isn't it?' she said, her face convulsing with anger and then fear as her voice rose. 'Think you can just make a few footnoterphone calls and everything will be just dandy?'

She pointed a long bony finger at me. 'Well, I'll tell you, Miss Outlander, I will not take this lying down!'

She glared at us both, marched back to her car and drove off with a squeal of tyres.

'How about that for a conflictual sub-plot?' I asked, but Jack wasn't amused.

'Let's see what else you can dream up — I'm not sure I like that one. Did you find out when the Book Inspectorate are due to read us?'

'Not yet,' I told him.

Jack looked at his watch. 'Come on, we've got the fight-rigging scene to do. You'll like this one. Mary was sometimes a little late with the "If you don't know we can't help you" line when we did the old good cop/bad cop routine, but just stay on your toes and you'll be fine.'

He seemed a lot happier having stood up to Agatha, and we walked across the road to where some rusty iron stairs led up to the gym.